Stories by Balthazar

A Story Written to “Time” by Pink Floyd

He wakes up with a ringing in his head. Lying in the sunshine, his five o’clock shadow stings his hand as he rubs his face. Last night he was clean-shaven. With eyes bloodshot and glazed, he manages his way from the bedroom to the bathroom to the kitchen in all of seven minutes. That’s a new record after the night he endured.

The phone rings. “What’re you doing today?”

He grunts in response not having an answer. He’ll end up wandering the neighborhood again, kicking some rusty can around for miles.

“Answer me.”

He says some lie into the receiver.

“Every damn ti—?” He hangs up.

He has nothing productive to do today, like yesterday. There’s nothing to eat in his fridge.

In the bathroom, the hot water refuses to leave the faucet of the tub. He shivers himself clean.

Every day feels longer and every night feels shorter. His friends say he’s depressed; he always coughs in response and, while flashing a smile, tells them it’s just mono. He’s proud of the way he comes off to them. They continually call him to come out every night around eleven and all he has to do is get drunk and make an ass of himself; the best part is that only one of those requires alcohol.

In a daze, he leaves the apartment, not locking the door with the keys he doesn’t have.

—-

He walks around with death on his mind. He’s not afraid of the reaper, but he’s surely in no rush to meet the big scythe-man himself. For some reason, there’s a spring to his step and he’s smiling. Rain starts dropping. He doesn’t want to stay home today and watch the windows sweat.

His worn out pair of Chuck’s are fun to run in. With the soles almost down to his bare feet, he slides along the cars and bikes in the street. There’s no reason he shouldn’t have some fun today: he isn’t late for work and he’s getting hammered tonight, what’s not to be happy about?

—-

Relatively, the day’s died. He, however, is visibly dying. Coughing is overtaking his normal conversation at the bar. With a tonic in hand, he sits there and thinks he’s at home. The alcohol hasn’t taken the full effect as expected.

“Want another drink, Dave?”

He looks up and coughs hard into his hand, which is now reddened and wet.

“Dave? What’s the matter?”

He laughs and falls down, thinking he’d had something more to say.

An Hour

“Can I please take a quick breather”

“Sure, but the guards’ll—“

“Thanks.”

Sam left the musty room in which she had been imprisoned for the past half hour. She was out in the bright, green hallway, looking for the exit to the roof. That was the only place she could clear her mind because the higher altitude made the oxygen concentrate more on her brain than her eyes, and shifted her focus from what she could see to her thoughts, most of which still plagued her mind day and night.

Two men in scrubs walked briskly behind her in order to keep her from inflicting harm on anything or anyone. She hadn’t been completely alone in such a long time that loneliness now seemed more a reward than a punishment. She couldn’t even sleep alone; damn Abhula was always incessantly screeching in a Middle Eastern tongue that never made Sam feel better.

“Could you lee’me alone for just a few minutes, guys? I’m not gonna go jumping off the building, and I can’t murder anyone from up here. I know it’s your job, but please please please wait inside for a few?”

“We can’t, sorry.”

“Then we might as well get the hell back in that shitty room.”

As Sam trudged back the way she came, she focused on the last five minutes in Dr. Palmer’s office. He had asked her the unimportant, by-the-books psychiatrist questions: How are you feeling today? And how does that make you feel? Why did you kill your father? She had hoped her responses made him frustrated and irritated: Fan-fucking-tastic. Hungry. What kinda bullshit questions are these? After a sigh from the man in the lab coat, she had asked him for a break.

“How is it outside, Sam?” Dr. Palmer asked. He was an attractive, late-thirties to early forties man, with prescription horn-rimmed glasses and a boyish but workable five o’clock shadow. Although it looked as if he had been crying, Dr. Palmer had wet his face for the first time today while Sam took her walk; he needed to wake up and get himself into the mood to crack the strongest-shelled nut that was Samantha A. Dawson’s psyche.

“It woulda been nicer if it weren’t as crowded,” she replied, throwing a scowl at the men in white beyond the door.

“You know it’s policy; you’re no exception.”

“How much longer do I have before I can leave?” She was lying on the lounge, drumming her fingers on the wood framing.

“Until I feel like you’ve begun to make some progress,” the doctor said. As much as he was intimidated by Sam’s case, he was doubly intrigued by it. Dr. Palmer, having not seen everything but most of it, was prepared to make Sam talk if it meant not moving or eating for the next couple of hours. Sam lied there lifelessly; instead of studying her mind, Dr. Palmer began to study her body. She had bright, fierce green eyes and tiny pupils, trying to absorb as little light as she could. Her eyes were sunken in, and bags heavy with countless sleepless nights underscored them. Other than her hurt eyes, however, she was a pretty girl. Her body was attractive, but no man would ever touch it: her psyche had her nineteen-year-old virginity under lock and key. He began to feel the desire to unlock her, although his mind told him not to.

“Why’re you staring at me?” she spat at him.

“If I can’t study your mind, I might as well study your body and deduce what’s happened and how you’ve reacted to it.”

“That’s pretty fucked,” she answered. “But, hm, what’ve you got?” Her interest intrigued and further attracted him. His professors in medical school should have taught him how to ignore base human attraction.

“You don’t sleep, and you hate bright lights. You’re an attractive woman, but you have no interest in men because of your thoughts,” the doctor said as if she should have known.

Sam was no dumb woman, but she was still astonished at how a psychiatrist had figured out things like that only by looking at her body.  “How’d you—“

“Are you ready to talk? At least a little bit?”

“…I don’t know where to start…?”

“Start where you feel is most appropriate?” the doctor tried hopefully.

Sam did not respond as quickly this time, trying to figure out how and where the moment in time that led her to be in Dr. Palmer’s office was. She didn’t want to be the one to start the legitimate conversation she knew he was being paid to have with her. Rather than to give him the control of this appointment, she batted her eyes and asked, “How does Mrs. Doctor Palmer feel about you checkin’ out young women?”

Dr. Palmer hadn’t expected a sudden shift from hostility to flirting. As much as a man can study about the female mind, there will never be enough written to adequately explain it. He didn’t have a wife, but Sam didn’t have to know that.

“She understands it’s a part of the job,” he responded, playing his patient’s game.

“But what if a pretty young girl just waltzed right in here one day and wasn’t sick at all? What if she was just really…into men who could really get inside a woman’s head?”

Dr. Palmer began to wonder if he were more a man or doctor. He quickly chose doctor for the time being; his male side wasn’t the one being paid at the moment. “This isn’t helping us get anywhere,” he said. He dabbed his brow with his coat sleeve.

Sam could tell she struck him; she decided to take a change of pace and throw him a bone. “Fine. What was your question again?”

“’What moment—do you think—led to you being in my office today.’”

“Nine-eleven, I guess.” She didn’t want to give him the whole skeleton.

“And how’d that affect you, personally?” The doctor knew how, of course, but he was going to get her to say it out loud.

“My dad worked in that area when they fell.” Her voice trembled like the dying leaves on a branch in the slightest of breezes. Her eyes were misty, and she sniffed a bit, attempting to maintain composure.

The doctor noted quietly that this was the first time Sam showed an emotion besides a hatred for being in his office. Dr. Palmer put a box of tissues on the table next to the lounge on which Sam was lying. She took one, gently dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, and was fine again. He asked her, “How did you find out if he was alright?”

“Why does that fuckin’ matter?” she answered. “They sent me home from school to be with my mom just in case he wasn’t. But he walked in later, just dirty. I don’t see how that helps.”

“You don’t have to,” he spat back. Why was she so difficult? But he loved it: the challenge, the hunt, the chase—whatever you’d like to call it.

“That’s some attitude you got with your patient,” Sam said before he could continue probing her.

“Excuse me,” he said and got up for the bathroom.

Sam patiently waited on the lounge. She kicked her shoes off to make Palmer think that he had actually started to make her feel comfortable, or maybe to invoke some foot fetish to further distract him from figuring her out. She loved being the interviewee in his office while she was the one who had already deduced everything about him: he wanted it, but knew he shouldn’t, but nevertheless continued to straddle the line between professional and sexual—or maybe romantic. She took off her scrunchie.

Dr. Palmer returned, using his coat to clean the smudges off his glasses. The tips of his short bangs were wet, and Sam faintly liked how he looked without his glasses. Soon enough, though, they were back on and their conversation resumed.

“So he hadn’t been injured?” the doctor asked determinedly.

“Well look who ain’t here to fuck ‘round anymore. And no.”

Dr. Palmer ignored her. “Was he any different?”

“That’s specific, Doc,” she retorted. “Uh, he was, I guess. He seemed more spaced out and less focused.” She liked him enough to be truthful without divulging everything.

The doctor sighed. “Less focused on what? Your family?”

She saw that he was getting tired of the bullshit he was being fed. Sam started to fear that she might lose him if she kept up with it. She cracked her knuckles and said, “Yeah, kinda. Like he was very uh…distraught the next few days after, but then never stopped. It was like he was just there, not as a dad or husband anymore—just breathin’.” Sam remembered how he kissed her forehead the night before the attacks, how he kissed her again leaving for work, but then never again. Tears were beginning in her eyes again. Her upper lip trembled and her hands were shaking. A light sweat started on her forehead. Sam lied down and closed her eyes, just for a minute. She didn’t want to lose it in front of this guy, no matter how much he was getting out of her.

“Do you want to continue?” Dr. Palmer asked, almost whispered. She didn’t say much about how she had killed her dad, but it nonetheless seemed painful just to say he stopped being a father and a husband.

Sam sat up for a moment to hesitate, but then lied back down: “I really don’t.” Both of the office’s occupants were shocked at her answer: ironically, doctor and patient alike had expected a smartass retort.

“Okay. Well, we will have to talk about it at some point. Next week, same time and place?” Dr. Palmer was disappointed, but wouldn’t mind at all to see her for another hour next Friday.

“I’m tired of fuckin’ doing this,” she answered.

“Then talk.”

“About?” Sam turned her head and faced him.

Those eyes made his blood turn to ice. “Can I be direct with you?”

“Does it matter if I even say yes?” What a firebrand.

“Why’d you stab your dad?” He felt like an asshole just saying it. Here was this young girl, all screwed up from killing her dad while only defending herself, and he just couldn’t stop prodding at her mind. If he went too far, he was sure that she wouldn’t be interested in him as much as he was in her.

“You’re an asshole,” Sam said, glaring at him.

He didn’t know how to continue. “Um, I—uh, I’m sorry.”

“Fuck it,” she said. “We got into a fight one night that went ugly. Good enough?”

“Nope, more please.” Dr. Palmer mentally cursed at himself.

“What kind of goddamn shrink are you?”

“One that gets results.” Don’t forget lonely.

“And here I was, thinkin’ you had a cute little fourth-grade crush on me.”

She was smarter and more perceptive than he had given her credit for. “You’re my patient—we have a professional relationship only.”

This time Sam sighed. She calmed down and lied back down. “If I talk now, do I have to come back?”

“Depends how much we get accomplished tonight.”

“I really don’t want to do this.”

Dr. Palmer did not reply.

“He was pissed off at me for breakin’ his mug while I was washin’ it in the sink, so he smacked me. I shoved him back, and—“ Her eyes were shining again. “Do I really have t-to?”

Dr. Palmer nodded. He felt the ball in his throat, and knew he would have to calm himself down. He couldn’t see her like this for much longer.

A tear fell and he knew a cascade would follow. “He p-pushed me back, harder. As I f-fell, I grabbed a drawer to c-catch myself and a ton of u-utensils went flying. He  g-got on top of me to hit m-me, b-but I s-stabbed him w-with a knife, and h-he j-just collapsed.”

Dr. Palmer got up and sat next to her on the lounge, holding her as she cried. Her sobs shook him to the core as he thought about where he would take her to dinner.

Jamie’s Crying

Thunder woke Jamie up for school. She had trouble sleeping last night and wished that it were Mommy who had roused her instead of the crashing weather. Soon enough, though, Jamie’s mom walked into her room silently, save for the gentle hissing creak the door always made. Jamie shut her eyes and pretended to sleep as she clutched Floofy, hoping that she wouldn’t have to go in today.

“Jamie, sweetie? It’s time to get up and get ready for school,” her mom’s voice lulled. Jamie’s mom always thought her daughter shouldn’t have to go to school after having bad sleep nights, but Jamie was already absent too much this year that she had to go into school or else she’d be forced to redo her grade next year.

“Already?” yawned Jamie. Her pajamas had Justin Bieber’s face and name in random patterns on the pants and top.

“I’m sorry, baby, but yeah. You already knew you couldn’t stay home anymore, even with bad nights of sleep.”

“Hmm…” Jamie wanted to milk lying in her comfortable bed with Floofy and Mommy nearby as much as she could before she had to go through another day.

“C’mon downstairs; I made your favorite breakfast—Belgian waffles!”

Jamie then could smell the waffle maker’s contents and almost tasted the syrup and buttermilk and freshly squeezed orange juice: “Oh yes!”

Half an hour later, Jamie was putting on her rain boots and jacket with a fully sated stomach and a new bow in her auburn hair.

“Honey, if you wear that jacket you have to take an umbrella. Denim takes too long to dry and I know you love wearing that jacket every day.”

“But I hate using umbrellas!” answered Jamie. “They’re so big and bulky!”

“I know, love, I know. But Daddy didn’t take one to work and now you can imagine he’s all soaked and smells like wet dogs and is all cold at his office,” tried her mom, attempting to make Jamie smile for once not using Belgian waffles.

“But Dad’s always smelling weird—“ The look on her mother’s face made Jamie cease talking instantly.

“Then at least wear your slicker then,” said her mom, suddenly sternly. “But you gotta go catch the bus before it leaves because I gotta start cleaning everything and that’ll take all day.”

“…Okay.” Jamie hated it when her mother became stiff after talking about her father. She put on the slicker quickly to please her mother.

Jamie’s mom kissed her girl’s cheek and forehead and said the usual “I love you have a good day” and Jamie got on the bus outside their house.

When Jamie got to school, she took her poncho off and stuffed it into her cubby. Random drawings, pencils, pens, and papers cluttered the tiny cube, which Jamie was supposed to keep clean, but she hated keeping it tidy. She kept her jacket on like she always did and went to her desk.

She talked to Sammie for a little bit and then Trey came over asking the two if they played Pokémon.

“Only boys play Pokémon,” Sammie said with a sneer.

“Ew, boys and their stupid Pokémon,” Jamie affirmed, sticking out her tongue.

“Pokémon is not stupid,” Trey spat at the girls. “Your pink dress and bow and jacket are stupid! Do you ever even take that jacket off?” Trey pushed Jamie and she yelped like a terrier yelps after you step on its paw accidentally. Trey scurried away quickly to his friends.

Mrs. Garner came over to Sammie and Jamie after hearing the yelp. She saw Jamie rubbing her shoulder.

“Are you okay, Jamie?” asked the teacher.

“Y-yeah, Mrs. Garner, I’m fine, it’s just sore,” Jamie replied quickly, maybe too quickly.

“Can I see your shoulder then just to be sure?”

Hesitantly, Jamie removed her denim jacket and Mrs. Garner gasped.

“I’m calling your mother and we’re going to all discuss this.” After she heard Mrs. Garner’s footsteps walk swiftly down the hallway, Jamie’s heart sunk and she began to sweat profusely. Jamie left after Mrs. Garner and walked into her room and caught Mrs. Garner hanging up the phone. “Your mom’ll be here soon, sweetheart,” she said, “and then we’ll figure this out.”

Within the hour, Jamie, Mommy, and Mrs. Garner were all in the teacher’s office. Mommy was sipping on some coffee after coming in from the storm. Her umbrella was in a bucket next to the garbage pail by the doorway.

“What’s the problem, Mrs. Garner?” asked Mommy. “You sounded so urgent on the phone before that I just dropped the broom and left. Is Jamie in trouble?”

“No,” answered Mrs. Garner. She had not been in this position before, and although she had studied how to deal with this type of situation, true knowledge only came once you practiced what you originally read. Mrs. Garner decided to be direct rather than beat around the bush. “About an hour ago Jamie let out a little scream and I found her rubbing her shoulder area—“

Jamie saw that look she witnessed this morning when she talked about how Daddy always smelled funny. Apparently this look stopped Mrs. Garner in her tracks just as it did Jamie. Outside, lightning struck close by.

“Are you trying to insinuate something, Mrs. Garner?” Mommy looked mad.

“Nothing about you, Mrs. Klein. I know it’s usually the men who cause the problems. I’m only here to help be an arbit—“

“My husband, Mrs. Garner, is a well-put-together man who works hard for his family. He’s not perfect, but he’s good to us and we accept him for who he is, including all of his faults and imperfections.” Mommy was getting red in the face and looked a bit crazy. Jamie knew this conversation was over.

“Mrs. Klein, please just hear me out and listen to your options,” begged Mrs. Garner.

“You’re right: we do have options,” replied Jamie’s mother. “Let’s go, Jamie.”

“But Mom it’ll be another bad night again and maybe Mrs. Garner could—“

“We’ll worry about that when it happens. Right now we needa find you a less invasive school.” Mrs. Klein scowled at Jamie’s teacher. Jamie began to cry as her mother pulled her from the school, back into the storm with nothing to protect either of them from the rain.

A Friday Evening Out

I had been working at Furey, Corley, and Doyle for a few months before she started her job as one of Mr. Corley’s many clerks. I was the assistant to the assistant of Mr. Doyle and did about the same kind of work that a clerk did, but tenfold the amount. I had been a clerk before being the assistant to the assistant of Mr. Doyle and I knew to what extent a shitty job it was, yet you have to start somewhere.

Her hair was a light auburn, contrasting beautifully with her piercing blue eyes. She wore her skin palely, flushed face, arms, and legs. Scarlet Flynn was as Irish as they came, even complete with a slight accent on her soft vowels and Rs. Her dress, although seldom plain, was intriguing in that she wore bright colors that clashed with her hair and eyes as if to draw attention away from them, rather than the same old dark and light browns and greys to bring out her lovely features. Sometimes I would nonchalantly pass by her desk to take a quick smell of her perfume—most often smelling like apples. Normally I am not a man to swoon over a woman like this, but her beauty only complemented her personality.

“Heya, welcome to the firm! I work right down the hall, next to Mr. Doyle’s assistant’s office. If you need anything, just let me know. I hope you have a great first day!”

“Your name would be a nice start, haha,” she replied with a flutter of eyelashes.

“Oh—haha, sorry. Jim Harper; pleasure to meet you Miss…?”

“Scarlet Flynn.” The name carried a chorus of beautiful melodies with it. “And I could actually use you…where’s the best deli around here? I’m in the mood for some melted Muenster and chicken breast.” I’m in the mood for some you, I wanted to respond but kept the thought behind my filter.

I told her about the magnificent deli an avenue from the firm. As I embellished the ins and outs of their best sandwiches, I noticed how her pupils dilated and never left mine. She seemed to truly be interested in my small talk soapbox applause for the deli’s sandwiches. What sealed the deal for me was her answer after I finished at last about the spectacular meatball parm.

“You’ve changed my mind about the Muenster and chicken combo; I just have to try the Swiss with salami now. Do you have the same lunch hour as me?”

I did, but I couldn’t keep this awesome version of myself going. I told her that I did, but that I had an extra amount of work this week because of a new, high profile case that came to the firm yesterday.

“Rain check?” she proposed with a flash of her straight pearly whites.

“Definitely. Enjoy your Swiss and salami!” Could I be more awkward?

————————————————————

I woke up the next morning to Lit’s “My Own Worst Enemy” playing on 101.9 FM. The guitar burst through the speakers and I jumped out of bed ready to tackle the day’s work ahead of me, and possibly even further my situation with Scarlet. I showered quickly, scrubbing my hair and body in an attempt to dismiss my shyness and partly my affection for her, which created said shyness.

What no one ever realizes is that the initial attraction a guy—in this case a “nice” guy—gets for a girl is what inherently creates his inability to talk and flirt with her. Yet there are assholes who consider themselves to be “the shit” and therefore don’t experience this inability to socialize and eventually sleep with a girl. This is exactly why nice girls like assholes. But it’s obvious that Scarlet is at least somewhat attracted to me; therefore, I have to develop some assholeness about my manners, at least for the time being.

The walk to the train was nice that morning: the sun was finally beginning to show its face after the past three snow-drenched months. As I walked to the L with my hair blowing in the light breeze, I felt the sun’s heat on my neck and it made me feel good. I felt as though I were Superman absorbing the sun’s rays in order to have flight and have super-strength. But rather than super heroic abilities such as those, a confidence that seemed to sprout from nowhere but the sun itself overtook my mind, and I decided that at lunch today—which I would be sharing with Scarlet—I would ask her out for a drink tomorrow night. It would be Friday and she liked me; I couldn’t see any reason why she would say no.

On the train, I caught an attractive woman smiling at me. She quickly turned her head away and down to her iPod, but I could tell she kept trying to sneak glances at me. We didn’t utter a word to each other, but she boosted my new found confidence up a notch.

As I walked down the block after exiting the train at Eighth Avenue, I noticed Scarlet with a man outside our firm’s entrance. They seemed to be arguing because he was making outrageous, gratuitous hand gestures as her face became redder than a tomato. I slowed my pace to continue observing, but as soon as I slowed down, Scarlet turned away from him and entered the building; the man huffed and puffed his way down the street and bumped into my shoulder.

“Watch the fuck out!” It appeared that Scarlet already had plenty of experience with the asshole race of guys.

What struck me as odd about the man was that it seemed he was only dressed to argue with Scarlet on the way to work. He was wearing a beaten leather jacket with a hoodie underneath it, tight and likely pre-ripped jeans, and army boots. A passing inhale told me that he didn’t shower this morning either.

I entered my firm’s building and took the elevator to the fifth floor. Walking out of it into the office, I stumbled blindly into Scarlet as I was attempting to untangle my earbuds and iPod from my head.

“Oops, I’m sorry,” I said, apologizing for both my clumsiness and her argument with the asshole at the same time.

“It’s okay,” she sniffed and giggled a little right after I hit her from behind. “How was your commute?”

“One of the best I’ve had in a while.” I replied. “And how about your morning?” I knew how it was: shit, but I will be the shoulder for her to cry and lean on.

“It was unpleasant to say the least.” Her eyes were still red and watery and she was swallowing abnormally often.

“Well if you need anything or just wanna talk and vent for a bit, I’m here,” I smiled. “Lunch today? I believe I have a rain check to take you up on.”

Although we didn’t know each other too well and this is a premier weird thing to say to a new acquaintance, it was also the premier opportunity to lift her spirits up and therefore make us both happy by possibly starting something.

She laughed a little more and hit my chest playfully as if to say “oh, you.” “You do have to join me for lunch. Shall we meet here at a quarter after twelve? And thanks for the offer; I might take you up on it.”

“Sure thing! And no problem, anytime,” I said with another smile, which she returned just as quickly.

The rest of the morning passed quickly yet dazedly. I was feeling great; although Scarlet was down about that man whom I assumed was her boyfriend, I would hopefully cheer her up at lunch and tomorrow night at a nice bar I know on Hudson Street.

Twelve-fifteen arrived, and I set out for the elevator. Everything I needed to do for the day was already finished, and I just wanted to have a nice lunch with Scarlet: preferably one where I get more than just my foot in the door with her.

When I saw her I asked, “Do you want a quick sandwich or would you prefer lunch lunch?”

“What’d you have in mind?”

I took her up to a nice little pizza/Italian joint on ninth and twenty-fourth. On the way there, I spied a lonely bluebird on a tree outside an apartment complex in the area. The bird chirped at me as we passed it, as if to give me a salute and “good luck.”

Lunch was nice, outside of the fact that this was when Scarlet chose to open up about what happened between her and her ex, apparently named Jimmy, which we both found to be ironic since he and I were “polar opposites” according to Scarlet.

The situation from Scarlet’s perspective—probably the right point of view—was that Jimmy slept with some girl after he played some club in Brooklyn. Yet he said his excursion from their relationship was meaningless and that he loved Scarlet and only Scarlet. She told me that this was what he was trying to convince her of this morning before she walked into Furey.

I didn’t know what to say to most of her story: I repeated “yeah” and “uh-huh” and nodded often between mouthfuls of my Marguerite personal pie. At one point when she looked as if she were about to cry, I put my hand on hers and squeezed it. After I did this, she collected herself quickly and blushed. I took my hand away to take a drink of water and she kept hers where it was.

“Well did you love him like he said he loved you?”

“No,” she began hesitantly. “I just felt like there was the possibility that one day I could love him. But after what he pulled—or rather pushed with that bitch, I can’t imagine even smiling at Jimmy again.”

I was glad that this Jimmy was out of the picture so that I could finally go out on a legitimate date with Scarlet. We sat quietly for the following few minutes, and then began talking about work at Furey, our origins, and how tasty the pizza was. I felt like I was losing her with this awkward small talk and asked her if we could go out for a drink some other time, hopefully under happier circumstances.

“Of course! I completely understand: this isn’t the most date-y atmosphere is it? And I’m free tomorrow night—that good for you?”

“Haha, that’s exactly what I was gonna suggest. Meet at seven at ninth and fourteenth? I know a nice little bar a few blocks from there…”

“Sounds perfect.” She shined the huge smile I had been hoping to create all day.

I put the money for the meal on the table and we left. There were still another few hours before the end of the workday, but I didn’t care; I was ecstatic, and the exhaustion I felt was not strong enough to overcome my happiness.

————————————————————

The following morning and afternoon both passed uneventfully. Scarlet and I spoke a few times, but not about anything major; but she did look better, though. Because of her happier outlook, I promised myself not to mention or ask anything about how she was feeling with the Jimmy situation.

The day passed painfully slow, just as time always passes slowly before any event you are looking forward to attending. I had a ton of extra work because one of my colleagues and Mr. Doyle’s other assistants was on vacation in Maui for his honeymoon. I skipped lunch that Friday and eventually finished everything before quitting time. I asked Mr. Doyle—who loathes personal problems of his employees—if I could leave early because of gastric and intestinal problems, and he quickly dismissed me with a groan of disgust and a sickly look upon his wrinkly face.

The day wasn’t shaping up to promise a good evening but I stayed optimistic about it. I passed Scarlet’s desk on the way out to say bye.

“See ya later, Red,” I said with a wink. She blushed, giggled, and then waved in reply.

————————————————————

That night I wore a dark blue pair of jeans, new Clark’s desert boots, a light grey plaid shirt, a black sports jacket that I never wear, and my pea coat. Cleanly shaven, I went to meet Scarlet.

After exiting the subway, I sped up my pace in fear of being late. But when the corner of ninth and fourteenth came into view and I saw she wasn’t there, I slowed down and breathed a sigh of relief. I waited in the cold with the wind whipping my smooth face and saw her walking up fourteenth. She was wearing a bright green pea coat, black heels, and medium-sized hoop earrings. Her dress appeared to have a frilly skirt and matched her shoes. Even from yards away she struck me speechless.

“Hi there,” she said sweetly. She smelled of those wonderful apples and her lips glistened with gloss in the streetlight. I wondered how those lips tasted.

“Hey,” I said and gave her a quick hug. “Ready to go?”

She nodded and we began our journey to my “nice” bar. I felt she was a bit overdressed for a bar, but I didn’t care and I’m sure she didn’t either because we were both just looking to have a fun night after an arduous week.

We talked about nothing at all, but I enjoyed every minute of it. She was smiling and laughing and hitting me playfully. After ten minutes of bliss, we arrived at the bar.

After we were settled in at a dark booth off to the side, I ordered us both a beer while Scarlet put some Zeppelin on the jukebox. She came back and took a few big gulps of her Corona; I didn’t blame her after the tumultuous past three days she’d had.

Midway through her second beer and Jimmy page’s solo in “Ten Years Gone,” the door was violently thrown open by some drunks looking to get drunker. One of them was wearing a shitty pair of jeans and a raggedy leather jacket.

“Shit” was the only word that left Scarlet’s mouth.

“Scar? Is th-that you…?” Jimmy asked, half-sobering almost immediately. He had a girl in each arm; I don’t think he came to get back together with Scarlet, but that’s what it looked like he was trying to do now.

“Jimmy, just leave us alone. You’ve obviously got your hands full again—“

I started, “Let’s try not—“

“I wasn’t finished, Harper…you’ve got your hands full anyway so just get a long.”

“But I just wanted to introduce myself to your new dog who looks kinda familiar. Wanna play a game of pool, bud?” Jimmy suggested.

Scarlet began, “Jim, let’s just go somewhere else and forget about this jerk. He won’t ruin another date.”

“No, Red, it’s fine. We’ll play and then you and I’ll leave, okay? Good.” I wasn’t going to be shown up by the ex-boyfriend so soon into our faux-relationship.

Jimmy and I played for about half an hour. Alcohol, as some would believe it, does not make you shoot eight ball better; it’s ironic that such a geometric game is at a place that intoxicates you in exchange for money.

Eventually, I had only to get the seven ball in while Jimmy was already aiming for the eight. Unfortunately for him, the balls were lined up in a straight line directly opposite the corner pocket behind which I was standing, talking to Scarlet. The balls were in such an order that Jimmy had to jump my seven in order to hit the eight with the cue ball: a tough shot sober, but an impossible one drunk.

Jimmy was taking his time aiming, and I was having a ball flirting with Scarlet. I didn’t even care that I was losing. But right as I was about to give a playful peck on the cheek to Scarlet, my testicles became aflame with pain: apparently Jimmy jumped my seven too much. The pain wasn’t only in my groin, but also in my pride and my ego. Here I was, standing with this man’s ex-girlfriend, whom he wronged, yet I was the one getting hit in the balls and might have actually needed them in the near future. But Jimmy didn’t stop there: in seconds, he was on top of me and was beating my face and stomach and chest. I tried fighting back in a feeble attempt to save at least some face, but I refrained when I heard Scarlet sobbing and wheezing, “Oh-oh, Jimmy, please stop!”

Eventually, the bartender broke up the fight and Jimmy ran away with his posse. The bartender gave me ice for my black eye while Scarlet patched up any cuts on my face. After I convinced the bartender I was fit to go home, Scarlet convinced me that she would take me home.

“I won’t allow you to go home alone like this.”

“Okay” was all I could mumble in response.

I felt horrible, not only physically, but also emotionally; my manhood—literally and metaphorically—was injured right in front of the girl I really, really liked. The confident Jim of the past two days evaporated like the alcohol sweat did on my skin in the hot bar. This night was supposed to end with my taking Scarlet home and kissing her goodnight and hopefully continuing what we had going next week. But now, I knew she would have lost all interest in me because of tonight.

We eventually ended up on the landing in front of my apartment door. I told her how sorry I was and how this wasn’t at all how I planned tonight would go, but she only responded with a “shut up.” She then began to kiss me and run her fingers through my hair. After a few minutes more of this, I pulled out my keys and we entered my apartment; I closed and locked the door behind us.

How to Never Grow Up

Wake up early on a Saturday morning. If you’re a reader, read; if not, watch the infomercials on the public channels until Phineas and Ferb and Spongebob Squarepants go on around eight.

You’ll be thirsty. Go to the kitchen without putting your slippers back on and pour yourself a glass of orange juice; you will spill some on the counter because of your unsteady little hands. Chug it all down, leave the OJ carton and your glass on the counter (both now dampened by the spill), and return to the parlor.

Put your feet up on the sofa and halfheartedly drape a Snuggie over yourself; don’t fret, Mommy will fix it when she wakes up to find you asleep watching old reruns of Happy Days on TV Land.

Fall asleep watching the first half of Phineas and Ferb. As you roll over in your slumber, you’ll unknowingly knock the remote to the ground, which on impact the LAST button will be clicked and TV Land will come on; last night your mom was watching old Roseannes.

As you feel Mommy putting the Snuggie over your body completely, tiredly open your eyes and ask for banana pancakes: of course she will abide—she can’t say no to her little boy. Watch VH1 music videos and begin to become accustomed to the horrible pop music and their even more horrible pop videos. Wait about forty-five minutes for your pancakes; your mom will say she made them with love, but in reality your dad is hung-over so she needed to make him coffee.

You will spend the rest of your Saturday at Grandma’s. Sure, her house smells funny and you always feel excluded when your mom and her sister get drunk as you become the main source of their entertainment. Just make them laugh as best you can; if worst comes to worst, at least they’ll say you were cute while hugging you. They’ll reek of high balls, but drunk love is better than no love, right? And you can’t blame Mommy what with putting up with Daddy always being so drunk and so mean, right?

You’ll take a cab home from Grandma’s because your mom won’t be able to walk home in a straight line. As both of you approach the door, ask for Mommy’s keys cutely even though you’re opening up because you know she will take too long.

Run upstairs once you get inside and put on your pajamas. It’s about eleven o’clock and you’re beat. Check to see if Daddy’s in bed. If he is, tiptoe halfway down the stairs and loudly whisper, “’Night, Mommy;” if he’s not in bed, yell down the stairs, “G’night, Mom, pleasant dreams!”

Wake up Sunday morning at eight-thirty; Mass is at nine so you have to pretend to be asleep really good so your mom won’t make you go to Mass.

Mommy will try to gently rouse you but will think you’re too adorable to wake up. She’ll softly kiss your forehead and will leave. Goal achieved.

Dad will be in bed sleeping off another night of drinking, so you can read or watch TV. Whatever will be quieter will be the right choice, though.

Go to school and do well on the weekdays and be sociable; make friends to show you aren’t like Nelson, the smelly shy boy in the corner every recess. But you don’t have to hang out with your friends outside of school. Actually, avoid hanging out with them. You don’t want to lose friends and suffer heartache come high school and college, do you?

Repeat these steps until you are twenty-two and out of college. Make sure you will have kissed a few girls during high school and slept around a bit during college; you’ll need some experience, just in case some unforeseen woman will want to be with you.

Your parents will be in their mid-fifties to early sixties, and your tenants will have just moved out, down to Florida for retirement. Set up your Alienware tower for FPSes and World of Warcraft, and set up your Macbook Pro (17-inch) for all your other needs. Make sure you have your external hard drive with all of your bands’ demos and all of your own acoustic demos on it. Who knows, you still might get signed.

Secure a job in Manhattan; the Strand kiosks outside Central Park sound like a nice bullshit job. Save money and eat dinner in your parents’ apartment each night. Don’t pay rent, heating, electric, water, Internet, or cable bills your first month and see what your parents will have to say about that. Maybe pay for Internet; there’s always an update for WoW and a new band’s album to download illegally or otherwise.

Let the week pass by as if you were an automaton. Wake up Saturday morning and follow the aforementioned instructions. Also, eat some Cap’n Crunch on your futon (couch mode). Pass out after the Giants pre-game show at twelve and wake up around six. Wasting of the Saturday afternoon: successful.

Go downstairs for dinner. You’ll have Chinese take-out again. Ma is no longer Mommy and will be too tired and arthritic to cook daily dinners, let alone three meals per day. Scoff down your lo mein and let it run through you in your apartment.

Spend the rest of your night playing WoW. The new expansion will have just been released and the developers will have raised the level cap to one-fifty (twenty-five higher than your maxed out dwarf paladin)!

Hit one-fifty by two in the morning. Then pick up your guitar and work on a song for Genevieve, your French coworker/love interest. Throw in as many sweet French expressions and phrases you can think of, but no je t’aimes; you don’t want to scare the dark-haired beauty away.

Fall asleep at your desk with your headphones around your neck and a pen behind your ear and your acoustic Fender in your lap. Wake up when your mother touches your shoulder on Sunday morning to tell you your father passed away. Your mother will be crying so console her; but secretly, deep within the confines of your mind and heart, jump for joy that the bastard is dead.

Dress nicely for the wakes on Monday and funeral on Tuesday. Prepare some bullshit for a eulogy for your old man; something to make the women there cry and the men there laugh.

Return to work Wednesday. Tell Genevieve about your father’s death. Embellish your emotions a little (read: a whole helluva lot) and ask her out for Friday. She will say yes. Pity date: accomplished.

Tell her briefly on Friday night about how you had liked her for weeks now, and then take her to Sam Ash and sing her your song.

“…je t’aime…”

Realizing you forgot to edit out the “je t’aime,” apologize frantically and try to survive the rest of the date coolly.

Take her home. She will kiss you on the cheek probably, but you both know you blew it right after saying “I love you.”

Go home and play WoW; new quests were made for the latest update. Tomorrow is Saturday.

Writer’s Block

Fred and Tim rode their bikes to school every day since they learned how to ride. Just as easily as they learned and gained their balance, they forgot how to wear helmets to protect their heads in case of an accident. Today became the wrong day for not wearing a helmet—

No, that won’t work. I’m giving too much to the reader with that last sentence. It’s been too long since I could write a captivating piece. The last story I wrote that was published received nothing but hate from the letters in the September ’08 New Yorker. But what do they know; the only way they get to be in that magazine is if the editor chooses their letter as “thoughtful” enough, not whether it’s in reality a good review.

This is such bullshit. I’ve been writing since I was barely ten and now is when I have a creative flow blockage. What kind of writer can’t come up with his own stories? I have hit the lowest of the low: I have to eavesdrop on people to create stories out of their own personal experiences. Would that be considered plagiarism? From the way some speak, they sound barely literate; I would bet my freelance salary that they’ll never read what I write of them anyway.

Today’s environment is the subway: the stupidest place for me to try to eavesdrop. I’m standing next to this teenage couple holding onto one another rather than a pole to keep balance.

“Babe, we’re fuckin’ lucky you’re not pregnant. Like I don’t know what woulda become of me—or hell, even us…”

She lets go of him and grabs the pole onto which I’m holding.

“Whadda you mean ‘what woulda become of us?’ Were you gonna dump me if I was pregnant? You fuckin’ douchebag!”

She shoves him away and I begin to concoct a story.

Sheila and James had been dreading the inevitable for eight months and five days. That one night of drinking did them over. James thought it would be fun to chug a Four Loko with his girl and then lose their virginities together, too. They both likely failed their physics midterms that day, and all they wanted to do was get drunk—but sex would be an added bonus.

In no time clothing was strewn about the floor of Sheila’s room—her parents had an opera to attend that evening—and their hands began to explore one another’s bodies. As the awkward foreplay started to arouse them both, Sheila slurred something along the lines of “I wanna do it.” But James had forgotten to buy condoms. Not thinking that was such a big deal and that all he had to do was pull out before finishing the race, James laid her down onto her pink-sheeted bed, toppling the pyramid of plush animals. The rest is indescribably ill conceived, clumsy, and graceless, as anyone’s first time is.

Eight months and five days later they lived together in James’ mother’s basement—

No; that’s too surreal. His mother would never let James and his baby mama live in her basement. I sigh and exit the train at the Bedford Avenue stop. I walk outside, deriding myself in my thoughts for my lousy ideas as I make my way up to the B61 stop on Bedford off of North 7th Street. The bus comes after a few more minutes of my chastising my fading talent and I cannot find my Metrocard.

I get off the bus and bark “shit!” loud enough for several hipsters to turn their pretentious gazes upon myself.

I walk almost silently to the park as the leaves crunch under my feet and I mull over the idea of writing a genre story. I guess genre stories are acceptable, but I feel like I’m cheating by taking the easy way and writing about Gnorlak the Brute of Skorzong 8 and his potential conquest of the galaxy. Arriving at the park, I begin to convince myself that I’m better than that and take a seat on a bench outside the dog park.

A woman playing fetch with her terrier in the gated area is beautiful. She is wearing sweatpants and a hoodie and looks as perfect as girls wearing sweatpants and hoodies always do: relatable, easy to talk to, pretty without trying are all things that this woman’s attire says.

She catches my staring at her and smiles me out of my beauty-induced trance. Not one for having the best track record with women, I smile and flick my hand in a wave. Thinking she can’t be smiling at myself, I turn around and see whom she’s shining upon: some hipster with glasses’ frames without lenses on his face holding a daisy. Being pseudo-shut down, I revert back to my idea of a genre story.

Amy lived across the street from me. Her house was a cerulean-blue Garden of Eden in my mind; I had loved her since kindergarten in public school. Now she was attending Baruch in the city in the hopes of becoming an accountant. We didn’t attend the same high school because of the gender requirements at both of our first choices, and I didn’t go to school with her now either because I was studying to become a teacher at Brooklyn College. I was never sure if she were even attracted to myself. I had always hoped she was but was never truly sure or confident in myself to ask her out, and with us both having entirely different futures ahead of us, I didn’t see myself even trying—

What the hell am I—Holden Caulfield? Whining about not having the balls to do something shouldn’t be literature. J.D. Salinger could pull it off for half of Catcher, but even Holden’s annoying tone became too much for me.

Hopefully leaving my teenage angst on the bench, I take off in the direction of Greenpoint, hoping I can find some kind of inspiration. Eavesdropping on the subway wasn’t enough; evidently, the gorgeous girl wasn’t either. Something needed to break this Berlin Wall in my mind in order to let my Ronald Reagan hand write something spectacular.

I go to Enid’s, a lovely diner at the corner of Driggs and Manhattan Avenues, which faces an eyesore of a condominium. A shirtless man on a balcony is throwing boxes over the railing as I enter the diner; I see some blouses, bras, and panties glide to the ground.

A waitress comes up to me as I settle in at the bar. Her eyes are red and mscara is blotted across her cute, round cheeks. She is certainly pretty, but no guy wants to be with a crying girl, attractive or not.

“Unf…w-what would y-you like today, sir?” the girl asks in the saddest voice you could ever imagine.

“What’s the matter?” Usually guys in the movies ask if the damsel (usually crying) in distress if she is okay; no shit she isn’t okay; otherwise, she wouldn’t be in distress.

“The asshole throwing my s-s-stuff off the—heh heh—sorry, balcony across the s-street is my ex-boyfriend. W-we broke up ‘b-bout an hour before my shift started this morning.” He definitely is an asshole for making this probably nice girl cry.

“Well, uh…what happened? I mean, if you don’t mind—“

“He thought I cheated on him with his cell phone, w-which he nicknamed Tommy after his best friend for some dumbass reason… W-when his phone vibrated on my crotch one time, I moaned and said Tommy was good at making me feel like a woman—as a joke, of course.” I sit there with an incredulous look on my face.

 “Did you tell’em you were joking?” I ask—a question that I think is stupid.

“N-no. should I’ve?” If I were a pimp, I would send my fellow pimps a mass text message reading “smh…bitches, yo.”

“I think you should,” I respond. “It’d probably make him feel a lot better and you two would surely get back together—I think.”

“Thanks f-for the advice,” she says, hugging me gratefully.

Mid-hug, her ex walks in while putting on a wife-beater.

“What the fuck is this?” he roars. “I come to talk things out with you and you’re already with someone else? Fuckin’ whore!” As blood rushes to his face, he looks at me and says, “You’re a dead man, asshole.”

Survival instincts kick into gear and I run into the back and exit the side door of the kitchen. On Driggs, I begin to run until I reach McGolrick (formerly known as Winthrow) Park. I never stopped to look behind me because that would only hurt my chances of a clean getaway; but evidently, he did not chase me. Maybe he and his girlfriend are picking up her lingerie outside their apartment right now.

Comfortably situated on a bench near the center of the park, my mind begins to wander as I realize that my little brush with excitement today would make a great story. But the character in my place would have to be exponentially cooler: rather than run away as I so casually did, he should French the girl and give the scumbag the biggest and best attitude that my writing can muster.

With a black pea coat that would make a pedestrian behind him think he were Ernest Hemingway, Roy Fletcher strode down the sidewalk as if he owned the ground underneath his feet. An air of chivalry surrounded him and gleamed in his deep, dark brown eyes. Yet while this knightly aura encompassed him everywhere he went, there was a certain nonchalance about his person that gave the impression that he did not even try to be as cool as he was.

Jimi Hendrix’s “Hey Joe” was playing in his ears when he saw an innocent-looking girl crying on a stoop. Roy, not being one to pass up a chance at cheering a girl up and making her smile, sat down next to her. Taking off his headphones, he asked her if everything was okay.

“Unf…no. M-my boyfriend just smacked me and accused me of cheating on him with his best friend w-when I only made that joke at a party…”

Filled with rage, Roy asked her where the prick could be found.

“H-he’s in 4D…b-but please d-don’t do anythin’ to him.”

This is fantastic; I hope I remember all of this when I get home to put it to paper.

A flash of light burst to my right, and I realize that it’s getting late enough for the streetlights to turn on.

A breeze chills me somewhat and I button up my coat to retain some breadth of heat. I am enjoying being alone at my old neighborhood’s park at night; it’s peaceful in comparison to how I saw it when I was a child. The thugs that seem to have been the only thing keeping Greenpoint from being a nice neighborhood appear to be gone. I relax a bit and return to Roy’s story as I notice a group of what appears to be teenagers enter the park about a few hundred feet from where I am.

Roy banged on the door. A man finally hollered on the other side that he was going to open it in a second. A couple of chains are heard unlocking the door, and a man wearing boxers and a stained tank appeared in the doorway. His face was unshaven, but not in an attractive way. His eyes were bloodshot and he reeked of body odor. This girl had gotten the better end of the breakup for sure, Roy thought. He would have no problem showing this man how to treat ladies.

“Who the hell’re you?” her ex-boyfriend asked. His teeth were stained and he could have used a set of braces.

“I’m the guy that’s gonna show you how to properly respect women,” Roy replied, and hit the man in the eye.

Reeling back into his apartment, the man tried to retaliate by attempting to spear Roy out of his apartment, but failed embarrassingly as Roy dodged him as a matador evaded a bull; he also taunted her ex just the same.

“It’s ironic you’re wearing a wife-beater since I’m the one doing the beating.”

Seeing red, the man once again charged at Roy, who in return pushed a chair in his path. The ex-boyfriend tripped on it and his head collided with a coffee table as he made his way to the floor.

Roy made his way to the man and checked to see if he were seriously injured. A black and possibly a concussion was all he could determine to be injuries. He heard the man’s heavy breathing, so Roy knew he was alive.

“Get some fucking deodorant,” Roy said as he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

I am immensely impressed with myself. In all my years of writing, I have never used a personal experience in order to create a story; the inspiration always appeared out of nowhere. This story is getting good and I best not think of much more before I get home and whip out my pen.

The so-called “teenagers” are not as young as I thought. They’re men around my age, maybe a little younger like nineteen or twenty. But they look menacing. I rise from where I am and peripherally see them begin to follow me. A brisk pace erupts at my feet in order to leave the park before confrontation occurs. I am obviously not a physical person.

As I turn around the bend to exit the park at Nassau Avenue and Monitor Street, a fist hits me in the face and I drop. I hear feet scurrying from the way I came. Those feet start kicking and stomping on my ribs and legs and face.

Someone firmly says, “Stop.” It sounds somewhat familiar.

I peer out of my bruised eyes and see only bright light. It’s blinding me to the point where I can’t see any faces, but only some silhouettes. I hear a zipper open or close and some liquid hits my face. I don’t even have the will to crawl away; I just lie there and let him dehumanize me.

“Don’t ever fuckin’ talk to her again.”

I had been looking forward to going home and writing about the wonderful Roy Fletcher, and now I am drenched in piss. I only whimper in response.

It doesn’t even matter that I can’t make it home. I am beaten and just want to lie here and cease existing. I can’t write, and apparently I am a home-wrecker.

It doesn’t even matter that I won’t get to finish Roy’s story; it isn’t that good anyway. He would have gotten with the girl on the stoop, as most would expect, making my ending unsurprising and uncreative.

No—that story wouldn’t work in general anyway; he’s too static of a character to captivate anyone.

What a Work of Art

“Rapid motion through space elates one; so does notoriety; so does the possession of money.”

        —James Joyce, “After the Race”

It sounds like it has been done a lot, but almost everything you read and see about it is a lie or fictitious. The Taking of Pelham 1 2 3—the original—did a fantastic job of throwing a coat of drama and plot on it, but usually things like this are not too well thought out and planned. Take me, for example: I just started doing this some years ago when I was canned. I needed money; therefore, I decided to become a thief. I’m no killer, and hopefully will never have to become one because I just don’t have it in me. But to make a living, one might be forced to things one deems otherwise unlikely, no?

I started out with simple robberies: old ladies’ purses, bringing a water pistol full of hot sauce to some grocers’ heads—little, easy thefts. And oh the money I made doing just those simple jobs! There is no doubt in my mind that I could purchase a substantial amount of stock in my former place of employment; but fuck that—I make more money taking toys to people’s heads.

As I rose from the rank of noob thief to amateur, my style changed. No one ever thinks that thievery can be art solely because of the simple fact that it is illegal. But look at graffiti: some of that crap is really beautiful yet illegal all the same, still some find it to be art. My occupation—hell, my life now—is one big Picasso hanging on the wall. It has even gotten me some fame. In the papers they refer to me as Robbin’ Rich, the thief who cannot be caught; they have a ton of faith in me—maybe too much.

It’s the subtle differences you see and feel on the train nowadays that have made my name a staple in police precincts across the city. Before I stole, people would blatantly hold their iPods on the subway to change the song. I used to even see a couple Nooks and iPads every now and then; still even some others had the girth to pull out their laptops. People were just too stupid. You could see the bulges of wallets in men’s back pockets, the outlines of phones in trousers, and sometimes the beautiful Coach wallets in women’s purses that they had forgotten to close. On rough L train rides in the morning, you could literally feel the objects in people’s pockets when the train rocked violently through the tunnels. I realized this all the day I was fired.

You ever notice that creepy person on the train who keeps touching your ass because of the train’s movement? That’s me. It looks like I’m only going for a grab of some cheek, but what I really want is your wallet, your iPod, your valuables—basically anything that contains money or that I can pawn for a pretty penny.

I’ve been doing this for longer than some other thieves have been alive. Stealing, running, hiding—these are all in the life of a professional thief. But now I am nearing the age of retirement and have no real pension to fall back on. Robbing old ladies’ purses just doesn’t cut it for me anymore. I want to get the greatest steal in the history of the business and I know just whom my donor will be.

I’m borrowing an idea from my brethren of the Wild West: looting a transport of money. Since railroads aren’t really used anymore because of the efficiency of planes, I am going to take on the wild beast, the armored truck. When I was younger, I used to stand on the Queens side of the bridge connecting Roosevelt Island and Long Island City, trying to hail a cab to get home from my girlfriend’s apartment. I usually left her island around seven, and each night I waited for a cab, I saw an armored truck heading south back into Queens. This instance occurred nine and a half times out of ten. I wonder now if that armored truck still passes through that same area every day a bit after seven.

I go to the main branch of the New York Public Library by Bryant Park and look up in its digital records about the armored truck robberies in the last thirty years. Ten results come up, seven of which are concerning the truck I’ve seen as a younger man, and three others are about one in the city. The seven about the armored truck robberies in Queens all have different dates—but similar times. The latest robbery of one occurred two years ago; I doubt the schedule has changed since then.

Each day of the following workweek, I scope out the area always around ten after seven: sure enough, the truck is still on the same route and schedule. You would think banks would change their schedule after seven armored truck robberies occurred in the past thirty years, but alas, smart accountants are not always as smart as thieves.

Stealing purses and wallets is easy, but I don’t know how to go about robbing an armored truck. Explosives won’t work because the money in the truck will be blown to worthlessness; hijacking it à la Grand Theft Auto isn’t a good idea either—those guys driving definitely have bulletproof vests on and are likely packing something. I must become creative.

A week passes without my leaving the apartment in an attempt to focus on how to steal the likely one million dollars at least in the truck. I reek and look like complete shit. Just as I am about to freshen up in order to not offend anyone when I go out for milk, I realize I will steal the money by being homeless, this exact night.

_____________________________________________________________

The leaves crunch underfoot as I make my way through Long Island City. It’s four-thirty right now and, and I’m trying to build up a sweat to become grimier on this 32-or-below night. I run for as long as my old, weathered body can and rip off my beanie. Rolling my eyes up, I see steam emanating from the top of my head. Perfect, I’m sweating as if I were wearing a parka in the Caribbean Islands.

Next I take a swig of whiskey from my flask and splash some behind my ears. I’ve never been an actor, but the way I’m portraying a hobo deserves an Oscar. I run another block with numerous pairs of eyes glaring at me, as noses in conjunction with their eyes put stomachs to a test of not vomiting that no one has ever faced.

The sun is almost completely set and the dusk is engulfing everything around me. I’m not drunk enough to dysfunction, but I’m drunk enough to lose my filter; the only homeless people better than me at expressing life on the street are the actual beggars.

I’m finally outside of the Con Ed plant at the corner of 38th Avenue and Vernon Boulevard. In a wintry New York, it’s usually dusk by five and pitch black by eight; judging by the almost black night sky, the time should be around seven.

I see blinding headlights of numerous cars as they pass me by, like every other person does to hobos; for once though, they rightly pass me. I see a truck approaching and pray that it’s my ticket; but sadly, it is only a civilian.

The minutes become years and I feel my eyelids begin to close. I force myself to stay awake. Eventually, I see what appears to be the armored truck and I enact my plan.

I take off my numerous coats and throw them in front of the truck as it comes around the bend. It comes to a quick halt and the driver peers over his dashboard, looking for whomever, or rather, whatever he hit. Shit, he isn’t as stupid as I had hoped. Seeing his intelligence being beyond only that of a delivery boy, I go to plan B.

As I sneak around the back of the still motionless truck, I polish off the remnants of alcohol in my flask. I am surprised that he hasn’t left the truck to check what is wrong, or even continued on by now. I knock on the driver’s door and slide to the right before he can open it in order to quickly knock me down.

“Please man…give me a lift,” I begin in a somewhat forced breathless manner. “It’s s-s-so cold out and I can’t feel m-m-much anymore.” As a thief, the sympathy card is always the secondary attempt. Those who abuse such a move give our kind a bad name. I notice the gun on the passenger seat; it appears he is unarmed aside from that semi-auto.

“No can do, guy. I’m on a strict schedule.” There’s a grimace on his face from my stench.

“W-well can you spare a few bucks for me at least?”

As the kindhearted man reaches in his back pocket for his wallet, I bend down and grab a silenced pistol out of my boot. I had bought one a few years ago in the times of real need where I might have to actually threaten my donor. “And while you’re at it, you can get out of the truck,” I say as I point the handgun’s now-silenced barrel to his crotch. He surely is wearing a bulletproof vest, but I doubt that he is wearing a bulletproof cup. And from the glimpse at his left hand I took as I was bending down for my gun, I doubt his wife would appreciate my blowing his groin to pieces.

He exits the vehicle as I enter it all in one smooth motion, like trading the electrons of atoms. I tell him thanks and throw my flask at him. Closing the door, I speed off.

As I drive south on Vernon Boulevard toward the Pulaski Bridge, Greenpoint, and the piers thereof, I hear the familiar blaring sirens and see the usual red and blue lights of New York’s Finest in my rearview mirror. I think of how many turns I must make to get to the correct pier. I need to make five turns in an armored tuck without the police stopping me; the challenges are the best part of playing the robber.

Braking hard on my second sharp turn—this one onto the bridge—my head slams against the rearview. Pieces of glass are missing from it and a trickle of blood begins to fall down my forehead; little injuries are worth it for such a grand bounty.

With my foot flat on the pedal, I race up the bridge and look out the window to see if any cops are still chasing me. To my fortune, I find them all braking shortly after getting onto the bridge. I turn back around and drive directly off the ramp; apparently, the Pulaski is a drawbridge.

The truck splashes into the freezing East River. I swim my way out through the window and look up to the policemen pointing their guns at me on both the Queens and Brooklyn sides of the drawbridge. I hear a spectator on the pedestrian path of the bridge  yell, “Holy shit…it’s Robbin’ Rich!”

I guess if there’s any way to go, mine is the example.

Monophobia

    After the storm, he saw her writhing in pain on the corner of the block. The humidity in the air was as thick as the blood coursing through her veins, as if another torrent was expected to descend at the random strike of lightning. He tried to call to her, to get her attention and permission to help, but she was unconscious by the time she was in earshot to hear him. He picked her up and cradled her for protection from any other, more human threats. He brought her to his apartment half a mile away.

            Hours later, she still had not moved. He did not know what the problem was, if she were sick or injured or both, or what had happened to her. But he placed a cold rag on her forehead—for more physical than mental relief—and a basin by her side in the event she needed to vomit.

            He watched her as she slept, thinking that she was a pretty little thing who did not deserve whatever had happened to her. Although still somewhat wet, dark, and lost in her trench coat, he could tell she was attractive from her mousy brown hair to her tiny feet. She moved a little in her sleep and let out a heavy sigh but nothing more. He jumped in fear of her waking up and attacking some creep watching her. After she did nothing, he continued his study.

            Her eyelashes were long and blonde, making no sense with her brunette locks. Her face was pretty and welcoming, but young and too innocent for anything truly terrible to have already befallen her. Although she was engulfed by an overly large black coat, he could tell she was also frail and slender, possibly mal-nourished. Finally his eyes began to tire, and he eventually slept.

            He woke to the sound of breaking eggs.

            “How d’you want your eggs?”

            “…Whatever’s easier for you, I guess.” He was groggy and surprised that she had not tried to kill or even tie him up yet. This girl was obviously different from the rest.

            “Scrambled it is then. Bacon’s in the microwave and the toast’ll be done any minute now.” She spoke with no emotion, but each syllable was a symphony to his ears.

            She looked at least eighteen, but in tone her words were at least twice her age. He wondered what she had gone through in an attempt to distract himself from the strong initial attraction any male feels toward a female, especially after not seeing one for as long as he has.

            “So who’re you anyway, little lady?” he asked somewhat anxiously, in the hopes that there would be conversation at the breakfast table. Where he was from, courtesy was a big part of the culture. His voice reflected the country twang of the Fender Telecaster he used to own.

            “Are you really in a position to be asking questions? You kidnapped a minor—“

            “I saved your life. You should be grateful I wasn’t someone else.”

            “—Off the street and now she’s cooking your pedophiliac ass breakfast. And no shit I’m grateful, but you shouldn’t bury your country bumpkin nose where it doesn’t belong.”

            The toast popped. They ate in silence.

            She seemed to be in a more approachable mood after they ate; he quietly decided that he would try to unravel her mystery again.

            “Is there anythin’ I can do to help? You seemed ill or injured a couple nights ago, but I can’t tell if you’re all good now. People like us needa stick together—‘specially now.”

            She contemplated his last sentiment for a few minutes and began to open her mouth to say something—but stopped just as quickly as she had started.

            “I don’t know what else I can do to make you trust me. I won’t give you my name, that’s for damn sure. I might look and sound like some backwoods rube to you, but my mind, sure as God’s green Earth, is sharp as a nail.”

            She sighed in preparation of reciting her story. “They extorted my name from my parents and tagged me. They beat me almost dead, but I survived feigning death.” There were tears in her sad, hurt, beautiful blue eyes.

            He could only utter a weak “I’m sorry” and patted her shoulder. She began sobbing against his chest and he attempted to console her.

            They heard a door slam downstairs, followed by what seemed to be an excessive amount of hard and fast footsteps.

            “We need to leave,” he said as he slowly edged her closer to the fire escape outside his window.

            “I’d rather fight and die for real this time.”

            “No; you wouldn’t.”

            He pushed her out the window and forced her onto the ladder. He pushed down with such force that she fell off when the ladder extended completely. Then he slid down the ladder and they started running to the park. They had gotten away.

            ———————————————————————————————-

            Rain started coming down again and they huddled in the corner under a bridge trying to keep warm; they were not succeeding. His feet were numb, and she shivered all the way to her core.

            “I’m so sorry,” she said in between sobs, “…They shouldn’t’ve followed me…A-a-according to them I should be d-dead on Christopher Street…”

            He only squeezed her tighter; he knew no other way to comfort her or make her feel better. He could not remember a time when he was as mad as he was now. He was at home and normally never bothered, and now this mess had torn his entire existence apart. He was now a fugitive on the run from the government and an even worse criminal for helping this girl stay alive. In the old days, he thought, I should have won a Nobel Peace Prize from my generosity. Who can be punished for doing the right thing?

            He rose and told her he was going to loot a nearby deli for some non-perishables; he said he would be back in fifteen minutes and took off at a brisk pace.

            She was worried he would desert her. He would not be the first and likely not the last. Everyone before him had helped her for some time and then took off; she felt like such a pain in everyone’s ass.

            He’s not coming back, she thought; she could feel it in her bones. He left her just like everyone else had before him. She started to cry again. Lightning broke the darkness and she saw something glimmer on the ground. It was a piece of glass from what was once probably a bottle. She knew exactly how to use it, and with an accuracy of a sniper, she broke the capillaries in her left arm and watched the river run red.

            Out of nowhere she heard footsteps and saw a bright light that was nearing her and becoming brighter by the second. She was happy that He finally came; finally, He was ready to take her home.

            “What the fuck’ve you done?”

            He immediately ripped off a sleeve of his shirt and bandaged her arm. He force-fed her and kept her hydrated with some Gatorade he brought. She eventually fell unconscious. He moved closer to her to keep himself alive; God knows, he thought, if I don’t stay alive, she sure as hell won’t make it another week.

———————————————————————————————-

    Weeks passed in a similar manner of looting and surviving, and they got to know each other. He learned about her past, growing up in the city when the subways still ran and people still smiled. She had an older brother who became part of a resistance group to combat the regime that took over the government; he died in one of the early battles between them and the resistance. She was extremely young at the time of her brother’s sacrifice and barely remembered how he used to look; but she loved him immensely and admired him even more—with an image of him in her mind or not. The man learned that she had felt lonely ever since her brother’s departure to fight, even with her parents around. They had despised her from the her birth and finally got rid of her by telling her pursuers her name; she could not even give the man a nickname to call her because they knew all of them; and she would rather be unidentified by all than identified by them.

    She learned little about him, however. From his accent, she figured that he was not from the city or its rural surroundings. He was a man who lost everything: this was the bulk of what he told her. She did not know what his “everything” was, be it family, friends, or possessions, but she could gather that whatever it was that he missed, he longed for it terribly. She thought his face looked worn and old, yet his mannerisms and nature yielded her the notion that he could not be older than thirty, possibly not even twenty-five. What little she learned about him she could just as easily have inferred from his face and the sound of his voice.

    A bond was being formed between the two of them that was certainly unclassifiable. Although she was dearly beautiful, he lost any of the initial attraction he had for her by his caring for her now. She did not see him as the threat and nosy redneck he portrayed originally, but rather as more intelligent company when there was none. The hell they were living in began to evolve into some sort of home.

    Some time earlier, he had taken a massive six-person tent (along with some other supplies) from a Modells’ and lined the walls with comforters to keep in any warmth; but winter was becoming too cold to bear any longer. She was also looking sicker and sicker each passing day: her incident with the bit of glass caused more trauma than just some broken capillaries and veins and a cut on her arm: he figured that she had come down with a strain of influenza or pneumonia based on her symptoms but could never be sure. He raided a Duane Reade for as much medicine as he could carry so as to sustain her, but she just would not improve; he began to fear she would die.

    “I won’t,” she said. “Remember how…how fast I healed from their beating? …This is nothing compared to that.”

    “…But I saved you then,” he replied with a trembling voice as he felt a lump begin to swell in his throat. “I can’t help much beside the medicine I got…ugh…and those don’t seem to be doin’ much of anythin’ at all there…”

    “Don’t worry…I’ll—I’ll be fine.” She was struggling to speak even more now. He pulled her close and kissed her forehead; he wished to catch her illness to go out with her. He no longer wanted to be alone.

    They fell asleep holding one another.

            ———————————————————————————————-

    He woke early with the idea that he could warm her up with lanterns. He kissed her cheek and left, thinking he would be back before she woke. He layered up the trench coats and thermals he took from the Modells’ and left the tent and began running toward the exit of the park in the icy weather.

    He searched everywhere for lanterns and finally found some in a Sports Authority. He took several lighters and books of matches from bodegas while returning home. He was chanting the entire time the same mantra: “Please don’t die.”

    He finally entered the tent and found everything ravaged. He saw blood where she had been lying. Dropping the lanterns, lighters, and matches, he collapsed. They finally got her, he thought. After all this time—they got what they wanted. He fell asleep crying, clutching her bloodstained pillow.

            ———————————————————————————————-

    Feeling the ground vibrate underneath him, he awoke. He thought nothing of it at first: just an earthquake. Still becoming acclimated with his newly lonely surroundings, he smelled the strong, invasive fume of oil and saw through the roof of the tent the silhouette of what looked like a fireball.

    He quickly realized that they were nearby. After hastily stuffing her pillowcase full of lightweight non-perishables, he took off in the direction opposite from where the fireball came. He still had the strong animal instinct of survival lodged in his mind as he scurried around the unfamiliar bends of the park’s path, desperately searching for the exit.

    He came out on a street mid-to-uptown on the east side of the city. Now that he had temporarily lost them, it was time to develop a plan; but his grief over the girl’s death haunted him, as if she were a ghost still trying to give him companionship from beyond death.

    She was the first person that he had seen in so long that he actually cared about. His memories raced from their hostile first encounter to her sharing of her life and story, and finally fast-forwarding to the image of blood on the floor of the tent. Everything in between—the running, the hiding, the scavenging, the surviving—all seemed pointless and vain now that she was no longer alive to experience life—or rather, existence—with him. Nevertheless, she was probably better off dying and finally leaving this godforsaken mess; and she must have been lonely now, wherever she was.

    Alas, he decided that he would end his own being. His religion once outlined that such an act would be almost unforgivable; but if he had the right intent, he convinced himself, the extinct God would surely understand.

    Now no longer in a hurry to get away and live, the man hurried to the nearest bridge in the city to end it all. The closest one was a suspension build that was about half a mile from the exit of the park. He dropped her pillowcase knowing that it was no longer necessary and followed his feet to the bridge. During his almost ten-minute walk/run, he became excited. He thought that it was strange to be excited about his approaching death, but then harkened back to a quote from an author he read some time ago: “An abnormal reaction to an abnormal situation is normal.” He felt better and happier and quickened his already brisk pace.

            ———————————————————————————————-

    A torrent was beginning to descend as he was climbing the suspension steel ropes that somehow still supported the bridge. After years of less and less use of his body, his muscles were cramping intolerably; but his mind was focused solely on dying and the prospect of being with her again. Soon enough, he was perched on the top of an arch where two suspensions met. He took in a cold deep breath of high altitude air and began his descent. In almost no time, he became unconscious with the rush of air to his lungs and brain, and his body became submerged in the subzero river. He drowned not long thereafter and was possibly with the girl now.

            ———————————————————————————————-

    With the heavy downfall only just beginning, lagging seagulls flew in from the coast in search of refuge during the vicious rain. Finding safe areas on land on the branches of stout trees, they waited out the storm in the hopes that the sun would quickly shine again on their sandy home, and that they would return soon enough as a flock, unaffected by such a deluge, destroying then purifying all in its wake.

How to Overcome Grief

            My daughter and I used to play in the sandbox in our backyard when she was little. We used to make castles without even needing a beach and ocean or the rain to wet the sand to compact it. We spent every day together for the first four years of her life. After my wife passed away giving birth, they felt like a new four years to myself as well as my daughter. Both of us were without the woman we loved, and that similarity forged an even stronger bond between Terri and me. She was the light of my world.

            I remember one time when we went to Toys ‘R Us in Times Square; her eyes lit up at the magnitude of the children’s Eden. We walked all around, playing the dance video games in the basement, taking scared pictures of ourselves in terror of the t-rex from Jurassic Park on the top floor, and lastly visiting Barbie’s dream house. Surprisingly, she did not like Barbies as much as other four-year-old girls did; she actually rather detested them. I knew that Terri was my girl when she ran out of the dream house and put on an Iron Man mask and attacked me with a lightsaber.

            But things are different now. I am older and alone, and she is pregnant halfway across the country; she also hates me now. Her boyfriend keeps calling me weekly to make sure I’m not dead which is decent of him; I’m not that old though, but I know why he calls. He thinks I have nothing left to live for: no real work, no wife, virtually no children. He is utterly correct; but I keep going with the hope that someday Terri will come back and love her daddy again. It likely will not happen, but ending myself will require more work than to keep living.

            I went to the bar after one of her boyfriend’s depressing calls. I am normally no alcoholic, but I thought it positive to make some friends. And where else can a sixty-year-old man go to make friends and have company? I am too much out of shape to go to a sauna, so a bar became my only option.

            “One Heineken, please.” Since when does a man my age come to a bar and just order one beer? “And can you give me a shot of JD with that,” I added.

            A salt-and-pepper-haired man approached where I was sitting and ordered a glass of white wine. I looked at him incredulously. He caught me staring and I looked away quickly; I am not normally one to stare. I did not even feel comfortable ordering only a beer; how could this guy just get a glass of white wine?

            “What? I’m supposed to cut back on my al intake, according to my doctor…but being Irish doesn’t allow that. White wine’s got the lowest percentage so I hold onto sanity with it. Problem?”

            I shook my head and downed my shot. The warm feeling I hardly knew hit me deep in my gut, and I felt better. “Do you have any kids?” I asked him.

            “Three—they all hate me and live on the island. If they despised me so much they wouldn’t come begging for money and always be around me. So I come here for sanctuary. And yourself?”

            “Just one, but she would tell her friends she doesn’t have a father.” I felt a lump in my throat and took a gulp of beer; I felt calmer.

            We then began to trade stories of our children.

            He told me about the time when his children went to a park when they were all pre-teens. He told me about the confusion and fear he had over letting his kids go to the park alone. He said that there were bad people in his neighborhood and he did not want his kids getting abducted by one. It was clear to me as to why his kids disliked him and yet wanted to be with him so often: they hated him for his overbearing nature and pitied him for his love of them. I wished silently to myself that Terri would become like his but I knew she would not.

            I told him about Terri’s fourth birthday and the dinner we enjoyed. “I took her to Little Italy to experience real Italian pasta and food. I ordered her a wonderful dish of baked ziti at Arturos Restaurant. She liked the food, I think, because she ate the whole thing. But what she really loved was blowing tomato sauce bubbles out of the pasta. It looked so fun that I even tried it, but I sucked.

            “But for her sake, I asked for a bowl of any and every open-ended pasta so that she could blow bubbles out of them. She was such a nice girl she even tried teaching me how to do it…that was one of the last good birthdays we had together.”

            “Well if she taught you to blow bubbles out of cavatelli then that would have been impressive,” the man replied, cracking a smirk.

            I laughed but started to choke up a little, caught in my own depressing and nostalgic thoughts. I bid the man good night and went home to cry myself to sleep again.

            ________________________________________________________

            Another week passed quietly. I woke up for work Thursday morning, dreading the manager who would come to my office today. He was called in to weed out employees not living up to the company’s standards. I took the train to work, listening to as much positive music on my iPod as I could.

            I punched in next to the manager who was talking with one of my coworkers. I overheard them talking about someone and caught a glimpse of them glaring at me.

            The manager said, “…Probably some side-effect thing of his condition. People in my office get unemployment the one day they don’t work…”

            My coworker replied, “He doesn’t have a condition; he just has no one. But I can’t believe he even gets paid for days he’s not in…”

            I walked away furiously. I get paid on my off days because they are paid vacation days I have saved up, but that jackass does not know that. He also does not know what it is like to be as alone as I constantly am. I am even surprised at myself for still being around in the state I am.

            I worked the hardest I ever have that Thursday and was not fired.

            ________________________________________________________

            I arrived home and ate dinner. I decided to cook myself baked ziti for once. It was delicious as anything could be to me.

            As I sat down to watch my nightly Jeopardy, the phone rang. Knowing it was Terri’s boyfriend, I answered the phone in haste and began yelling into the receiver, telling him how I know how useless my life and I are, how I know that Terri hates me for being forced to put her in foster care after being declared “unfit to care for a child” by the court due to my grief, and how I know that she will never love me again, and that I should just give up. I felt a strong and sudden pain in my left arm.

            “Dad…it’s me, Terr…uh…I’m calling to apologize for everything…”

            My heart felt like it caught fire and I fell, dropping the receiver.