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.)
Showing posts with label Market-Frankford El. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Market-Frankford El. Show all posts
The Weather, and Other Concerns
Walking east on Girard to the El and random thoughts bounce off the pavement like hailstones. There’s always baseball to take your mind off things.
They set aside their paper goods, glass bottles, plastics and wonder about the energy used when it all gets recycled.
Oil rigs the world over employ people and transform the planet and give us the stuff we’re built to need.
You worry about man-made disasters until tornadoes destroy Southern and Midwestern cities. Survivors count their blessings, their lives forever changed. Easy on the east coast to read the headline and watch the news and think about it for a while and feel safe ‘cause it’s not you, but what if?
She takes SEPTA to school every day but now it won’t be free. Can’t afford the daily bus fare so might just be a cutter. Parents could be prosecuted but money’s tight so they don’t know what to do.
Budget cuts. Teachers stressed about keeping their jobs and it’s last-in-first-out so the youngest ones lose. He finished his masters and got certified but when and where and who and what and how will he teach? Arlene Ackerman will make $500,000 this year, though. That’s fair.
Turning the corner by Trax where the clerk was killed during a 3:00 am robbery a while back. Two bucks buys a train ride to the ballpark. Cliff Lee’s pitching. I hope it doesn’t rain.
(Click here for a brief blog post from PhillyNow on Arlene Ackerman's 2011 compensation)
They set aside their paper goods, glass bottles, plastics and wonder about the energy used when it all gets recycled.
Oil rigs the world over employ people and transform the planet and give us the stuff we’re built to need.
You worry about man-made disasters until tornadoes destroy Southern and Midwestern cities. Survivors count their blessings, their lives forever changed. Easy on the east coast to read the headline and watch the news and think about it for a while and feel safe ‘cause it’s not you, but what if?
She takes SEPTA to school every day but now it won’t be free. Can’t afford the daily bus fare so might just be a cutter. Parents could be prosecuted but money’s tight so they don’t know what to do.
Budget cuts. Teachers stressed about keeping their jobs and it’s last-in-first-out so the youngest ones lose. He finished his masters and got certified but when and where and who and what and how will he teach? Arlene Ackerman will make $500,000 this year, though. That’s fair.
Turning the corner by Trax where the clerk was killed during a 3:00 am robbery a while back. Two bucks buys a train ride to the ballpark. Cliff Lee’s pitching. I hope it doesn’t rain.
(Click here for a brief blog post from PhillyNow on Arlene Ackerman's 2011 compensation)
A Christmas Quarrel
The Man walks south on Front Street, beneath the Market-Frankford El, carrying bags mostly filled with gifts for his daughter and son. Two Men walk toward him.
The Man tips his cap at the Two Men as they pass him. The Two Men, one in a sky blue parka, the other wearing a dark green windbreaker, ignore the gesture.
Boom! The Man feels something smash into the small of his back, propelling him forward. He drops the bags, heaving them in the same direction as his flying body, and instinctively his head dips, allowing him to somersault before hopping to his feet. Adrenaline overrules the sharp pain in his back as he turns to face his attackers, the Two Men.
“What say you?” The Man demands.
“Give us your bags!” The Two Men shout in unison.
The bags having landed farther south than The Man, he stands between the bags and the Two Men.
“Never!” The Man shouts back.
“Then, meet your destiny!”
Parka Man steps toward The Man and throws a right fisted haymaker, easily evaded by The Man with a side step to his left. In the same motion as the side step, The Man places a powerful right footed round house kick into the front center of the parka, the toes of his thick boot pointed straight into Parka Man’s solar plexus, causing Parka Man to keel over in pain, paralyzing him temporarily.
Windbreaker Man sees an opportunity and makes a run at one of the bags, but The Man arrives first, blocking his path. Hearing his friend’s moans, Windbreaker Man braces himself for a fight, hands up, subconsciously noting his height advantage over The Man, confident his longer legs can land a kick if he delivers it well.
Wanting to finish Windbreaker Man before Parka Man catches his breath, The Man lunges forward and fakes a punch, prompting Windbreaker Man to direct a left footed front kick toward The Man’s face.
The Man catches Windbreaker Man’s foot with his right hand, drops to his knees, and plants a powerful left fisted punch into Windbreaker Man’s little reproducers, evoking a shrill sound not unlike the cry of a cat in heat.
Windbreaker Man doubles over, now whimpering, as Parka Man starts to stand and then falls back onto his ass, shimmying away from The Man’s glare with his hands up and shaking, palms out, in retreat.
Seeing his attackers have quit, The Man gathers his bags, eyes fixed on the Two Men in case they should foolishly decide to try their luck again.
The Man turns to walk away and then thinks of something that makes him chuckle. He reaches into one of the bags and grabs a sack of tennis balls, the lone item he’d purchased for himself that day. He removes two balls from the sack, tosses one to each of the Two Men and says, “Merry Christmas.”
The Man tips his cap at the Two Men as they pass him. The Two Men, one in a sky blue parka, the other wearing a dark green windbreaker, ignore the gesture.
Boom! The Man feels something smash into the small of his back, propelling him forward. He drops the bags, heaving them in the same direction as his flying body, and instinctively his head dips, allowing him to somersault before hopping to his feet. Adrenaline overrules the sharp pain in his back as he turns to face his attackers, the Two Men.
“What say you?” The Man demands.
“Give us your bags!” The Two Men shout in unison.
The bags having landed farther south than The Man, he stands between the bags and the Two Men.
“Never!” The Man shouts back.
“Then, meet your destiny!”
Parka Man steps toward The Man and throws a right fisted haymaker, easily evaded by The Man with a side step to his left. In the same motion as the side step, The Man places a powerful right footed round house kick into the front center of the parka, the toes of his thick boot pointed straight into Parka Man’s solar plexus, causing Parka Man to keel over in pain, paralyzing him temporarily.
Windbreaker Man sees an opportunity and makes a run at one of the bags, but The Man arrives first, blocking his path. Hearing his friend’s moans, Windbreaker Man braces himself for a fight, hands up, subconsciously noting his height advantage over The Man, confident his longer legs can land a kick if he delivers it well.
Wanting to finish Windbreaker Man before Parka Man catches his breath, The Man lunges forward and fakes a punch, prompting Windbreaker Man to direct a left footed front kick toward The Man’s face.
The Man catches Windbreaker Man’s foot with his right hand, drops to his knees, and plants a powerful left fisted punch into Windbreaker Man’s little reproducers, evoking a shrill sound not unlike the cry of a cat in heat.
Windbreaker Man doubles over, now whimpering, as Parka Man starts to stand and then falls back onto his ass, shimmying away from The Man’s glare with his hands up and shaking, palms out, in retreat.
Seeing his attackers have quit, The Man gathers his bags, eyes fixed on the Two Men in case they should foolishly decide to try their luck again.
The Man turns to walk away and then thinks of something that makes him chuckle. He reaches into one of the bags and grabs a sack of tennis balls, the lone item he’d purchased for himself that day. He removes two balls from the sack, tosses one to each of the Two Men and says, “Merry Christmas.”
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