Stuck at the Traveler's Inn

From a creativity challenge; the theme was 'loss.'

The mirror shook as a Semi rumbled by out front. Frank tapped his yellowed fingernails on the microwave and stared at the dingy wall. He turned to look in the room. The loose-jointed, cigarette burned furniture could be traded out for newer, but the walls had a patina that yet another coat of paint just couldn't cover. From the nicotine stained curtains, to the psychedelic clouds of corroded silvering creeping at the edges of the mirror, the room was more than 'lived in,' the dark film of 'suffered in' was on everything.

No one aspired to be a weekly tenant at the Traveler's Inn, it was the kind of thing that snuck up on you. The place was usually quiet, especially the weeks when the cops hadn't come. Frank couldn't remember exactly how long he'd been in the room, or at the motel for that matter. He thought he had moved once from one room to another. There were a lot of things he couldn't quite put his finger on lately.

A king sized bed, two chairs, a table, a small fridge and the microwave for a hundred and twenty five bucks a week. He paid four weeks at a time even though he didn't have to. Since he only got a check once a month, it was safer to have his room all paid. They changed the sheets and vacuumed the floor, but the sad air never seemed to circulate.

Though it had hummed fine when he first arrived, the microwave sounded broken. Frank's life was kind of like that; it used to just hum along and now there was a grinding noise in the background. It wasn't bad yet, but it was just enough noise that he knew it would eventually stop working. Worse was the feeling that something was missing, but not really knowing what. The timer dinged at him expectantly. Damn, he'd gotten so far in his head about the grinding that he'd forgotten until just then that he was hungry.

He jumped when the steam rolled out of the styrofoam container to nip at his fingers. From the dusty milk crate on the floor, he pulled out a roll of paper towel. After he had torn off a couple sheets and carefully folded the towels into layers, he stopped to wonder why he had wanted the towels. He might have just blown his nose and sat down again, but the oven door was ajar. He saw the steaming clamshell and remembered. Thoughts just didn't stay with him like they used to. They seemed to sneak up behind him, tap his opposite shoulder and then giggle when he got distracted.

He tugged the clamshell out over the paper towels like a hot pad. Frank carefully turned and walked the long way around the bed to where the table was. After tussling with the chair, careful not to bump the table where he'd set is his food down, he backed up to the chair. His old legs wouldn't let him sit down like a gentleman anymore, so he gingerly bent at the waist and knees, concentrated on lowering himself slowly. He grabbed at the chair's arms to make sure that he was aimed at it. About six inches above the chair, the ache in his knees got bad and his hips let go, he plopped into the chair. It wasn't good for the rest of him, especially his back, but it was the only way down.

He scooted the chair so that he couldn't see himself in the mirror. When he'd had a desk job he never liked facing the wall; though he'd had to a few times. If he happened to catch sight of himself in that big, corroded mirror, he felt like he was living in some kind of fish bowl. The last couple jobs Frank had weren't real jobs. They had just gotten an old man by for a time. He knew he had built things before and worked in a hospital once.

Steam rolled up off the noodles when Frank flipped open the container. Pork Lo Mein from Mark's. He liked Chinese food; didn't know why. It helped that Mark's was right next door. It was a ridiculous name for a Chinese place, but Amy, Mark's wife, talked a lot and was real nice. She and Mark were both actually Chinese, but had taken American names. Mark had been Mark for so long that even when he decided to open his own restaurant, it could only be Mark's. Frank was always more than welcome there and he didn't have to go far. Once, when he was sick, Amy had brought Hot and Sour Soup to him every day for a week. They even let him pay for the soup at the end of the month. There used to be a lot of people that came by, but Frank didn't think he saw too many of them anymore.

When he was loneliest, it was nice to have other tenants around, just to hear people walking outside or talking; sometimes yelling. Even the ones who were a little noisy weren't bad when Frank was having a rough night. There was a TV on the low dresser, but Frank almost never turned it on. He'd rather listen to the radio. He couldn't always remember the station he liked. Their tower was out behind a school and he could see it from the sidewalk outside his room, but no one had thought to post the frequency on the tower. Most days, he just listened to his neighbors outside and the noises at the edge of the city.

There was a neighbor who drove a truck and was only around a few days a month; a couple next door who always argued; even a mom and a couple kids in one of the rooms toward the office. Every once in a while, some hard looking guy would land there after just getting out of jail. Some of those guys were fine, but most of them kind of scared everybody. None of them stayed long.

One of the ex-cons had been real nice to Frank though. Jerry liked to talk about the meditation he had learned in prison. Really, he just liked to talk and told Frank all about having dropped out of school, the drugs and stuff, kidnapping that woman, and how he thought meditation had helped him settle down. Jerry had checked on Frank almost as often as anyone, then one day Jerry just never came back. Ben and Judith, the manager couple that lived out back, had to clean out the room and gave away what Jerry had left. Frank hadn't gone up to see the empty room.

Frank's room was a little dirty, but Vanny was coming tomorrow. He couldn't remember Vanny's whole name because he only called her Vanny. She had come from somewhere far away. He could tell she was Oriental but didn't want to hurt her feelings by asking about it again. Every week, Vanny came and changed the sheets, cleaned the bathroom and vacuumed a little. Once in awhile, he would give Vanny a little money to clean the little refrigerator out. There was never much in the fridge except cheap beer, leftover Chinese food and milk for his Mini Wheats.

Frank had been uneasy all day. He couldn't place it, but when he looked around the room, he felt out of sorts. Something nagged at the back of his mind. He was sure that something was missing but he couldn't think of what it was.

The Lo Mien cooled as Frank looked around the room. He had to start from scratch when he was having trouble remembering. The door was closed, the curtains drawn. He knew the carpet stain just inside the door. It was a simple square room but for the encroaching space of the bathroom. To the left of the bathroom was a nook with a counter and sink, and that mirror above them. On the wall opposite the bathroom was a rack to hang your clothes. The rack used to have those special hangers with just a little ball on top, but they were long gone and Frank's two coats hung off each end. Left of the rack was the microwave sitting on top the small fridge, then a nightstand, and the big headboard that hung from the wall rather than off the bed. Between the bed and the window, was the table where he sat.

He fidgeted, plinking at the edge of the stryofoam with a finger, trying to think. It seemed like the missing thing was something that he needed or that he had always had with him. A hollow feeling oozed into him when he thought he might never know. He couldn't remember stuff, how could he ever find it if he didn't know for sure that anything was gone? Frank had stewed on it long enough that he decided it was something precious. He knew that it was terribly important that he find whatever it was. His stomach grumbled and he felt sick just thinking about the missing thing. He looked down at the cool, congealed Lo Mein and realized he had been going to eat.

Frank pushed himself up off the chair to get a beer. He'd be up and down to the bathroom all night, but he needed another drink. Maybe it would quiet the nagging thoughts. It occurred to him to take a leak while he was up and he ambled slowly passed the foot of the bed. It was then that the little plastic orange caught is eye. It was sitting on top the television. When he had found the orange at the Goodwill store, someone told him it was used to catch fruit flies. It reminded him of Florida. He always thought he'd get to Florida. Frank just liked to look at it. He didn't have any damn fruit flies anyway.

Someone knocked on the door and scared him half to death. Nobody ever knocked. Well, Vanny knocked once a week when she cleaned but not this time of day. He turned toward the door and there was another knock.

“Mr. Frank, are you in there?” Vanny called.

Vanny. What is she doing here? He flipped the chain off the door and turned the knob. Vanny stood out on the cracked sidewalk with her granddaughter. The cute little kid had been cleaning with Vanny since Vanny's daughter started waiting tables again.

“Mr. Frank. So sorry. She took your boat.”

The little girl looked sheepish. As sheepish as a four year old could look when she knew she was cute enough to get away with almost anything. The little girl smiled at Frank with her glistening dark eyes.

The little ceramic boat was exactly what he'd been missing. It was a cartoon-looking tugboat sitting on a little patch of ocean waves; all primary colors, red and yellow, orange and blue. More than a little silly for an old man to keep around. On the port side, a ribbon banner floating across the waves said “Love You Boatloads.” Frank just stared.

Suddenly, he could remember the whole bit. He remembered a summer long ago and he remembered her. They had walked along the river at St. Joe arm in arm for weeks. More than a whirlwind romance, they met and were like old friends straight away. They were inseparable in a clichéd summer romance movie kind of way. Many couples reach a lazy kind of détente where neither is very happy but neither can imagine any other, better possibility. Lucky couples manage to settle into a casual joy. Deep in his gut, Frank remembered their unassuming, easy joy. His brain twisted and cramped to remember her name.

St. Joseph sat on a bluff over a beautiful white sand beach on Lake Michigan. The city had swanky boutiques, touristy souvenir shops and lots of restaurants. Frank knew they had eaten out all over town, but especially at the Chinese place. Frank was motionless as he fell deep into the moment he first saw the boat.

They had been eating Lo Mein and Spring Rolls in the middle of the afternoon. She had wanted to go into the shop next door. It was a garish tourist trap, but she had forgotten her sunglasses and wanted a cheap pair. Frank waited in the beach town sidewalk sunshine. Inside, she searched the racks for a reasonable looking pair of sunglasses among the bright colors, star shapes, and over-sized lenses. At the counter, while the clerk cut the tag off a pair she'd found, she noticed the tugboats.

Frank could still see her dance out of the store. She moved like an avatar. Her hair and her cotton dress flowed around her like an aura. The earth seemed to tilt to the gravity of her presence. She put a hand on his collarbone and her face shined up into his.

“I got something for you,” she said and presented him the tugboat.







“Mr. Frank. You OK?”

Vanny looked worried. The little girl strained as tall as her arms would reach, still holding the tugboat to him. Frank didn't know how long he had stood there. His legs were heavy, he'd become some sad statue built for all the broken hearts of the world. He smiled, more a grimace.

“Oh ... sorry ... thanks,” he managed to say.

“I should not have let her play with it, Mr. Frank. And then she took it home. We're sorry.”

“Vanny, I . . .” Frank struggled. “It's OK. Don't worry about it.”

Frank took the tugboat from the little girl. It felt as heavy as a medieval altar icon. He smiled at the little girl. She will break hearts someday he thought.

“OK, see you tomorrow. I just had to bring it back right away, Mr. Frank.”

“Thanks, Vanny,” he called after her as she walked back to her car, her bleach cracked hand on the girl's shoulder.

Frank carried the tugboat back to the dusty TV and placed it next to the plastic orange. Just as he set it down, he remembered the pain and the tug had suddenly glowed red hot. He could see the wrinkles on the chest of his shirt where she grabbed it in her fists, crying for him not to go. He thought she would change her mind and come along, but she just cried in the driveway as he left. She hadn't changed her mind at the last minute and he was stuck. It was a blindly selfish assumption and he had got it all wrong. He had never liked gambling but ended up betting his happiness on a sure thing that backfired.

Suddenly, the urgent need to pee. Frank struggled to get into the bathroom and undo the front of his pants. It was always like this now. He thought he was about to burst and then . . . nothing. He waited patiently, staring at the black and white tiles. There was no reason in straining. His prostate would let a little by in a minute. He chuckled about the “stolen” tugboat. There was one last little pain and he heard the pitter patter of relief. The worst was this tortured waiting, he thought.

Satisfied he had peed all that he was going to, Frank zipped his pants and walked back into his room. He grabbed a beer out of the fridge and shuffled to the radio. What was that damn station number? He nudged the dial one way and then the other until a decent sounding song crackled through the tiny speaker. He sat down at the table and shoved his half eaten supper out of the way. Cleaning up could wait.

Today was alright, he thought. Sipping at the beer, he threw his left foot over onto the edge of the bed. He felt kind of good today for some reason. Damned if he could remember exactly why, but he'd take it.

Sticky Acrid Dread

It had been a pretty good day before the voicemail. Tara had been productive at work. Nothing bad, nor overly good, had happened, and now she was home. The kind of day that was as mundane, and as joyful, as a warm breeze in your hair. Besides having to deal with the occasional detail of a bankruptcy and a divorce, life was fine.

After nine years, a few of them happy, she and Rich had called it quits. Actually, she had moved out. For a couple months, she had quietly moved things into a little storage unit across town, planning for the day it got bad enough or she got brave enough to just leave. Rich's drinking had made the last three and a half years or so excruciating. She had tried everything; screaming and yelling, crying and begging, supporting and caring.

She had managed to get him into counselling a couple times and there was a helpful psychologist at the hospital. Helpful to her perhaps more than to Rich, but help anyway. Rich had been in the emergency room in medical danger from the booze several times that summer. The hospital didn't do rehab, but they would keep him for a week or so to dry him out. While Rich was there he had people to talk to and things to think about. Each time, what first seemed like a new beginning quickly dissolved into the same old hell.

Tara had moved out three months ago. Rich had racked up tens of thousands of dollars of medical bills, even after insurance. The last three years had been enough, she wasn't going to take care of the co-pays too. She had talked Rich into doing a bankruptcy before a divorce. She knew that he had gone along with the former to possibly prevent the latter, but lawyers abounded in her life. The bankruptcy had just gone through and the divorce was coming next.

Then this morning, the voicemail. By lunchtime, she had gotten brave enough to listen. Rich had simply asked her to call. He sounded healthy, if that was possible to determine in the span of a short message. He had even been sober when he called. It was just that she dreaded returning the call. Hopefully it was just some detail about the divorce that wasn't quite complete. She couldn't imagine what he wanted or why he hadn't elaborated. Rich had simply said, "Hey, Tara. Rich. Could you call me when you get a chance?"

Tara could almost detect a false optimism in Rich's voice. It hung on her phone like fresh paint on a dirty wall. She hoped he was just healthy enough to purposely try and sound positive. Still, a little echo of something else hung on in the silent moment before he had hung up the line.

She'd been home more than an hour. After the grocery store, she had laid out all the ingredients for supper on the counter, but hadn't begun to prepare anything. Twice she had hit the button, lighting the little screen, but both times she just stared and let the the phone go dark again. The thick paste of dread on her fingers prevented them dialing. The thought of talking to Rich gave her stomach a sticky, acrid feeling. Nevertheless, like tearing off a band-aid, on the third try, she dialed in a rush as soon as the screen lit, just to get it over with.

Rich had moved back in with his family. His parents and two brothers, none of them were particularly healthy or well adjusted themselves. They were not equipped to help the prodigal Rich. Tara worried that his drinking would just continue unabated. Rich's father answered the phone.

"Hang on I'll get him." The father had said.

The abandoned handset collected the familiar sounds of her soon-to-be-ex in-laws' house. There was a rustle in the kitchen; that would be Mom. A television was on, that would be brother Geoff. Dad's boots clomped across the dining room floor and Tara heard him call upstairs to Rich.

The rhythm of Rich's ambling gait approached. The phone would be laying on the desk in what used to be the dining room. There wasn't room for a table any longer, just two desks and a bench. The house was so small, especially now with five people living in it. Tara heard a scratchy fumbling as Rich picked up the phone.

"Hello, Tara?"

Tara couldn't speak. Rich was more than obviously drunk. His dad hadn't even warned her. Had it become so normal in the tiny house that it hadn't occurred to him to mention? She stood in her own kitchen, not able to decide whether to throw the phone against a wall or collapse on the linoleum and cry.

"Tara?"

She took a jerking breath, fighting against the weighty dread. In his stupor, Rich held the phone too close to his face. Tara sensed the heat of his stale breath against her cheek. He was miles away but she could smell the whiskey, and his dirty teeth. With a strained hollow gurgle, he drug air down his torpid throat. His alcohol addled breath thrummed against moist curtains of saliva in his sickeningly drunk mouth.

"Tara," he repeated. "Are you sure you want to go through with this divorce thing?"

He had practiced the line for days, she was sure. Rather than a dramatic flourish, however, the words had come out like junior high theater - one part Broadway come on, three parts primal fear. Her brain could not catch up to the audacity of his drunk question. The phone line went silent as an ancient temple. A lone pebble skittered from the cave wall of her soul and ticked randomly down a bottomless crevasse. Anger, confusion, even loneliness, ached in her throat as if she had swallowed a glowing coal.

"Yes," she finally said. "Yes, Rich, this is something that I have to do . . . for me. For my own survival."

Just then she heard a faint puffing whoosh as the pilot light of her heart re-lit. There was a little spread of warmth inside her chest and she hung up the phone. Her own life had begun again.

Eve of Compassion

This post is out of sync with the seasons, but its part of a Creative Challenge my friend Emily and I set up to spur each other on and get our creative juices flowing. This week's theme is "Joy."



The compassion of a child is finely tuned; right and wrong, fair and square appear in stark contrasts. Kids can be cruel to each other for sure, but they also display great clarity when something isn't as it should be; isn't fair. I wrote a story a while ago based on the insight of a child. We would all do well to keep such an innocent view of how things should be.

It had not been a very snowy Christmas. I wasn't yet a teenager. The snow that had been so clean and white when it fell, was turned over, run down, and muddied. The whole world, under the dirty slush, seemed shop-worn and tired.

The houses on our block were a diverse cast of characters. Next door a retired couple's immaculately trimmed landscaping culminated in a gurgling fountain centered perfectly in their backyard. There were other houses with nice yards, but those tidy porches and neat lawns suffered with contractor trucks and kids' bikes parked in their drives. There was a little old lady across the street whose house was nice but only occasionally looked after by her far flung family. Two large Catholic families meant lots of kids for us to play with. At one end of the block was a nicely kept stone mansion with a Dairy Queen just beyond it next door. Into the next block at the opposite end was the Dawson Mansion. The once palatial manse of a local car manufacturer, it had been split into several apartments and was run down in all the predictable ways.

We were preparing for the Christmas Eve service at church. It was a midnight mass, but most of the sermon was the singing of Christmas hymns. The pastor let people shout out requests by the hymnal numbers; a popular service by a popular pastor. We'd had our Christmas Eve fondue supper; a family tradition. After cleaning up and dressing for the slightly less formal church event, I was milling around the house waiting for everyone else to get ready when I heard the fire truck's siren. Such a terrible thought – a fire on Christmas Eve.

The siren persisted and it soon seemed I could hear sirens from several directions. The blaring racket told of a large fire. Perhaps a number of departments had had to respond. I started to imagine the tragedy. A weight caught in my throat as I swallowed dryly. I could almost taste the smoke.



Mom found me in the sun porch staring out at the drab night through the expanse of windows; listening to the approaching sirens. As she put her arm on my shoulder, we hardly dared speak of the thoughts racing in each our heads. The painful lump, more in my chest than in my throat, would have made it impossible to speak anyhow. We just stood silently and stared out into the street.

Lights came roaring around the corner. A firetruck careened noisily off the Main Street. The weight of our empathy grew heavier as we imagined someone we knew having a fire. The firetruck stopped in front of the one house most out of character on the street. A poorer family lived in a decent house made ramshackle by comparison. Their lawn was more dirt than grass and there was obviously no money for such frivolity as sprucing up the porch or painting the siding. We tried not to squint into the darkness for smoke or fire.

Just then, Santa Claus leapt off the back of the firetruck, jogged across the muddy lawn with a great sack on his back and banged on the door. Dumbstruck, our sorrow had evaporated. We were stupid with relief; embarrassed as joy swelled in our hearts. We'd been had.

The front door opened slowly and the mother of the house swooned with her own joy and relief. Santa must have asked to see the kids. There was a young boy and a younger girl and a couple teenagers. As they each came to the door, Santa dug through his sack for a present. Mom and I watched, dumbfounded, as the human spirit shined – brighter than the piercing lights of the firetruck idling in the street. Someone had wrapped presents and coded them by gender and age range. Santa was visiting families all over town. Families that had known there would be no joy on Christmas were finding some anyway. As the firetruck blared passed our house, all the fireman, and especially the one dressed up as Santa, were smiling from ear to ear. I guffawed, choking back a sob as a chuckle. Our incredible emotional journey felt like a spin on the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Later, as people shouted out hymnal page numbers in the candle lit sanctuary, I basked in the spirit of the season. It wasn't about getting stuff, it wasn't even about giving stuff, it was about spreading joy and goodwill – to everyone.

The Smell of Cobblestones.

He had never told her that he spoke Spanish. It was a guilty pleasure to listen to her speak it. They had walked arm in arm for weeks, through the plazas of Cartagena's old city. Her broken English sufficed when they talked. Her Spanish melted the hard edges of his frozen heart when he only listened. They walked the three legged walk of lovers as she described the clouds, the smell of the street food, or the ugliness of a woman his gaze had lingered on; as if he could not understand. A mundane narration made delicious in her smoky accent.



On a stroll one day, she had been testy and tired. Pressing on, she had drug him with a hint of urgency through the now familiar colonial streets. Swiftly, they had passed through a half dozen of their favorite plazas, until she had found a stone bench in a dark corner of the Plaza Bolivar. They sat, rested and halfheartedly began to kiss.



Darkness encroached on the vivid, busy city. In the midst of the fading color and clamor, they had found a nearly invisible spot all their own. Exhausted, she cooed her soft Spanish syllables, but could only muster an old Tom Petty lyric:



"No tiene sentido pretender en

Tus ojos te delatan

Algo dentro de ti es sentir que puedo hacer

Hemos dicho todo lo que hay que decir"



Her breathe tickled passed his ear.



She traced the seam of his chinos with her finger. A bright red fingernail buzzed along the worn threads. She stretched an arm across his lap to caress his thigh.



A cold ooze of dread shocked him awake when she had dictated in a whisper "Llaves del barco en el bolsillo del pantalón derecho (boat keys in the right pants pocket)."



Hugging him gently, low on his torso, she leaned her head on his shoulder and paused her hand in the small of his back. The metallic finality in her voice scratched at his ears: "Sin armas (unarmed)."



Then soft again, already suffused with regret, she pleaded, "Trate de no matarlo . . . por favor (Try not to kill him . . . please)."



Faintly, a starched shirt strained against muscular shoulders, and, too late, he heard the airy whistle of a truncheon.







He woke in the shining sun, against the cobblestones. His nostrils pulled at the rich air of the plaza floor, damp cobblestones warmed in the late morning. Hints of the jungle in the decaying earth in which the stones were set. He had traveled the world and crossed oceans. There had been modern day pirates, thieves and third world bureaucrats. There had been storms, reefs and starvation. Yet, it was love that had tripped him again.



As he awoke, his heart argued with his head. The heart proclaimed she had been worth it.  The head wondered where his boat was and how he would get home. A plaza stray licked at his ear, begging breakfast.

===

Image lifted without permission from Lure Cartagena.

New Review

My dream job is listening to and writing about music.  Occasionally, I get to do this dream job volunteering over at WYCE on the CD Review Crew.  In order to get some momentum back for writing season, I thought I post my latest review here.  If you're quick and run over to the WYCE Music Journal, this review is the featured jazz review.  'Featured' simply because it is most recent.





Here's the review:

“I'll learn to work the saxophone / I'll play just what I feel.” Reunion brings together two great players after 40 years apart. At once like zen warriors stalking each other, and like old friends talking over martinis, Caliman and Christlieb mine their rich personal histories, mutual and otherwise, to forge an album of West Coast Cool.



On the Steely Dan track “Deacon Blues,” as Donald Fagen sings about working the saxophone – a track loaded with superstar sax players [Tom Scott, Wayne Shorter, Jim Horn, Bill Perkins, Plas Johnson, and Jackie Kelso], it is Pete Christlieb ripping the tenor solo throughout the song. Hadley Caliman was the older, wiser saxman who took Pete “under his wing” when Christlieb was only 20 years old and subbing in an LA jazz band.



Hadley Caliman and Pete Christlieb go way back – back to the heyday of the Central Avenue Scene in 1950's and 60's Los Angeles. Caliman made an early name practically imitating Dexter Gordon; earning the nickname “Little Dex.” He was an L.A. session stalwart, got into drugs, into prison, and into Santana's band. He eventually cleaned up and settled in the Pacific Northwest, teaching for twenty years at the Cornish College of Arts. Caliman is a radiant West Coast Player with a bit of East Coast edge. Christlieb was a “string bean” kid subbing in Bobby Bryant's band. The kid had chops, but got his history and bandstand etiquette playing next to Caliman. Christlieb went on to play with Woody Herman among others, and spent 20 years with Doc Severinson's Tonight Show Band.



Pianist Bill Anschell brings several original tunes including “Little Dex,” a tip of the hat to Caliman's early days. Each of our hosts brings a couple tunes. “Comencio” was written by Caliman in prison. He also brought the exotic, haunting “Gala.” The soulful “Dream On” and the burner “Nasty Green” both came from Christlieb. Beyond their pianist's other songs, they pick great covers in Cole Porters' “Love For Sale,” Freddie Hubbard's joyful “Up Jumped Spring,” and Johnny Mercer's “I Thought About You.” You'll be glad these two kindred spirits, long separated, have found each other again. Bookend “Wide Stance,” “Dream On,”or “Little Dex” with “Deacon Blues for a sweet time machine treat. “Love For Sale” is the Mother of all Sax Battles. Reviewed by Todd Townsend.

Esquire Fail

Esquire Magazine is 78 years old. They decided to celebrate by having a writing contest; a 78 word short short story contest. Apparently, Colum McCann, or whoever is vetting for him, didn't like mine.

That's cool. I have started a deliciously crazy love/hate relationship with Flash Fiction [a buzz word for short short fiction].  One of my short shorts appeared on Every Day Fiction.  Yet despite reveling in the haiku-esque simplicity of short shorts, I'm beginning to think that the next great novel [not remotely mine] is going to be lost on the rocks of the foreshortened attention span of the internet age. Setting revenue completely aside, if writers start to think that some idea is finished because it was succinct enough to be short, who will ever bother to write several hundred more pages?!?!

Despite all that, its fun. You should try it. Like any form of distillery, care must be taken not only with good quality ingredients, but with the process as well.

I've already written twice the words I wrote for Esquire. Here, dear reader, is my unaccepted short short:

He was supposed to be across the street in an hour, but had stumbled into an old haunt. Staring at fluid shapes as ice melted into amber liquid, he smiled wryly. It had been such a long time. He missed the smoky bite of Kentucky Bourbon. He missed the low tones people spoke. He missed the warm glow of nicotine stained sconces. He missed that nobody gave a goddamn what he was up to. He missed her call.

My man, Spike.

Damien had his numbers - the mark of the beast.  There are days I think I'm just a mark.  I've got one of those faces that panhandlers seem to love; the mark of a sucker.  It doesn't help that I decided a few years ago to greet people.  I like to wander the earth face first - head up.  Whether it's at the store or on the street, I say hello to people.  It's funny to watch the Average American, head down, face taut, staring at the ground to avoid any eye contact; looking a bit like they're constipated.  What was it George Carlin said about Richard Nixon?

As I'm stuck in this sucker face situation, I've developed a system.  I have a number in my head, some amount of money that I don't need.  Call it the Sucker Fund.  If I get hit up for spare change while the fund is flush, whoever asks ... gets it.  No questions.  I don't have to listen real close to their story.  I don't have to wonder if they are actually in some kind of trouble.  I don't worry if they are going to buy food for their kids or end up buying liquor.  That karma is on them.  My karma is just fine because I gave.  The Sucker Fund balance usually hangs around ten or twenty dollars.  One person might get it all or three people might share it over the course of a week.  When I'm having a bad week, the fund is broke, but as soon as I get paid, it's flush again.

There was a guy who hung around Meijer where I was working that tapped into the Sucker Fund a few times this Summer.  For the most part, however, I've been too busy to be around anyone who's begging for a bus ticket or gas to get home or whatever.   The Sucker Fund has been in surplus for a while now.  A couple Wednesday nights ago, as Art Prize began, that all changed.

I walked out of an Introductory Meditation Class at the Grand Rapids Zen Center and into a crowd.  From the serenity of the meditation hall, I stepped into pandemonium.  The Center is a wonderful oasis; exposed brick on one wall, an old wood floor,  and the smoke of incense creeping up a deep red tapestry behind the altar.  The candles, a singing bowl, and the staid ceremony are conducive, by design, to slowing down and pondering.  When I pushed open the door to leave, I was on the fringe of Art Prize - Opening Night.

The crowd on the sidewalk flooded around me like a snow-melt swollen creek.  They'd been to Art Prize and were done -- really done.  They'd spent more time and more money than they had meant to.  For some, they didn't see one thing in all that art that they could understand.  Now they had to walk six or eight blocks to find where they'd parked the damn car.  A totally different kind of energy.

I had my own trek back to my truck.  Swimming against everyone's haste, I stumbled toward the first corner to the east. But before I could round the corner, a man crossing the street caught my eye (face first, remember).  "Howdy" I said.

"Do you know where I can find a church that's . . . ."  his voice trailed off as he turned his head looking up the street.  Whatever else he said was swept away in the riparian confusion of the crowd.

He was a black man in his 60's.  His face was highlighted with grey stubble surrounding a goatee that had been trimmed up neatly.  When he spoke, his eyes glistened under a baseball cap and his teeth were kind of sprawled out from each other like they were running scared.  But the teeth were in good shape, he must have been doing all right, at least recently.  He reminded me of Spike Lee, a bit older.

"You know, I was up here to get something to eat.  They make it hard on ya now.  I had to walk eight miles to get up here to that shelter where they were serving food.  And my momma is a hundred and four years old.  She's at home with my granddaughter, and she's only five."

"That's quite a spread in ages," I offered.

"Yeah and you know I'm just trying to take something home to them.  Do you believe in God?"

"Huh?"

"You don't think you could spare a little? Just so I could take home a loaf of bread and some lunch meat or something."

His pitch reminded me that I had stopped by the bank on my way.  The suggested donation for the Intro Meditation Class was twenty dollars.  I had gotten another twenty just to last me the week.  In the tea session afterward, I had met some new folks, talked to several regulars, and had forgotten to leave my twenty bucks while I was there.  Meanwhile, I was not really listening to Spike Lee's pitch. I didn't really need to listen.

Coming back to the scene on the sidewalk, I heard him repeat the question "Do you believe in God?"  I'd love to give everyone the benefit of the doubt but spiritual talk suffuses the pitch of most panhandlers.  That's all fine, but it seems like some sort of political, or at least ecumenical pandering.

Spike Lee told me that he and the family had just moved from Milwaukee.  They were trying to find work.  He also said he was a pastor.  I like big cities.  I've been in and around them for a good part of my life.  I've seen enough little storefront gospel churches to figure that that part of his story was likely true.  All across this country there are little independent outposts scrabbling to pay rent on some retail space or renting a hall each week.  The administrators of the Sucker Fund held a quick board meeting.

"Used to be, you could arrive in a new town and be to work in a few days," he continued.  He'd seen my sucker mark.  He knew that I was good for it.  I had made eye contact with him, and even listened to most of his story without walking away.  His pitch went into full swing.  I just smiled.

"Today's your lucky day," I said abruptly. With the first sounds of my interrupting him, a doubtful line crossed his brow.  He had thought he was going to close on me; make the sale.  Now he worried.

Fiddling with my wallet and not showing too much, I pulled out the twenty that was meant for the temple's collection basket.  "Here, man. Good luck."

"Sweet Jesus, bless you. Thank you," he blurted.  And as if he couldn't resist, "You believe in God. Don't you?"

"That really doesn't matter. Does it?" I asked as I turned to head off toward my truck.

My man, Spike, couldn't have a clue where I had just come from.  I didn't know what his situation was.  I'd never walked even a block in his shoes, but I've been poor.  I've been down to brown rice and water more than once.  I know what that part feels like; not really knowing the next time some cash might roll your way. When you haven't got an extra dime, there's just no use in shopping.  He wouldn't know there was a temple in the storefront between the Coney Dog place and the Chinese buffet because it wouldn't have occurred to him to look.  It also wouldn't occur to him that there was any other way to live in America.  He hasn't walked in my shoes either.

There was a plaintive edge to his voice when he called after me as I left, "You do believe in God, don't you?" Maybe his story was mostly true.  I don't have to worry about it.