Mid-morning sunlight poured into Joseph's living room. After a long winter, Joseph and Garret, sitting around sipping hot coffee, welcomed the mild spring weather – a cloudless, breezy Philadelphia day. They sat back and stared out the windows at blue sky.
"I figured out my next career move," said Garret.
"Just now?"
"Yeah. Just now. Sitting here drinking coffee on this fine morning."
"I suppose I'm supposed to ask what you're going to do."
"Up to you."
Joseph sighed, feeling obliged to humor his friend. "Okay, what is it?"
"I'm going to open an office."
Joseph waited for details. Minutes passed before he asked "What kind of office?"
"A small one – basic. Reception area and a separate room for me. Modestly sized desk—"
"Gotcha, yeah, but I meant what kind of services will you provide? You're not a doctor or a lawyer or a professional of any kind, last I checked."
Garret shot Joseph a disapproving look. "Who says only doctors and lawyers and professionals can have their own offices? I wanna help people, Joe. I'll be there for our community. I think I'll be happier than I would've been if Fishtown Mews had come together as it should've."
"Okay man, that's noble and all, but how are you qualified to help people? What will you do for them?"
"It's simple. People will find me when they have no place else to go. They'll come to me with their situations, whatever those situations may be, and I'll advise them, do field work, help them solve their problems."
"Field work?"
"Yeah. You know, research. Like in those p.i. books when people bring their cases to the dick and he goes out there and sees what's up. It starts with one person, the client, and then once I get out there to do the seeing of what's up, I put myself in the right place at the right time and other people start coming out of the woodwork to reveal whatever pertinent information they can offer. I connect some dots, drink whiskey, and everyone wins."
"So you'll be a p.i., that's what you're saying."
"No. I won't actually be a p.i. – that was just an analogy to help you understand. I'll be more of a floater looking for the right set of circumstances. I'm sure it'll be slow going in the beginning but once I help those first few clients, word will get out."
Joseph shrugged, tiring of the conversation.
"You see, Joe," Garret continued, "it's not about a product or service – that's small minded thinking. It's not about a fancy title. It's about people helping people, and hopefully more people doing good things for the world than bad…."
Garret rambled on, but Joseph tuned him out, closed his eyes. He thought of how he might spend the rest of his day off from work, perhaps a walk to Palmer Park to sit around there for a while in the beautiful weather, rather than just sitting around his apartment.
Showing posts with label Fishtown. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Fishtown. Show all posts
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.
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.
Reconnaissance
As Joseph jumped up the subway steps at City Hall, he marveled at how long it’d been since he last set foot near Rittenhouse Square. One could live an entire lifetime between Northern Liberties and Fishtown, he thought.
Even now he only came this way out of necessity, on a rescue mission he feared would become nothing more than reconnaissance, said fear stemming from the following text message exchange with Annabeth after she didn’t answer either of his calls:
Joseph: When you coming to JB?
Annabeth: Probably not but come to McG!
JB stood for Johnny Brenda’s. A bar stool there having cushioned Joseph’s backside for the previous three hours, he and Garret and Suki waiting to hear from Annabeth about when she’d be joining them, Joseph felt toasty during his midnight trek on the Market-Frankford line. At first Joseph thought McG meant McGillin’s, but then he remembered that Billy was a smoker, so it had to be McGlinchey’s.
Joseph strode through McGlinchey’s doorway and spotted them right away through the smoke filled haze. They sat in a booth on the left side of the bar, Annabeth beside Billy, a young guy with long hair Joseph had met a few times seated across from them. Joseph cringed, swallowed his pride, and sat next to the guy whose name he’d never remember.
“Hi,” he managed a smile as he waved at them all.
Annabeth looked in his direction, a devilish face, cigarette between her left index and middle fingers. Billy exhaled and shook Joseph’s hand. The young guy, who’d been jabbering away as Joseph joined them, said, “Yo dude,” and then kept talking. Music blared, an old Velvet Underground tune, Lou Reed’s voice floating indiscriminately among the crowd, through the smoke.
When the kid stopped to breathe, Joseph said, “I’m gonna grab a drink, anyone in need?”
Billy answered, “I think we all could use one.” The others nodded. “Shot and a beer, you choose.”
A tall, slender bar tender with tattoos in various places, the one of a diamond on her left breast in particular catching Joseph’s unwitting eye, asked, “What can I get you?”
“Four Miller Lites and four shots of Jameson.”
He paid the fifteen bucks he owed and left a five dollar tip, carried the drinks back to the booth in two trips.
“Thank you much,” Billy said.
“Yeah, thanks dude,” the young chatterbox offered.
“Since when do you smoke?” Joseph asked Annabeth.
“From time to time,” she said airily.
“I didn’t know.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Joe.”
Joseph caught a smirk on Billy’s face.
“Excuse me,” Annabeth said as she rose. She looked back at Joseph and winked as she entered the Ladies room.
The music changed and now Nick Lowe sang, ‘Cruel To Be Kind.’
Raising his shot glass, his Yoda tattoo purposefully visible to the others, Joseph indicated for them to raise theirs. The three men threw back their Jamesons.
“So Billy,” Joseph managed to start before the kid could talk again. “You head back to Chicago at all?”
“Naaahhh,” Billy drew out. “No way to get back. Besides, Philly’s been too much fun.”
The long haired kid stayed quiet for a refreshing few moments and Joseph heard the music say, ‘it’s a very very very good sign’ just as Annabeth returned from the restroom.
She sat and pushed her shot over to Joseph. “You want mine too?” She asked. “I don’t need this.”
The whiskey went down the hatch and Joseph felt his buzz kick up a notch, watched an anthropomorphic red glass ashtray throw a punch across Billy’s face. He knew then it was time for him to head home.
“Well I was just in the neighborhood so wanted to stop in for a drink, but I gotta go.”
Annabeth eyed him quizzically, knowing he’d actually just been four neighborhoods away.
Goodbyes were said and Joseph hoped he’d catch the train before it stopped running for the night, save the eight dollar difference between that and cab fare. He decided not to call Annabeth for a few days, give her a little space.
(Listen to the original version of Nick Lowe's 'Cruel To Be Kind' here. For a live version performed with Wilco last month, click here.)
Even now he only came this way out of necessity, on a rescue mission he feared would become nothing more than reconnaissance, said fear stemming from the following text message exchange with Annabeth after she didn’t answer either of his calls:
Joseph: When you coming to JB?
Annabeth: Probably not but come to McG!
JB stood for Johnny Brenda’s. A bar stool there having cushioned Joseph’s backside for the previous three hours, he and Garret and Suki waiting to hear from Annabeth about when she’d be joining them, Joseph felt toasty during his midnight trek on the Market-Frankford line. At first Joseph thought McG meant McGillin’s, but then he remembered that Billy was a smoker, so it had to be McGlinchey’s.
Joseph strode through McGlinchey’s doorway and spotted them right away through the smoke filled haze. They sat in a booth on the left side of the bar, Annabeth beside Billy, a young guy with long hair Joseph had met a few times seated across from them. Joseph cringed, swallowed his pride, and sat next to the guy whose name he’d never remember.
“Hi,” he managed a smile as he waved at them all.
Annabeth looked in his direction, a devilish face, cigarette between her left index and middle fingers. Billy exhaled and shook Joseph’s hand. The young guy, who’d been jabbering away as Joseph joined them, said, “Yo dude,” and then kept talking. Music blared, an old Velvet Underground tune, Lou Reed’s voice floating indiscriminately among the crowd, through the smoke.
When the kid stopped to breathe, Joseph said, “I’m gonna grab a drink, anyone in need?”
Billy answered, “I think we all could use one.” The others nodded. “Shot and a beer, you choose.”
A tall, slender bar tender with tattoos in various places, the one of a diamond on her left breast in particular catching Joseph’s unwitting eye, asked, “What can I get you?”
“Four Miller Lites and four shots of Jameson.”
He paid the fifteen bucks he owed and left a five dollar tip, carried the drinks back to the booth in two trips.
“Thank you much,” Billy said.
“Yeah, thanks dude,” the young chatterbox offered.
“Since when do you smoke?” Joseph asked Annabeth.
“From time to time,” she said airily.
“I didn’t know.”
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Joe.”
Joseph caught a smirk on Billy’s face.
“Excuse me,” Annabeth said as she rose. She looked back at Joseph and winked as she entered the Ladies room.
The music changed and now Nick Lowe sang, ‘Cruel To Be Kind.’
Raising his shot glass, his Yoda tattoo purposefully visible to the others, Joseph indicated for them to raise theirs. The three men threw back their Jamesons.
“So Billy,” Joseph managed to start before the kid could talk again. “You head back to Chicago at all?”
“Naaahhh,” Billy drew out. “No way to get back. Besides, Philly’s been too much fun.”
The long haired kid stayed quiet for a refreshing few moments and Joseph heard the music say, ‘it’s a very very very good sign’ just as Annabeth returned from the restroom.
She sat and pushed her shot over to Joseph. “You want mine too?” She asked. “I don’t need this.”
The whiskey went down the hatch and Joseph felt his buzz kick up a notch, watched an anthropomorphic red glass ashtray throw a punch across Billy’s face. He knew then it was time for him to head home.
“Well I was just in the neighborhood so wanted to stop in for a drink, but I gotta go.”
Annabeth eyed him quizzically, knowing he’d actually just been four neighborhoods away.
Goodbyes were said and Joseph hoped he’d catch the train before it stopped running for the night, save the eight dollar difference between that and cab fare. He decided not to call Annabeth for a few days, give her a little space.
(Listen to the original version of Nick Lowe's 'Cruel To Be Kind' here. For a live version performed with Wilco last month, click here.)
Fishtown Mews
“I wanna live in a mews.” These words Garret speaks to Joseph, as they sit on a couch in Joseph’s apartment.
“In Philadelphia?”
“Yes.”
“There’s Washington Mews and Lombard Mews, both on Lombard, but you’d have to move south. I don’t think there’s a mews in No Libs or Fishtown. . . .”
Garret shakes his head in disagreement. “Joseph, you’re a small thinker.”
“A small thinker?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re missing the point.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Enlighten me, please.”
“We’re going to build a mews, right here in Fishtown. We’ll call it . . . Fishtown Mews.”
Joseph stares at his friend, waiting for him to laugh and give up the joke, but it doesn’t happen. Garret just stares back at him, his eyes suddenly passionate, intense.
“Dude, what are you talking about? How are we going to build a mews?”
“It’s not a question of how, Joe, the question is: when? And the answer is: soon.”
“Actually, Garret, the question is how?, and the answer is, you don’t know how, because you don’t know the first thing about buying land, let alone designing and building a mews, not to mention the fact that you don’t have any money. In fact, a better question is: why are we having this conversation?”
Again Garret shakes his head, this time slowly, disappointed. “I never thought you’d be so negative. Dare I say, ‘a hater.’ But I suppose this is how all revolutionary ideas are received. When Edison first imagined a light bulb, his buddy probably said, ‘shut up and get me a candle.’ When Ford designed his first car, his friends probably asked, ‘what, you don’t like horses?’ The list goes on. . . .”
“Alright, Garret, go ahead, tell me your plan to build this mews.”
“Well, the idea came to me the other day as I walked along Frankford Ave. There are still plenty of empty lots and shell properties between Frankford and Front. I just need to go down to City Hall, research who owns the various lots and shells, call around a bit, and find out who’s willing to make a deal.”
“What about money?”
“I think when potential investors hear about my vision for the mews, they’ll line up to get involved. I mean, it’s an exciting thing, a mews.”
“Who will design it?”
“FUSA Designs.”
“Right, okay, I suppose once you have your funding in place, you could hire them.” Now Joseph’s having fun with their chat, Garret still serious.
“Yes, I can, and I will. Don’t you see, Joseph? A mews is always a desirable place to live. I mean, we’ll make it a totally awesome place, don’t get me wrong, but just the fact that we’ll call it a mews will make people want to live there, whether they know it or not. Think of how nice and neat your address would be if it were, say, 42 Fishtown Mews?”
“That which we call a mews by any other name would be as neat.”
“Are you mocking me, Joseph?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, well, mock all you want. But I’m going to do this. I’ve had an epiphany. I realized this is my career goal, the contribution I wanna make to my city, my purpose. Fishtown Mews . . . I’m determined, and I’m going to make it happen, with or without your help.” Garret gathers his cell phone and windbreaker and leaves without saying goodbye.
Joseph laughs out loud, wondering how far his friend’s ambition will take him.
“In Philadelphia?”
“Yes.”
“There’s Washington Mews and Lombard Mews, both on Lombard, but you’d have to move south. I don’t think there’s a mews in No Libs or Fishtown. . . .”
Garret shakes his head in disagreement. “Joseph, you’re a small thinker.”
“A small thinker?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re missing the point.”
“I am?”
“Yes.”
“Enlighten me, please.”
“We’re going to build a mews, right here in Fishtown. We’ll call it . . . Fishtown Mews.”
Joseph stares at his friend, waiting for him to laugh and give up the joke, but it doesn’t happen. Garret just stares back at him, his eyes suddenly passionate, intense.
“Dude, what are you talking about? How are we going to build a mews?”
“It’s not a question of how, Joe, the question is: when? And the answer is: soon.”
“Actually, Garret, the question is how?, and the answer is, you don’t know how, because you don’t know the first thing about buying land, let alone designing and building a mews, not to mention the fact that you don’t have any money. In fact, a better question is: why are we having this conversation?”
Again Garret shakes his head, this time slowly, disappointed. “I never thought you’d be so negative. Dare I say, ‘a hater.’ But I suppose this is how all revolutionary ideas are received. When Edison first imagined a light bulb, his buddy probably said, ‘shut up and get me a candle.’ When Ford designed his first car, his friends probably asked, ‘what, you don’t like horses?’ The list goes on. . . .”
“Alright, Garret, go ahead, tell me your plan to build this mews.”
“Well, the idea came to me the other day as I walked along Frankford Ave. There are still plenty of empty lots and shell properties between Frankford and Front. I just need to go down to City Hall, research who owns the various lots and shells, call around a bit, and find out who’s willing to make a deal.”
“What about money?”
“I think when potential investors hear about my vision for the mews, they’ll line up to get involved. I mean, it’s an exciting thing, a mews.”
“Who will design it?”
“FUSA Designs.”
“Right, okay, I suppose once you have your funding in place, you could hire them.” Now Joseph’s having fun with their chat, Garret still serious.
“Yes, I can, and I will. Don’t you see, Joseph? A mews is always a desirable place to live. I mean, we’ll make it a totally awesome place, don’t get me wrong, but just the fact that we’ll call it a mews will make people want to live there, whether they know it or not. Think of how nice and neat your address would be if it were, say, 42 Fishtown Mews?”
“That which we call a mews by any other name would be as neat.”
“Are you mocking me, Joseph?”
“Yes.”
“Alright, well, mock all you want. But I’m going to do this. I’ve had an epiphany. I realized this is my career goal, the contribution I wanna make to my city, my purpose. Fishtown Mews . . . I’m determined, and I’m going to make it happen, with or without your help.” Garret gathers his cell phone and windbreaker and leaves without saying goodbye.
Joseph laughs out loud, wondering how far his friend’s ambition will take him.
Saturday Drew
Drew knew he should be drinking water, not beer, but this didn’t stop him from smiling after the first big gulps from his Darkside Imperial Belgian Stout. Even Master Yoda would enjoy this Darkside, he thought, as the beer’s deep flavors lingered in his mouth, the subtle bit of dark chocolate taste.
He was the first of his Casa soccer team to arrive at Kraftwork, their usual destination after Saturday games.
A girl on the other side of the bar reminded him of one he dated during college, and he wondered what he’d be doing right now if things had worked out differently. Not with the girl, but with soccer, if he’d kept at it.
It’s not the lure of playing before a crowd or seeing his name in lights, that’s not the part that mattered to him, not what he feels he missed. It’s just about whether he could’ve been better, could’ve fulfilled his promise.
Stop all the second guessing, he told himself after a long swig from his beer. It’s so easy to blame the present on the past, to fixate on irreversible decisions while today’s clock ticks.
A couple of guys from Drew’s team arrived together and he ordered a round. What may have been will remain unknown, but the beer tasted good after a game.
He was the first of his Casa soccer team to arrive at Kraftwork, their usual destination after Saturday games.
A girl on the other side of the bar reminded him of one he dated during college, and he wondered what he’d be doing right now if things had worked out differently. Not with the girl, but with soccer, if he’d kept at it.
It’s not the lure of playing before a crowd or seeing his name in lights, that’s not the part that mattered to him, not what he feels he missed. It’s just about whether he could’ve been better, could’ve fulfilled his promise.
Stop all the second guessing, he told himself after a long swig from his beer. It’s so easy to blame the present on the past, to fixate on irreversible decisions while today’s clock ticks.
A couple of guys from Drew’s team arrived together and he ordered a round. What may have been will remain unknown, but the beer tasted good after a game.
City Fire
The fire burns a bright orange, lighting up Garret’s city yard of stone, warming the bodies of his roommates and friends.
Joseph stares into the flames, in his own world, Garret’s laughter far away, though he sits at a distance of about five feet.
“Joe,” Garret says between giggles, “yo, Joe, I got a question for you.”
Joseph looks away from the fire pit, at Garret’s mischievous face. “Whasup?”
“What’s your mom’s phone number?”
“Shut up, Garret.”
Garret’s roommates laugh because Garret does, though they’re not sure why. Garret’s girlfriend, Suki, eyes him suspiciously.
“Alright then,” Garret replies, “What’s my phone number?”
“You’re so funny, dude. Really you are.”
“What’s this about, Garret?” Suki asks.
“He can’t tell you anyone’s phone number because he doesn’t have a cell phone. He keeps people’s numbers written down on a notepad at home.” Now Garret and his roommates roar. Suki just rolls her eyes.
“267, 365, 8192,” Joseph says, “That’s your number. I remember it. What’s mine, asshole?”
Garret gets a hold of himself, nodding his head and twitching a bit as the laughter subsides. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’d have to look in my phone, I don’t know anyone’s numbers anymore. I just look up their names and push the SEND button.”
“That’s right, buddy. You and everyone else. You’re all slaves to your cell phones. I, on the other hand, am free.”
Suki smiles.
“Free, yeah,” Garret retorts, “free to bum someone else’s phone if you need to call a cab,” he starts laughing again, “or order a pizza. . . .” The joke takes new life.
Suki just shakes her head and Joseph stands to go inside for another drink. “Anyone need anything while I’m up?” he offers.
One of the roommates responds, “I’m alright, but if I think of anything, I’ll call you. Oh wait.”
More laughter from the group as Joseph opens the sliding door and enters the kitchen. Inside, he opens the fridge and reaches for a beer and takes a deep breath, noticing the strong smell of burning wood on his clothes, surely in his hair as well.
You don’t realize you smell like smoke until you walk away from the fire, Joseph thinks. He returns to his friends, drinks the beer while it’s still cold, and then walks from Garret’s place in Northern Liberties back to his Fishtown apartment.
Joseph stares into the flames, in his own world, Garret’s laughter far away, though he sits at a distance of about five feet.
“Joe,” Garret says between giggles, “yo, Joe, I got a question for you.”
Joseph looks away from the fire pit, at Garret’s mischievous face. “Whasup?”
“What’s your mom’s phone number?”
“Shut up, Garret.”
Garret’s roommates laugh because Garret does, though they’re not sure why. Garret’s girlfriend, Suki, eyes him suspiciously.
“Alright then,” Garret replies, “What’s my phone number?”
“You’re so funny, dude. Really you are.”
“What’s this about, Garret?” Suki asks.
“He can’t tell you anyone’s phone number because he doesn’t have a cell phone. He keeps people’s numbers written down on a notepad at home.” Now Garret and his roommates roar. Suki just rolls her eyes.
“267, 365, 8192,” Joseph says, “That’s your number. I remember it. What’s mine, asshole?”
Garret gets a hold of himself, nodding his head and twitching a bit as the laughter subsides. “I don’t know,” he says, “I’d have to look in my phone, I don’t know anyone’s numbers anymore. I just look up their names and push the SEND button.”
“That’s right, buddy. You and everyone else. You’re all slaves to your cell phones. I, on the other hand, am free.”
Suki smiles.
“Free, yeah,” Garret retorts, “free to bum someone else’s phone if you need to call a cab,” he starts laughing again, “or order a pizza. . . .” The joke takes new life.
Suki just shakes her head and Joseph stands to go inside for another drink. “Anyone need anything while I’m up?” he offers.
One of the roommates responds, “I’m alright, but if I think of anything, I’ll call you. Oh wait.”
More laughter from the group as Joseph opens the sliding door and enters the kitchen. Inside, he opens the fridge and reaches for a beer and takes a deep breath, noticing the strong smell of burning wood on his clothes, surely in his hair as well.
You don’t realize you smell like smoke until you walk away from the fire, Joseph thinks. He returns to his friends, drinks the beer while it’s still cold, and then walks from Garret’s place in Northern Liberties back to his Fishtown apartment.
Annabeth
Annabeth rolls onto her back and looks up into the perfectly clear blue sky. Some days, she thinks, nature just demands that we be outside. No specific purpose necessary. A breeze blowing through her hair and the sun warming her body are enough, today.
Two young men walk down Frankford Ave and she hears them laughing aloud, one punches the other and runs a few steps ahead and they call each other names until they're out of sight. A pregnant young woman pushes a giggling toddler around in a stroller. An octogenarian couple walks gingerly to the former Neumann Medical Center on the corner, now an assisted living facility. Annabeth watches them all.
She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest and then sinks down again onto her back, stretches her arms and legs as far as they'll go, like that famous da Vinci drawing, enjoying the feel of Palmer Park's cool grass against her bare arms and lower legs.
Many a male poker player assumes she deals cards for a living because she wants to meet him. She’s accustomed to being hit on just about anywhere she goes.
A guy with tattoo sleeves walks his Rottweiler across the small park and for a moment she thinks it's that bartender guy with the Yoda tattoo. She's surprised by a feeling of disappointment when she realizes it's not him. After all, he's just another drunk dumb enough to ask her back to his apartment within hours of meeting her, even after she'd given him her number and made it clear he should call her some other time.
She picks at the grass in front of her and throws it. What would she do if he calls, she wonders? The bar was crazy that night and when a couple of meaty dudes became belligerent over nothing at all, she loved the way he handled it, staring at them calmly, somehow displaying great strength in his passivity. She didn't take him for the type to pursue her so aggressively after last call when she’d stuck around waiting for her sister to stop talking to that Garret guy.
If he's at Drew's party Saturday night, she decides, she'll consider letting him talk to her.
She rolls over onto her chest and rests her chin upon her knuckles, smiles and waves back at a young boy and girl who pass.
Two young men walk down Frankford Ave and she hears them laughing aloud, one punches the other and runs a few steps ahead and they call each other names until they're out of sight. A pregnant young woman pushes a giggling toddler around in a stroller. An octogenarian couple walks gingerly to the former Neumann Medical Center on the corner, now an assisted living facility. Annabeth watches them all.
She sits up and pulls her knees to her chest and then sinks down again onto her back, stretches her arms and legs as far as they'll go, like that famous da Vinci drawing, enjoying the feel of Palmer Park's cool grass against her bare arms and lower legs.
Many a male poker player assumes she deals cards for a living because she wants to meet him. She’s accustomed to being hit on just about anywhere she goes.
A guy with tattoo sleeves walks his Rottweiler across the small park and for a moment she thinks it's that bartender guy with the Yoda tattoo. She's surprised by a feeling of disappointment when she realizes it's not him. After all, he's just another drunk dumb enough to ask her back to his apartment within hours of meeting her, even after she'd given him her number and made it clear he should call her some other time.
She picks at the grass in front of her and throws it. What would she do if he calls, she wonders? The bar was crazy that night and when a couple of meaty dudes became belligerent over nothing at all, she loved the way he handled it, staring at them calmly, somehow displaying great strength in his passivity. She didn't take him for the type to pursue her so aggressively after last call when she’d stuck around waiting for her sister to stop talking to that Garret guy.
If he's at Drew's party Saturday night, she decides, she'll consider letting him talk to her.
She rolls over onto her chest and rests her chin upon her knuckles, smiles and waves back at a young boy and girl who pass.
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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