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Generation Gap

Mr. Hamm began his first day of class with the best of intentions.  "Good morning, let's see, ten of you are here, but eleven are enrolled this semester.  Does anyone know a Claude—"

"Yes, Mr. Hamm!  We’re friends, hang on just a sec and I’ll bet I can find out where he is. . . ."  The helpful young man grabbed his phone and stared at it in silence.

"Um, Ross, is it?"

"Yes sir."

"You said Claude is a friend?"

"Yes sir."

"And you know why he’s not here?"

"I’m checking on that, Mr. Hamm, I’m sure I can find out."

"'Checking?'  I’m confused.  Did he or did he not tell you where he’d be today instead of where he should be, here in class?"

"'Tell me,' sir?  Oh!  No, sorry, we’re not friends like hang-out-on-the-weekends friends.  We’re just facebook friends . . . ah, here’s his profile, right, I thought I saw that post last night.  He’s still in Prague, returning next week."

Mr. Hamm shook his head, unamused.  "Well, alright then, let’s begin.  As you all know, this class focuses on improvisation.  Let’s begin today by discussing a famous group of improv actors, and then we can discuss any experience any of you have to date.  Has anyone followed Christopher Guest's career?"

The question hardly left Mr. Hamm’s mouth before all ten students had their phones in hand, eyes peeled to small screens.

"Excuse me, but what are you all doing?" the teacher asked.

"Mr. Hamm?"

"Yes, Ross?"

"Christopher Guest is the guy who did Best in Show and Spinal Tap and those other mockumentaries, right?"

Great, we're connecting, Mr. Hamm thought.  "Yes, Ross, that’s right—"

"Well I searched and it doesn’t look like he has a twitter account.  There are quite a few Christopher Guests on twitter, but none of them seem to be the famous one—"

"What?"  Just when he thought he’d gotten through to them, Mr. Hamm was perplexed.  "What are you talking about?"

"You asked whether any of us followed Christopher Guest, but I don’t think that’s possible.  We can’t follow someone who doesn’t even use twitter!"

A muddled laugh ensued and Mr. Hamm spoke over it.  "Alright!  Forget it, we’ll discuss his work later today if we have time.  Let’s just start with all of you and your experiences.  Has anyone ever performed an improv act, and for whom?  Yes, um, Gill, is it?"

"Yes, Mr. Hamm!  I practiced some improv over the summer to get ready for this class."

Mr. Hamm beamed.  "And how did it go?"

"It went alright, I guess, I did a short act for my grandmother."

"And what were some of her comments?"

"Oh, well," Gill frowned, "I did it for her in person, Mr. Hamm."

The teacher made an effort to locate his patience.  "Of course you did, Gill, and what were some of her comments?"

Gill, growing nervous, looked around the room for support.  "Like I said, Mr. Hamm, she was right there in the room.  Just a few feet away, really I promise. . . ."

Mr. Hamm took a deep breath.  "Okay, Gill, I understand, she was right there.  And now please, I’ll ask one more time, what were her comments?"

The students all shook their heads, feeling sorry for Gill, who eventually said, "Mr. Hamm, I didn’t put it on youtube or facebook or anything like that, I just did it for her at her house.  She made a pot of tea and—"

"Aha!"  Mr. Hamm, half-crazed, laughed out loud just as Ross typed a three letter text message to Gill: LOL.

Safety in Numbers (by James Parsons)

Through the window, the moon cast a ribbon of light diagonally across her body, revealing a shoulder, two ribs, and the curvature of a hip.  A path of skin like fresh snow beneath a streetlamp.  The smell of lilacs – her ever-present scent – invaded his nostrils.  This time mingling with sweat and the moist August air.  Yet the rest of her was veiled in storm cloud gray and grew more indiscernible despite his staring.  Sheldon had known Tatum for over a year but she seemed so vague to him, as if he were peering at her through a rain-splashed windshield, betrayed by broken wipers.  She was opaque lying there in the tousled bed linens and that made him anxious.  It occurred to him to quietly exit the room and leave her to her dreams, so he made his way out the door, down three floors, and into the silent streets.

The city pulsates like a switchboard of energy in the waking hours.  Yet, after midnight, within certain neighborhoods, it is a cloister.  The small streets can be like portals to a quainter era.  The atmosphere so different than in the daylight.  This is what he loved most about Philadelphia.  It rested.  And because of his inability to do the same, Sheldon walked.  West, on Locust, toward the river, he meandered past narrow, cobblestone back alleys.  The giant silhouette of a cargo train vanished northward toward the Art Museum.  Around a corner, a cat, like a sentry, slinked back and forth on the slender top of a property gate, and startled him.  Ahead, on a street perpendicular, two women in flowing skirts passed by on bikes that seemed too large for them; even at this hour, in the bright darkness, they looked purposeful yet carefree, as girls in skirts on bikes often do in the summer months.

Sheldon favored Fitler Square to the much bigger Rittenhouse.  Rittenhouse Square was a spectacle.  Fitler Square, at this hour, a sanctuary.  The brass ram in repose greeted him.  The bear in mid-stride paid him no mind.  He imagined them coming to life like in a child’s daydream.  He sat on a bench next to the tortoises conferring with one another.  The moonlight was still strong and it gleamed off the helmeted backs of the tortoises; the largest casting a fatherly figure in front of two attentive children.  Be patient, you’ll get there, don’t worry, it is who you are.  Sheldon began to feel at ease and the edges of his mouth curved upward forming a wry smile.  He sat and enjoyed the solitude for minutes which seemed longer.  Suddenly the drone of the southbound #12 bus on its final run grew closer and it roused him.  Above, some lonely stars shone in defiance of the city and its artificial light.  The warm air was sweet with alyssum.  It reminded him of lilacs.  He thought of Tatum.  Was she still sleeping?  Perhaps she too had left the house.

(James Parsons is a writer living in Philadelphia.  When he's not writing you can find him on his bike, running in the Wissahickon trails, or coaching on soccer fields throughout the area.  He has a master's degree in journalism from Temple University.)