Snap. Selfie. Snap. Eye picture. Snap. Giggle. Snap. Sponge Bob tells your future selfie. You’ll be a dentist. Snap. Bunny ears and Bambi eyes. Snap. How-hot-are-you selfie (hopeful answer: 8 of 10). Snap. Closed hand behind a metal fence image. Snap. Unopened. No response. Heart racing. Snap. Pause. Why did she leave me unopened? Snap. Baby giraffe dancing. Still unopened. Snap. Do they even like me? Snap. Snap. Why did I send such a stupid picture? Snap. My life is over. Snap. “Where r u?” Snap. Football ref emoji. Snap. “Cool”. Snap. Can breathe again. Not alone. Snap. Snap. Snap.
Felicity climbed the football stadium's steps, glanced down and froze. It was him: her dad. Her dad, who'd left home three years ago for drinks with the boys and never returned. What's more, he was looking up, smiling and waving.
Heart racing, Felicity returned the gesture, did an about-turn and rushed down the steps. As she reached the lower level, a woman flashed by. The woman went up and hugged the man. "Great seeing you again," the man said. Felicity caught a glimpse of his face, clearer now. Her heart sank. It wasn't her dad. The search would go on. The security guard in a striped uniform stood on the hillside. It had been a slow night.
This is a boring waste of time, he thought with his back to them. These three guys are going nowhere. As he gazed down at the city lights, his reverie was interrupted by quiet talking. It sounded like a conversation. Only the last line could be heard distinctly: “Today, you shall be with me in paradise.” The guard turned around just as dawn was at hand. Bored no longer, he deliberately raised his arm and signaled approval. Thumbs up: The Son also rises. For Jack, life in prison was a relief. For the first time in his life, he had no responsibilities. No rent. No car insurance. No walking the dog. No poopie bags. Jack was happy and free. Even more, he was free of Sheila. It had taken him years to realize how much of a prisoner he had been on the outside. And while prison seemed extreme to his friends, Jack knew the truth of the adage: extreme circumstances call for extreme measures. Besides, he would be out in a few years, and only he knew where the money was buried.
A conductor bellows from atop a red, double deck tour bus: “Ladies and gentlemen, to your right, you will notice one of the referees.
But not just any referee. Indeed, his name is Ted Bixby and he is smiling for he just signed a ten-year, 225-million dollar contract, to be the field umpire with the fledgling International Football League." Just what made him in such demand? Ted said plainly, ‘‘It’s simply my ability to see everything in slow motion. That means ‘no instant replay,’ no huddling with the other referees and certainly no need for conference calls to New York.” The star prize. That’s what he calls himself. Bursting at the seams with DIY dreams.
Living with him is like a constant rerun of a 1980s game show. Dollies beaming ‘n wheeling a speedboat or motorhome, all promises without delivery, proclaiming, “look at what you could have won.” The star prize frustrates me. If lips could build a stadium, they would come but then he flashes his winning smile and makes my tea as I like it during the Super Bowl break. The star prize is outstanding in his field of being a decent ol’ skin. And that’s official. I learned this week about the multiverse: a theory suggesting parallel worlds exist outside of our galaxy. You would’ve said it reminded you of a superhero movie.
I rub the old picture between my thumb and index finger. Your arm raised in a genial wave, a smile playing on your lips. Did you like to referee in other timelines too? Or did you keep playing—the muscles in your right arm intact—because you were never forced to stop? Maybe that mass never appeared on an x-ray. Anyway, I just like the idea of you still alive somewhere in time. There he is!
So cheerfully black and white, he loves reffing. And whew. No blood or grass stains, no accidental tackles today. ‘Ready to go?’ I holler. He holds up a fist. It opens, closes like a clamshell. What? Is he waving bye? Throwing a football signal? My hands form a blowhorn. ‘Honey, meet me at the car.’ The fist opens. Slowly, as if that’d help, I mouth: ‘Wanna go ssstraight hooome?’ The first closes. ‘Or stop sssomewhere tooo eat?’ Suddenly, dimples. That smile. Touchdown. The End Zone Steakhouse — his favourite — it is. “He was a good man, a role model,” they said.
My black gloves received sympathy- flowers and kisses that whole afternoon. Our tall brave sons; the contours of childhood disappearing, stood at each side of me, pressed into my flanks. In our town, my man patrolled the football scene. Hooligans and bullies backed off and behaved when he demonstrated his warrior’s prowess with his raised fist. I never missed a game—cursed, screamed, whistled, whooped on his tiger qualities. I should have cheered his soul-level gentleness, his playfulness, and his kindness. It was these emotional qualities that made him great. Everyone hated Butch, defensive tackle on the Red team; a bear who craved the sound of crushing bones and the sight of dirt and blood. Many offensive players were rushed to the emergency room after a Butch tackle, some with head injuries. We were tired of his sh*t. Andrew was a game official with an angelic demeanor – the perfect cover for an assassin. Today, Andrew snuck Ex Lax into Butch’s pregame snack pack. When Andrew strutted past the bleachers with his fist held high, we knew that Butch would be benched in the bathroom – at least for one game.
He caught a football once. No one roared, there was no action replay on the big screen.
He’d been throwing the ball against a wall all day long, letting it roll back along the ground to his feet. He’d been feeling down. The ball he had wasn’t even a proper one. It was weird. American. Yet trying in a rush of emotion to throw the ball with hope, then clutching the rebound against his chest, ignited something. A feeling he would carry close for years to come. At 11:40 p.m. shards of ice tumble onto D deck.
Holding a melon-shaped chunk, sportsman Gladwell challenges strolling passengers. “A football match. Losers shout winners to last call.” In the first class dining room, Mme. Gladwell delights in the band’s new waltz, Songe d’Automne. Then angers: A maiden voyage… to repair a sundered marriage, wasting itself in hooligan antics. Amidship, engines growl like wounded beasts facing slaughter. Gladwell thrills to the players’ cheering, cautions an exuberant midfielder against rough play. Alarm flares splatter fiery stains over inky water. Casual North Atlantic swells wait to gather the losers, taunt the winners. “Excuse me. I need help finding a pair of jogging shoes.”
“I’m sorry. I can’t help you with that.” “Why not? Don’t you work here?” “At ‘Foot Locker?’ No, I’m afraid not.” “But you’re wearing a striped shirt.” “That’s because I’m on my way to work a football game. See this on my shirt? It’s the letter ‘U.’ That means I’m an umpire, not a Foot Locker employee. Their shirts don’t have the ‘U’ on them.” “I thought umpires did baseball and referees did football.” “Football has one of each.” “I don’t know . . . Adidas or Nikes?” “(Sigh.)” Why should I miss out on the fun? Ineligible, sadly – Ed. Dan, on an office team-bonding zoo visit, has had a little too much beer. Stopping at the “Zebra Enclosure”, he reckons they’ll like his striped shirt.
‘Hi, there!’ he yells. Making loud donkey noises, he insists he can translate and pretends that the zebras and he are meeting up for beer and pizza later. They move on to the lions, but the enclosure is being repaired and visitors are not allowed. Drunken Dan, though, is having none of it, and somehow finds his way inside. He quickly discovers that lions like his shirt, too. They don’t wait for pizza. You can freeze-frame the exact moment. The timer reads 2:43 pm. It's one small moment when security is relaxed. That the special guest turned out to be the President of the United States is barely credible, yet there he strides, there he smiles, and there, at precisely 2:43 pm, he raises his arm in a gesture of solidarity with those both sides of the great divide. And how often over these past nine days has that face been magnified, probed, the eyes zoomed-in on as though they contained the code to hope itself. By 2:44 pm of course the President was dead.
The capacity-filled stadium exploded with thunderous applause and cheering as the Jumbotron spotlighted two young people seated at the thirty-yard line. The man knelt on one knee, offering a ring to his sweetheart. She accepted. He rose and swept her into his arms for a kiss. The umpire called a timeout and trotted to the sideline to signal his approval. The crowd continued to chant, “Kiss, kiss, kiss.” The camera zoomed closer. The engaged couple happily obliged. The cloudy skies parted, the sun shone brightly, the home team won, and the smiling umpire knew he had made the right call.
Good, children, see, you cut with scissors very well. Once we cut the gray strips, we'll sew them to the brown, white, and black strips. See how all the colors blend? Can you tell what's underneath? No? That's because it's camouflage, class. Yes, this is our class – an art class. I am your art teacher in school, right? And you are my students, right? Yes, little one, your moms and dads are also my students. I taught them to make cocktails - special cocktails for the party we'll have when we jump from behind the camouflage and yell 'Surprise!'
“Hey, you blind? What a bum call!”
The heckler is in the stands far away from the action, supporting his team. I am down here near it. I can see what he can’t, and I must be impartial. The situation isn’t as clear-cut as he thinks. I wish calls really were as black and white as my shirt. But this game is like real life: often, the closer you get to a problem, the grayer it appears. “I’m finished arguing,” I say calmly. “Finished with games, finished with you.” And I leave.
Days later, he calls. Wants to meet. Arms folded, heart guarded, I agree to listen. His demeanor sincere- eyes filled with tears. There’s an honest, heartfelt apology. Cockiness gone. No games. It’s real. A gentle hand upon my face. A passionate kiss. There’s a pleading in the way he holds me. My lips respond. “Have dinner with me,” he asks. My favorite dessert already set out. I step into our bedroom, place my still packed suitcase in the closet- and join him at the table. Marcus skulked in the alleyway's obsidian shadows. His mark, Anderson, would soon exit the club, opposite.
Two hoodies approached, noticing Marcus only by his cigarette's tourmaline glow. "Spare a fag, mate?" one asked. Marcus flicked the butt at the impudent youth's feet. "Don't smoke," he answered, tugging down his Breton cap. Suitably offended, the hoodies extracted identical penknives. Marcus' black peacoat fell open revealing his Glock's handle, nearby arc-sodium light winking, threatening. The youths scarpered; Marcus refocused. Shortly, the target descended the club's steps. Collar up, blending into shadows, Marcus followed. Moments later, Anderson bled out, ignorant of his crime. I await my doctor’s phone call with both dread and eagerness.
I had logged into the patient portal last night and saw the abnormal lab results. I’ve been living in a daze, a haze of worry ever since. Did they catch it in time? Will surgery be enough? My stomach has been in knots and I didn’t get a wink of sleep all night. Will I live or die? What will my fate be? At last. The phone is ringing. Thirty years. That's how long we'd been together. She was dependable in a way that was no longer fashionable.
We'd all loved her, but I'd known her the longest and took her loss the hardest. "I'll never find another like her," I told my son. I didn't miss his eye roll. "What?" I asked, more than a little miffed. "There are many out there that serve the same purpose." "Yes, for a year or two at the most. Then they give up on us." "Dad, it's only a microwave. You'll survive." In that moment, I didn't know him at all. It’s getting awfully close to the end.
The end of this sentence. The end of this story. The end of this world. Emphasis on "this". There’s always another. Another sentence in a story, another story in a world, another world in a universe chock-full of them. Or so this little girl, huddled up between piles of pillows she pretends are her parents, writes in sloppy handwriting in her journal to comfort herself as she sees the end of this approaching through her window. Once upon a time there was a poet who, warmed by a brazier's glow amidst the devastation of war, stared at tear-blurred words strewn like victims of inadequacy across a page.
How many people are going to read this nonsense? he wept. What difference is my plea for peace going to make in this vacuum created by violence? How is this going to help my family? His fist clenched around the paper, crumpling it before he tossed it onto the fire. Then he seized his rifle and turned to face the cold. Once upon a time there was a soldier... |
"Classic"
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