Freshly Squeezed Orange Juice

He descends down the stairwell like a dumbwaiter down its chute. Having taken rest in his small box of a hotel room, the bed barely fitting within its walls, he’s thirsty and eager to explore.

People speaking on cellular phones make faces. On bicycles they grimace. On the tram they smile. Expressionless while walking.

The man moves without any sense of direction, observing everyone and everything he sees. Individuals draw him toward their space: musicians to their sound, merchants to their wares, beggars to their cups.

A boat floats beneath crooked buildings:

His thirst reaching unbearable levels, he chooses a random shop. A quick peek at the menu. “Orange juice, please.”

A barista nods and turns around and makes it fresh on a small machine. He gulps it all down without stopping for breath, pays and goes on his way.

For a while all he notices are Asian and Argentine restaurants:

A man approaches him with arm extended. “Excuse me, are you on facebook?” he asks.

“Excuse me?”

“No, excuse me, please, are you on facebook?”

“Do you mean right now?”

“Ha ha, very funny,” the man hands him a card, “please ‘like’ our page when you have time.”

He accepts the card and continues roaming the streets. They have everything here, he thinks. Every culture, every virtue, every vice. Some of it’s free, some of it’s for sale, but it’s all here and available.  We can take it or leave it.

NOLA to Philly (on Pure Slush)

(Pure Slush, one of my favorite flash fiction publications in print and online, accepted my story NOLA to Philly as part of this month’s cities theme.  Thanks to esteemed writer / editor Matt Potter for the passion he pours into working with writers around the world.  NOLA to Philly is this week’s micro story; to read it please click here.)

A Friendship

We lived on the same city block.  You had an air hockey table and HBO and we always stayed up late at your house.  I would invite you when my mother made pasta and we ate until our bellies looked like they might pop.

We worked hard at our pursuits.  You got the lead in the school play and everyone agreed you stole the show.  I played basketball and guarded the other team’s best player all season long.

We drifted apart.  You saw every good band at the Mann over the summer.  I took SEPTA to the Vet and bought Phillies tickets for seven bucks a piece.

We changed our minds countless times.  You wanted to be a performer, then a restaurateur, then a playwright.  I wanted to be an investment banker without knowing what that meant, then a social worker, then a psychologist.

We came to desire familiarity.  You met a girl and convinced her to join you in your move back to Philly, where you became a teacher.  I went to Temple and continued living in my college apartment a few years following graduation, working for Aramark.

We reconnected and now our toddlers play together.  Your son constantly tries to hug and kiss my daughter, sometimes knocks her over.  My daughter likes to bring your son food, even when he’s not hungry.