Joseph’s head rested between his forearm and bicep, on the bar. He refused to look again at the cell phone smushed against the side of his leg, inside his jeans pocket. He longed for the days when he hadn't owned a cell phone.
She’ll either come or she won’t, he thought. It’s open mic night and people will play music and either she’ll be here or she won’t. I’ll be on this barstool or in the bathroom but I won’t be anywhere else until I’m in bed and that’s all there is to it.
“Another?”
“Huh?”
“Another Maker’s?”
Joseph raised his head, squinted, made a fist and stuck up his thumb and then lowered it toward his empty glass, as if his hand were a bottle.
The bartender poured and he eyed his drink as some guys breezed in and sat at a corner table. A new, buzzing undercurrent began to flow throughout the bar, a sort of lo-fi hum of blended conversations rising in volume. Joseph felt it hypnotize him.
“I think they opened for Radiohead in Camden tonight,” he overheard the young lady to his left try to whisper.
“They know one of the guys who cooks here,” someone else mumbled.
“Hi there!” It was Annabeth’s voice, she came after all. How much time had passed?
“Hi,” he said, expressionless, suddenly at ease.
“Did you get my texts?”
“Oh, sorry, no. Drink?”
“Sure.”
“How was your evening?”
Annabeth laughed, shook her head.
He thought of asking what she’d been doing, why she didn’t come sooner. But all he said was, “It’s got a nice ring when you laugh.”
“You got any extra guitars we could borrow?” one of the guys from the corner table who looked vaguely familiar to Joseph, tall and lean, asked the bartender. The answer was an emphatic “yes.” Soon open mic night was over, transformed into a surprise mini-concert seen and heard through a haze of smoke and booze fueled giddiness.
Joseph awoke the next day unsure of whether it had all been a dream, but Annabeth reassured him.
(Click here for a song; you may even hear a line from the story.)
Showing posts with label Abbaye. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Abbaye. Show all posts
One Night In 2003
Sipping an Extra Pale Ale, hand pumped and served room temperature, Brian waited for Alexa. The last time he saw her she was an eighteen year old senior and he was a sixteen year old sophomore doing his best to conceal what he assumed to be an unrequited crush. When she strode through The Abbaye’s doorway and their eyes met for the first time in seven years, his jaw unwittingly dropped.
“Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood, stranger!”
“Thank you. And hello!” Be cool, he thought. “It’s been ages.”
“Really, it has.”
They flashed their individual headlines: a brief summary of college life from each of them, her job working with troubled teenagers, his much-less-interesting job in accounting, and, finally, how she managed to buy a home in Northern Liberties.
“So, you been to any other bars yet?”
“No.”
“Well, this place just opened and I love it, then there’s North Third and Standard Tap and Azure who also have great food and beer lists.” She spoke of local homeowners in the collective. “If any of us need a contractor, we can always just go down to happy hour at Seven Hundred. Electricians, plumbers, general handymen, they’re always there when they get off work.”
“What’s the deal with Finnegan’s Wake?” Brian asked.
“Oh,” she frowned. “Bad news. Crazy-frat-party-land. The neighborhood association fights them all the time, but apparently its owned by a group of city politicians, so they get away with whatever they want. These kids park on all the nearby streets and then break bottles when they leave the place, scream and shout, it really sucks. I catch them pissing on the side wall of my house all the time, in the alleyway.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the vibe here.”
She nodded. “You said it.”
They agreed to meet for drinks again later that evening, and though Brian didn’t sense that she was any more attracted to him now than she was in high school, the slightest glimmer of hope was enough.
That night, they went to her favorite bars and he paid for the drinks. Their conversation had that effortlessness so often felt among young, increasingly buzzed people with many friends and experiences in common.
She asked him to walk her home and though he couldn’t be sure whether it was strictly for safety or, optimistically, for a night cap at her place, the glimmer of hope was alive and well.
As they approached her house, she began, “Would you like,” but was interrupted by the sound of a bottle breaking against brick, and then loud, drunken laughter. She turned toward the alleyway and then back at him and for the first time all night he was indecisive. Testosterone told him to walk into the alley and confront the perpetrators, but what he really wanted was for them both to pretend they hadn’t heard the loud noise and for her to finish her sentence. When she fell silent and just stood there, looking down at her red ballet flats, he felt compelled to act.
“Why don’t you go inside?” He said. “I’m just gonna see what that’s all about.”
“It’s okay,” she said. For a moment he thought she’d suggest that they go inside together and forget the newly broken bottle, but then she continued. “I’ll come with you.”
She stood back as he confronted two visibly drunk guys, one of whom was relieving himself on the side wall of her house. As the first punch landed on Brian’s left cheekbone and he fired back, nose cartilage crushing beneath his fist, he knew that his chance with Alexa had come and gone.
“Hi there! Welcome to the neighborhood, stranger!”
“Thank you. And hello!” Be cool, he thought. “It’s been ages.”
“Really, it has.”
They flashed their individual headlines: a brief summary of college life from each of them, her job working with troubled teenagers, his much-less-interesting job in accounting, and, finally, how she managed to buy a home in Northern Liberties.
“So, you been to any other bars yet?”
“No.”
“Well, this place just opened and I love it, then there’s North Third and Standard Tap and Azure who also have great food and beer lists.” She spoke of local homeowners in the collective. “If any of us need a contractor, we can always just go down to happy hour at Seven Hundred. Electricians, plumbers, general handymen, they’re always there when they get off work.”
“What’s the deal with Finnegan’s Wake?” Brian asked.
“Oh,” she frowned. “Bad news. Crazy-frat-party-land. The neighborhood association fights them all the time, but apparently its owned by a group of city politicians, so they get away with whatever they want. These kids park on all the nearby streets and then break bottles when they leave the place, scream and shout, it really sucks. I catch them pissing on the side wall of my house all the time, in the alleyway.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t seem to fit in with the rest of the vibe here.”
She nodded. “You said it.”
They agreed to meet for drinks again later that evening, and though Brian didn’t sense that she was any more attracted to him now than she was in high school, the slightest glimmer of hope was enough.
That night, they went to her favorite bars and he paid for the drinks. Their conversation had that effortlessness so often felt among young, increasingly buzzed people with many friends and experiences in common.
She asked him to walk her home and though he couldn’t be sure whether it was strictly for safety or, optimistically, for a night cap at her place, the glimmer of hope was alive and well.
As they approached her house, she began, “Would you like,” but was interrupted by the sound of a bottle breaking against brick, and then loud, drunken laughter. She turned toward the alleyway and then back at him and for the first time all night he was indecisive. Testosterone told him to walk into the alley and confront the perpetrators, but what he really wanted was for them both to pretend they hadn’t heard the loud noise and for her to finish her sentence. When she fell silent and just stood there, looking down at her red ballet flats, he felt compelled to act.
“Why don’t you go inside?” He said. “I’m just gonna see what that’s all about.”
“It’s okay,” she said. For a moment he thought she’d suggest that they go inside together and forget the newly broken bottle, but then she continued. “I’ll come with you.”
She stood back as he confronted two visibly drunk guys, one of whom was relieving himself on the side wall of her house. As the first punch landed on Brian’s left cheekbone and he fired back, nose cartilage crushing beneath his fist, he knew that his chance with Alexa had come and gone.
Drew's Diet
“Do you drink?”
“Socially. Few times a week.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“How’s your diet?
“I’m not on a diet.”
“I mean, what do you eat?”
“Oh. You know. All kinds of stuff.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”
“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”
“Oh, sorry. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”
“Oh yeah, those too. Cheeseburgers. Always a dog at the Phillies game.”
“You don’t eat fish?”
“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”
“No fruits or vegetables?”
“. . .”
“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese. You must exercise pretty often?”
“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”
“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits. If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”
“. . .”
“And come back and see me more than once every ten years. You should get a physical every three years.”
Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening. By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him. “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”
The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process. Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The five pounds returned to his body post haste.
“Socially. Few times a week.”
“Do you smoke?”
“No.”
“How’s your diet?
“I’m not on a diet.”
“I mean, what do you eat?”
“Oh. You know. All kinds of stuff.”
“Like?”
“I don’t know . . . roast pork sandwiches, wings, cheesesteaks, pizza steaks, pepperoni steaks, soft pretzels, cheese fries, crab fries, Spanish fries, potato chips, popcorn, pizza, fried chicken, waffles, pancakes, French toast, hoagies – usually Italian, eggs, sausage, bacon, grilled cheese and bacon, donuts, pastries, mozzarella cheese sticks, chicken parm, eggplant parm, scrapple, hashbrowns, corned beef hash, corned beef sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, the Paesano from Paesano’s – you know, it’s got brisket and a fried egg and stuff, I usually get their roasted potatoes with it, lasagna, fettuccine alfredo, stuffed mushrooms, ravioli, stuffed shells, rollatini, sausage and peppers, kielbasa, bratwurst, pierogies, dumplings, General Tso’s chicken, fried rice, lo mein, lamb saag, chicken tikka masala, doner kebab, gyros – usually lamb, souvlaki – usually chicken, burritos, tacos, taquitos, fajitas, quesadillas, chips and salsa, chips and guacamole, ribs, pulled pork, pork belly, pork chops, fried chicken. . . .”
“You already said ‘fried chicken.’”
“Oh, sorry. I guess that’s about it.”
“What about burgers and hot dogs, you don’t like those?”
“Oh yeah, those too. Cheeseburgers. Always a dog at the Phillies game.”
“You don’t eat fish?”
“Sometimes I get fish and chips at The Abbaye.”
“No fruits or vegetables?”
“. . .”
“Well, the chart says you’re overweight, but not obese. You must exercise pretty often?”
“I play a lot of basketball and soccer.”
“Listen, Drew, you’re young, but you’re gonna have to change your eating habits. If your diet is really limited to the foods you described, you’re eventually gonna blow up like a balloon and you’ll have some health issues.”
“. . .”
“And come back and see me more than once every ten years. You should get a physical every three years.”
Drew left the doctor’s office and stopped at Rustica for a couple of slices en route to The Druid’s Keep, where he had six PBRs throughout the evening. By the fifth PBR he was hungry again, but a slow, mesmerizing version of the doctor’s voice hung in the air around him. “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew,” the doctor said inside Drew’s head, like all the foods he craved were his own personal Red Ryder. ‘You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.’ “You’ll blow up like a balloon, Drew.”
The following week, the doctor’s warning lingered, and Drew ate healthier than he ever had as an adult, losing five pounds in the process. Learning of his lower weight effectively silenced the doctor, so Drew went back to eating whatever he wanted whenever he wanted. The five pounds returned to his body post haste.
Eliza Rises
Wings of various colors, some realistic and others fantastical, impossible; it’s her art and she can make it any way she pleases. Stacks of sketchpads contain years of drawings and she doesn’t realize how much of it there is until she thinks about the size of it all laid one on top of the other. She doesn’t think of it as some body of work, ever, it’s just what she does every day, if nothing else.
Eliza, 29, smitten with the butterfly since before she can remember, her earliest memories of the obsession her late mother’s reminder of when she chased them around the family farm. Her mother never saw the drawings, but Eliza thinks of her with each one she creates.
She spent too much time watching television and could always find some channel to leave on for hours as she intermittently drifted away until she stared at a monthly Comcast bill for five minutes and alternated between rationalizing the expense and understanding that it’s not for the unemployed before finally calling to cancel. Now she draws and reads and reads and draws until it’s time to leave the room she rents from an old family friend, one she was lucky enough to encounter at The Abbaye six months ago and who happened, at the time, to be passively seeking a tenant for the lone third floor bedroom of her house in Fishtown, the exact neighborhood where Eliza hoped to live and now does.
Wind blows through her windows, a perfect autumn day of sunshine and clear blue sky, and she stands, stretches her arms above her head, and breathes in the cool air, feeling the post of her nose ring move ever so slightly. She flexes many of the muscles in her slender 5’4” frame and then whips her wavy light brown hair around from her left shoulder to right.
Just enough bucks in her account to cover about two to three months’ rent, this fact and her current distaste for the hassle of finding a new job aren’t enough to stop her from sauntering downstairs and then walking toward Johnny Brenda’s to eat lunch there. She can go to a friend’s place for dinner, she thinks, if she feels hungry later.
Eliza, 29, smitten with the butterfly since before she can remember, her earliest memories of the obsession her late mother’s reminder of when she chased them around the family farm. Her mother never saw the drawings, but Eliza thinks of her with each one she creates.
She spent too much time watching television and could always find some channel to leave on for hours as she intermittently drifted away until she stared at a monthly Comcast bill for five minutes and alternated between rationalizing the expense and understanding that it’s not for the unemployed before finally calling to cancel. Now she draws and reads and reads and draws until it’s time to leave the room she rents from an old family friend, one she was lucky enough to encounter at The Abbaye six months ago and who happened, at the time, to be passively seeking a tenant for the lone third floor bedroom of her house in Fishtown, the exact neighborhood where Eliza hoped to live and now does.
Wind blows through her windows, a perfect autumn day of sunshine and clear blue sky, and she stands, stretches her arms above her head, and breathes in the cool air, feeling the post of her nose ring move ever so slightly. She flexes many of the muscles in her slender 5’4” frame and then whips her wavy light brown hair around from her left shoulder to right.
Just enough bucks in her account to cover about two to three months’ rent, this fact and her current distaste for the hassle of finding a new job aren’t enough to stop her from sauntering downstairs and then walking toward Johnny Brenda’s to eat lunch there. She can go to a friend’s place for dinner, she thinks, if she feels hungry later.
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