The high sun's heat hit the pavement then floated slowly upward, stagnating in the still air, not even the slightest hint of a breeze.
Garret and Joseph walked across Girard Avenue.
"Joe," Garret said, shocked, "how are you not sweating? I'm drenched."
Joseph, thoughts adrift, hadn't realized it. He looked at Garret and saw drops dripping down his friend's face, a soaked shirt, hair glistening where it met his hat. He felt his own armpits and forehead, dry as a bone.
"You're right, maybe I'm dehydrated. Nothing to sweat out." His mind returned to its previous, typical fodder: potential weekend plans, the week's upcoming televised sports, whether he'd see Annabeth later that evening.
Garret shook his head, puzzled.
Three days passed with an average daily temperature of one hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Joseph drank more water than usual. He walked to work like always. Dry. He jogged from York and Frankford to Third and Fairmount. Dry. He played pick up three on three basketball at midday for two straight hours and the other players said he must be an alien, born on Mercury or Venus so Earth could only be cool. Joseph's attitude toward his lack of sweat morphed from curious to concerned to paranoid. He longed to taste a salty drop as it fell across his lips, wanted so badly to remove wet socks, feel his feet sigh with relief. He went home after the basketball game and didn't need to shower, just crawled into bed, afraid.
He was half asleep when the evening news came on.
'Good news for Philadelphians as the weather should finally break tomorrow, temperatures will drop from the record breaking levels we've all suffered through for the last week….'
Joseph wondered what doctors might think of his sudden inability to sweat, pictured himself as a carnival side show character in a booth with a portable sauna. 'Step right up and adjust the dial to a hundred and ten, one twenty, one thirty and look! No sweat.'
He changed channels to a special on global warming, imagined himself a scientist instead of a bartender. Listening to experts on climate change, he considered their ongoing argument with doubters who dismissed their ideas and reports, usually because of religious faith or, Joseph thought, a profound feeling of smallness.
He fell into a fitful sleep. He dreamt of riding a camel, alone in the desert, surrounded by open space and cacti bright under a giant yellow sun. He didn't sweat but he didn't care. The camel joined him in laughter when he jumped off its hump and made snow angels in the sand. He'd accomplished something unknown.
He awoke in the middle of the night wondering what he'd done, what made him happy in his sleep. A new yearning replaced his passivity, a feeling of incompleteness he knew he'd have to resolve in life. A few minutes passed before he realized he lay in a sodden bed, his hair damp and his brow beaded with sweat, even as the cool night air blew in through an open window.
Showing posts with label Joseph. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joseph. Show all posts
The People's Office
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.
"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.
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.
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?"
The Biggest Small Town in America
He heard that people who move to Philly either love it or hate it, no in-betweens. Nearly two years have passed since his arrival and, decidedly, he counts as one of the lovers. After a period of shyness, he met Rose the same way he met most of the people he knows in the city – by being himself and having the balls to do what he felt was the right thing at the time. In the case of meeting Rose, having balls and doing what felt right just meant pushing his way through a crowd of people to get her a drink at a party where he'd caught a look in her eye of hopeless frustration.
When his dinner guests begin to arrive, he's preparing a salad. He expects nine people, five of whom he knows. The other four are Rose's friends Suki and Annabeth plus their boyfriends, and this little group arrives last, knocking on his rented row home door just as he removes a roast from the oven. Suki and Annabeth hug Rose and wish her a happy birthday while the others all introduce themselves. He places the roast on top of the stove and joins them in his living / dining room, where he immediately recognizes Suki and Annabeth's boyfriends. A sudden feeling of having come full circle in Philadelphia overtakes him.
"Linc, hey," says Rose, "come meet Suki and Anna and their boyfriends, Garret and Joe."
"Hey, I'm Garret, thanks for having us." A hand extends and he shakes it.
"Yeah, thank you. I'm Joe." Another handshake.
"Nice to meet you guys, I'm Lincoln, everyone calls me Linc. Welcome. I hope you eat meat?"
Both men nod.
"Well alright. You guys look familiar, by the way." He considers mentioning the day when he spoke with them briefly at 700, but decides against it.
Garret and Joseph shrug, and Garret says, "We're around."
They eat dinner and talk about their lives and the city and how the ones who know each other know each other, and he's so happy he can hardly contain himself. The beers go down too easily and he worries that he talks too much and that he overcompensates for talking too much by seeming too interested in everyone else. Did he come off like a zealot for land bank legislation? Did he ask Suki too many questions about the pet rabbit her friend lets roam freely around her finished basement?
Everyone seems to have enjoyed the meal, or at least they tell him so when they leave. It never feels right for him to ask men for their phone numbers, so he doesn't ask Garret and Joseph for theirs, but he thinks next time he sees them around the neighborhood, they'll remember tonight's dinner.
When his dinner guests begin to arrive, he's preparing a salad. He expects nine people, five of whom he knows. The other four are Rose's friends Suki and Annabeth plus their boyfriends, and this little group arrives last, knocking on his rented row home door just as he removes a roast from the oven. Suki and Annabeth hug Rose and wish her a happy birthday while the others all introduce themselves. He places the roast on top of the stove and joins them in his living / dining room, where he immediately recognizes Suki and Annabeth's boyfriends. A sudden feeling of having come full circle in Philadelphia overtakes him.
"Linc, hey," says Rose, "come meet Suki and Anna and their boyfriends, Garret and Joe."
"Hey, I'm Garret, thanks for having us." A hand extends and he shakes it.
"Yeah, thank you. I'm Joe." Another handshake.
"Nice to meet you guys, I'm Lincoln, everyone calls me Linc. Welcome. I hope you eat meat?"
Both men nod.
"Well alright. You guys look familiar, by the way." He considers mentioning the day when he spoke with them briefly at 700, but decides against it.
Garret and Joseph shrug, and Garret says, "We're around."
They eat dinner and talk about their lives and the city and how the ones who know each other know each other, and he's so happy he can hardly contain himself. The beers go down too easily and he worries that he talks too much and that he overcompensates for talking too much by seeming too interested in everyone else. Did he come off like a zealot for land bank legislation? Did he ask Suki too many questions about the pet rabbit her friend lets roam freely around her finished basement?
Everyone seems to have enjoyed the meal, or at least they tell him so when they leave. It never feels right for him to ask men for their phone numbers, so he doesn't ask Garret and Joseph for theirs, but he thinks next time he sees them around the neighborhood, they'll remember tonight's dinner.
The Expert Expert
"I've got it, Joseph. This time I've got it."
"Got what?"
"Fishtown Mews was a good idea, sure, in theory. But in practice it was just too complicated – between the financing, the zoning, haggling with contractors – there were too many moving parts."
"Okay." Joseph looked away from Garret, but knew his friend had only just begun.
"I have a much simpler plan now and it's fool proof. I can't lose!" Garret let this hang.
"Well?"
"Let me ask you this, J, what are the characteristics of an ideal business model?"
"I don't know … good product, friendly service?"
"No! Wrong! That stuff means nothing."
Joseph rolled his eyes. "Alright, then you tell me."
"Low overhead, high margins."
"And I suppose you have the perfect low overhead, high margin idea."
"Don't patronize me! But yes, I do."
"And?"
"I read about it in a book. It's the new thing: become an expert."
"An expert?"
"Yes."
"How are you going to become an expert?"
"Well, that's the beauty of it. You don't actually have to be an expert, people just have to think you're an expert. It's all about perception."
"Sounds sleazy."
"The thing is," Garret ignored Joseph's 'sleazy' comment, "when people think you're an expert, then they'll pay for your advice. No business has lower overhead, higher margins than the advice business."
"There's no business like know business."
"Very funny."
"And in what field, may I ask, will you purport to be an expert?"
"Well, that's where the true stroke of genius comes into play, my mortal friend," Garret paused for effect. "With the expert business taking off the way it is, I'm going to become an expert on becoming an expert."
"Ah, yes! Brilliant," Joseph chided, "they'll call you 'The Expert Expert.'"
Garret took Joseph literally. "Yes, they shall. I'll be invited onto all the business networks: CNBC, MSNBC, BlahBlahBlahNBC."
The doorbell rang.
"Nice, food's here. Hey Expert Expert, you got ten bucks?"
"Business is a little slow right now, can you spot me?"
"Tell you what, Garret, you should sell people on how to borrow money from friends without ever paying it back. That's low overhead and high margin, and you're already an expert at it."
"Asshole."
"Perhaps, but I'm the asshole who's buying you dinner."
"Fair enough."
"Got what?"
"Fishtown Mews was a good idea, sure, in theory. But in practice it was just too complicated – between the financing, the zoning, haggling with contractors – there were too many moving parts."
"Okay." Joseph looked away from Garret, but knew his friend had only just begun.
"I have a much simpler plan now and it's fool proof. I can't lose!" Garret let this hang.
"Well?"
"Let me ask you this, J, what are the characteristics of an ideal business model?"
"I don't know … good product, friendly service?"
"No! Wrong! That stuff means nothing."
Joseph rolled his eyes. "Alright, then you tell me."
"Low overhead, high margins."
"And I suppose you have the perfect low overhead, high margin idea."
"Don't patronize me! But yes, I do."
"And?"
"I read about it in a book. It's the new thing: become an expert."
"An expert?"
"Yes."
"How are you going to become an expert?"
"Well, that's the beauty of it. You don't actually have to be an expert, people just have to think you're an expert. It's all about perception."
"Sounds sleazy."
"The thing is," Garret ignored Joseph's 'sleazy' comment, "when people think you're an expert, then they'll pay for your advice. No business has lower overhead, higher margins than the advice business."
"There's no business like know business."
"Very funny."
"And in what field, may I ask, will you purport to be an expert?"
"Well, that's where the true stroke of genius comes into play, my mortal friend," Garret paused for effect. "With the expert business taking off the way it is, I'm going to become an expert on becoming an expert."
"Ah, yes! Brilliant," Joseph chided, "they'll call you 'The Expert Expert.'"
Garret took Joseph literally. "Yes, they shall. I'll be invited onto all the business networks: CNBC, MSNBC, BlahBlahBlahNBC."
The doorbell rang.
"Nice, food's here. Hey Expert Expert, you got ten bucks?"
"Business is a little slow right now, can you spot me?"
"Tell you what, Garret, you should sell people on how to borrow money from friends without ever paying it back. That's low overhead and high margin, and you're already an expert at it."
"Asshole."
"Perhaps, but I'm the asshole who's buying you dinner."
"Fair enough."
Yoda Dreams
Sometimes Yoda appears in Joseph's dreams. Sometimes by surprise and other times, Joseph thinks, by his own design, as if he summons these somnolent visions through his own concentration, his own intrigue.
This morning he awoke perplexed, last night's visit from the Jedi Master more vivid than those past and entirely unprovoked. Joseph found himself in an orchard, strolling tree lined aisles, collecting apples into a bottomless cart. Suddenly Yoda stood before him and Joseph thought perhaps he came to slice Empire apples with his light saber. Or maybe he was just running from Disney.
The diminutive green sage approached and walked beside him.
"Joseph," said Yoda, "everything you need, here you have. Food," he pointed at the apples, "shelter," he pointed to a rickety wooden shack off in the distance that Joseph hadn't noticed, "and the sky."
"The sky?" asked Joseph. "Yoda, don't you mean clothing. Food, shelther, and clothing, right? Aren't those the three basic needs?"
Yoda laughed. "Oh, yes, a smart one you are. Of course, clothing you need. Yes, clothing. But the sky too, you need. Without the sky, there are no clouds. Without clouds, there is no rain. Without rain, there is no food."
"By that logic, you can't only mention the sky. Don't forget the sun, dry land, etc."
"Yes, Joseph! And also something else there is, or should say I, someone else."
"What are you getting at, Yoda?"
"For Jedi, forbidden, love is. But for you, without it, lost, you will be."
"I'm not ready to commit, Master Yoda, please, don't push me."
"Okay, Joseph, back off, I will. Other suggestions for you I have."
"What suggestions?"
"First, a new cart for your apples, you must get. So from your labor, some apples you will have."
Joseph watched himself pick an apple and drop it into his bottomless cart, watched the apple fall through and land on the grass.
"Second, Joseph, you must wake up."
And in that instant Joseph awoke, perplexed. He spent most of the morning that followed searching for meaning. When he told Annabeth about the dream, he mentioned the apple cart, but left out the part about love.
This morning he awoke perplexed, last night's visit from the Jedi Master more vivid than those past and entirely unprovoked. Joseph found himself in an orchard, strolling tree lined aisles, collecting apples into a bottomless cart. Suddenly Yoda stood before him and Joseph thought perhaps he came to slice Empire apples with his light saber. Or maybe he was just running from Disney.
The diminutive green sage approached and walked beside him.
"Joseph," said Yoda, "everything you need, here you have. Food," he pointed at the apples, "shelter," he pointed to a rickety wooden shack off in the distance that Joseph hadn't noticed, "and the sky."
"The sky?" asked Joseph. "Yoda, don't you mean clothing. Food, shelther, and clothing, right? Aren't those the three basic needs?"
Yoda laughed. "Oh, yes, a smart one you are. Of course, clothing you need. Yes, clothing. But the sky too, you need. Without the sky, there are no clouds. Without clouds, there is no rain. Without rain, there is no food."
"By that logic, you can't only mention the sky. Don't forget the sun, dry land, etc."
"Yes, Joseph! And also something else there is, or should say I, someone else."
"What are you getting at, Yoda?"
"For Jedi, forbidden, love is. But for you, without it, lost, you will be."
"I'm not ready to commit, Master Yoda, please, don't push me."
"Okay, Joseph, back off, I will. Other suggestions for you I have."
"What suggestions?"
"First, a new cart for your apples, you must get. So from your labor, some apples you will have."
Joseph watched himself pick an apple and drop it into his bottomless cart, watched the apple fall through and land on the grass.
"Second, Joseph, you must wake up."
And in that instant Joseph awoke, perplexed. He spent most of the morning that followed searching for meaning. When he told Annabeth about the dream, he mentioned the apple cart, but left out the part about love.
Introductions
He sits and the clock ticks. He wants them to see him. He sees them all the time: at Higher Grounds, at Liberty Lands, at the Piazza. Here they are at 700 and he doesn't want much, just small talk.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
He's employed various tactics already. At Higher Grounds he once spilled coffee at their feet. At Liberty Lands he tossed a Frisbee that landed right beside them. At the Piazza he did tricks on his skateboard, brushing past them. Never the most direct approach, though, a simple introduction. It made sense to him logically and yet felt like it would be weird.
Today, at 700, he eavesdrops. Their conversations sound so interesting, so appealing! Their dialogue so crisp. Even the pauses – he stares at them during the pauses – they look so happy during the pauses. How can people be so content during pauses in conversation? Is it because they're drunk? They drink it all down so smoothly – beer, wine, whiskey – the bartender keeps pouring and they just keep drinking. One speaks more than the other.
"Missanelli's right, you can't play a guy over Ryan Howard just because he hit well in Double A and Howard doesn't hit lefties."
The other guy shakes his head. "Can't do that to a veteran. Bad for clubhouse morale. . . ."
"She looks innocent but I can tell you she's not. I can assure you. . . ."
"We saw the Pixies that year, right after Bush's second term began. Where were we? Cleveland. Yes, Cleveland. . . ."
He hears these snippets and knows they could all be the best of friends. He's a Phillies fan, he's heterosexual, he likes the Pixies. He's even been to Cleveland.
He knows what he's going to do. It has to work! When the really chatty one is mid-sentence, he'll time it just right.
"So tomorrow night it's the Nationals. We still have an outside chance if—"
"Oh, excuse me," he says as he pretends to trip over himself, knocking into one of the two young men, the one called Garret.
Garret brushes himself off, repositioning his chair. "No problem, dude."
Garret and Joseph stare at the guy who just bumped into Garret, waiting for him to go on wherever he was going before he slipped and bumped into Garret, but the guy just stands there, staring.
"Fine day for a beverage, is it not?" he asks them, instantly regretting his choice of words.
But Garret and Joseph look at each other and then back at him, raise their glasses. Garret says, "Indeed it is! A fine day for a beverage."
His eyes light up. He's satisfied, then elated. "Good day, gentlemen." He turns and leaves the bar, goes about his day, feeling he's one step closer to his destiny, that of being their friend.
Twilight Surprise
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.)
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.)
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.)
Whisky Cleansing
“Since we can’t hang on your birthday next week, I brought over a present.” Garret presented Joseph with a bottle of Maker’s 46.
“Thanks dude.”
“You’re welcome.”
Joseph handed Garret a PBR and grabbed one for himself.
“Play some heads up?”
“Okay.”
Each man shuffled a deck of cards and counted out an equal number of chips. In their regular ring game with friends they played dealer’s choice, but one-on-one they only played No Limit Hold ‘Em, tournament style for a fixed amount.
After an hour they’d each won a game and had a couple of beers.
“Why don’t we open the bottle you brought over? Just to try it.”
“No arguments here man, I just thought you might like to save it for some other time.”
“Nah, let’s open it.”
Joseph opened the bottled and poured a glass for each of them, neat.
Another hour passed.
“This stuff is so smooth. Just plain Maker’s is so smooth, but this stuff is . . . I don’t wanna say ‘better,’ but they’ve outdone themselves with it,” Garret said.
“Yeah man.”
An hour later, “Joe, you’re just not a good poker player. Let’s play again, I own you.”
“How can you say that after you just bluffed away all your chips?”
Garret snickered. “I read you right, you shoulda never called with bottom pair.”
“But you had nothing. It was the right call, I beat you.”
“Yeah but I could’ve had something. You’ll see next time. Shuffle up.”
“Hang on, I’ll pour us another.” Joseph walked to the kitchen with their glasses. “Garret, you know there’s only about a third of this bottle left.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“We can finish it.”
“That would be dumb.”
The game devolved into a display not much unlike two card guts, rarely seeing a flop before they were both all in. When Joseph poured the last of the bottle, Garret tossed his deck aside, knocking over his remaining chips.
“I owe you $8. I’ll pay you later.”
“I don’t care about the money, Garret. The joy lies in victory.”
“Good, then I won’t pay you later.”
Joseph raised his glass, “To the remnants of this beloved bottle, Mr. 46, you were delicious.”
“May the juice cleanse our souls.”
The doorbell rang. As Joseph rose to see who was there, he realized for the first time that he was very drunk, his perception falling into a familiar blur. It was Annabeth. He’d forgotten she said she might stay over.
“You guys got wasted, what’s wrong with you?” Annabeth laughed as she asked, but her tone disapproved.
Joseph, concentrating hard to avoid slurring his speech, offered, “Sometimes people drink a whole bottle of 46.”
“I’ll just be on my way now,” Garret said as he stood to walk home.
Annabeth fell asleep disappointed, Joseph barely making it to the bed. The next day he felt horrible, nausea and a splitting headache barely affected by ibuprofen, wondering why. Annabeth thought perhaps her boyfriend was an alcoholic.
“Thanks dude.”
“You’re welcome.”
Joseph handed Garret a PBR and grabbed one for himself.
“Play some heads up?”
“Okay.”
Each man shuffled a deck of cards and counted out an equal number of chips. In their regular ring game with friends they played dealer’s choice, but one-on-one they only played No Limit Hold ‘Em, tournament style for a fixed amount.
After an hour they’d each won a game and had a couple of beers.
“Why don’t we open the bottle you brought over? Just to try it.”
“No arguments here man, I just thought you might like to save it for some other time.”
“Nah, let’s open it.”
Joseph opened the bottled and poured a glass for each of them, neat.
Another hour passed.
“This stuff is so smooth. Just plain Maker’s is so smooth, but this stuff is . . . I don’t wanna say ‘better,’ but they’ve outdone themselves with it,” Garret said.
“Yeah man.”
An hour later, “Joe, you’re just not a good poker player. Let’s play again, I own you.”
“How can you say that after you just bluffed away all your chips?”
Garret snickered. “I read you right, you shoulda never called with bottom pair.”
“But you had nothing. It was the right call, I beat you.”
“Yeah but I could’ve had something. You’ll see next time. Shuffle up.”
“Hang on, I’ll pour us another.” Joseph walked to the kitchen with their glasses. “Garret, you know there’s only about a third of this bottle left.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yep.”
“We can finish it.”
“That would be dumb.”
The game devolved into a display not much unlike two card guts, rarely seeing a flop before they were both all in. When Joseph poured the last of the bottle, Garret tossed his deck aside, knocking over his remaining chips.
“I owe you $8. I’ll pay you later.”
“I don’t care about the money, Garret. The joy lies in victory.”
“Good, then I won’t pay you later.”
Joseph raised his glass, “To the remnants of this beloved bottle, Mr. 46, you were delicious.”
“May the juice cleanse our souls.”
The doorbell rang. As Joseph rose to see who was there, he realized for the first time that he was very drunk, his perception falling into a familiar blur. It was Annabeth. He’d forgotten she said she might stay over.
“You guys got wasted, what’s wrong with you?” Annabeth laughed as she asked, but her tone disapproved.
Joseph, concentrating hard to avoid slurring his speech, offered, “Sometimes people drink a whole bottle of 46.”
“I’ll just be on my way now,” Garret said as he stood to walk home.
Annabeth fell asleep disappointed, Joseph barely making it to the bed. The next day he felt horrible, nausea and a splitting headache barely affected by ibuprofen, wondering why. Annabeth thought perhaps her boyfriend was an alcoholic.
Fate of a Fly
This defines insanity. Bumping and bumping and bumping into some invisible barrier with my destination straight ahead, in sight. I don’t know how I got here, and now I can’t get out.
It’s so bright out there today, the sun shines through but it’s not the same. So many others like me, living off waste, why should anyone care? I’ve seen such random meanness, such evil, my friends murdered in front of me, in front of others, and none of the monsters even react. Some watch the killings, others ignore them, but they all just go on with their lives like nothing happened. Sure, they’re still breathing, still eating and sleeping and shitting, still making the waste that feeds us.
All I really want is my freedom. To feel the wind blow against me, let it move me, glide. That, and some food.
Wait, I sense something, someone, one of the monsters. Should I hide or just stay still?
*****
“Yo Garret, did you drink the last few beers last night?” Joseph asks.
“I don’t know, probably.”
“Whatever, you needed to restock anyway.”
“Why don’t you go out and buy me a case? You spend enough time here.”
“Alright. Yo, there’s a fly in the house.”
“Yeah we get a lot around the compost pile out back. Just kill it.”
“I think I can let it out.” Joseph opens the sliding glass door. “Go on, dude, get out.”
“Are you talking to the fly? Did you just call it a ‘dude?’”
*****
Maybe the monster doesn’t see me. What’s happening? The barrier moves? Something’s changed. Maybe I won’t go insane, let’s try again. . . .
I’m free! Time to eat.
It’s so bright out there today, the sun shines through but it’s not the same. So many others like me, living off waste, why should anyone care? I’ve seen such random meanness, such evil, my friends murdered in front of me, in front of others, and none of the monsters even react. Some watch the killings, others ignore them, but they all just go on with their lives like nothing happened. Sure, they’re still breathing, still eating and sleeping and shitting, still making the waste that feeds us.
All I really want is my freedom. To feel the wind blow against me, let it move me, glide. That, and some food.
Wait, I sense something, someone, one of the monsters. Should I hide or just stay still?
*****
“Yo Garret, did you drink the last few beers last night?” Joseph asks.
“I don’t know, probably.”
“Whatever, you needed to restock anyway.”
“Why don’t you go out and buy me a case? You spend enough time here.”
“Alright. Yo, there’s a fly in the house.”
“Yeah we get a lot around the compost pile out back. Just kill it.”
“I think I can let it out.” Joseph opens the sliding glass door. “Go on, dude, get out.”
“Are you talking to the fly? Did you just call it a ‘dude?’”
*****
Maybe the monster doesn’t see me. What’s happening? The barrier moves? Something’s changed. Maybe I won’t go insane, let’s try again. . . .
I’m free! Time to eat.
The Nature of Man
It’s almost always sunny in Philadelphia, but this Saturday afternoon was overcast with a cool, comfortable breeze. Garret and Joseph walked down Poplar Street toward 2nd.
“What’s this place?” Joseph asked. He pointed to a series of outdoor, tent covered tables and a food cart.
“Don’t know, looks like that old late night hot dog stand.”
“Let’s check it out, I’m hungry.”
They discovered La Copine Brunch Cart, ordered breakfast sandwiches and flatbread, and sat along a wooden fence.
“How can you argue with me about this? I have thousands of years of evidence on my side,” Garret insisted, stubborn as usual.
“But there’s one key point you seem to overlook.”
“What point? In all of recorded history you have war. The fall of Babylon, the Greek and Roman Empires, the Crusades, etcetera etcetera. India versus Pakistan, Iran versus Iraq . . . terrorism! The IRA, the ETA, al qaeda . . . the list goes on and on. How can you argue?”
“I don’t have to argue.”
“Of course you don’t, and you shouldn’t because it’s pointless. The nature of man is evil. We’re a bellicose species.”
Near their table, a little girl perhaps two years old ran in circles, laughing aloud, chasing after nothing at all as her parents ate brunch and laughed too.
Joseph nodded in their direction, indicating to Garret that he should notice the little girl if he hadn’t already. “You think she’s got an evil nature, Garret?”
“The kid? No.”
“Right. Not sure how we get into all these wars or become terrorists, but people aren't just born evil. Look at a child and you know. Circumstances affect us and choices are made, but there's nothing absolute about our nature.”
Garret didn’t respond, he just took another bite of his sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich, a silent concession.
“What’s this place?” Joseph asked. He pointed to a series of outdoor, tent covered tables and a food cart.
“Don’t know, looks like that old late night hot dog stand.”
“Let’s check it out, I’m hungry.”
They discovered La Copine Brunch Cart, ordered breakfast sandwiches and flatbread, and sat along a wooden fence.
“How can you argue with me about this? I have thousands of years of evidence on my side,” Garret insisted, stubborn as usual.
“But there’s one key point you seem to overlook.”
“What point? In all of recorded history you have war. The fall of Babylon, the Greek and Roman Empires, the Crusades, etcetera etcetera. India versus Pakistan, Iran versus Iraq . . . terrorism! The IRA, the ETA, al qaeda . . . the list goes on and on. How can you argue?”
“I don’t have to argue.”
“Of course you don’t, and you shouldn’t because it’s pointless. The nature of man is evil. We’re a bellicose species.”
Near their table, a little girl perhaps two years old ran in circles, laughing aloud, chasing after nothing at all as her parents ate brunch and laughed too.
Joseph nodded in their direction, indicating to Garret that he should notice the little girl if he hadn’t already. “You think she’s got an evil nature, Garret?”
“The kid? No.”
“Right. Not sure how we get into all these wars or become terrorists, but people aren't just born evil. Look at a child and you know. Circumstances affect us and choices are made, but there's nothing absolute about our nature.”
Garret didn’t respond, he just took another bite of his sausage, egg, and cheese sandwich, a silent concession.
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.
Cornhole at the Keep
“What’s going on out there?” Some dude, standing in the doorway by the pool table, asked in the general direction of Garret and Joseph.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
“It’s Tuesday night,” was Garret’s reply.
The dude stood there, uncomprehending, for long enough to prompt Joseph to say, “Cornhole.”
“Oh, right on,” said the dude, who grabbed a buddy of his, walked outside and around the back corner of The Druid’s Keep, and wrote their names on the white dry erase board, putting them fifth in line for a game.
Annabeth sat at a table outside with her friend, Eliza, sipping a $2 can of PBR, deep in thought.
“Are there, like, way more catastrophes nowadays than ever before? Or do we just have much faster and wider access to news, so it just seems that way?”
“I don’t know,” Eliza replied, “I think it’s both. I mean, we have nuclear power plants and deep sea oil rigs . . . they didn’t have that stuff a hundred years ago. And we also hear about everything in real time, which didn’t used to be possible.”
“It’s so depressing.”
On the two cornhole sets, one of the games moved slowly and the other hardly saw a bag miss the board. Mark and his ‘Kleenex Method,’ so called because he held the bag between two fingers and his thumb and just flicked his wrist ever so slightly, like someone pulling tissue from a box, dominated on the near court.
But it was Mark’s partner, Drew, who caused everyone to start shouting when he sunk four bags in a row to seal the game.
“Next! Bring ‘em on.” Drew called out as he and Mark slapped hands.
The Phillies defended their division lead, projected high and large onto an unpainted cinder block wall outside by the cornhole games, against the Braves while a cop watched from his car on the corner. Some people left the bar and took a walk and grabbed a slice of pizza and brought it back to the bar and ate it there. The night sky had a light blue hue to it, moonlight reflecting off the city and merging with city lights, shining down on that happy corner bar in their corner of the world.
First Date
Joseph took a tater tot, dipped it in hot sauce, and dropped it into his mouth. He laughed like a schoolboy, still chewing, before lashing out with a loud “La la la la, la, la la la” as Bob Dylan’s "The Man In Me" began.
Garret, having just readied his fingers and wrist to roll, turned and gave him a harsh look. “Dude, you’re distracting me, please shut up.”
Suki and Annabeth, three seats away from the tot chomping, sudden crooner, halted their chat, slightly shocked to hear Joseph’s singing voice. They peered over at him and he, expectant of their attention, winked. The ladies simultaneously squinted, caught themselves displaying the same expression, and then burst out in laughter of their own.
Be careful, Joseph, he reminded himself, aware of his growing buzz. This is going well, don’t screw it up.
“Come on,” Joseph said, “you gotta love that they’re playing this song. I mean, you gotta love Lebowski.”
Annabeth said, “Yeah, I do love it. At most other bowling alleys most other times I’d think it’s uber cheesy to play this song, but here I think it’s cool they don’t think they’re too cool to play it, you know?” Joseph could tell that she was pretty buzzed too.
“I think I know exactly what you mean. This place has become somewhat of a spot, not just to bowl, and this song, far from hipster hop or whatever else . . . it just says ‘dude, let’s go bowling,’ only because of the movie, of course. . . .”
“What’s hipster hop?” she asked.
“. . .”
“That’s deep, dude,” Garret said as he sat down and poured from their pitcher of PBR. “If you can take a quick break from philosophizing, you’re up.”
Joseph stood, found his ball, rolled it straight down the middle of the lane. His hopes for a strike came to a crescendo just as Dylan belted, “But oh, what a wonderful feeling. . . .” He watched as all of the pins fell in unison, all but one pin just teetering on its outer edges, spinning slowly on its axis, forever wobbling while Joseph watched it from a crouched position, his desire to flash Garret a huge post-strike smile growing exponentially with every millisecond that passed until, at long last, the pin remained standing.
The bowler turned back to his friends and shrugged. Garret smirked, Suki didn’t budge, and Annabeth gave him a full, toothy smile.
As he retook his seat, Joseph, glad to have found the napkin where he’d scrawled Annabeth’s number on the night they met, ate another tater tot.
(Listen to Boy Dylan's 'The Man In Me' here)
Garret, having just readied his fingers and wrist to roll, turned and gave him a harsh look. “Dude, you’re distracting me, please shut up.”
Suki and Annabeth, three seats away from the tot chomping, sudden crooner, halted their chat, slightly shocked to hear Joseph’s singing voice. They peered over at him and he, expectant of their attention, winked. The ladies simultaneously squinted, caught themselves displaying the same expression, and then burst out in laughter of their own.
Be careful, Joseph, he reminded himself, aware of his growing buzz. This is going well, don’t screw it up.
“Come on,” Joseph said, “you gotta love that they’re playing this song. I mean, you gotta love Lebowski.”
Annabeth said, “Yeah, I do love it. At most other bowling alleys most other times I’d think it’s uber cheesy to play this song, but here I think it’s cool they don’t think they’re too cool to play it, you know?” Joseph could tell that she was pretty buzzed too.
“I think I know exactly what you mean. This place has become somewhat of a spot, not just to bowl, and this song, far from hipster hop or whatever else . . . it just says ‘dude, let’s go bowling,’ only because of the movie, of course. . . .”
“What’s hipster hop?” she asked.
“. . .”
“That’s deep, dude,” Garret said as he sat down and poured from their pitcher of PBR. “If you can take a quick break from philosophizing, you’re up.”
Joseph stood, found his ball, rolled it straight down the middle of the lane. His hopes for a strike came to a crescendo just as Dylan belted, “But oh, what a wonderful feeling. . . .” He watched as all of the pins fell in unison, all but one pin just teetering on its outer edges, spinning slowly on its axis, forever wobbling while Joseph watched it from a crouched position, his desire to flash Garret a huge post-strike smile growing exponentially with every millisecond that passed until, at long last, the pin remained standing.
The bowler turned back to his friends and shrugged. Garret smirked, Suki didn’t budge, and Annabeth gave him a full, toothy smile.
As he retook his seat, Joseph, glad to have found the napkin where he’d scrawled Annabeth’s number on the night they met, ate another tater tot.
(Listen to Boy Dylan's 'The Man In Me' here)
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.
Joseph Hears of a Napkin
Waiting for his friend, Garret, Joseph sips water through a straw and reads “I Love You, I Hate You”:
Die Ye Basterd
You told me you’d always love me no matter what happens and we said we were free to live our lives and be in the moment and then one little thing happens last week between me and hot bartender four leaf clover tattoo guy and you think it’s ok to make a move on my best friend. I hope your brother buries you in the sand again and this time leaves you to die but if you’re still alive to lose my number, do it.
Camera Thief
Whoever stole my Canon PowerShot SD850, when I find you, ‘sblood. Try to sell it on ebay or craigs list and I’ll snoop the post and you’ll beg me to just call the cops. Take a picture anywhere in Philly and I’ll recognize the sound of the click from around the corner and I’ll be there to. . . .
“Joe, whasup bro?”
“Hi Garret.”
Garret, long and lanky with a pale, pointy face, bright orange hair buzzed around the sides with a couple of bushy, unbrushed inches on top, sits beside Joseph at a table in Silk City’s beer garden and looks around frantically for a waitress, craving a Bloody Mary and feeling entitled to instant gratification. He’s twenty minutes later than he said he’d be but pissed at Joseph for asking him to brunch at 12:30, the stroller crowd typically still lingering around that time, most hungover folks, like Garret, barely out of bed.
“Where the hell’s the waitress?”
Joseph shrugs.
“How’s your day going?”
Joseph scrunches his face and shakes his head from side to side, indicating that not much has happened in his day thus far. Garret starts telling him what he did the previous night and Joseph drifts into his own thoughts, considering a stop at the bookstore down on Frankford off Girard later that day, perhaps a movie at the Ritz that night. He wonders about what’s playing and who he might ask to join him. . . .
“Joe, did you hear what I just said?”
“Sorry Garret, what?”
“She was there last night, that girl you were so buddy buddy with Monday night. She said you haven’t called her.”
Joseph now in the moment, he tells Garret, “Man, I don’t think I got her number.”
“She said she wrote it down on a napkin for you.”
“She did? Shit, I don’t know.”
“Figure it out man, she’s hot. Oh good, here comes a waitress. Hey, excuse me, Miss? Can I get a Bloody, and can we get some menus?”
As the waitress tells them all about the day’s specials, Joseph thinks of nothing but a napkin he may or may not have in the pocket of the jeans he wore Monday night.
(Check out Philly's real "I Love You, I Hate You" reader write-in column from City Paper here)
Die Ye Basterd
You told me you’d always love me no matter what happens and we said we were free to live our lives and be in the moment and then one little thing happens last week between me and hot bartender four leaf clover tattoo guy and you think it’s ok to make a move on my best friend. I hope your brother buries you in the sand again and this time leaves you to die but if you’re still alive to lose my number, do it.
Camera Thief
Whoever stole my Canon PowerShot SD850, when I find you, ‘sblood. Try to sell it on ebay or craigs list and I’ll snoop the post and you’ll beg me to just call the cops. Take a picture anywhere in Philly and I’ll recognize the sound of the click from around the corner and I’ll be there to. . . .
“Joe, whasup bro?”
“Hi Garret.”
Garret, long and lanky with a pale, pointy face, bright orange hair buzzed around the sides with a couple of bushy, unbrushed inches on top, sits beside Joseph at a table in Silk City’s beer garden and looks around frantically for a waitress, craving a Bloody Mary and feeling entitled to instant gratification. He’s twenty minutes later than he said he’d be but pissed at Joseph for asking him to brunch at 12:30, the stroller crowd typically still lingering around that time, most hungover folks, like Garret, barely out of bed.
“Where the hell’s the waitress?”
Joseph shrugs.
“How’s your day going?”
Joseph scrunches his face and shakes his head from side to side, indicating that not much has happened in his day thus far. Garret starts telling him what he did the previous night and Joseph drifts into his own thoughts, considering a stop at the bookstore down on Frankford off Girard later that day, perhaps a movie at the Ritz that night. He wonders about what’s playing and who he might ask to join him. . . .
“Joe, did you hear what I just said?”
“Sorry Garret, what?”
“She was there last night, that girl you were so buddy buddy with Monday night. She said you haven’t called her.”
Joseph now in the moment, he tells Garret, “Man, I don’t think I got her number.”
“She said she wrote it down on a napkin for you.”
“She did? Shit, I don’t know.”
“Figure it out man, she’s hot. Oh good, here comes a waitress. Hey, excuse me, Miss? Can I get a Bloody, and can we get some menus?”
As the waitress tells them all about the day’s specials, Joseph thinks of nothing but a napkin he may or may not have in the pocket of the jeans he wore Monday night.
(Check out Philly's real "I Love You, I Hate You" reader write-in column from City Paper here)
Tuesday Morning Joseph
Sunlight, pouring in already for a few hours through the tattered old wooden window frame, meets his face as he rolls over onto his left side, and his eyes open slowly. A milky white haze swirls into the rectangular shape of the window and he turns away from it back over to his right, looking for the girl whose name escapes him. She’s not there.
Chest down on the bed now, face implanted in a pillow, he rubs his temples and thinks about how the night ended. His head hurts but it’s nothing severe and he’s used to waking up this way. Dry mouth demanding of water forces his legs up and over the side of the bed so his feet touch the area rug covering his room’s refinished hard pine floors. Slight dizziness, lightheadedness as he stands, vision slowly becoming clearer; he opens his door and waddles to the right and then the left around a corner and into the open kitchen of his two bedroom apartment, his roommate no doubt still asleep.
Shirt off, boxers barely on, he looks himself over, feeling his abdominal muscles to be sure they’re still there, concerned he’ll eventually awake one morning to a gut, considering the amount he drinks, sure the development of said gut is not some gradual process but rather an overnight occurrence when he’s had too much to drink, or perhaps somehow he’ll fail to notice it growing until it’s too late, though he checks for it each morning habitually. He holds out his arms, elbows bent, and looks at the tattoo sleeves on each, the vine-like designs woven around various images, settling his eyes on the approximately two inch by three inch portrait of Yoda. The girl last night complimented him on the likeness of Yoda, surprising him because typically women laugh at the little green Jedi’s face and, if anything, make fun of him for it. The girl last night thought it was cool. He opens the fridge and takes out a pitcher of filtered water and pours himself a pint, drinking it all down and then refilling the glass.
He carries a full glass of water back to his room and takes another long swig and then places it on his cherry wood end table, purchased on Craigs List like the rest of his furniture. Crawling back into bed, now he’s sure the girl did not accompany him to his apartment after he shut down the bar, but he cannot remember why not.
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