We met at a bus stop on workdays. Conversed in lively discussions. Bid farewell and “all best” upon parting. One day he didn’t arrive. I worried. When he returned, a cloth mask covered his nose and mouth. “Bad cold?” I asked. He grumbled back an incomprehensible answer. I let him be; no sense stressing an already stressed man. At a later date, I questioned how he was for he still donned a mask. High-pitched squeaks. No words. A teenager dashed towards us. “Dad, should I throw these things out?” he asked, showing a set of mismatched dentures. The man grimaced.
A few Budweisers lubricated the tongues of the guilt-ridden flock, begetting confessions with illuminating results. Father Keenan officiated on his barstool at Morgan’s with his pug, Stinky. The case of the missing votive candles was resolved when Ted tearfully confessed he stole them to read by, since his electricity was cutoff after shooting his wad on unlucky Lucky Lydia in the Fourth at Pimlico. Vic admitted he’d crushed the altar flowers again backing up to ogle the buff yoga instructor. Stinky napped dur ing the revelations, dreaming of kibble and the hydrant on the corner. Absolution given, consciences cleared, dog walked
The thunder of the stadium crowd roared as the rock-n-roll band strutted one-by-one across the stage. Starry-eyed, just waiting for the handsome lead guy.
We made a connection tonight you and me. I loved how you spotted me in the crowd flashing your famous smile, giving me a thumbs up. Under the full moon and the stars, blowing me a kiss. Singing and swaying with the crowd you waved at me. I grinned ear-to-ear screaming “I love you.” Caught up in the moment. Hey! Sweetie! Honey! Cmon now, take my hand, the concert’s over. Gotta go pick up the kids. The water ran hot, vapour swirls carried scents of pomegranate throughout the room. Toni sank deeper as a myriad of warm-flickering lights hissed their disapproval. The pain had gone, the heat of the water maybe? She took a slow, slow breath before submerging her face. Thoughts of Michael raced into her mind as muffled sounds of Mozart played.
Michael stared out of the kitchen window and into the darkness. He wished he had told her at dinner, deceit and anxiety were killing him. Nineteen years is a long time. He brushed the volume higher. He will always have Mozart. “How’d you know I was up here?”
“Because you aren’t a little girl anymore, you think I don’t know you? I overlooked it when you visited months ago; however, two nights in succession dignifies a possible broken neck climbing the ladder. So, what’s the matter?” He handed his daughter a pack of her favorite cookies. “Everything is perfectly fine.” Between sobs, she looked for solace in the cookies. “Now it makes sense--you’re happy, one of the scariest things to accept. Go home to your new family, Sweetie. I don’t think I can make it up that ladder again.” The general strode out, accompanied by the Sergeant, ready to inspect the troops.
“AHHHH-TEN-SHUN!” screamed Sergeant Shepard. The collective click of heels was deafening as the soldiers snapped to attention and saluted. Private Turner glanced down as the general walked past. Damned, he thought, Kim’s out cold again. The general paused. “Shepard, there’s a man down in the parade ground. Summon medical aid.” “Yes sir. He signalled for the corpsman to attend. “It’s a problem we have, sir, allowing karate black-belts into the Marine Core. They beat the Be-jeezus out of themselves when they salute.” My grandson and I are attending his first football match; it's Remembrance Weekend. My club has a strong connection with the Great War and observes its usual impeccable minute's silence before kickoff.
He's a bit bewildered. "Why are we wearing poppies, Grandpa?" "To remember soldiers who died fighting for their country." "You said wars were stupid." "They are, usually. But soldiers don't start wars. They follow government orders." "So wars are the government's fault?" "Yup." He pauses. "But don't we elect governments?" "Yup." "Does that mean it's our fault the soldiers die, Grandpa?" "Sort of. That's why we wear poppies." I pried the cellar door open. Mother told me not to go snooping, that the monster she always spoke of would eat me. I clung to the blanket wrapped around my shoulders and descended.
The boiler hid in the shadows. It chugged and spat all throughout the night and yet the house still ran cold. I tapped it with my slipper and pressed my ear against the iced iron. It was dead, and yet the churning continued on without pause. Not churning…wheezing. I knew exactly what it looked like without turning my heels. Mother had always been quite descriptive. He had worked so hard and for so long to make this happen.
Twenty-five years, to be exact. Twenty-five years of dedication to the company, of long hours, of reapplying what had always worked. Twenty-five years of promoting his own achievements, of elbowing out his internal competitors. At last, his time to lead had come. But no sooner did he take charge than market conditions changed, and the company’s sales plummeted. He went with what he knew, but it no longer worked, and few would follow him anyway. The company was broken up and sold in pieces. Inside the synagogue, prevailing pin-drop silence was only punctuated by low audible weeping. Rabbi Yarnoff began “Mourner’s Kaddish” for ten slain devotees, assassinated for their “religious-belief”.
Mike Johnson, in audience to offer condolences, noticed solemn Reverend Peter Williams in front-row. Six months ago, he was delivering sermon in his predominantly African-American church, when fifteen parishioners were murdered for their “skin-color”. Bearded and turbaned Sikh Guru Hardeep Singh sat next to Reverend. A year ago, twelve devotees inside his gurudwara were executed for their “terrorist-look”. Mike pondered “Will our enlightenment ever come out of the other side of this dark tunnel?” "…I’d love to know when you lot are going to get around to talking about the Good Stuff. All you seem to want to concentrate on is the Bad Stuff…all those negative things that have occurred since I took office.
It’s a disgrace the way you treat me. You know all the Bad Stuff is really my predecessor’s fault; it’s got nothing to do with me. Should have seen the mess he left. It’s taken me ages to clear up. So let’s talk about all the Good Stuff, those great things that have happened since I was elected…" It was bingo day at the Senior Center. Each senior paid a dollar for a chance to win lottery tickets.
"Those darned lottery tickets don't pay off very often," Joe observed, "and when they do, it's usually only a dollar or two. Sure would be nice to win the biggie on one of the those '500 dollar a week for life' tickets." "Yeah, that would be great, wouldn't it?" Larry chimed in. "I dunno," Harold joked. "I'm not sure what I would do with an extra 500 bucks every week." "Oh, I could show you," his wife said dryly. “Politicians,” he said, getting up and swinging his arm down as he passed by the TV, as if he were swatting at flies. “What a bunch of liars.”
“You should run for something,” she said. “Right,” he said from the kitchen. “I’m serious. You’re the most successful man I know. You’re always complaining about politics. Why don’t you get in there and clean it up?” “Are you kidding?” he said, twisting the cap off his beer. “I wouldn’t stand a chance.” “Why do you say that?” “My past is a little too interesting,” he said. “And I’m far too honest.” Grandpa Rodrigues put his grandson on his lap and said, “Did you ever hear of Pancho Villa?”
His grandson said “no.” “Pancho Villa was a famous revolutionary hero who loved the common people, and had a special place in his heart for the poor.” The boy bounced on Grandpa’s lap and asked, “What else?” Grandpa stroked his beard. “My grandfather baked a sweet bread for Pancho in Chihuahua. It was the only bread that Pancho would eat and it was so delicious that Pancho made it the official bread of Mexico.” The grandson smiled. He loved when Grandpa told stories. They’d wintered in the micro cabin on the fifty acres they’d scrapped and saved ten years to buy.
Spring blossomed on rhododendron, mountain laurel, and dogwood. “Kindra, I’m for a walk.” Kindra clinks her nails on her wine glass, “Be watchful for bears,” returning her eyes to her book. “Cerulean skies with cotton puff clouds. You sure you want to stay inside?” “I’m rather certain I know my mind at this juncture, take your walk, and enjoy it.” Cliff opens the door and breathes deeply, “Wonderful air, great smell, you’ll love it.” “Jesus Christ, will you go already?” “Fuck off.” John purchases an old laundromat from Charlie, a retired war veteran. Remodeling, he put in new washing and drying machines. With brand-new floors and paint. Afterward, customers claim they see a ghost. Most feel its presence, and some decide ‘it’ is Charlie who passed away recently.
Christmas-Eve, John finds an American flag in the storeroom. The box says, Charles. He tries tracking down his wife, Rose. But the burial flag stays. Repacked in a Tupperware tub. New-Years-Eve, John opens a box with a disgusting odor. Reddish-brown matted hair’s sticking out of some moldy carpet. A dead-ringer for Charlie’s wife, Rose. “Yes ... my plans are finally coming to fruition.” Frank smiled. “This day is long overdue.”
He gazed at his new servant, who was ready to cater to his every need. Food appeared whenever Frank was hungry; toys were available when he was playful; and shelter was there for him. Easy to take things for granted, but he tried not to. He decided to express some gratitude. “Well done, my minion. Now prepare for the feline conquering of the world!” Frank’s eyes rose. “Shoot. I’ve said too much,” he thought. “Uh, I mean, meow?” It’ll have to do. “More tuna–stat!” Blanking out the meaningless chatter of his colleagues, he began nodding off into a post-lunch nap.
He could retire, he thought, and no one here would miss him, or he them. He could expire too, causing a few minor ripples in the small world he inhabited. Yes, he had a paternal bond, naturally, with his grown-up daughters and, likewise, a matrimonial one with his wife. They’d grieve a while, but move on to enjoy the inheritance from the fruits of his years of toil. Unmoored from existence, he drifted into the emptiness of sleep as if it were his last. Mother's in the backyard, burning off Daddy's goods. Old love letters. His collection of Hemingway, declarations of manhood crinkling, dissolving. She releases each item with fury, grace.
"Good riddance," she says. "Promise me sweetheart, you won't be like that. Your father thought running off was romantic." "Yes Mama," I say. I don't know what my future looks like frankly. I see myself as an ongoing puzzle, Daddy and Mother contributing small, unique pieces to it. Daddy's confidence. Mother's gift for words. Now Daddy's missing. She hugs me, keeps releasing things, past erased, even as questions rise into the vast night sky. Working up the nerve, strolling along the raw, rocky coastline in my best suit and overcoat. I watch as the smoke rings from my breath float upward, again and again. Finally, I turn toward the small seaside town, flipping my dress shoes off when I hit the cool sand.
Fifty-years-ago today, born to a Mrs. Linda Moore. The search for my birth mother ended here. A baby boy, her unexpected bundle of joy, she said. Right away, I noticed the surfing trophies showcased in a line just like mine. Our crooked noses left no doubt. He reached over to his nightstand and grabbed the novel he’d been reading at night.
“Good night,” his wife said, turning out her light and rolling over. “Good night,” he said. He opened the book and began reading where he’d left off, but he couldn't remember what had happened in the previous chapter. Just as well. He’d lost interest in this story anyway. He closed the book and thought about his job, how it bored him and how he dreaded going to work in the morning. He reached over, put the book on his nightstand and turned out his light. Angrily, the strongman turned off CNN, the news-channel he loved to hate. Last segment was from a Halloween-costume store. Past few days, henchmen promised him the costume resembling the European yellow baby-blimp, a likeness of him wearing a safety-pinned diaper, would be a top-seller this year, even beating the statistics of inauguration-crowd.
But little children found it amusing, not scary. Giggling, they would kick it around the store like a football. Fuming, he photo-shopped his own image clad in a skeleton costume, captioned “Booo-oo-oo”, and tweeted to migrant-caravan, thousand miles away. It was 3-00am on the “Day of the Dead”. Officer Henry knew it was him, deep in his bones, the way only a companion of the womb knows.
Racing to the scene, he cursed himself for temporarily housing the reprobate. He entered to a frantic jeweler shouting, “He’s trapped in the back office!” Officer Henry quickly ushered him to the storefront sidewalk. Minutes later, the first responding officer returned and said, “He’s secure. I’ll do a perimeter search.” He vanished round the corner. The jeweler stood thunderstruck as within moments Officer Henry materialized at his side. Blaring sirens announced backup that would soon find an impossibly empty office. The passage was gloomy, the mist swirling as water collected on the ground. Roland held tighter to his Daddy’s hand.
“So, the ancient ones built the tunnel directly from the Pyramid of the Moon to the under-world, son.” Splash, splash. “Don’t wanna go there, Daddy.” The five-year-old pulled back on his hand, but the man strode on. The minimal light faded, then they left the passageway. Roland shielded his eyes as a blinding flash illuminated the night. Indiana Jones pulled the boy away from the road. “Mind the cars, son. Look there’s McDonalds. Do you wanna Big Mac and fries? The ritual of Santa Muerte concluded The Day of the Dead celebrations. A "husband" pretended to be dead and was carried in an open coffin to the local cemetary, his black-caped "mourning widow" leading the entire village in a drunken cortege. The local priest would then conduct a graveside "ceremony". Just as the coffin was lowered, the "deceased" husband would leap out, miraculously alive, and kiss his wife. This time, the coffin was lowered and the husband leapt out – but couldn't find his wife's mouth to kiss. Then he saw the scythe. "I've waited so long for this," she said. In Mexico, the Grim Reaper is usually female, generally 'La Catrina'.
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"Classic"
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