By Dick Radley | Freelance Editor and Journalist
In the weeks since Katrina Dubin Ardely's story of police brutality in Cajoling Tone magazine exploded onto the internet, as most readers know by now, evidence has emerged proving the article entirely false. Here's a brief summary of what we've all learned:
• Jack was never beaten by police
• Jack gave friends mixed accounts of being beaten, sometimes blaming the police and other times blaming a group of random men
• Jack, in fact, was not beaten at the hands of another, but rather beat himself up and subsequently invented a crime
Whatever happened or didn't happen to Jack, and whatever motive he had to create a false narrative, all of that is, of course, a big part of the story. But what I'd like to know is how Ms. Dubin Ardely managed to hear Jack's description of events without questioning it, and what, if any, fact checking and due diligence she conducted prior to reporting it all as if it were truth?
I spoke with the man in her article called Joe, who said, "She quoted me directly in her story, but I never talked to her once. I have no idea where that quote came from. I don't know anything about any kind of ritualized police brutality in this town."
I also spoke with Suburbia chief of police Ben Modano, who Ms. Dubin Ardely claims "declined to comment" for her story. "She never reached out to me or to anyone at the department," said Chief Modano. "Had she contacted me, I would've been able to clear this up for her quite easily." Regarding the song Ms. Dubin Ardely quotes throughout the article, "Fraternally Yours," Chief Modano specifically asked me to mention that neither he nor any of Suburbia's other police officers have ever heard it or heard of it, let alone ever sung it.
Finally, I spoke with Earl White, the only person whose real name appears in Ms. Dubin Ardely's article. "She bought a story about Jack getting beaten by cops because that's what she wanted to hear. She wanted to do a story on police brutality in an upscale, quiet town, and Jack gave her what she wanted." Mr. White went on to note, "Look how she quoted me! I told her my real name and told her Jack wasn't beaten by cops, so she put my quote in, but twisted the way she did it to make it seem like I was denying the truth. But she was the one in denial. She was the one who couldn't see the truth even though it was right there in front of her, because she either didn't want to see the truth or didn't care about the truth. Maybe she cared about victims like Jack and helping to prevent future crimes, but mostly she cared about advancing her career. From what I've read lately, now that her article turned out to be a hoax, all she did for her career was ruin it."
(Click here to read the inspiration for this two part series. Thank you, Richard Bradley.)
A Beating in Suburbia - Part One: Jack's Story
Jack had just moved to Suburbia when he was severely beaten by local police for no reason at all, paralyzing him from the waist down.
By Katrina Dubin Ardely | Contributing Editor for Cajoling Tone Magazine
We, the fraternal order of police
Sometimes must go to war to keep the peace.
–"Fraternally Yours," traditional Suburbia, USA police force theme song
Sipping from a plastic cup, standing on the sidewalk minding his own business, Jack was surprised to see the police officer walking toward him. Like so many others, he had moved to Suburbia to settle into a quieter life, to be surrounded by its idyllic mountains and preserved forests, to live as one small cog in a safe and essentially self-governed community. His surprise turned to anguish when the officer, whom we’ll call Sergeant Drewer, proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life. Jack will never walk again.
Better think twice before you break a law
‘Cause we’re not nice and we like to guffaw.
"Fraternally Yours"
Most of Jack’s friends were devastated when they learned of the tragic beating he suffered at the hands of Officer Drewer. "I don’t know exactly what happened that night, but it could have been avoided," said one friend whom we’ll call Joe. He went on to say, "Police brutality in this town is ritualized. New cops have to bludgeon a random person as part of their initiation to the force." Another friend, previously unaware that Jack can no longer walk or that the police had anything to do with it, spoke under the condition of anonymity, citing fear of retaliation. He said, "Are you sure Jack is paralyzed? Because I saw him last night at our weekly pick up basketball game. I think he had like fifteen points and eight to ten rebounds."
We don’t care what you think you might’ve done
Because each one of us always carries a gun.
"Fraternally Yours"
In a seemingly peaceful, bucolic town like Suburbia, it’s sad to discover that people secretly live in fear of those sworn to protect and serve. Speaking with another of Jack’s friends, longtime resident Earl White, this fear was evident. "I don’t think the police beat up Jack at all. I heard a couple of random guys jumped him that night – they broke his nose and he had a few bumps and bruises, but he survived and is doing fine." When pressed, Earl stuck with his story, his certainty perhaps scariest of all. The omnipresent, silent pressure exerted by Suburbia police pushes people to deny truths, twist reality to quell their fears, reinforce a false feeling of safety.
At Jack's request, because of his own understandable fears, we have not attempted to contact Sergeant Drewer. When we spoke with the chief of police, he declined to comment.
"I’ll never stop having nightmares and never feel safe," said Jack. "All because of that one night when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
By Katrina Dubin Ardely | Contributing Editor for Cajoling Tone Magazine
We, the fraternal order of police
Sometimes must go to war to keep the peace.
–"Fraternally Yours," traditional Suburbia, USA police force theme song
Sipping from a plastic cup, standing on the sidewalk minding his own business, Jack was surprised to see the police officer walking toward him. Like so many others, he had moved to Suburbia to settle into a quieter life, to be surrounded by its idyllic mountains and preserved forests, to live as one small cog in a safe and essentially self-governed community. His surprise turned to anguish when the officer, whom we’ll call Sergeant Drewer, proceeded to beat him within an inch of his life. Jack will never walk again.
Better think twice before you break a law
‘Cause we’re not nice and we like to guffaw.
"Fraternally Yours"
Most of Jack’s friends were devastated when they learned of the tragic beating he suffered at the hands of Officer Drewer. "I don’t know exactly what happened that night, but it could have been avoided," said one friend whom we’ll call Joe. He went on to say, "Police brutality in this town is ritualized. New cops have to bludgeon a random person as part of their initiation to the force." Another friend, previously unaware that Jack can no longer walk or that the police had anything to do with it, spoke under the condition of anonymity, citing fear of retaliation. He said, "Are you sure Jack is paralyzed? Because I saw him last night at our weekly pick up basketball game. I think he had like fifteen points and eight to ten rebounds."
We don’t care what you think you might’ve done
Because each one of us always carries a gun.
"Fraternally Yours"
In a seemingly peaceful, bucolic town like Suburbia, it’s sad to discover that people secretly live in fear of those sworn to protect and serve. Speaking with another of Jack’s friends, longtime resident Earl White, this fear was evident. "I don’t think the police beat up Jack at all. I heard a couple of random guys jumped him that night – they broke his nose and he had a few bumps and bruises, but he survived and is doing fine." When pressed, Earl stuck with his story, his certainty perhaps scariest of all. The omnipresent, silent pressure exerted by Suburbia police pushes people to deny truths, twist reality to quell their fears, reinforce a false feeling of safety.
At Jack's request, because of his own understandable fears, we have not attempted to contact Sergeant Drewer. When we spoke with the chief of police, he declined to comment.
"I’ll never stop having nightmares and never feel safe," said Jack. "All because of that one night when I was in the wrong place at the wrong time."
Come Back (by Cara Long)
He asks you who your father is and you look at him, but say nothing. You do this because although you recognize his words, you do not know who he is, you do not know what “father” is or is not, you do not know where you are.
You turn on your internal controls and try not to panic (which you are very close to doing). You clear your throat and cross one leg over the other. He – the man, this man – is now looking at you very intently. Finally, you say, “Does it matter?”
The man sighs. He says, “Look, I know you’re probably scared.” You look away from him. He knows nothing, but you will not tell him that he knows nothing because you have a sense that saying this will make him talk more. You have to get away. That is what you know for certain. You ask him if you can talk later, you say that you are tired. The man nods and stands up. He says, “I want you to think about things so you can talk about them.” Then he leaves.
You look out the window, the one he had been blocking when he sat across from you.
You see things you have seen before and they tell you nothing. You are awash in panic - you know now that you have most likely always been here, in this place, and that the man, he will come back for you.
(Cara Long lives and works in New York State. Her first collection of short stories, Partly Gone, was published in June 2014 through Unsolicited Press. A Greek translation was published by Strange Days Books.)
You turn on your internal controls and try not to panic (which you are very close to doing). You clear your throat and cross one leg over the other. He – the man, this man – is now looking at you very intently. Finally, you say, “Does it matter?”
The man sighs. He says, “Look, I know you’re probably scared.” You look away from him. He knows nothing, but you will not tell him that he knows nothing because you have a sense that saying this will make him talk more. You have to get away. That is what you know for certain. You ask him if you can talk later, you say that you are tired. The man nods and stands up. He says, “I want you to think about things so you can talk about them.” Then he leaves.
You look out the window, the one he had been blocking when he sat across from you.
You see things you have seen before and they tell you nothing. You are awash in panic - you know now that you have most likely always been here, in this place, and that the man, he will come back for you.
(Cara Long lives and works in New York State. Her first collection of short stories, Partly Gone, was published in June 2014 through Unsolicited Press. A Greek translation was published by Strange Days Books.)
A Place to Spill
This is the last stop. This is where the spill will happen, and its shell will go to the dark place.
It shuffles slightly forward and backward, side to side, from time to time. It travels from box to bin, cardboard to plastic. Sometimes it gets thrown onto the floor. It anticipates that moment of true movement when it rises above the others just before the spill, but things do not always go as expected. Pockets lock it in and transport it to a new bin, another place to spill, and it just waits to see what happens next.
It shuffles slightly forward and backward, side to side, from time to time. It travels from box to bin, cardboard to plastic. Sometimes it gets thrown onto the floor. It anticipates that moment of true movement when it rises above the others just before the spill, but things do not always go as expected. Pockets lock it in and transport it to a new bin, another place to spill, and it just waits to see what happens next.
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| photo by sugarpacketchad |
Anderson and the Action
The first night I saw Anderson, he traipsed up to the roulette table where my three hundred bucks had whittled its way down to fifty over the course of a couple hours, and bet two large on black. When it came up red, he turned to me with a tired, raised brow, and said, "It was a fun weekend anyhow." I caught his name on his black Borgata card when the pit boss handed it back to him. He walked away at the same sluggish pace with which he'd approached, and I eyed him up and down – he looked perhaps seventy, his white hair perfectly combed in place from right to left, short on the sides above a clean shaven, pale face. He wore a tan blazer with subtle, sky blue checkered lines over a white collared shirt and a Rolex I imagined he'd purchased forty years prior on a trip to Haiti. I never expected to see him again.
Three weeks later I sat in an underground poker room at Angelo's place, a walk up apartment only accessible from an alleyway you didn't just happen to saunter along and find. My table was No Limit Hold 'em and Angelo didn't have any formal rules about buy in amounts, but these things usually worked themselves out okay. It was midnight and I was doing alright for me, up about a grand, when the only door to the place inched open and Anderson stepped into the room. He wore a different blazer, this one a dark green, and a white collared shirt that could've been the same one he'd worn when I saw him play one spin of roulette. He looked like he hadn't slept for a week. Angelo spoke with him briefly and directed him to the seat beside mine, where he settled in and placed twenty thousand on the table like it was a pack of cigarettes. The other five guys' eyes lit up, but I wasn't surprised – any guy who'd bet two thousand on a single spin of the roulette wheel, all of it on a color, wasn't likely to care or even notice that his starting stack was four times bigger than the next biggest where he sat down.
Three hours in, he was up to over twenty four k. He played an aggressive style, a little too aggressive for my taste, but it was clear that he had some skill and wasn't all bravado. The biggest pot of the night started out innocently enough: someone raised the ten / twenty blinds to a hundred, and Anderson and I both called.
After the flop, the pre-flop raiser bet a thousand. Anderson called. I had nothing and I imagined at least one of them had better than that, so I mucked.
After the turn card, this time the bettor put out two thousand. Anderson called without hesitation. The river card came and the bettor only had around two thousand left in his stack. He was a regular here named John something or other, and he called Angelo over to the table. "Ange, I only got two k here but you know I'm good for another three. I'd like to bet five thousand."
Angelo gave John a strong look and John held his gaze. When Angelo finally nodded his approval, John said to Anderson, "Well Whitey, you can guess the bet. Five thousand. Your move."
Anderson smiled. He seemed to be thinking things through. After a couple minutes he spoke up. "Mr. Angelo, sir, you've allowed this man to bet on a marker." Angelo nodded again. "I wonder if you'd let him go any deeper? Because I'd like to raise him another sixteen thousand."
The table froze. It wasn't just the amount of money, it was the fact he'd asked for permission to raise a bettor beyond an amount the bettor had to borrow just to make the bet.
"You that strong, chief?" John something or other asked Anderson.
Anderson stared him down with tired eyes. "Only one way to find out, son."
John looked up at Angelo. "How 'bout it, Ange? You float me another sixteen k?"
"That's a lotta do-re-mi, Johnny. Gonna need collateral."
Anderson sat in silence during the back and forth between his opponent and the room's proprietor. If not for his eyes being half open, I'd have thought he were asleep.
At last Angelo said he couldn't carry John any further on account of his only collateral being a beat up old Ford Ranger. At this point, having been denied his request to make a raise, Anderson had the choice of whether he wanted to call the five thousand.
The shock around the table was the most audible I'd ever seen it and have ever seen it since when Anderson mucked his cards. He turned to me and said, "It's just no fun for me when I can't raise the stakes." At that, he stood and pushed in his chair, cashed in his remaining chips, and left us all in wonderment as he walked out the door, back to wherever it was he went when he wasn't gambling.
Three weeks later I sat in an underground poker room at Angelo's place, a walk up apartment only accessible from an alleyway you didn't just happen to saunter along and find. My table was No Limit Hold 'em and Angelo didn't have any formal rules about buy in amounts, but these things usually worked themselves out okay. It was midnight and I was doing alright for me, up about a grand, when the only door to the place inched open and Anderson stepped into the room. He wore a different blazer, this one a dark green, and a white collared shirt that could've been the same one he'd worn when I saw him play one spin of roulette. He looked like he hadn't slept for a week. Angelo spoke with him briefly and directed him to the seat beside mine, where he settled in and placed twenty thousand on the table like it was a pack of cigarettes. The other five guys' eyes lit up, but I wasn't surprised – any guy who'd bet two thousand on a single spin of the roulette wheel, all of it on a color, wasn't likely to care or even notice that his starting stack was four times bigger than the next biggest where he sat down.
Three hours in, he was up to over twenty four k. He played an aggressive style, a little too aggressive for my taste, but it was clear that he had some skill and wasn't all bravado. The biggest pot of the night started out innocently enough: someone raised the ten / twenty blinds to a hundred, and Anderson and I both called.
After the flop, the pre-flop raiser bet a thousand. Anderson called. I had nothing and I imagined at least one of them had better than that, so I mucked.
After the turn card, this time the bettor put out two thousand. Anderson called without hesitation. The river card came and the bettor only had around two thousand left in his stack. He was a regular here named John something or other, and he called Angelo over to the table. "Ange, I only got two k here but you know I'm good for another three. I'd like to bet five thousand."
Angelo gave John a strong look and John held his gaze. When Angelo finally nodded his approval, John said to Anderson, "Well Whitey, you can guess the bet. Five thousand. Your move."
Anderson smiled. He seemed to be thinking things through. After a couple minutes he spoke up. "Mr. Angelo, sir, you've allowed this man to bet on a marker." Angelo nodded again. "I wonder if you'd let him go any deeper? Because I'd like to raise him another sixteen thousand."
The table froze. It wasn't just the amount of money, it was the fact he'd asked for permission to raise a bettor beyond an amount the bettor had to borrow just to make the bet.
"You that strong, chief?" John something or other asked Anderson.
Anderson stared him down with tired eyes. "Only one way to find out, son."
John looked up at Angelo. "How 'bout it, Ange? You float me another sixteen k?"
"That's a lotta do-re-mi, Johnny. Gonna need collateral."
Anderson sat in silence during the back and forth between his opponent and the room's proprietor. If not for his eyes being half open, I'd have thought he were asleep.
At last Angelo said he couldn't carry John any further on account of his only collateral being a beat up old Ford Ranger. At this point, having been denied his request to make a raise, Anderson had the choice of whether he wanted to call the five thousand.
The shock around the table was the most audible I'd ever seen it and have ever seen it since when Anderson mucked his cards. He turned to me and said, "It's just no fun for me when I can't raise the stakes." At that, he stood and pushed in his chair, cashed in his remaining chips, and left us all in wonderment as he walked out the door, back to wherever it was he went when he wasn't gambling.
Numbers, Emotion, and Energy
To be just a number. A statistic. Perhaps it's all we can ever be, if that.
Some show less emotion than others, but emotion is always there somewhere. Some bury it deeper than others, but it's always there.
There's energy around us and energy within. Some have more than others and it's not necessarily consistent. It ebbs and flows.
Being that number each of us is, pushing against the glass ceiling of our world, we can channel that emotion, seek places to put that energy. None of it may ever make us anything more than a number, a statistic, but we'll feel that emotion and we'll use that energy until that day when we close our eyes for the last time.
Some show less emotion than others, but emotion is always there somewhere. Some bury it deeper than others, but it's always there.
There's energy around us and energy within. Some have more than others and it's not necessarily consistent. It ebbs and flows.
Being that number each of us is, pushing against the glass ceiling of our world, we can channel that emotion, seek places to put that energy. None of it may ever make us anything more than a number, a statistic, but we'll feel that emotion and we'll use that energy until that day when we close our eyes for the last time.
Random Smells and Acts
The walls around her occasionally cracked. She never felt indestructible or anything foolish like that, but they couldn't keep her down, "they" being anyone or anything directly or indirectly attempting to get in the way of her goals.
She disliked everyone else's smell. She wished she could walk down the street without ever having to smell anyone else. Shampoo recently rinsed out of hair still wet, perfume freshly spritzed, body odor of someone leaving the gym – none of it made her day any better. Home cooked foods steaming through open row home windows – there was a smell she could enjoy, moreso if she were hungry (but not too hungry).
The randomness of it all really got to her, that of the smells and that of the occasional circumstances conspiring to bring her down. That of those stories she read weekly in the paper or saw when she opened up Yahoo!. Devious, targeted attacks never bothered her. At least the planned stuff had some purpose, she thought, good or bad or indifferent. She'd do her best to stay one step ahead of those who plotted her demise.
But the random acts, those without rhyme or much reason, if any, those were a source of frustration. To accept a lack of control while preparing as best she could, that's what she tried to do.
She disliked everyone else's smell. She wished she could walk down the street without ever having to smell anyone else. Shampoo recently rinsed out of hair still wet, perfume freshly spritzed, body odor of someone leaving the gym – none of it made her day any better. Home cooked foods steaming through open row home windows – there was a smell she could enjoy, moreso if she were hungry (but not too hungry).
The randomness of it all really got to her, that of the smells and that of the occasional circumstances conspiring to bring her down. That of those stories she read weekly in the paper or saw when she opened up Yahoo!. Devious, targeted attacks never bothered her. At least the planned stuff had some purpose, she thought, good or bad or indifferent. She'd do her best to stay one step ahead of those who plotted her demise.
But the random acts, those without rhyme or much reason, if any, those were a source of frustration. To accept a lack of control while preparing as best she could, that's what she tried to do.
Sunday Looks
The thin tined comb pulled hairs tight against his scalp, cutting through pomade. A new blade glided down the side of his face and around its contours and curves, revealing smooth skin. He buttoned his solid white collared shirt and tucked it into khakis, pulled the laces of his brown leather shoes taut and tied a knot. To be seen was inevitable and he wanted people to see the easy precision in his execution of all things, including his Sunday ensemble.
Next door, another man slowly rose from a comfy couch and reached for a pair of sweat socks he'd brought downstairs that morning. He put on the socks and stretched, arms in the air impossibly attempting to connect fingertips with the ceiling. He felt a little light headed and sat back down to put on his beat up old sneakers. His left hand stroked his head's oily hair and he realized he looked like a guy who'd just rolled out of bed, though he'd been awake for hours.
These men noticed each other as they left their houses. One stepped out for a walk with no particular place to go. The other had errands and a friend to meet for coffee. They made eye contact and nodded simultaneously in silence, and went about their days. The city absorbed them both, they lived in partnership with its mechanisms, leaning on each other and everyone else. They were free.
Next door, another man slowly rose from a comfy couch and reached for a pair of sweat socks he'd brought downstairs that morning. He put on the socks and stretched, arms in the air impossibly attempting to connect fingertips with the ceiling. He felt a little light headed and sat back down to put on his beat up old sneakers. His left hand stroked his head's oily hair and he realized he looked like a guy who'd just rolled out of bed, though he'd been awake for hours.
These men noticed each other as they left their houses. One stepped out for a walk with no particular place to go. The other had errands and a friend to meet for coffee. They made eye contact and nodded simultaneously in silence, and went about their days. The city absorbed them both, they lived in partnership with its mechanisms, leaning on each other and everyone else. They were free.
On the Bridge
He drove along at a comfortable pace until he reached the Tappan Zee Bridge, where traffic came to a complete stop. The sun shone the day's last rays as he sat flipping radio channels, the car idling. After a while people shut down their engines and stepped out of their cars and stood on the bridge. Some leaned against their vehicles and others walked around on the bridge.
In the other direction cars continued to move. The bridge vibrated and shook.
As one and two and three hours passed, he became restless. For a while he was back in the car with the radio on scrolling a.m. stations, looking for news about an accident (or anything else) south of the bridge that would cause the standstill, but he came up empty. He was tired and wanted to get back on the road toward Philly – he had a ways to go yet and time was not on his side. He decided to ask a guy in the next lane over if he knew what was going on.
"Excuse me."
The guy, a burly white man perhaps thirty years old, sweaty, looked up from where he sat against the driver's side wheel of his Ford pick up. "What's up?"
"Any idea why we're stopped?"
The guy shrugged. And stared.
"Alright then." He turned back to his own car, sat up on the hood.
Two more hours passed, slowly. Vibrations started to bother him. Lack of information bothered him. Some people relieved themselves off to the side, and that bothered him. He relieved himself in an empty Gatorade bottle while crouching uncomfortably in the backseat of his car. Luckily he only had to pee.
Some people seemed like they had become friends with others in neighboring cars. Their attitudes seemed to say "we can't do anything about this, we're stuck, so let's chat it up and laugh and joke around."
He felt bad for families with little kids. He heard some kids crying and it made him feel kinda crazy – he wished he could do something to help them but couldn't think of anything he could offer.
The only person he'd spoken with was the burly guy. He thought of trying to become friends with him just to have something to do, but when he looked over in the guy's direction, he didn't like the look on his face. It seemed like the guy was staring at him with a mean sort of look. He stared back. This went on for a few minutes before he found himself getting angry and decided to do something about it.
"What's up man?"
The burly guy seemed surprised. "Nothing. What's up with you?"
"Why you looking at me like that, chief?"
The burly man stood up. "What the fuck you talkin' about, man?"
"What am I talkin' about? What are you talkin' about? Fuck you, man."
"Son, I'll throw you right off this bridge if you say that again. You best just shut your mouth and mind your own business."
Now they stood in each other's faces, the rage having built up within each of them. Their chests were about an inch apart. If either of them were to make a move, things would get ugly pretty quickly….
Just then he heard someone cheering from up ahead. He and the burly man turned to look. People were getting back into their cars. Traffic was starting to move.
He looked back at the burly man and said, "Sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."
The burly man nodded and got into his truck.
He walked back to his car and wondered what had just happened. It was like he'd been possessed for a few minutes, like something crept up inside and made him want to explode. He chalked it up to nerves, the frustration of being stranded on the bridge. The rest of his drive to Philly was uneventful.
In the other direction cars continued to move. The bridge vibrated and shook.
As one and two and three hours passed, he became restless. For a while he was back in the car with the radio on scrolling a.m. stations, looking for news about an accident (or anything else) south of the bridge that would cause the standstill, but he came up empty. He was tired and wanted to get back on the road toward Philly – he had a ways to go yet and time was not on his side. He decided to ask a guy in the next lane over if he knew what was going on.
"Excuse me."
The guy, a burly white man perhaps thirty years old, sweaty, looked up from where he sat against the driver's side wheel of his Ford pick up. "What's up?"
"Any idea why we're stopped?"
The guy shrugged. And stared.
"Alright then." He turned back to his own car, sat up on the hood.
Two more hours passed, slowly. Vibrations started to bother him. Lack of information bothered him. Some people relieved themselves off to the side, and that bothered him. He relieved himself in an empty Gatorade bottle while crouching uncomfortably in the backseat of his car. Luckily he only had to pee.
Some people seemed like they had become friends with others in neighboring cars. Their attitudes seemed to say "we can't do anything about this, we're stuck, so let's chat it up and laugh and joke around."
He felt bad for families with little kids. He heard some kids crying and it made him feel kinda crazy – he wished he could do something to help them but couldn't think of anything he could offer.
The only person he'd spoken with was the burly guy. He thought of trying to become friends with him just to have something to do, but when he looked over in the guy's direction, he didn't like the look on his face. It seemed like the guy was staring at him with a mean sort of look. He stared back. This went on for a few minutes before he found himself getting angry and decided to do something about it.
"What's up man?"
The burly guy seemed surprised. "Nothing. What's up with you?"
"Why you looking at me like that, chief?"
The burly man stood up. "What the fuck you talkin' about, man?"
"What am I talkin' about? What are you talkin' about? Fuck you, man."
"Son, I'll throw you right off this bridge if you say that again. You best just shut your mouth and mind your own business."
Now they stood in each other's faces, the rage having built up within each of them. Their chests were about an inch apart. If either of them were to make a move, things would get ugly pretty quickly….
Just then he heard someone cheering from up ahead. He and the burly man turned to look. People were getting back into their cars. Traffic was starting to move.
He looked back at the burly man and said, "Sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."
The burly man nodded and got into his truck.
He walked back to his car and wondered what had just happened. It was like he'd been possessed for a few minutes, like something crept up inside and made him want to explode. He chalked it up to nerves, the frustration of being stranded on the bridge. The rest of his drive to Philly was uneventful.
Just a Cup of Coffee
The dogs in the painting hanging from the north wall of Joseph's apartment looked down on Garret and Joseph. The sun shone through the apartment's front windows as the hands of Joseph's grandfather's old clock struck Ten.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
Freakish Growth
No logical explanation existed for the unique life of an apple tree beside Righteous Pond. It grew taller and sprawled wider than any tree of any kind before it or since. And it nearly drained and destroyed the pond.
The tree seemed innocent enough at first. It soaked up the sun, drank in the rain through its roots, and grew at a pace consistent with its surroundings. Apples fell to the ground and into the pond and didn't much bother a thing. The tree reached a typical twelve foot height and could have lived out its days at that size.
But this apple tree developed something other plant life lacked. Its branches liked growing. Its roots enjoyed drinking. When its natural growth slowed, the branches reached out still farther. When the roots felt thirsty, they dug themselves deeper. Eventually the roots broke through the bank of Righteous Pond and tapped into more water than the most torrential of rain storms ever brought. With this new access, the tree learned to manage its own growth.
Around the time of the tree's fiftieth birthday, it was already bigger than any apple tree in history, over forty feet tall and equally wide in its wing span. Gradually the branches spread out over the pond. The more it grew, the more its growth rate increased, and the more this escalation in growth rate became essential to its happiness. By the time it turned one hundred years old, it was taller and reached wider than any California redwood, defying nature with its freakish size. Its apples grew in size concordantly with its body, falling like small boulders onto the ground and into the pond.
By year one hundred and fifty, its growth was no longer sustainable. It had nearly drunk the pond dry. Branches hung low, strained by the weight of heavy apples, and began to split and snap off. The tree's trunk leaned over the pond and its roots could no longer support it. It was only a matter of time, it was always a matter of time, and one day the tree collapsed, uprooted, and fell into what was left of Righteous Pond.
In the years thereafter, the pond was lucky enough to slowly refill. Water surrounding the dead tree gradually caused the wood to wither away, erasing any evidence of its existence.
The tree seemed innocent enough at first. It soaked up the sun, drank in the rain through its roots, and grew at a pace consistent with its surroundings. Apples fell to the ground and into the pond and didn't much bother a thing. The tree reached a typical twelve foot height and could have lived out its days at that size.
But this apple tree developed something other plant life lacked. Its branches liked growing. Its roots enjoyed drinking. When its natural growth slowed, the branches reached out still farther. When the roots felt thirsty, they dug themselves deeper. Eventually the roots broke through the bank of Righteous Pond and tapped into more water than the most torrential of rain storms ever brought. With this new access, the tree learned to manage its own growth.
Around the time of the tree's fiftieth birthday, it was already bigger than any apple tree in history, over forty feet tall and equally wide in its wing span. Gradually the branches spread out over the pond. The more it grew, the more its growth rate increased, and the more this escalation in growth rate became essential to its happiness. By the time it turned one hundred years old, it was taller and reached wider than any California redwood, defying nature with its freakish size. Its apples grew in size concordantly with its body, falling like small boulders onto the ground and into the pond.
By year one hundred and fifty, its growth was no longer sustainable. It had nearly drunk the pond dry. Branches hung low, strained by the weight of heavy apples, and began to split and snap off. The tree's trunk leaned over the pond and its roots could no longer support it. It was only a matter of time, it was always a matter of time, and one day the tree collapsed, uprooted, and fell into what was left of Righteous Pond.
In the years thereafter, the pond was lucky enough to slowly refill. Water surrounding the dead tree gradually caused the wood to wither away, erasing any evidence of its existence.
Backyard Portal
It looked like your typical city row home backyard. Three walls and the back of the house. Brick patio laid when the place was built in the late 1800s. The walls were newer cinders with curved, hollow centers that allowed people to see through to the yard next door. The neighbors were hardly ever home.
He and his friend played paddle ball for the first time in the yard's tight space on a spring day. The ball flew over the north wall into the north neighbors' yard. Rather than walk through his own house and knock on their door and walk through their house to get the ball, he climbed over the wall.
When he landed on the other side, the air around him had color, a burning orange. He could hear a constant hum, like that of a large power generator vibrating. He felt it was perhaps ten degrees warmer than it had been on his side of the wall. He tried to look back into his own yard but the curved, hollow centers of the wall's cinders were filled with images of his own face – younger, older, much older.
Above the wall was nothing but that burning orange. He felt himself slipping into a trance, paralyzed with intrigue and fear. It occurred to him to get out of there immediately, and he decided to reverse the path by which he came and climb back over the wall. When he landed on brick and saw his paddle ball partner, he knew he'd returned safely.
"Did you get the ball?" his friend asked.
"Ball?" He remembered. "No."
His friend frowned. "You okay?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Whether I can trust my senses."
He and his friend played paddle ball for the first time in the yard's tight space on a spring day. The ball flew over the north wall into the north neighbors' yard. Rather than walk through his own house and knock on their door and walk through their house to get the ball, he climbed over the wall.
When he landed on the other side, the air around him had color, a burning orange. He could hear a constant hum, like that of a large power generator vibrating. He felt it was perhaps ten degrees warmer than it had been on his side of the wall. He tried to look back into his own yard but the curved, hollow centers of the wall's cinders were filled with images of his own face – younger, older, much older.
Above the wall was nothing but that burning orange. He felt himself slipping into a trance, paralyzed with intrigue and fear. It occurred to him to get out of there immediately, and he decided to reverse the path by which he came and climb back over the wall. When he landed on brick and saw his paddle ball partner, he knew he'd returned safely.
"Did you get the ball?" his friend asked.
"Ball?" He remembered. "No."
His friend frowned. "You okay?"
"That depends."
"On what?"
"Whether I can trust my senses."
House Envy
The middle house on the street's east side resented its west side counterpart. Staring at a solid mahogany front door opening and closing so perfectly made it angry and do things like, when there were no people around, shout profanity. Not that people could hear or understand house language anyway, nor could dogs. Cats understood and saw it all, but they were no help - they sat on window sills and listened and meowed. Houses just ignored them.
Limestone headers above metal paned windows on the west side's middle house added to the constant dismay of the east side middle house. For years, east sneered at west. West laughed at east with its peeling paint and water damaged brick. The laughter infuriated east further and its shouting would ensue until a point of exhaustion came, a defeated state of frustration. East felt hopeless to change its situation because no matter how much noise it made, it remained stuck in place. A house could scream and make a fuss, but it couldn’t move.
Years passed and people bought and sold the houses. Neighborhood cats died and others were born and still others were brought along by owners or renters. Dogs came and went too, but the houses paid them no mind. The middle house on the east side couldn't see itself as it underwent renovation inside and got a new coat of paint out front, but it felt the changes as they occurred, and it eyed the reaction of its nemesis across the street. Its nerves were raw in anticipation of something it couldn’t affect, something it had no choice but to accept. It knew everything was okay, though, when it saw the west side middle house cringe with jealousy.
When the east side middle house finally looked across the street with confidence, it missed the drama of the screaming it used to do. Cats missed the screaming too – they slept on the window sills in peace instead of meowing with eyes wide. Dogs went on as if nothing had changed.
Limestone headers above metal paned windows on the west side's middle house added to the constant dismay of the east side middle house. For years, east sneered at west. West laughed at east with its peeling paint and water damaged brick. The laughter infuriated east further and its shouting would ensue until a point of exhaustion came, a defeated state of frustration. East felt hopeless to change its situation because no matter how much noise it made, it remained stuck in place. A house could scream and make a fuss, but it couldn’t move.
Years passed and people bought and sold the houses. Neighborhood cats died and others were born and still others were brought along by owners or renters. Dogs came and went too, but the houses paid them no mind. The middle house on the east side couldn't see itself as it underwent renovation inside and got a new coat of paint out front, but it felt the changes as they occurred, and it eyed the reaction of its nemesis across the street. Its nerves were raw in anticipation of something it couldn’t affect, something it had no choice but to accept. It knew everything was okay, though, when it saw the west side middle house cringe with jealousy.
When the east side middle house finally looked across the street with confidence, it missed the drama of the screaming it used to do. Cats missed the screaming too – they slept on the window sills in peace instead of meowing with eyes wide. Dogs went on as if nothing had changed.
Keep Calm and Pass to Mertesacker
"Honey, can you run out for some bread?"
Tactic number one: ignore. Mark kept his eyes peeled to the screen as if he hadn't heard his wife's request.
"Honey?"
Tactic number two: plead. "But it's the middle of the Ghana Germany game. Can I go when it's over?"
Sheila frowned. "The rest of the food will be out any minute. Isn't this why we have DVR? Can't you pause it?"
Moments later Mark walked up 22nd Street, cursing under his breath. He looked around him – people's windows were open. He'd have to avoid hearing any loud cheers or shouting as any errant word could give away the action of the match and ruin the rest of it for him. But how could he shut himself off from the sounds all around him? Ghana had only just tied the score at 1 – 1 when he'd left the house.
At the market he was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. While he doubted that shoppers were, say, following the game on their smart phones and/or chatting about more recent play than he'd seen, he didn't want to take any chances. He paid for the bread and began his walk home.
Then it happened: a man stepped out from a row home and Mark's gaze fell upon the man's shirt, a shirt that could only belong to a Germany fan:
Without thinking, his eyes moved from the man's shirt to his face, only for an instant, and Mark started to panic. What was that expression? Certainly not elation, but not downright depression either. Mark looked at his watch and saw that twelve minutes had passed since he'd left his house. How much could happen in twelve minutes? A lot. A lot can happen in twelve minutes in a match. That Germany fan in the Mertesacker shirt looked defeated. Ghana must've taken the lead. No, maybe he just looked stoic. No, perhaps he stepped out to catch his breath because he'd recently been screaming with unbridled joy. No. No, no, no!
"Sheila, here's your bread." Mark practically leapt past her and back onto the couch, fumbling the remote as he reached for it.
"Come on Mark, keep calm."
"Keep calm?!" He turned to his wife. "Are you in cahoots with that Germany fan down the street?"
Sheila had no idea what Mark's question meant, so she sighed and decided to use tactic number one herself. She ignored him.
Tactic number one: ignore. Mark kept his eyes peeled to the screen as if he hadn't heard his wife's request.
"Honey?"
Tactic number two: plead. "But it's the middle of the Ghana Germany game. Can I go when it's over?"
Sheila frowned. "The rest of the food will be out any minute. Isn't this why we have DVR? Can't you pause it?"
Moments later Mark walked up 22nd Street, cursing under his breath. He looked around him – people's windows were open. He'd have to avoid hearing any loud cheers or shouting as any errant word could give away the action of the match and ruin the rest of it for him. But how could he shut himself off from the sounds all around him? Ghana had only just tied the score at 1 – 1 when he'd left the house.
At the market he was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. While he doubted that shoppers were, say, following the game on their smart phones and/or chatting about more recent play than he'd seen, he didn't want to take any chances. He paid for the bread and began his walk home.
Then it happened: a man stepped out from a row home and Mark's gaze fell upon the man's shirt, a shirt that could only belong to a Germany fan:
Without thinking, his eyes moved from the man's shirt to his face, only for an instant, and Mark started to panic. What was that expression? Certainly not elation, but not downright depression either. Mark looked at his watch and saw that twelve minutes had passed since he'd left his house. How much could happen in twelve minutes? A lot. A lot can happen in twelve minutes in a match. That Germany fan in the Mertesacker shirt looked defeated. Ghana must've taken the lead. No, maybe he just looked stoic. No, perhaps he stepped out to catch his breath because he'd recently been screaming with unbridled joy. No. No, no, no!
"Sheila, here's your bread." Mark practically leapt past her and back onto the couch, fumbling the remote as he reached for it.
"Come on Mark, keep calm."
"Keep calm?!" He turned to his wife. "Are you in cahoots with that Germany fan down the street?"
Sheila had no idea what Mark's question meant, so she sighed and decided to use tactic number one herself. She ignored him.
Riding to South Philly (on Pure Slush)
(This week's micro story, Riding to South Philly, is one I submitted to Pure Slush for their 2014 travel theme. You can read it by clicking here. Thanks once again to Pure Slush's fantastic editor, Matt Potter.)
THE STORE
"We stand at the sight of that ineffable tragedy, that place where the enemies of all that's good and holy had their brief victorious moment over all that's good and holy, that very plot of land where our hearts were all broken.
"But today we gather not to hang our heads in despair, not to cry on the shoulder of our neighbors, not to sulk in self pity for our loss.
"Rather, we're here to celebrate the future, to embrace opportunity, to sing and dance and frolic! Well, we won't actually do any singing or dancing, but frolicking is okay.
"Please accept my invitation to open your hearts and minds and, of course, your wallets! Without further ado, I welcome you to THE STORE. Come forth and enter and browse and buy! We've got everything you could ever want to commemorate the events of that deplorable day: knickknacks, trinkets, widgets, thingamabobs, and statuettes, plus milk and cigarettes at the state mandated minimum price.
"Come one, come all. Come depressed or tranquil or euphoric. But leave with less money and a big bag of stuff! It'll make you feel better, we hope.
"Let's never forget that day. Let's remember it by shopping."
"But today we gather not to hang our heads in despair, not to cry on the shoulder of our neighbors, not to sulk in self pity for our loss.
"Rather, we're here to celebrate the future, to embrace opportunity, to sing and dance and frolic! Well, we won't actually do any singing or dancing, but frolicking is okay.
"Please accept my invitation to open your hearts and minds and, of course, your wallets! Without further ado, I welcome you to THE STORE. Come forth and enter and browse and buy! We've got everything you could ever want to commemorate the events of that deplorable day: knickknacks, trinkets, widgets, thingamabobs, and statuettes, plus milk and cigarettes at the state mandated minimum price.
"Come one, come all. Come depressed or tranquil or euphoric. But leave with less money and a big bag of stuff! It'll make you feel better, we hope.
"Let's never forget that day. Let's remember it by shopping."
Expiration Date
"We all come with an expiration date, each of us. But we ain't no milk cartons – it ain't stamped on us so's we know when it's gonna be. Think that'd just make it real simple? So's we just know from the start when it's gonna be? Do what we wanna do until that day? Know the best time to take that getaway cash and enjoy them last few years, if you know what I mean. Given we's lucky enough to make it that far, and our parents's lucky enough."
He took a moment to think.
"Or would that just make it more complicated? Like 'cause you know when it's comin', you spend your whole life runnin' from it. Tryin' to change it. Like you run and run and run away from that day, stay out its way, and bam! You smack into it anyway. And while you do all that runnin', you wonder the whole time whether you can even escape fate. Whether you wastin' all that time doin' all that runnin' – time you could spend doin' somethin' real. Yeah, maybe if you accept your expiration date, maybe you enjoy your life at least a little bit."
He stopped for air.
"Been at this job a long time. Only way a guy like me keeps at a job like this a long time's to believe we got nothin' to do with it – whose expiration date comes when. Otherwise we start thinkin' we got some control over it, and boom! Just like that comes our own expiration dates."
He cocked the hammer, pointed the gun.
"But enough about me, let's talk about you. Your expiration date could come tonight. It's up to you."
*source of gun image: freevectorstuff.blogspot.com
He took a moment to think.
"Or would that just make it more complicated? Like 'cause you know when it's comin', you spend your whole life runnin' from it. Tryin' to change it. Like you run and run and run away from that day, stay out its way, and bam! You smack into it anyway. And while you do all that runnin', you wonder the whole time whether you can even escape fate. Whether you wastin' all that time doin' all that runnin' – time you could spend doin' somethin' real. Yeah, maybe if you accept your expiration date, maybe you enjoy your life at least a little bit."
He stopped for air.
"Been at this job a long time. Only way a guy like me keeps at a job like this a long time's to believe we got nothin' to do with it – whose expiration date comes when. Otherwise we start thinkin' we got some control over it, and boom! Just like that comes our own expiration dates."
He cocked the hammer, pointed the gun.
"But enough about me, let's talk about you. Your expiration date could come tonight. It's up to you."
*source of gun image: freevectorstuff.blogspot.com
The Salt and Pepper Dilemma
Myers heard a knock on the door as he set his dinner plate down on the table. Odd, he thought. He wasn't expecting anyone and it was a little late for solicitors.
"Yes?" he said as he opened the front door.
"Excuse me, but are you eating dinner?"
Myers frowned. "I was about to."
"Do you place salt and pepper shakers at your table during meals?"
The question caught Myers off guard. "What?"
"Do you place salt and pepper shakers at your table during meals?" The man spoke with an accent Myers couldn't quite place. He was short and plump with a pale white complexion, dark hair and a dark moustache. The young woman still stood behind him, mute. She had the same complexion and hair color as the man, but her hair hung below her shoulders.
"Sometimes." Myers was surprised to hear himself answer the question.
"Which side of the salt is the pepper on, and which vice versa?"
Myers shook his head. "I don't understand the question."
"Is the salt to the left of the pepper, or the pepper to the left of the salt?"
Myers shrugged. "Could be on either side, what's the difference?"
The man looked at the woman and then back at Myers. He handed Myers a flyer. It read: MOVEMENT FOR THE STANDARDIZATION OF SALT AND PEPPER SHAKER PLACEMENT. CHOOSE YOUR SIDE TODAY. It had a small picture of a salt shaker and a pepper shaker beneath the words.
Myers laughed. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No joke, sir." The man looked deathly serious. "Choose your side today."
Myers considered whether to say goodbye to the man and woman, close the door in their faces, and sit down to his dinner, or play along. He found himself asking, "Doesn't the positioning of the salt and pepper shakers depend on one's perspective? If I sit on one side of the table, the salt will be to the left or right of the pepper. But if I sit on the other side of the table, the salt will be on the opposite side of the pepper."
The man's eyes widened, and he seemed to delve deep into thought. He turned and spoke to the woman in another language that Myers could not understand. The woman nodded.
"Sir, you have done us a great service today. We shall amend our approach to involve geographical direction to clarify standardization. North, South, East, or West for the salt in relation to the pepper."
The man and woman turned to leave. Myers thought of asking them what this was all about, why the positioning of salt and pepper shakers should mean a darn thing to anyone, but instead he asked, "What should people do when they have those salt and pepper combo shakers?"
"Yes?" he said as he opened the front door.
"Excuse me, but are you eating dinner?"
Myers frowned. "I was about to."
"Do you place salt and pepper shakers at your table during meals?"
The question caught Myers off guard. "What?"
"Do you place salt and pepper shakers at your table during meals?" The man spoke with an accent Myers couldn't quite place. He was short and plump with a pale white complexion, dark hair and a dark moustache. The young woman still stood behind him, mute. She had the same complexion and hair color as the man, but her hair hung below her shoulders.
"Sometimes." Myers was surprised to hear himself answer the question.
"Which side of the salt is the pepper on, and which vice versa?"
Myers shook his head. "I don't understand the question."
"Is the salt to the left of the pepper, or the pepper to the left of the salt?"
Myers shrugged. "Could be on either side, what's the difference?"
The man looked at the woman and then back at Myers. He handed Myers a flyer. It read: MOVEMENT FOR THE STANDARDIZATION OF SALT AND PEPPER SHAKER PLACEMENT. CHOOSE YOUR SIDE TODAY. It had a small picture of a salt shaker and a pepper shaker beneath the words.
Myers laughed. "Is this some kind of joke?"
"No joke, sir." The man looked deathly serious. "Choose your side today."
Myers considered whether to say goodbye to the man and woman, close the door in their faces, and sit down to his dinner, or play along. He found himself asking, "Doesn't the positioning of the salt and pepper shakers depend on one's perspective? If I sit on one side of the table, the salt will be to the left or right of the pepper. But if I sit on the other side of the table, the salt will be on the opposite side of the pepper."
The man's eyes widened, and he seemed to delve deep into thought. He turned and spoke to the woman in another language that Myers could not understand. The woman nodded.
"Sir, you have done us a great service today. We shall amend our approach to involve geographical direction to clarify standardization. North, South, East, or West for the salt in relation to the pepper."
The man and woman turned to leave. Myers thought of asking them what this was all about, why the positioning of salt and pepper shakers should mean a darn thing to anyone, but instead he asked, "What should people do when they have those salt and pepper combo shakers?"
Homeless
TRAVELIN FOLK
GOIN BROKE
anything helps
She had natty locks and big black rimmed glasses and two dogs. The dogs slept beneath the shade of a city tree while she paced in the sun.
VIETNAM VET
true patriot
He stood in place on the boulevard median, teetering. His eyes opened and shut and his lips moved but he didn't speak. His stubble only looked a few days old, suggestive of a recent shave.
GOD LOVES
US ALL
His hair and beard were bushy and he looked angry, but harmless. The hairs in his beard were black and white and grey. When he begged enough to buy fried rice at China Star, he'd go get it and eat on his way back down 4th Street and throw the empty container on the sidewalk in front of someone's house.
GOIN BROKE
anything helps
She had natty locks and big black rimmed glasses and two dogs. The dogs slept beneath the shade of a city tree while she paced in the sun.
VIETNAM VET
true patriot
He stood in place on the boulevard median, teetering. His eyes opened and shut and his lips moved but he didn't speak. His stubble only looked a few days old, suggestive of a recent shave.
GOD LOVES
US ALL
His hair and beard were bushy and he looked angry, but harmless. The hairs in his beard were black and white and grey. When he begged enough to buy fried rice at China Star, he'd go get it and eat on his way back down 4th Street and throw the empty container on the sidewalk in front of someone's house.
Chance or Fate (by Gloria Garfunkel on Pure Slush)
(I've had a little too much going on lately in my personal life to polish up one my drafts to post this week, and besides that, I'd like to share this story by Gloria Garfunkel via Pure Slush with as many people as possible. Please click here for this week's micro story, Chance or Fate by Gloria Garfunkel on Pure Slush.)
It Two
It's that daily work. It's waking at dawn to take five hundred jump shots. It's left and right handed layups and hitting twenty straight free throws before you go to class. After class, it's an hour of lifting and an hour or running.
It's getting back on the court after dinner. Another five hundred jumpers, left and right handed layups, twenty straight free throws.
It's the fourth quarter and there are three seconds left in the game. It's the tournament and it's your senior year and your team's down by a point and coach calls a play to get you open. It's a shot you've made thousands of times before, but this time you miss.
It's getting up the next day and taking another five hundred shots if that's still what you want to do. It's looking in the mirror and knowing they'll never all go in. It might not be jump shots next year, it may be something else. But it starts early and ends late and it means something to you, whatever it is.
(For a different It, click here.)
It's getting back on the court after dinner. Another five hundred jumpers, left and right handed layups, twenty straight free throws.
It's the fourth quarter and there are three seconds left in the game. It's the tournament and it's your senior year and your team's down by a point and coach calls a play to get you open. It's a shot you've made thousands of times before, but this time you miss.
It's getting up the next day and taking another five hundred shots if that's still what you want to do. It's looking in the mirror and knowing they'll never all go in. It might not be jump shots next year, it may be something else. But it starts early and ends late and it means something to you, whatever it is.
(For a different It, click here.)
Sweet Revenge
"Is Dan there?"
Don't people say 'hello' anymore, thought Dan. "Who's asking?"
"Name's Johnson. Is Dan there?"
"What's this in reference to?"
"I have an important matter to discuss with him. There's money involved. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone, so I'd like to arrange a meeting."
"I don't know anyone named Johnson. Well, that's not true, but you're not that Johnson."
"So is this Dan?"
"Where would you like to meet?"
"You choose."
"Aramingo Diner. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"
"8:00 am sharp. See you there."
The next morning rolled around and Dan was more suspicious than curious. Something he didn't like in Johnson's voice, something seductive, made him wonder if he should even show up. But Dan didn't have a lot going on lately. He'd never met this Johnson, but somehow he knew just where to sit when he saw a grey haired man alone in a booth.
"Coffee, black," he told the expectant waitress.
"Daniel, it's nice to meet you."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?"
"Please, just Johnson."
Dan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, which the waitress had delivered within moments of his order.
"Until recently, you were employed at LDS Products, is that correct?" asked Johnson.
"Yes."
"And from what I understand, your departure from LDS wasn't made under the best of circumstances?"
"Being fired usually isn't."
"I didn't want to put it so harshly, Dan, but no, it usually isn't."
"So what do you want with LDS, or with me?"
"I'm sure you're aware that one of LDS' largest accounts is a certain retail chain with a presence in thirty seven states?"
"Of course I am."
"We have it on good authority that a top man at LDS has been bribing a top man at that retail chain for many, many years. Were you aware of this too?"
"No," Dan lied, "but it doesn't surprise me."
"I'll cut to the chase. We want you to blow the whistle on LDS."
Dan took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee.
"Why would you want me to do something like that, Johnson?"
"Fair question. Without going into specifics, I represent a firm that can offer a nearly identical product range to this retailer. When you blow the whistle on your former employer, they'll lose the account, and the company I represent expects to step in and take it."
"If you have the goods on LDS, why not blow the whistle yourselves?"
"Another fair question, but one you could surely answer on your own if you gave it some thought. One reason is that if the information leak were tied to the company I represent, this could hurt if not ruin their chances of winning the account in the aftermath of the scandal. Nobody likes to give business to people who cause trouble, and the leak could raise questions my clients don't want to answer. Another reason is that it'll all sound better if it comes from a former LDS employee, and you're in a unique position to be that man."
"So I do the dirty work, and your clients ride in to save the day."
"Precisely."
"I could easily guess the name of the company you represent."
"Maybe, but don't bother because I won't confirm it. And why should it matter to you anyway?"
"You're right, it doesn't matter to me. What does matter to me is what you're offering."
Johnson smiled and removed a pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He wrote down a number with four zeroes on a beverage napkin and slid it across the table top.
Dan looked down at the napkin and then back up at Johnson. "I know how large that account could be for your clients. I think the number you wrote down is missing a zero."
"Check, please," Johnson told the approaching waitress. He waited for her to walk away. "Dan, we're talking about cash. The amount we've offered is significant. Give it some thought."
"I've given it enough thought already. Add a zero or find another ex-LDS man to sink their ship."
Johnson smiled again as the waitress brought their tab. He removed a few bills from his wallet and stood to leave and extended a hand toward Dan. They shook.
"I'll speak with my client and get back in touch with you. Good day to you, sir."
Dan sat and finished his coffee. He had no doubt that Johnson would meet his demand, a pittance compared to the profits his clients would make if their plan were to work. "Waitress," he said, "I'll take some eggs and scrapple and white toast. And more coffee." He added, to himself, "I'm celebrating sweet revenge."
Don't people say 'hello' anymore, thought Dan. "Who's asking?"
"Name's Johnson. Is Dan there?"
"What's this in reference to?"
"I have an important matter to discuss with him. There's money involved. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone, so I'd like to arrange a meeting."
"I don't know anyone named Johnson. Well, that's not true, but you're not that Johnson."
"So is this Dan?"
"Where would you like to meet?"
"You choose."
"Aramingo Diner. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"
"8:00 am sharp. See you there."
The next morning rolled around and Dan was more suspicious than curious. Something he didn't like in Johnson's voice, something seductive, made him wonder if he should even show up. But Dan didn't have a lot going on lately. He'd never met this Johnson, but somehow he knew just where to sit when he saw a grey haired man alone in a booth.
"Coffee, black," he told the expectant waitress.
"Daniel, it's nice to meet you."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?"
"Please, just Johnson."
Dan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, which the waitress had delivered within moments of his order.
"Until recently, you were employed at LDS Products, is that correct?" asked Johnson.
"Yes."
"And from what I understand, your departure from LDS wasn't made under the best of circumstances?"
"Being fired usually isn't."
"I didn't want to put it so harshly, Dan, but no, it usually isn't."
"So what do you want with LDS, or with me?"
"I'm sure you're aware that one of LDS' largest accounts is a certain retail chain with a presence in thirty seven states?"
"Of course I am."
"We have it on good authority that a top man at LDS has been bribing a top man at that retail chain for many, many years. Were you aware of this too?"
"No," Dan lied, "but it doesn't surprise me."
"I'll cut to the chase. We want you to blow the whistle on LDS."
Dan took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee.
"Why would you want me to do something like that, Johnson?"
"Fair question. Without going into specifics, I represent a firm that can offer a nearly identical product range to this retailer. When you blow the whistle on your former employer, they'll lose the account, and the company I represent expects to step in and take it."
"If you have the goods on LDS, why not blow the whistle yourselves?"
"Another fair question, but one you could surely answer on your own if you gave it some thought. One reason is that if the information leak were tied to the company I represent, this could hurt if not ruin their chances of winning the account in the aftermath of the scandal. Nobody likes to give business to people who cause trouble, and the leak could raise questions my clients don't want to answer. Another reason is that it'll all sound better if it comes from a former LDS employee, and you're in a unique position to be that man."
"So I do the dirty work, and your clients ride in to save the day."
"Precisely."
"I could easily guess the name of the company you represent."
"Maybe, but don't bother because I won't confirm it. And why should it matter to you anyway?"
"You're right, it doesn't matter to me. What does matter to me is what you're offering."
Johnson smiled and removed a pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He wrote down a number with four zeroes on a beverage napkin and slid it across the table top.
Dan looked down at the napkin and then back up at Johnson. "I know how large that account could be for your clients. I think the number you wrote down is missing a zero."
"Check, please," Johnson told the approaching waitress. He waited for her to walk away. "Dan, we're talking about cash. The amount we've offered is significant. Give it some thought."
"I've given it enough thought already. Add a zero or find another ex-LDS man to sink their ship."
Johnson smiled again as the waitress brought their tab. He removed a few bills from his wallet and stood to leave and extended a hand toward Dan. They shook.
"I'll speak with my client and get back in touch with you. Good day to you, sir."
Dan sat and finished his coffee. He had no doubt that Johnson would meet his demand, a pittance compared to the profits his clients would make if their plan were to work. "Waitress," he said, "I'll take some eggs and scrapple and white toast. And more coffee." He added, to himself, "I'm celebrating sweet revenge."
Selfie Sync
"Gotta work late tonight," he told his wife for the fourth time in as many weeks, parking his car in the motel lot as he hung up the phone. Sooner or later he knew he'd have to put an end to it, but not before tonight.
Half an hour later, she lay on the bed while he took a shower. She asked herself why she was doing it, wasting her time on a married man. Intuition told her he didn't want it to last much longer either, the lust had worn thin.
His phone beeped and she reached for it. A text from his wife. She considered revealing herself in a return text, just for kicks. He's a jerk and I'm no better, she thought, but I'm not going to ruin his marriage. She decided at that moment, though, that tonight would be her last night with him. His phone still in hand, she stood up in front of the motel room's large mirror and snapped off a few selfies – just a little something he could remember her by.
It was after midnight when he pulled into his garage. Curling up in bed next to his wife, he felt ridiculous. Looking at her sleeping peacefully, he decided that his little fling was over – no more lies or motel rooms.
The next morning went as most of his mornings did, and he felt a sense of relief over breakfast. His workday wasn't much different from most others except that he couldn't reach his wife in the afternoon. She usually picked up or at least got right back to him.
He returned home to a dark, empty house. "Hello," he called out, wondering where his wife could be. "Hello!" He knew he hadn't left his laptop on the dining room table, but there it sat open with a blank screen. He moved the mouse to refresh the screen and there she stood, naked, his recent lover with a cell phone in hand. Panic ensued and at first he thought she must've somehow sent the photo to his wife and he wondered why on earth she'd have done such a thing? But then he noticed the dropbox interface surrounding the photo and all at once he knew how it had gone down – she'd taken the picture with his phone without knowing that it would automatically sync to a dropbox folder shared by his wife. The date and time were right there as well, indisputable evidence of a dalliance. Busted, he slumped into a chair and closed the photo and found another selfie behind it waiting for him: his wife in front of their bedroom mirror with a very large cashier's check and her middle finger extended.
Half an hour later, she lay on the bed while he took a shower. She asked herself why she was doing it, wasting her time on a married man. Intuition told her he didn't want it to last much longer either, the lust had worn thin.
His phone beeped and she reached for it. A text from his wife. She considered revealing herself in a return text, just for kicks. He's a jerk and I'm no better, she thought, but I'm not going to ruin his marriage. She decided at that moment, though, that tonight would be her last night with him. His phone still in hand, she stood up in front of the motel room's large mirror and snapped off a few selfies – just a little something he could remember her by.
It was after midnight when he pulled into his garage. Curling up in bed next to his wife, he felt ridiculous. Looking at her sleeping peacefully, he decided that his little fling was over – no more lies or motel rooms.
The next morning went as most of his mornings did, and he felt a sense of relief over breakfast. His workday wasn't much different from most others except that he couldn't reach his wife in the afternoon. She usually picked up or at least got right back to him.
He returned home to a dark, empty house. "Hello," he called out, wondering where his wife could be. "Hello!" He knew he hadn't left his laptop on the dining room table, but there it sat open with a blank screen. He moved the mouse to refresh the screen and there she stood, naked, his recent lover with a cell phone in hand. Panic ensued and at first he thought she must've somehow sent the photo to his wife and he wondered why on earth she'd have done such a thing? But then he noticed the dropbox interface surrounding the photo and all at once he knew how it had gone down – she'd taken the picture with his phone without knowing that it would automatically sync to a dropbox folder shared by his wife. The date and time were right there as well, indisputable evidence of a dalliance. Busted, he slumped into a chair and closed the photo and found another selfie behind it waiting for him: his wife in front of their bedroom mirror with a very large cashier's check and her middle finger extended.
Wants and Needs
Joseph sat and thought about what he wanted from life. Food-shelter-clothing were all he needed for himself and bartending would pay the bills. He and his friends had always been that way – minimalist, as he'd heard it termed and lately spread like gospel. But he knew enough to know that needs and wants were different things.
What if he just wanted to hang out in Philly neighborhoods and live? Would that be enough for Annabeth? He liked to look out his front windows and see people. Like Fishtown was some big college campus sans the college and with more hipsters and toddlers and long time residents. He liked the neighborhood's feral cats, though he kinda felt bad for them and sometimes gave them food.
Magic Johnson popped into his head – he'd seen him on tv earlier pitching HealthCare.gov, urging people to care enough about their own health to visit the web site and sign up. Of all the things his bloated government pissed away its people's hard earned money on, the Magic Johnson commercial and its message bothered him the least. For Joseph, health insurance had always been a want, and mostly he just felt lucky that it hadn't yet become a need.
The time struck him – just after 4:00 am. He'd been sitting in his den in the dark for hours. Maybe he'd wake up the next day and know exactly what he wanted, have some epiphany and take up a new career or ask Annabeth to marry him. Or maybe he'd just make breakfast and go for a walk while it digested, if the sun shines.
What if he just wanted to hang out in Philly neighborhoods and live? Would that be enough for Annabeth? He liked to look out his front windows and see people. Like Fishtown was some big college campus sans the college and with more hipsters and toddlers and long time residents. He liked the neighborhood's feral cats, though he kinda felt bad for them and sometimes gave them food.
Magic Johnson popped into his head – he'd seen him on tv earlier pitching HealthCare.gov, urging people to care enough about their own health to visit the web site and sign up. Of all the things his bloated government pissed away its people's hard earned money on, the Magic Johnson commercial and its message bothered him the least. For Joseph, health insurance had always been a want, and mostly he just felt lucky that it hadn't yet become a need.
The time struck him – just after 4:00 am. He'd been sitting in his den in the dark for hours. Maybe he'd wake up the next day and know exactly what he wanted, have some epiphany and take up a new career or ask Annabeth to marry him. Or maybe he'd just make breakfast and go for a walk while it digested, if the sun shines.
Everyday Juggle
Joseph finds Garret on his couch, sitting still, eyes open and staring off into a corner of the room. "What are you doing?" he asks.
"Struggling."
"Struggling with what? Seems like you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing."
"It's the everyday struggle, Joe. I guess it's something you just don't know about."
Joseph rolls his eyes. "Okay, then explain it to me."
"I realize that plenty of other people in the world have it a lot worse than me, I'm not that obtuse. I'm employed and have a roof over my head and so, relatively speaking, life is good." Garret's eyes remain fixed on the corner of Joseph's living room.
"So what is it?"
"There are just so many choices we have to make every day. It's overwhelming. I mean, even on my little salary, I could go out right now and pick up a bucket of fried chicken, a huge portion from the Chinese food place, a cheesesteak … you know pretty much anything we could want."
"So that's what this is about. You're hungry and can't decide what to eat."
"No! No Joe, it's not about food. I happen to be hungry right now, so that's the example I used, but this is about a lot more than just food."
"Well, what?"
"I don't know, think for yourself, wouldja? I could run five miles or stream a marathon of pretty much any tv show ever all night or chain smoke or go to the movies or drive to Atlantic City or, or…."
"Or?"
"I don't know! The possibilities are endless, everyday."
"Sounds more like a juggle than a struggle. You're just juggling all of the different stuff you have to do or wanna do on a daily basis."
"Whatever."
Joseph sighs. "So for now you've decided to sit on the couch and do nothing."
"For now, yes."
"That's very Zen of you."
"Joe?"
"Yes?"
"I'm still hungry."
"Did you expect to become less hungry without eating something?"
"Let's order a pizza."
"Okay."
"Can you get it?"
"Always easier to make those everyday choices with someone else's money, isn't it?"
"Struggling."
"Struggling with what? Seems like you're just sitting on the couch doing nothing."
"It's the everyday struggle, Joe. I guess it's something you just don't know about."
Joseph rolls his eyes. "Okay, then explain it to me."
"I realize that plenty of other people in the world have it a lot worse than me, I'm not that obtuse. I'm employed and have a roof over my head and so, relatively speaking, life is good." Garret's eyes remain fixed on the corner of Joseph's living room.
"So what is it?"
"There are just so many choices we have to make every day. It's overwhelming. I mean, even on my little salary, I could go out right now and pick up a bucket of fried chicken, a huge portion from the Chinese food place, a cheesesteak … you know pretty much anything we could want."
"So that's what this is about. You're hungry and can't decide what to eat."
"No! No Joe, it's not about food. I happen to be hungry right now, so that's the example I used, but this is about a lot more than just food."
"Well, what?"
"I don't know, think for yourself, wouldja? I could run five miles or stream a marathon of pretty much any tv show ever all night or chain smoke or go to the movies or drive to Atlantic City or, or…."
"Or?"
"I don't know! The possibilities are endless, everyday."
"Sounds more like a juggle than a struggle. You're just juggling all of the different stuff you have to do or wanna do on a daily basis."
"Whatever."
Joseph sighs. "So for now you've decided to sit on the couch and do nothing."
"For now, yes."
"That's very Zen of you."
"Joe?"
"Yes?"
"I'm still hungry."
"Did you expect to become less hungry without eating something?"
"Let's order a pizza."
"Okay."
"Can you get it?"
"Always easier to make those everyday choices with someone else's money, isn't it?"
A Working History
He came home from the office one day and asked, "How would you feel about going back to work?"
With the kids both in school full time and her hobbies approaching obsession, she told him she wouldn't mind one bit.
"Good," he said, "because I can't take it much longer."
And that was how, in the summer of the tenth year of their marriage, she became the family breadwinner and he a stay-at-home dad. Their needs weren't many, just enough to pay the bills of a simple lifestyle, and they were happy.
Five years later nearly to the day, she came home from the office and asked, "How would you feel about going back to work?"
The kids have soccer and chess and the school play, and the house is always clean when you get home, he told her. He wanted to just leave things alone.
"But I lost my job today," she said, "downsizing."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"If I can't find something new, you'll have to go out and look too."
Months went by and they lived on her unemployment check. She looked online for jobs and submitted resumes and got a few interviews but nothing panned out. He inquired casually and not-so-secretly hoped she'd find something first. Home together throughout the day and she too anxious to enjoy her old hobbies, they fought more often than they ever had. He didn't see why they should fight and told her they were blessed and they should enjoy it while it lasted. She calmed down and their love life perked up and they went from frequent fighting to an ephemeral giddiness, and the mood in the house became so lighthearted as to confuse their kids, the kids wondering how their unemployed parents could be so happy and unconcerned. The kids became jealous of their friends and the oldest asked about getting a job and the parents said, "yes."
A couple of paychecks into his oldest child's working life, the father felt a little embarrassed about his kid being the family's only earner, so he hunkered down and applied for many, many jobs and took the first one he was offered that allowed for a decent living. His wife went back to her hobbies.
He was never out of work for an extended period again and she worked on and off. Both kids went to college thanks to debt and grants and campus jobs. When he came home one day and told her he was ready to retire, they joked about what their lives would be like and spoke about when they'd both been at home years before. They were both much younger then, she said, and he told her that he thought they were pretty lucky.
With the kids both in school full time and her hobbies approaching obsession, she told him she wouldn't mind one bit.
"Good," he said, "because I can't take it much longer."
And that was how, in the summer of the tenth year of their marriage, she became the family breadwinner and he a stay-at-home dad. Their needs weren't many, just enough to pay the bills of a simple lifestyle, and they were happy.
Five years later nearly to the day, she came home from the office and asked, "How would you feel about going back to work?"
The kids have soccer and chess and the school play, and the house is always clean when you get home, he told her. He wanted to just leave things alone.
"But I lost my job today," she said, "downsizing."
"I'm sorry," he said.
"If I can't find something new, you'll have to go out and look too."
Months went by and they lived on her unemployment check. She looked online for jobs and submitted resumes and got a few interviews but nothing panned out. He inquired casually and not-so-secretly hoped she'd find something first. Home together throughout the day and she too anxious to enjoy her old hobbies, they fought more often than they ever had. He didn't see why they should fight and told her they were blessed and they should enjoy it while it lasted. She calmed down and their love life perked up and they went from frequent fighting to an ephemeral giddiness, and the mood in the house became so lighthearted as to confuse their kids, the kids wondering how their unemployed parents could be so happy and unconcerned. The kids became jealous of their friends and the oldest asked about getting a job and the parents said, "yes."
A couple of paychecks into his oldest child's working life, the father felt a little embarrassed about his kid being the family's only earner, so he hunkered down and applied for many, many jobs and took the first one he was offered that allowed for a decent living. His wife went back to her hobbies.
He was never out of work for an extended period again and she worked on and off. Both kids went to college thanks to debt and grants and campus jobs. When he came home one day and told her he was ready to retire, they joked about what their lives would be like and spoke about when they'd both been at home years before. They were both much younger then, she said, and he told her that he thought they were pretty lucky.
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