Rico

It isn't until his third trip up to the counter, to add more cream to his empty coffee cup, that I notice his shoeless feet. Shoeless Joe Jackson, in the house.

He takes tiny sips of half and half from the coffee houses' ceramic mug, nourishing his clogged arteries. It's the perfect distraction I need to assist in my procrastinating. No matter what my imagination is giving me today, I have yet to put pen to paper. We're at a standstill me and my imagination, and Shoeless Joe Jackson is just another reminder of that; here he is, in front of me, and I can't find the words to share.

'Portly hispanic man wearing his best tube socks waits in corner coffee shop for lightning to strike'. That's the headline bubble I imagine over his head. He stands up a few times to stretch and look out the great window that allows us coffee shop-dwellers a glimpse of the outside world. The sound of traveling thunder drowns out Thelonius Monk, and I see Mr. Shoeless eyes' grow large at the first streak of lightning.

"Tut-tut, it looks like rain", I hear the sounds come out of my mouth

Shoeless turns and looks at me.

"That won't do me no good", he glares.

"Rico, you're mother called and she needs you to pick up her dry cleaning", the sound of Marie calling out from behind the counter.

"Dammit", my portly friend responds. He walks over to my tiny table, sets down his mug and gives me a wink,

"Take care of that for me, sweetie?" I nod my head 'yes' or 'sure' and compulsively wink back.

He heads towards the door, where my eyes finally rest on a pair of green men's galoshes. He slips his socked feet into the boots. His final departing cry,

"'Til the rains come tumbling down!"

liquid plummer

"It felt like a blockage.", the girl said.

"So how much did you add"

"I just kept adding and adding and adding, until I couldn't see straight anymore"

The girl draws in a deep breath. "It feels like I can't breathe"

She kicks off one of her shoes. It flies across the room, hitting her favorite antique lamp, the one of the geisha girl holding up a large umbrella/lampshade.

The girl drops the phone and runs into the next room, arms flailing, tears streaking down her face. The boy stares out the window, full moon mocking. "Are you still there?"

There is no vomit, only a purging of words and fists and fits, and she is outside herself and beside herself and clothes are coming off her body, until finally she collapses, naked on the bed, exhausted and undone.

new old

How stupid am I? My new birthday boots, heels even, in my excitement find themselves on my feet, bounding through piles of freshly dropped snow. They'll never make it to the bus stop and then...and then...a connecting bus even, even, even. He didn't buy them for me. I bought them for myself. He gave me a book. And a CD, that he'd like to borrow and burn, if that's alright. But now I'm 33 and I'm confused by this, why I would wreck something I love so much, and equally slowing myself down in the freshly dropped piles of snow. I stare at my reflection in the window, sure that there is a bruise, a blemish; some physical evidence of why I choose to be unhappy. My mind reels, and in fact my face stares back at me, taut and glowing, perfect, individual snowflakes in slow motion around me, dropping gently on my hood. Will my side ponytail hold up? No time to dwell...as the bus blows by; clearly I am unseen.

deb and keith

Room 2511, 11th floor, Renaissance, Schaumberg Hotel.

Lying in bed, red-wine boozy head sunken in plush pillows. Looking at the digital clock and wondering where my parents are. No ticking second hand to keep rhythm with my thoughts.

Leaving the dance floor at the bequest of my swollen feet; four hours of wedding reception dancing still flushing out the system. I think about my father's strong, gentle hands at the small of my equally small mother's back. Two people, one set of parents. Young couples melt into each other's private parts...eager to penetrate new flesh, swell around them. They are old and find each other with ease. Shadows brushing up against each other on wet streets.

In that small part of my mother's back my father remembers brownies left outside his dorm room door, babies pushed out of intimate places, and tickets to Peter, Paul, and Mary...standing outside the alley, smoking cigarettes behind the venue. He is young with her and has no image of that older man, lost to himself in the mirror of a quick shave this morning.

I hear their soft footsteps outside our room and wonder if they are aware of the curfew that has been broken. Should I pretend to sleep? Will they remember that their eldest sleeps less than a foot from their bed, one day ago in diapers between them? I am thirty-two and feel thirteen. What were they thinking making me worry?

My father enters first and sinks down on the bed. He looks at me in the dark and asks, "Did I tell you what movie we're watching next in our Netflix queue?" My mother tucks me in tighter and mumbles, "...so little". I listen to the faucet running, brushes brushing. Soft light from under the bathroom door.

My father rises, kisses me on the cheek, turns and kneels next to his bed. Head bowed; his final daily dance. (The humble act of thanksgiving and blessing and fatigue.) My body stills and finds comfort in the memory of prayer...and love.

the fall of the last good listener

The croissant flakes linger on her lips as she talks. I pick up a little spoon and stir my coffee, black with nothing in it, as a distraction. I'm trying to see the girl I once knew in the face in front of me, but something has changed. Her once bleach-blond hair, now a deep chestnut color, is the most obvious difference. Using her hands to sweep up the croissant crumbs from the table, I notice the small, gold band on her left ring finger, and feel a shiver of disappointment run through me when I realize that in the hour we have spent together, I have yet to hear about a man in her life.

A memory forms in front of me, of picking her up after school, watching her weave through the other teenagers with an unnatural confidence. Her mother would often ask me to pick her up on Fridays so that we could do something that would distract Kristina from getting into trouble downtown. It wasn't really in our 'Big Sister' contract to act as a distraction, but I got the drift.

"You still with Jamie?", she asks.

"seventeen years"

"Dang. That's longer than most"

I decide not to tell her about our large, lingering fight this morning.

"How about you? Anyone special in your life?"

She twists her delicate wrist and looks at her watch.

"I need to pick up Kiera at 2 from my mom's. I should probably get going"

"You want one more cup before you go?"

"No. But you wanna share a cigarette with me outside?"

We stand up simultaneously. I can feel the adrenaline run through me from the last time we shared a cigarette, under a tree in the pouring rain, the day I lost the baby.

She pulls out a crumpled pack of American Spirits and hands one to me. I light up first. Kristina puts hers in her mouth, leans towards my face and pushes it towards the tip of mine. We stand close, cigarettes touching, light burning.

"It would be nice to see you more often. It was really nice to catch up today", I say.

She looks at me blankly, tilts her eyes up to the sky.

"I've been on a lot more meds these days. But it's good. I feel calmer."

She takes a long, slow drag.

"It looks like rain. I think I left my windows rolled down. Better go. Thanks Mia!"

A low rumble echoes from the sky. The sun disappears and I can feel the heavy pitter patter of drops fall on my head.

Eve

Lying on my back, bare feet in metallic stirrups, I stare at the faded picture pinned to the ceiling: Redwood trees standing watch over a winding road.

How much time has passed? I can hear a clock ticking somewhere and wonder whether it is my own watch, thought to be broken, buried somewhere in the depths of my purse.
Forgive me Father, for it has been approximately 1200 years since my last physical. I have had many sexual partners in that time. My periods are regular, heavy, with a good amount of cramping. I am acutely aware of a small lump in my right breast. It swells in small spasms, the timing of which I have yet to figure out. I wonder if I let it grow: will it push all of the old breast tissue out of the way or will it encompass it; ocean waves or rising tide?

Adam was the one who found this clinic: Family Tree. He turned on his computer and rode the Internet wave; no big feat considering the time he puts on that machine. I am staring at the picture of the Redwoods and remembering Adam on the winding road, naked as a boy, holding my hand. No computers and no ticking clocks.

The door opens slowly. I can hear the person on the other side looking at the chart the nurse has hung on the wall by my room:
Age:
Height: 5’2
Weight: a solid 130 lbs.
Family History:

The door continues to creep open and I pull myself slowly out of the Redwood forest.
The footsteps that come into the
room are too soft to be that of an adult.

“Ms. Wa…eea…ahhh.mm?” the female voice asks cautiously, as if she were sounding out the name in Cyrillic.

“Present”, I respond without thinking
She stares at my chart. Pushing her stylish glasses back up her nose and delicately putting her bobbed hair behind one of her ears, she assumes the position of the diminished professional. I shuffle around on the waxy paper, to remind her of the fact that my feet are up in the air and I’m already way past the point of introductions.

“Yes, I’m wondering why you left both the age and family history sections blank on your paperwork?” she pulls her eyes up from the clipboard and looks at me (or rather looks down). I can tell from her pink nose and cheeks, the icy Wintergreen breath, that she was the woman in the green parka I saw on my way in, smoking a cigarette behind the burning bush.

“Were you adopted?” she gently pulls the words out of her mouth, as if she knows exactly that I saw her smoking and we’re about to trade secrets.

My eyes try to soften back on the Redwood forest. The picture appears smaller to me now. I am aware of its flat existence amidst the sea of styrofoam squares. I can clearly see the yellowing edges and the crinkle near one of the pushpins. I can see the young doctor, after hours, afraid to return to her empty, cold 600 sq. foot apartment, coming into the room laying on the bed and firing up one of her Marlboro lights, drifting off to the coast of California.

“My family history is complicated. Do you know of the Sarmatian women, descendents of the Scythians and Amazons: warriors of the Far East?”
Our eyes lock, finally, and I can feel the lump in my right breast begin to throb. The snapping and simultaneous ripping of her pink, plastic gloves breaks the cloaked silence.
“Damn. They don’t make them like they used to” she whispers.

Malcolm meet Maureen

"Did you know that our noses continue to grow as we get older?", Malcolm asks the pretty girl, wiping ketchup from her pouty lips.

"I think you're lying", she smirks.

"No...it's..."

"I'm kidding" she says, "I was making a reference to Pinocchio."

Malcolm looks at the burger on his plate, the lettuce wilting out the side. He just can't eat around pretty girls.

"You going to eat that?" Maureen asks. That's her name, Maureen, he has forgotten it, but suddenly it comes back to him. "Cause if you're not, could I have it"

He pushes his plate over towards her side of the table. Maureen lifts the bun and takes out the large slab of grade-D meat. She folds it carefully in her napkin and puts it in her purse. The purse that is large enough to potentially be carrying an entire litter of puppies.

Malcolm tries to find something else to say to fill up the awkward silence as Maureen rummages in her purse for god only knows what, but he gives up. He is no good at small talk, as is evidenced by his 'nose' trivial pursuit fact above.

What fifteen year old girl has a purse the size of the Titanic? A backpack he could understand, but a purse?

"I fink I...go ome ow", Maureen mumbles from inside the purse

"Excuse me?" I say, a bit too loudly.

Maureen pulls her small ostrich like head from the interior of her purse, "I'd like to go home now", she says as she applies deep, ruby red lipstick to her small, puffy lips.

My eyes began to water, and to stop the tears from spilling down my cheeks, I roughly rub my hands over the tops of my thighs and concentrate on finding our waitress.
'What is wrong with me?', I think as Maureen shoves her short gymnast arms through the sleeves of her nylon coat. It has taken me three years to get up the nerve to ask a girl out on a date and in that time period I haven't considered for one minute what we might talk about. I just haven't visualized talking.

Maureen pops a piece of gum in her mouth and looks at me, or I should say, she looks just a little past me, "This was fun"

I stare at her. Look right at her. Look at her sparkling eyes and small, flowery mouth. Look at her perky hair, held tight and up high on her head in a ponytail. Think about who she will call first when she gets home; where she will ask them to meet her, stealing herself out of the house again, pretending to still be out on a date with me. Our eyes meet and I force a small smile. I know something she does not.

I know that in twenty-five years I will watch Maureen, chest rising and falling, arms grabbing at the majority of our comforter. She will sleep with her mouth open, her hair still held tight on her head in a pony tail. The gymnast arms long gone; I will enjoy pressing my face into the soft flesh now at the crease of her elbow. Pressing my aging body against her small back, I will think about the smells of that old diner and the conversation we never got to have.