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 Philadelphia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Philadelphia. Show all posts
A Philadelphian Conversation - Number Four
The 10:42 pm train out of Atlantic City leaves on time, and I'm happy not to be driving back to Philly, for a change, so I can read. Reading is what I'm doing when a man perhaps fifty years breathing stumbles on at Hammonton and stops in the aisle beside my seat. I can smell the booze sweating out of him as I feel his look. My eyes remain fixed on the pages in front of them. The guy sits down and talks to himself. "You ain't gonna rob this train. You ain't gonna start a fight. Gonna get home. Finally gonna get home."
"Ticket." commands the ticket checker.
The man produces a crumpled up, skinny piece of paper anyone would know is not a ticket for this train. "Bus driver told me I could use this to transfer."
The ticket checker hands the man back the wrinkled slip of paper. "This isn't a ticket for this train. You—"
"But the bus driver—"
"I'm trying to tell you—"
"But he said—"
"Doesn't matter what he said and if you'll stop interrupting—"
"Okay."
"—I'll tell you how it is. You need to get off at the next stop."
"You ain't throwing me off now?"
"I can't stop the train now that it's moving again."
The man nods and looks down toward his feet, presumably in acceptance of his fate. "What's the next stop?"
"Atco," answers the ticket checker, and walks on.
A few minutes pass and I read on without looking around. I hear the man say "What you readin'?"
I look up at him and hold the book out so he can see its title, which I'm sure he doesn't compute. He has close cropped whitish grey hair, a gold stud earring in his left ear, and the most crooked nose I've ever seen. He wears a black Harley shirt with orange writing and sleeves cut off, revealing faded, dark green tattoos set on thin, muscular arms.
"Any good?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "pretty good."
I go back to reading and hear him start up talking to himself again. His head is lowered toward his lap, shaking back and forth, mumbling. "Not gonna fight. Gotta get home."
I peek over at his hands to see what they're doing. They're by his sides, but in constant motion.
"Hey," he says.
I look up at him again, but this time I think to myself if you fuck with me, I'll kill you and do my best to make him feel that vibe from me, make him hear my thoughts.
"You know if there's a Wawa near the Atco stop?"
I shake my head, still giving him my best don't-fuck-with-me look. "No, dunno."
When the train pulls up to the Atco stop, the man slowly stands and stumbles off the same way he stumbled on. He mutters something like "Gonna get home. Little closer now."
I feel sorry for him, but whatever sequence of events landed him where he is on this Thursday evening, I have a feeling he's no victim.
When the train starts moving, as we pull away from Atco, the ticket checker passes by again.
"Ticket." commands the ticket checker.
The man produces a crumpled up, skinny piece of paper anyone would know is not a ticket for this train. "Bus driver told me I could use this to transfer."
The ticket checker hands the man back the wrinkled slip of paper. "This isn't a ticket for this train. You—"
"But the bus driver—"
"I'm trying to tell you—"
"But he said—"
"Doesn't matter what he said and if you'll stop interrupting—"
"Okay."
"—I'll tell you how it is. You need to get off at the next stop."
"You ain't throwing me off now?"
"I can't stop the train now that it's moving again."
The man nods and looks down toward his feet, presumably in acceptance of his fate. "What's the next stop?"
"Atco," answers the ticket checker, and walks on.
A few minutes pass and I read on without looking around. I hear the man say "What you readin'?"
I look up at him and hold the book out so he can see its title, which I'm sure he doesn't compute. He has close cropped whitish grey hair, a gold stud earring in his left ear, and the most crooked nose I've ever seen. He wears a black Harley shirt with orange writing and sleeves cut off, revealing faded, dark green tattoos set on thin, muscular arms.
"Any good?" he asks.
"Yeah," I say, "pretty good."
I go back to reading and hear him start up talking to himself again. His head is lowered toward his lap, shaking back and forth, mumbling. "Not gonna fight. Gotta get home."
I peek over at his hands to see what they're doing. They're by his sides, but in constant motion.
"Hey," he says.
I look up at him again, but this time I think to myself if you fuck with me, I'll kill you and do my best to make him feel that vibe from me, make him hear my thoughts.
"You know if there's a Wawa near the Atco stop?"
I shake my head, still giving him my best don't-fuck-with-me look. "No, dunno."
When the train pulls up to the Atco stop, the man slowly stands and stumbles off the same way he stumbled on. He mutters something like "Gonna get home. Little closer now."
I feel sorry for him, but whatever sequence of events landed him where he is on this Thursday evening, I have a feeling he's no victim.
When the train starts moving, as we pull away from Atco, the ticket checker passes by again.
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.
Take the Blue Line
You must take the blue line
From Berks and Front Street to City Hall Station
You will need to transfer
To the orange line at City Hall Station
Hurry, get on, beers are flowin'
Phillies may stink, we're still goin'
All aboard, get on the blue line
Soon you will be at the ballpark for a game
From Berks and Front Street to City Hall Station
You will need to transfer
To the orange line at City Hall Station
Hurry, get on, beers are flowin'
Phillies may stink, we're still goin'
All aboard, get on the blue line
Soon you will be at the ballpark for a game
A Philadelphian Conversation - Number Three
The doorbell rang and I assumed, because it had been snowing all day, that it would be Scott with a shovel. I set a little bowl of spaghetti down on the table and looked out the window to see who it was. Scott had already started shoveling, so I opened the door and told him I'd pay five dollars when he finished.
When he knocked on the door again, he said "You know they stole my bike" and I said "Really?" and he said "You don't seen me on it, do you?"
I shook my head to indicate that indeed, I had not seen him on it.
He said "My own people took it from me! My own people took my bike."
"How do you know that?"
"'Cause I couldn't catch 'em. They was too fast. I had it locked up and everything and they came up with one of them clippers and cut it loose." He sighed. "I had that bike fourteen years."
I told him about what happened to me a few months back when I was assaulted by a random person walking down the street, and how I got away before the guy and some other guy he was with were able to rob me, which, I told Scott, was certainly their intention. He said "You lucky man" and I gave him the five dollars and he turned to leave.
As he walked away, he shouted back to me "I'll get me another bike! You'll see! I'll get me another one!" The snow came down on him beneath the streetlights, and I realized it was coming down on me too.
When he knocked on the door again, he said "You know they stole my bike" and I said "Really?" and he said "You don't seen me on it, do you?"
I shook my head to indicate that indeed, I had not seen him on it.
He said "My own people took it from me! My own people took my bike."
"How do you know that?"
"'Cause I couldn't catch 'em. They was too fast. I had it locked up and everything and they came up with one of them clippers and cut it loose." He sighed. "I had that bike fourteen years."
I told him about what happened to me a few months back when I was assaulted by a random person walking down the street, and how I got away before the guy and some other guy he was with were able to rob me, which, I told Scott, was certainly their intention. He said "You lucky man" and I gave him the five dollars and he turned to leave.
As he walked away, he shouted back to me "I'll get me another bike! You'll see! I'll get me another one!" The snow came down on him beneath the streetlights, and I realized it was coming down on me too.
Between the Cemetery and the River
Mausoleums on the hill overlook the river and its parallel path, watching every boat race, jogger, biker. The cemetery's west end comes to an abrupt halt like a cliff over the road below: a narrow, busy road on which cars are known to double the speed limit. A high stone wall stands on the side of the road below the cemetery hill, holding the ground in place far beneath buried bones. A much lower stone wall runs along the other side, separating the river path from the busy road.
Large, old walk in tombs and gravestones like these are mostly a bygone tradition. But the winds of chance still blow through them as they ever would. On a sunny weekend morning, the mausoleums witness a car veer off the road below, straight through the low stone wall, across the jogging path and straight into the river.
Nobody jogged or biked past at that particular moment. No coxswains led oarsmen in the place where the car dove headlights first into the water. Hours before the accident, a young family had a picnic on the river bank. A six month old baby lay on a blanket while her two year old brother ran circles around their parents. They're alive and well. Like the rest of us who breathe, they're surrounded by ghosts.
Large, old walk in tombs and gravestones like these are mostly a bygone tradition. But the winds of chance still blow through them as they ever would. On a sunny weekend morning, the mausoleums witness a car veer off the road below, straight through the low stone wall, across the jogging path and straight into the river.
Nobody jogged or biked past at that particular moment. No coxswains led oarsmen in the place where the car dove headlights first into the water. Hours before the accident, a young family had a picnic on the river bank. A six month old baby lay on a blanket while her two year old brother ran circles around their parents. They're alive and well. Like the rest of us who breathe, they're surrounded by ghosts.
 |
| Photo by Erica Smith for uwishunu.com |
On the Bridge
He drove along at a comfortable pace until he reached the Tappan Zee Bridge, where traffic came to a complete stop. The sun shone the day's last rays as he sat flipping radio channels, the car idling. After a while people shut down their engines and stepped out of their cars and stood on the bridge. Some leaned against their vehicles and others walked around on the bridge.
In the other direction cars continued to move. The bridge vibrated and shook.
As one and two and three hours passed, he became restless. For a while he was back in the car with the radio on scrolling a.m. stations, looking for news about an accident (or anything else) south of the bridge that would cause the standstill, but he came up empty. He was tired and wanted to get back on the road toward Philly – he had a ways to go yet and time was not on his side. He decided to ask a guy in the next lane over if he knew what was going on.
"Excuse me."
The guy, a burly white man perhaps thirty years old, sweaty, looked up from where he sat against the driver's side wheel of his Ford pick up. "What's up?"
"Any idea why we're stopped?"
The guy shrugged. And stared.
"Alright then." He turned back to his own car, sat up on the hood.
Two more hours passed, slowly. Vibrations started to bother him. Lack of information bothered him. Some people relieved themselves off to the side, and that bothered him. He relieved himself in an empty Gatorade bottle while crouching uncomfortably in the backseat of his car. Luckily he only had to pee.
Some people seemed like they had become friends with others in neighboring cars. Their attitudes seemed to say "we can't do anything about this, we're stuck, so let's chat it up and laugh and joke around."
He felt bad for families with little kids. He heard some kids crying and it made him feel kinda crazy – he wished he could do something to help them but couldn't think of anything he could offer.
The only person he'd spoken with was the burly guy. He thought of trying to become friends with him just to have something to do, but when he looked over in the guy's direction, he didn't like the look on his face. It seemed like the guy was staring at him with a mean sort of look. He stared back. This went on for a few minutes before he found himself getting angry and decided to do something about it.
"What's up man?"
The burly guy seemed surprised. "Nothing. What's up with you?"
"Why you looking at me like that, chief?"
The burly man stood up. "What the fuck you talkin' about, man?"
"What am I talkin' about? What are you talkin' about? Fuck you, man."
"Son, I'll throw you right off this bridge if you say that again. You best just shut your mouth and mind your own business."
Now they stood in each other's faces, the rage having built up within each of them. Their chests were about an inch apart. If either of them were to make a move, things would get ugly pretty quickly….
Just then he heard someone cheering from up ahead. He and the burly man turned to look. People were getting back into their cars. Traffic was starting to move.
He looked back at the burly man and said, "Sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."
The burly man nodded and got into his truck.
He walked back to his car and wondered what had just happened. It was like he'd been possessed for a few minutes, like something crept up inside and made him want to explode. He chalked it up to nerves, the frustration of being stranded on the bridge. The rest of his drive to Philly was uneventful.
In the other direction cars continued to move. The bridge vibrated and shook.
As one and two and three hours passed, he became restless. For a while he was back in the car with the radio on scrolling a.m. stations, looking for news about an accident (or anything else) south of the bridge that would cause the standstill, but he came up empty. He was tired and wanted to get back on the road toward Philly – he had a ways to go yet and time was not on his side. He decided to ask a guy in the next lane over if he knew what was going on.
"Excuse me."
The guy, a burly white man perhaps thirty years old, sweaty, looked up from where he sat against the driver's side wheel of his Ford pick up. "What's up?"
"Any idea why we're stopped?"
The guy shrugged. And stared.
"Alright then." He turned back to his own car, sat up on the hood.
Two more hours passed, slowly. Vibrations started to bother him. Lack of information bothered him. Some people relieved themselves off to the side, and that bothered him. He relieved himself in an empty Gatorade bottle while crouching uncomfortably in the backseat of his car. Luckily he only had to pee.
Some people seemed like they had become friends with others in neighboring cars. Their attitudes seemed to say "we can't do anything about this, we're stuck, so let's chat it up and laugh and joke around."
He felt bad for families with little kids. He heard some kids crying and it made him feel kinda crazy – he wished he could do something to help them but couldn't think of anything he could offer.
The only person he'd spoken with was the burly guy. He thought of trying to become friends with him just to have something to do, but when he looked over in the guy's direction, he didn't like the look on his face. It seemed like the guy was staring at him with a mean sort of look. He stared back. This went on for a few minutes before he found himself getting angry and decided to do something about it.
"What's up man?"
The burly guy seemed surprised. "Nothing. What's up with you?"
"Why you looking at me like that, chief?"
The burly man stood up. "What the fuck you talkin' about, man?"
"What am I talkin' about? What are you talkin' about? Fuck you, man."
"Son, I'll throw you right off this bridge if you say that again. You best just shut your mouth and mind your own business."
Now they stood in each other's faces, the rage having built up within each of them. Their chests were about an inch apart. If either of them were to make a move, things would get ugly pretty quickly….
Just then he heard someone cheering from up ahead. He and the burly man turned to look. People were getting back into their cars. Traffic was starting to move.
He looked back at the burly man and said, "Sorry about that. I don't know what got into me."
The burly man nodded and got into his truck.
He walked back to his car and wondered what had just happened. It was like he'd been possessed for a few minutes, like something crept up inside and made him want to explode. He chalked it up to nerves, the frustration of being stranded on the bridge. The rest of his drive to Philly was uneventful.
Just a Cup of Coffee
The dogs in the painting hanging from the north wall of Joseph's apartment looked down on Garret and Joseph. The sun shone through the apartment's front windows as the hands of Joseph's grandfather's old clock struck Ten.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
"What's going on today?" asked Garret.
Joseph lay on a beaten up, very comfy leather loveseat. "Let's go to a diner."
"Now?"
"Yeah."
"Aramingo?"
"Nah."
"Acropolis?"
"It closed."
"Oh yeah, I forgot. Bummer."
"Huge bummer."
"Hmm. Spring Garden Restaurant?"
"I was just there."
"Mugshot?"
"The coffee shop?"
"No, the diner on York."
"Haven't been yet."
"Let's check it out."
Joseph shook his head. "I don't feel like trying a new place."
"We could bike to South Philly. Oregon, Broad, Melrose, Penrose…."
"Penrose? You crazy? I love it, but dude we're in Fishtown. You realize how far that is?"
Garret threw his hands into the air. "Okay, I give up. Pick one or let's just hang here."
"Let's go to Aramingo."
"Dude, that's the first one I said."
Fifteen minutes later, a white haired waitress stood before them in a shirt a little too tight and a little too low cut. The decade could've been any of the last six – nobody there would know the difference.
"Eggs over easy, bacon, potatoes, white toast, small stack on the side. Coffee, small orange juice, water please."
The waitress seemed to absorb Garret's order. She looked at Joseph.
"Coffee, black."
"That's it?" asked the waitress.
"Yeah, Joe, that's it?" Garret prodded, surprised.
"Yes please."
The waitress traipsed away from their table and checked in on another.
"Whadja wanna come to a diner for if all you want is coffee? We coulda made coffee at your apartment."
"Dunno. I just wanted to get out."
The walls around them listened on as they spoke of nothing important. The world and all of its problems, those of the '50s and the aughts and those of today, were far away and almost unreal. People in booths and at tables around them touched their forks to plates of scrapple and chipped beef and waffles and looked at each other and talked about family and friends and their dreams.
Garret and Joseph finished up and rode back to Joseph's apartment and didn't do much for the rest of the day. They weren't hungover or jaded or depressed, but content to just be. Joseph looked for a while at the painting of dogs on his wall. He'd never noticed a faint smile on the face of a sitting beagle.
Keep Calm and Pass to Mertesacker
"Honey, can you run out for some bread?"
Tactic number one: ignore. Mark kept his eyes peeled to the screen as if he hadn't heard his wife's request.
"Honey?"
Tactic number two: plead. "But it's the middle of the Ghana Germany game. Can I go when it's over?"
Sheila frowned. "The rest of the food will be out any minute. Isn't this why we have DVR? Can't you pause it?"
Moments later Mark walked up 22nd Street, cursing under his breath. He looked around him – people's windows were open. He'd have to avoid hearing any loud cheers or shouting as any errant word could give away the action of the match and ruin the rest of it for him. But how could he shut himself off from the sounds all around him? Ghana had only just tied the score at 1 – 1 when he'd left the house.
At the market he was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. While he doubted that shoppers were, say, following the game on their smart phones and/or chatting about more recent play than he'd seen, he didn't want to take any chances. He paid for the bread and began his walk home.
Then it happened: a man stepped out from a row home and Mark's gaze fell upon the man's shirt, a shirt that could only belong to a Germany fan:
Without thinking, his eyes moved from the man's shirt to his face, only for an instant, and Mark started to panic. What was that expression? Certainly not elation, but not downright depression either. Mark looked at his watch and saw that twelve minutes had passed since he'd left his house. How much could happen in twelve minutes? A lot. A lot can happen in twelve minutes in a match. That Germany fan in the Mertesacker shirt looked defeated. Ghana must've taken the lead. No, maybe he just looked stoic. No, perhaps he stepped out to catch his breath because he'd recently been screaming with unbridled joy. No. No, no, no!
"Sheila, here's your bread." Mark practically leapt past her and back onto the couch, fumbling the remote as he reached for it.
"Come on Mark, keep calm."
"Keep calm?!" He turned to his wife. "Are you in cahoots with that Germany fan down the street?"
Sheila had no idea what Mark's question meant, so she sighed and decided to use tactic number one herself. She ignored him.
Tactic number one: ignore. Mark kept his eyes peeled to the screen as if he hadn't heard his wife's request.
"Honey?"
Tactic number two: plead. "But it's the middle of the Ghana Germany game. Can I go when it's over?"
Sheila frowned. "The rest of the food will be out any minute. Isn't this why we have DVR? Can't you pause it?"
Moments later Mark walked up 22nd Street, cursing under his breath. He looked around him – people's windows were open. He'd have to avoid hearing any loud cheers or shouting as any errant word could give away the action of the match and ruin the rest of it for him. But how could he shut himself off from the sounds all around him? Ghana had only just tied the score at 1 – 1 when he'd left the house.
At the market he was careful not to make eye contact with anyone. While he doubted that shoppers were, say, following the game on their smart phones and/or chatting about more recent play than he'd seen, he didn't want to take any chances. He paid for the bread and began his walk home.
Then it happened: a man stepped out from a row home and Mark's gaze fell upon the man's shirt, a shirt that could only belong to a Germany fan:
Without thinking, his eyes moved from the man's shirt to his face, only for an instant, and Mark started to panic. What was that expression? Certainly not elation, but not downright depression either. Mark looked at his watch and saw that twelve minutes had passed since he'd left his house. How much could happen in twelve minutes? A lot. A lot can happen in twelve minutes in a match. That Germany fan in the Mertesacker shirt looked defeated. Ghana must've taken the lead. No, maybe he just looked stoic. No, perhaps he stepped out to catch his breath because he'd recently been screaming with unbridled joy. No. No, no, no!
"Sheila, here's your bread." Mark practically leapt past her and back onto the couch, fumbling the remote as he reached for it.
"Come on Mark, keep calm."
"Keep calm?!" He turned to his wife. "Are you in cahoots with that Germany fan down the street?"
Sheila had no idea what Mark's question meant, so she sighed and decided to use tactic number one herself. She ignored him.
Riding to South Philly (on Pure Slush)
(This week's micro story, Riding to South Philly, is one I submitted to Pure Slush for their 2014 travel theme. You can read it by clicking here. Thanks once again to Pure Slush's fantastic editor, Matt Potter.)
Sweet Revenge
"Is Dan there?"
Don't people say 'hello' anymore, thought Dan. "Who's asking?"
"Name's Johnson. Is Dan there?"
"What's this in reference to?"
"I have an important matter to discuss with him. There's money involved. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone, so I'd like to arrange a meeting."
"I don't know anyone named Johnson. Well, that's not true, but you're not that Johnson."
"So is this Dan?"
"Where would you like to meet?"
"You choose."
"Aramingo Diner. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"
"8:00 am sharp. See you there."
The next morning rolled around and Dan was more suspicious than curious. Something he didn't like in Johnson's voice, something seductive, made him wonder if he should even show up. But Dan didn't have a lot going on lately. He'd never met this Johnson, but somehow he knew just where to sit when he saw a grey haired man alone in a booth.
"Coffee, black," he told the expectant waitress.
"Daniel, it's nice to meet you."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?"
"Please, just Johnson."
Dan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, which the waitress had delivered within moments of his order.
"Until recently, you were employed at LDS Products, is that correct?" asked Johnson.
"Yes."
"And from what I understand, your departure from LDS wasn't made under the best of circumstances?"
"Being fired usually isn't."
"I didn't want to put it so harshly, Dan, but no, it usually isn't."
"So what do you want with LDS, or with me?"
"I'm sure you're aware that one of LDS' largest accounts is a certain retail chain with a presence in thirty seven states?"
"Of course I am."
"We have it on good authority that a top man at LDS has been bribing a top man at that retail chain for many, many years. Were you aware of this too?"
"No," Dan lied, "but it doesn't surprise me."
"I'll cut to the chase. We want you to blow the whistle on LDS."
Dan took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee.
"Why would you want me to do something like that, Johnson?"
"Fair question. Without going into specifics, I represent a firm that can offer a nearly identical product range to this retailer. When you blow the whistle on your former employer, they'll lose the account, and the company I represent expects to step in and take it."
"If you have the goods on LDS, why not blow the whistle yourselves?"
"Another fair question, but one you could surely answer on your own if you gave it some thought. One reason is that if the information leak were tied to the company I represent, this could hurt if not ruin their chances of winning the account in the aftermath of the scandal. Nobody likes to give business to people who cause trouble, and the leak could raise questions my clients don't want to answer. Another reason is that it'll all sound better if it comes from a former LDS employee, and you're in a unique position to be that man."
"So I do the dirty work, and your clients ride in to save the day."
"Precisely."
"I could easily guess the name of the company you represent."
"Maybe, but don't bother because I won't confirm it. And why should it matter to you anyway?"
"You're right, it doesn't matter to me. What does matter to me is what you're offering."
Johnson smiled and removed a pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He wrote down a number with four zeroes on a beverage napkin and slid it across the table top.
Dan looked down at the napkin and then back up at Johnson. "I know how large that account could be for your clients. I think the number you wrote down is missing a zero."
"Check, please," Johnson told the approaching waitress. He waited for her to walk away. "Dan, we're talking about cash. The amount we've offered is significant. Give it some thought."
"I've given it enough thought already. Add a zero or find another ex-LDS man to sink their ship."
Johnson smiled again as the waitress brought their tab. He removed a few bills from his wallet and stood to leave and extended a hand toward Dan. They shook.
"I'll speak with my client and get back in touch with you. Good day to you, sir."
Dan sat and finished his coffee. He had no doubt that Johnson would meet his demand, a pittance compared to the profits his clients would make if their plan were to work. "Waitress," he said, "I'll take some eggs and scrapple and white toast. And more coffee." He added, to himself, "I'm celebrating sweet revenge."
Don't people say 'hello' anymore, thought Dan. "Who's asking?"
"Name's Johnson. Is Dan there?"
"What's this in reference to?"
"I have an important matter to discuss with him. There's money involved. I'd rather not discuss it over the phone, so I'd like to arrange a meeting."
"I don't know anyone named Johnson. Well, that's not true, but you're not that Johnson."
"So is this Dan?"
"Where would you like to meet?"
"You choose."
"Aramingo Diner. Tomorrow morning, eight o'clock?"
"8:00 am sharp. See you there."
The next morning rolled around and Dan was more suspicious than curious. Something he didn't like in Johnson's voice, something seductive, made him wonder if he should even show up. But Dan didn't have a lot going on lately. He'd never met this Johnson, but somehow he knew just where to sit when he saw a grey haired man alone in a booth.
"Coffee, black," he told the expectant waitress.
"Daniel, it's nice to meet you."
"What can I do for you, Mr. Johnson?"
"Please, just Johnson."
Dan nodded and took a sip of his coffee, which the waitress had delivered within moments of his order.
"Until recently, you were employed at LDS Products, is that correct?" asked Johnson.
"Yes."
"And from what I understand, your departure from LDS wasn't made under the best of circumstances?"
"Being fired usually isn't."
"I didn't want to put it so harshly, Dan, but no, it usually isn't."
"So what do you want with LDS, or with me?"
"I'm sure you're aware that one of LDS' largest accounts is a certain retail chain with a presence in thirty seven states?"
"Of course I am."
"We have it on good authority that a top man at LDS has been bribing a top man at that retail chain for many, many years. Were you aware of this too?"
"No," Dan lied, "but it doesn't surprise me."
"I'll cut to the chase. We want you to blow the whistle on LDS."
Dan took a long, deliberate sip of his coffee.
"Why would you want me to do something like that, Johnson?"
"Fair question. Without going into specifics, I represent a firm that can offer a nearly identical product range to this retailer. When you blow the whistle on your former employer, they'll lose the account, and the company I represent expects to step in and take it."
"If you have the goods on LDS, why not blow the whistle yourselves?"
"Another fair question, but one you could surely answer on your own if you gave it some thought. One reason is that if the information leak were tied to the company I represent, this could hurt if not ruin their chances of winning the account in the aftermath of the scandal. Nobody likes to give business to people who cause trouble, and the leak could raise questions my clients don't want to answer. Another reason is that it'll all sound better if it comes from a former LDS employee, and you're in a unique position to be that man."
"So I do the dirty work, and your clients ride in to save the day."
"Precisely."
"I could easily guess the name of the company you represent."
"Maybe, but don't bother because I won't confirm it. And why should it matter to you anyway?"
"You're right, it doesn't matter to me. What does matter to me is what you're offering."
Johnson smiled and removed a pen from the pocket inside his suit jacket. He wrote down a number with four zeroes on a beverage napkin and slid it across the table top.
Dan looked down at the napkin and then back up at Johnson. "I know how large that account could be for your clients. I think the number you wrote down is missing a zero."
"Check, please," Johnson told the approaching waitress. He waited for her to walk away. "Dan, we're talking about cash. The amount we've offered is significant. Give it some thought."
"I've given it enough thought already. Add a zero or find another ex-LDS man to sink their ship."
Johnson smiled again as the waitress brought their tab. He removed a few bills from his wallet and stood to leave and extended a hand toward Dan. They shook.
"I'll speak with my client and get back in touch with you. Good day to you, sir."
Dan sat and finished his coffee. He had no doubt that Johnson would meet his demand, a pittance compared to the profits his clients would make if their plan were to work. "Waitress," he said, "I'll take some eggs and scrapple and white toast. And more coffee." He added, to himself, "I'm celebrating sweet revenge."
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.
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 Neighborhood School
Watching him shoot a basketball was like watching a ballerina twirl. I hadn't seen him in person for twenty two years. He won our high school a city title his senior year, 1991. Well, there were other players on the court with him, of course, but they wouldn't have gotten very far without him. We were up all night the night of the championship game – I was a skinny little sophomore and a fan of the game – and that triumphant night is one of my favorite memories.
I followed his college career as a two guard at St. Joe's, spotting up beyond the arc time and time again. Thought maybe he'd make it as a pro, but it wasn't to be, and I hadn't heard a peep about him since.
"Ricky Reynolds." I stuck out my hand. "You probably don't remember me. Arnie Thompson. I was two years behind you at North."
"Sure, Arnie, how are you?" I knew he didn't actually remember me, but he pretended without any sign of pretension.
"I'm okay, thanks." I noticed for the first time a little girl by his side, presumably his daughter. "And who is this?"
"I'm Chrissy. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too. I used to go to your dad's basketball games in high school. He was the best player in the city."
She smiled at me, as did her father.
"Shame about North getting shut down," he said.
"Yeah, sure is."
"Lot of good memories in those halls."
"For me too."
"I guess it'll be all charter schools now. The city just can't seem to fund its public schools." He motioned toward Chrissy. "Her mom and I wanna stay in the city, though, whatever it takes."
"Glad to hear it."
"Well, it was nice to see you, Arnie, take care man."
He shook my hand and we went our separate ways. As I walked away, I thought about these new charter schools. Seemed like they, with their lotteries and sibling preference and long hours and strict rules, were the city's answer to a bankrupt district. The charters' programs were by most accounts effective, but there was something about a neighborhood public school they couldn't replicate, like watching the kid you grew up with hit five straight fifteen footers to defeat the school team from the next neighborhood over.
I followed his college career as a two guard at St. Joe's, spotting up beyond the arc time and time again. Thought maybe he'd make it as a pro, but it wasn't to be, and I hadn't heard a peep about him since.
"Ricky Reynolds." I stuck out my hand. "You probably don't remember me. Arnie Thompson. I was two years behind you at North."
"Sure, Arnie, how are you?" I knew he didn't actually remember me, but he pretended without any sign of pretension.
"I'm okay, thanks." I noticed for the first time a little girl by his side, presumably his daughter. "And who is this?"
"I'm Chrissy. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too. I used to go to your dad's basketball games in high school. He was the best player in the city."
She smiled at me, as did her father.
"Shame about North getting shut down," he said.
"Yeah, sure is."
"Lot of good memories in those halls."
"For me too."
"I guess it'll be all charter schools now. The city just can't seem to fund its public schools." He motioned toward Chrissy. "Her mom and I wanna stay in the city, though, whatever it takes."
"Glad to hear it."
"Well, it was nice to see you, Arnie, take care man."
He shook my hand and we went our separate ways. As I walked away, I thought about these new charter schools. Seemed like they, with their lotteries and sibling preference and long hours and strict rules, were the city's answer to a bankrupt district. The charters' programs were by most accounts effective, but there was something about a neighborhood public school they couldn't replicate, like watching the kid you grew up with hit five straight fifteen footers to defeat the school team from the next neighborhood over.
A Philadelphian Conversation - Number Two
"My boss thinks the cleaning lady takes the money, so I'm just gonna go with that for now. He came up to me and told me it's missing and said he figures it must be the cleaning lady and I just didn't say nothin'. So I'm gonna roll with that for now and see how long I can make it go."
"Honey, you got to do what you got to do."
"I can't ask my husband no more now he cleaned up. It's just twenty I need, nothin' crazy like what he'd burn through, but I still can't ask him."
"What's that like, him being clean?"
"He been with me eleven years and I been there through all of it with him, so he knows whasup. He knows he can't ask me to quit just 'cause he can't hang no more. I mean, I never done it on his level and I can go a few days between, but then I get to a certain point and it's like, yeah, I just gotta get up to the spot and get on that level."
"Yeah."
"It's just been so hard to keep up on everything. Rent, groceries, shit," she looks around, "a SEPTA pass."
"Yeah."
"But my husband's cool, he knows the game. If he could just give me the twenty, he probably would, but it wouldn't be like that for him and anyway he don't make shit just like I don't make shit."
"I got you."
"But damn, I been talking the whole time. How you? Whasup?"
"You know, same old."
She looks around again. "This our stop. Let's do this. And remember, it gets pretty real, so stay together. Get my back and I'll get yours. If we split up, remember we both gonna come down, one way or another. May as well do it our way."
"Honey, you got to do what you got to do."
"I can't ask my husband no more now he cleaned up. It's just twenty I need, nothin' crazy like what he'd burn through, but I still can't ask him."
"What's that like, him being clean?"
"He been with me eleven years and I been there through all of it with him, so he knows whasup. He knows he can't ask me to quit just 'cause he can't hang no more. I mean, I never done it on his level and I can go a few days between, but then I get to a certain point and it's like, yeah, I just gotta get up to the spot and get on that level."
"Yeah."
"It's just been so hard to keep up on everything. Rent, groceries, shit," she looks around, "a SEPTA pass."
"Yeah."
"But my husband's cool, he knows the game. If he could just give me the twenty, he probably would, but it wouldn't be like that for him and anyway he don't make shit just like I don't make shit."
"I got you."
"But damn, I been talking the whole time. How you? Whasup?"
"You know, same old."
She looks around again. "This our stop. Let's do this. And remember, it gets pretty real, so stay together. Get my back and I'll get yours. If we split up, remember we both gonna come down, one way or another. May as well do it our way."
A Philadelphian Conversation - Number One
Standing outside the little Comcast customer service center on Columbus Boulevard in a nook beside its entrance, staying out of the rain. Internet says the place opens 7:00 a.m. weekdays, but the schedule printed on the door says otherwise. 9:00 a.m. Having arrived too early, I'm second in the growing line, and the first four of us fit comfortably in the nook. Nobody speaks until around five of nine when we're all getting a little antsy to get inside and get our business done with Comcast and get on with our lives.
"I see her in there," the guy in front of me says. He's white and looks around mid-sixties. A white goatee and close cut grayish white hair hover above his sleeveless black tee and cut-off shorts, tattoos covering his arms and legs. "Be nice if she'd open a little early."
"Don't bet on it," says the guy behind me. He looks exactly how I'd imagine the other guy to have looked twenty years ago. "I wouldn't expect any extra effort out of these people."
I think: "if you dudes worked an hourly job for Comcast, you probably wouldn't open up early if you could either, and Comcast probably doesn't even allow it," but find myself saying, "Hard to believe how much cable costs nowadays. If it weren't for the Phillies, Flyers, and Sixers, I might cancel."
"Yeah, tell me about it, I pay $208 a month now."
"Me too, I'm about $200 now too."
I nod in acknowledgement of their monthly rates and pull out my phone and start scrolling through some emails.
"Which city you think'll go bankrupt next?" asks the guy behind me.
"Probably Philly," the other guy answers.
I realize I'll likely be on the sidelines for the remainder of their conversation, wherever it leads.
"Probably. There's no good jobs. I applied for food stamps the other day and you know what they gave me? Sixty bucks a month. You believe that?"
"My wife went in and she only gets $18 a month, they said I make too much."
"Sixty bucks a month! Who can live off that? And then you got these blacks," he tilts his head toward the woman working inside the service center, who we can see through a window in the nook, "and they get like $600 a month food stamps while they drive around in their Cadillac SUVs."
By now I can't wait for the doors to open so that, I hope, these guys will stop talking.
The guy in front of me sees me scrolling down the screen on my phone, trying to mind my own business. He says, "And I tell you what, they know everything you do on those phones. Even in your house they know. A buddy of mine was just indicted and they were watching him inside his own house, through his tv! They have some way they can do that shit – they hook up some device to your tv and watch you through your own tv. You believe that?"
Mercifully, as he asks that last question, the woman inside the service center opens the doors. I put my phone back in my pocket and see its clock change from 8:59 to 9:00 a.m. We all enter the service center and the two guys start talking about how they're both there to pay their bills. I return my friend's cable box for him and go to work, and later wonder whether the $60-per-month-food-stamps-guy is out looking for a job. Place where I work has some openings. I mighta mentioned it, but I knew he wouldn't have been a good fit.
Jokes (by Lee Porter)
Just because I knew the guy from way back when didn’t mean I wanted the conversation to proceed, but he continued to stand in front of me, blocking my way. “Excuse me,” I said.
“Jeff Bridges died.” He spoke fast. “Order a White Russian.”
Towering over me, I had to look up at him to meet his stare. He took a large, slow sip of his American Double Stout, the liquid like chewing tobacco spit, and smiled. I expected the thick, dark brew to be clumped up in his mouth, sticking to his teeth. It wasn’t. Even his beer projected disingenuousness. I didn’t smile back.
“Did you hear me? I said Jeff Bridges died. Go order a White Russian.”
“I heard you.”
“So. . . .”
“So okay.”
“Okay then.”
I joined Giovanni at the bar.
“Did he try that one on you, too?”
“Jeff Bridges?”
“Yeah.”
I took a sip from my beer and glanced at the televisions around the bar – all tuned to the Phillies game – nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t believe him.”
So we played with our smartphones for a second and then placed them on coasters, not surprised that there was no news about Jeff Bridges – good or bad – online.
“I should have said ‘Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,’” I mumbled. Giovanni laughed, flagged down the bartender and ordered sweet potato fries.
We finished our beers, ordered another round, talked about our women – or lack thereof – and comics.
I let the door swing closed behind me on our way out. He was standing outside, as if waiting for us, leaning against the wooden facade, smoking a cigarette.
“You guys leaving?”
I had to ask. “What do you have against Jeff Bridges, man?”
He explained that he and his friends would do this frequently when out late. “Do you know how little milk a bar normally stocks? They have to send a guy out just to get more. The more people we get ordering White Russians, the more they send some sad sack out for milk. You know how hard it is to buy a gallon of milk at one a.m. in this town?”
He laughed and spat on the sidewalk.
I shrugged. Giovanni and I walked away, down 15th Street.
“Why doesn’t he just say it’s his birthday? Why’s the joke have to be about death?”
(Lee Porter is the writer/producer of the award-winning comedy Web series My Ruined Life and the founder/editor of the food/drink site Chocolate Covered Memories. Lee’s work has been featured on Zoo With Roy, The Gaggle, Philly.com, Comcast SportsNet, Shmitten Kitten, and even tweeted by Questlove. Lee lives in Philadelphia.)
“Jeff Bridges died.” He spoke fast. “Order a White Russian.”
Towering over me, I had to look up at him to meet his stare. He took a large, slow sip of his American Double Stout, the liquid like chewing tobacco spit, and smiled. I expected the thick, dark brew to be clumped up in his mouth, sticking to his teeth. It wasn’t. Even his beer projected disingenuousness. I didn’t smile back.
“Did you hear me? I said Jeff Bridges died. Go order a White Russian.”
“I heard you.”
“So. . . .”
“So okay.”
“Okay then.”
I joined Giovanni at the bar.
“Did he try that one on you, too?”
“Jeff Bridges?”
“Yeah.”
I took a sip from my beer and glanced at the televisions around the bar – all tuned to the Phillies game – nothing out of the ordinary. “I don’t believe him.”
So we played with our smartphones for a second and then placed them on coasters, not surprised that there was no news about Jeff Bridges – good or bad – online.
“I should have said ‘Yeah, well, you know, that’s just, like, your opinion, man,’” I mumbled. Giovanni laughed, flagged down the bartender and ordered sweet potato fries.
We finished our beers, ordered another round, talked about our women – or lack thereof – and comics.
I let the door swing closed behind me on our way out. He was standing outside, as if waiting for us, leaning against the wooden facade, smoking a cigarette.
“You guys leaving?”
I had to ask. “What do you have against Jeff Bridges, man?”
He explained that he and his friends would do this frequently when out late. “Do you know how little milk a bar normally stocks? They have to send a guy out just to get more. The more people we get ordering White Russians, the more they send some sad sack out for milk. You know how hard it is to buy a gallon of milk at one a.m. in this town?”
He laughed and spat on the sidewalk.
I shrugged. Giovanni and I walked away, down 15th Street.
“Why doesn’t he just say it’s his birthday? Why’s the joke have to be about death?”
(Lee Porter is the writer/producer of the award-winning comedy Web series My Ruined Life and the founder/editor of the food/drink site Chocolate Covered Memories. Lee’s work has been featured on Zoo With Roy, The Gaggle, Philly.com, Comcast SportsNet, Shmitten Kitten, and even tweeted by Questlove. Lee lives in Philadelphia.)
Queen of Spades
Jimmy had been playing poker for fifty eight straight hours prior to boarding the 3:30 am bus back from Atlantic City to Philadelphia, aside from a few breaks to scarf down a bowl of udon noodles or a sandwich. No sleep. He plopped himself into a window seat and rested his head on its poor excuse for a cushion, and closed his eyes. Exhausted as he felt, he was wired, and found himself rethinking a hand he'd lost a few hours earlier, defeated by the Queen of Spades on the river....
"Anyone sitting here?" She had bluish black hair tied neatly in a bun, and she stood in the aisle looking down at him from above, motioning toward the seat beside his.
"No, feel free."
"Thank you."
She sat and removed a blue and white notebook from the pocket of a gown-like jacket she wore well. Jimmy thought she looked very comfortable. She opened the notebook on her lap, pulled a fancy gold pen from another pocket, and started writing. The pen caught Jimmy's eye: its cap was shaped like a gold and red petalled flower, its alternately circular and pointed design seeming vaguely familiar to him. He thought of asking her about the pen, but instead just closed his eyes in the hopes of falling asleep.
"What's your purpose?" he heard her ask. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd sat down or whether he'd slept.
"Excuse me?"
"What's your purpose?"
Jimmy thought of commenting on the strangeness of her question, but found his mouth moving to answer her.
"I don't know. I like playing poker."
"Hmm, okay." She paused. "So your purpose is to play poker?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Sure, just livin' life, getting by. What about you?"
"I'm a facilitator."
"A what?"
"A facilitator."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I help people make things happen."
In spite of his curiosity, Jimmy was too tired to ask any further questions, and he let his eyes start to close anew.
"Sorry to bother you," she said, "I'll let you sleep."
Her tone of voice had a hint of wanting, as if she'd hoped to engage in meaningful conversation with a random person like Jimmy on a 3:30 am bus ride. Perhaps Jimmy would've filled this need if he weren't so tired – she was cute and had a mysteriousness about her that intrigued him. But he just didn't have the energy.
When Jimmy awoke, the bus had parked at its Philadelphia destination. The seat beside him was empty. He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes and looked around for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found.
"Anyone sitting here?" She had bluish black hair tied neatly in a bun, and she stood in the aisle looking down at him from above, motioning toward the seat beside his.
"No, feel free."
"Thank you."
She sat and removed a blue and white notebook from the pocket of a gown-like jacket she wore well. Jimmy thought she looked very comfortable. She opened the notebook on her lap, pulled a fancy gold pen from another pocket, and started writing. The pen caught Jimmy's eye: its cap was shaped like a gold and red petalled flower, its alternately circular and pointed design seeming vaguely familiar to him. He thought of asking her about the pen, but instead just closed his eyes in the hopes of falling asleep.
"What's your purpose?" he heard her ask. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd sat down or whether he'd slept.
"Excuse me?"
"What's your purpose?"
Jimmy thought of commenting on the strangeness of her question, but found his mouth moving to answer her.
"I don't know. I like playing poker."
"Hmm, okay." She paused. "So your purpose is to play poker?"
Jimmy shrugged. "Sure, just livin' life, getting by. What about you?"
"I'm a facilitator."
"A what?"
"A facilitator."
"What's that mean?"
"It means I help people make things happen."
In spite of his curiosity, Jimmy was too tired to ask any further questions, and he let his eyes start to close anew.
"Sorry to bother you," she said, "I'll let you sleep."
Her tone of voice had a hint of wanting, as if she'd hoped to engage in meaningful conversation with a random person like Jimmy on a 3:30 am bus ride. Perhaps Jimmy would've filled this need if he weren't so tired – she was cute and had a mysteriousness about her that intrigued him. But he just didn't have the energy.
When Jimmy awoke, the bus had parked at its Philadelphia destination. The seat beside him was empty. He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes and looked around for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found.
It Didn't Matter (performed by Brian Kremer)
(I wrote this flash fiction in the form of a lyrical poem, and asked my friend Brian Kremer to set it to music and sing the words. The audio link below plays Brian's resulting work: a 2 minute, 18 second song! In addition to teaching the unique Kremer Voice Design curriculum he developed, Brian is a member of the Voice Faculty at University of the Arts in Philadelphia. Click here for his web site, here for his facebook page, and here for his twitter account. This flash fiction is better on the ears than the eyes, so be sure to use the audio link below and enjoy Brian's piano playing and voice.)
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
It was September that Fall
We were just watchin' tv
You didn't wanna be poor
Wanted the world and for free
Your tone of voice made me sore
Alone in my mentality
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
I stopped by at your house
After working all day
You didn't wanna go out
I told you I couldn't stay
I quit my job the next week
'cause you only wanted to play
It didn't matter at all
[No it didn't]
But it mattered to me
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
We were each part of a team
I just had to stay in line
You didn't wanna be seen
Together we were something divine
It fell apart at the seam
Crossed over that borderline
It didn't matter at all
[No it didn't now]
But it mattered to me
It didn't matter at all
[No no no no]
But it mattered to me
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
It was September that Fall
We were just watchin' tv
You didn't wanna be poor
Wanted the world and for free
Your tone of voice made me sore
Alone in my mentality
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
I stopped by at your house
After working all day
You didn't wanna go out
I told you I couldn't stay
I quit my job the next week
'cause you only wanted to play
It didn't matter at all
[No it didn't]
But it mattered to me
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
We were each part of a team
I just had to stay in line
You didn't wanna be seen
Together we were something divine
It fell apart at the seam
Crossed over that borderline
It didn't matter at all
[No it didn't now]
But it mattered to me
It didn't matter at all
[No no no no]
But it mattered to me
It didn't matter at all
But it mattered to me
The Bump Snob
The hot summer sun's rays bounced off the pavement, creating a sauna-like effect as Garret and Suki sauntered down 3rd Street, toward Market. Garret spaced out as Suki reminded him which of her friends they'd be meeting later that evening, and their conversation was about the same as any other they might've had when all of a sudden Suki startled him with a loud shriek.
"Woah, what?" Garret turned and saw Suki picking herself up off the ground, a small wheeled, high seated, uniformly sky blue painted bicycle on its side beside her. A youngish, unshaven man with long, wavy brown hair stood above her, apologizing profusely.
"What just happened?" Garret asked.
"Are you blind?" Suki barked at Garret. "Did you not just see this guy barrel into me on his bike?"
Garret looked at the apologizer, who stood with his hands up, palms out, shaking his head, now turning toward Garret, saying, "Bro, I'm so sorry, didn't even see you guys coming, the sun's so bright and I looked away for a moment-"
"Listen man," Garret said, cutting him short, "first of all, don't call me 'bro.' I don't even know you. Second of all, what's the matter with you?"
"Oh, man, nothing. I mean, I'm just really sorry."
Garret helped Suki to her feet. "You okay?" he asked.
"Sure, yes, I'm fine."
The biker emitted an audible sigh of relief, prompting Suki to turn toward him and glare. His look changed instantly to one of fear, clearly afraid of what she might say next.
She looked like she might explode. "What I want to know from you, Mr. Blind Biker Dude, is why in the world are you riding on the sidewalk? Especially up a small street like Church without a single car on it?"
Biker Dude shrugged. "Well, you know…."
Garret and Suki waited for him to continue, but he just stood there.
"No, we don't know!" Suki shouted. "Know what? Answer the question!"
"Well, the street's just so … bumpy." The guy looked down at Church Street's old stone and mortar surface.
"Bumpy? Are you kidding me? Dude, come on! Deal with it! It's a quiet street and a small one at that. Are you telling me you ride on the sidewalk right here because you don't like the uneven surface? What are you, some kind of bump snob or something?"
He shrugged again.
Garret shook his head, part of him wanting to berate the guy and part of him wanting to laugh. He decided to just get his girlfriend out of there. "Suki, forget this guy. The main thing is you're alright. Let's just go."
She shot Garret a disapproving look, but then began walking again toward Market, leaving the two men behind.
"Be more careful, man," Garret said as he went off to catch up with Suki.
"Sorry again, bro."
Garret looked back at the guy, over his shoulder. "Don't call me bro, bump snob!"
"Woah, what?" Garret turned and saw Suki picking herself up off the ground, a small wheeled, high seated, uniformly sky blue painted bicycle on its side beside her. A youngish, unshaven man with long, wavy brown hair stood above her, apologizing profusely.
"What just happened?" Garret asked.
"Are you blind?" Suki barked at Garret. "Did you not just see this guy barrel into me on his bike?"
Garret looked at the apologizer, who stood with his hands up, palms out, shaking his head, now turning toward Garret, saying, "Bro, I'm so sorry, didn't even see you guys coming, the sun's so bright and I looked away for a moment-"
"Listen man," Garret said, cutting him short, "first of all, don't call me 'bro.' I don't even know you. Second of all, what's the matter with you?"
"Oh, man, nothing. I mean, I'm just really sorry."
Garret helped Suki to her feet. "You okay?" he asked.
"Sure, yes, I'm fine."
The biker emitted an audible sigh of relief, prompting Suki to turn toward him and glare. His look changed instantly to one of fear, clearly afraid of what she might say next.
She looked like she might explode. "What I want to know from you, Mr. Blind Biker Dude, is why in the world are you riding on the sidewalk? Especially up a small street like Church without a single car on it?"
Biker Dude shrugged. "Well, you know…."
Garret and Suki waited for him to continue, but he just stood there.
"No, we don't know!" Suki shouted. "Know what? Answer the question!"
"Well, the street's just so … bumpy." The guy looked down at Church Street's old stone and mortar surface.
"Bumpy? Are you kidding me? Dude, come on! Deal with it! It's a quiet street and a small one at that. Are you telling me you ride on the sidewalk right here because you don't like the uneven surface? What are you, some kind of bump snob or something?"
He shrugged again.
Garret shook his head, part of him wanting to berate the guy and part of him wanting to laugh. He decided to just get his girlfriend out of there. "Suki, forget this guy. The main thing is you're alright. Let's just go."
She shot Garret a disapproving look, but then began walking again toward Market, leaving the two men behind.
"Be more careful, man," Garret said as he went off to catch up with Suki.
"Sorry again, bro."
Garret looked back at the guy, over his shoulder. "Don't call me bro, bump snob!"
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