He Laughed

The old man opened the door to the coffee shop and took a step in my general direction. I looked up from the blank WORD document on my laptop and met his eyes as a stream of gibberish jetted from his mouth.

“Sorry, sir. You know the rules. You’re going to have to go outside.” From the demeanor of the barista who had come out from behind the counter (and who was probably no more than a college freshman) I could tell this was a regular thing. Despite the familiarity of the situation, I could detect a hint of cautiousness peeking behind his bravado. I wondered if the man, although probably homeless. had done something in the past to cause the trepidation the young man sought to hide from his voice.

The old man stared at the barista behind the counter, failing to comprehend the situation.

“C’mon, man. Don’t make me call the cops again.” The whiskers on his face hoped to project enough authority to defuse the situation before it escalated any further, as the citizens inside the coffee shop stopped what they were doing to watch the impromptu play put on by the actors.

As if a light bulb clicked on, the old man nodded and shuffled back outside to the familiar bench in front of the coffee shop.

And started to laugh.

He sat inches away from me, on the other side of the glass, laughing. A steady, machine gun stream of giggles that went on for such a period of time I felt like it had to be on a loop. I thanked God he had his back to me, sitting straight against the bench in front of the front window of the coffee shop. To witness such an example of lunacy would have invited me into the madness.

I had been coming to the local coffee shop to write for a couple of months now and saw the table next to the front window as my own. Here were the only two cushioned seats in the establishment, the rest of the tables and chairs nothing more than uncomfortable brown wood framed by a faded green something else. I would come in the early afternoon, before school let out and after the retired folks shuffled in to claim my spot and look out into the world. Writer’s block could not hold up to the world passing me by and I could always count on an interesting character walking by, the police performing official police matters or the weather as inspiration to shake me from my doldrums.

Today was different though, with the presence of the old man laughing. I guessed he was homeless, based on the amount of filth accumulated on black hoodie and the condition of the gray sweat pants he was wearing. I was in full knowledge of the condition of the man, because of my prime seating. Due to a cold I could not shake, I was surprised I was even able to hear the man; such was the congestion that had become an occupying force inside my head.

The laughter eventually sputtered out and I watched him as his head darted about, his eyes never settling on one object. Random tufts of white hair danced in the breeze he was creating and as his neck turned I noticed his right ear, specifically the amount of hair protruding from his right ear. If someone said an elderly squirrel had crawled into his ear for the upcoming winter I would have believed it on the spot. Wild white hair billowed about like the tentacles of a Kraken searching for its next meal.

A couple of years ago as I lay in bed with a former girlfriend, she absentmindedly commented on the random hairs pouring forth from my ear. I shot up in indignation, proclaiming I was too young to display such a condition. With a shrug that suggested a lack of interest in my words or my being, she told me I could think what I wanted, and the truth was in the mirror. I blew her off and concentrated on her literal reciprocation. The moment she left I retreated to the bathroom to face my fears.

Ever since I was a little boy I equated ear hair with old age. I can remember sitting next to my grandpa and looking with odd fascination at the bird’s nest residing inside. How could he possibly hear anything I was saying? As I grew older, my focus changed from my grandpa to my own father, watching him as he transitioned from a man to a senior. To me, the hair was the clock on which your time could be measured. The moment it arrived is the moment your clock started. Eventually the hair would reach its zenith and every second after would count. My grandpa had run out, my dad would be expiring soon enough.

I was no longer a boy.

The laughter started up again, spittle flying from his mouth with not a care in the world. He knew something, a secret that I did not possess. His age gave him insights, knowledge that one day I would have. The cost of which would be found on the calendar. My laptop remained open, an empty WORD document staring back at me. Not a thought could come to mind, only the obsession of watching this innocent lunatic laugh in the face of God knows what. For the second time that day the laughter died out and the man stood up. As casually as one can, I stared out the side of my eye and gawked at the insanity presenting itself to me.

The eyes nestled deep into his skull were larvae gray and his face displayed all the signs of a hard life. Grooves, scars, spots providing the atlas into his past. His lips were cracked, having been exposed to the elements far too long and the random teeth still claiming residence were a dark yellow. The skin hung loose from his neck and I had the feeling if I came across this man thirty years earlier I would probably recognize him. I suppose it was due to my staring that I failed to notice his staring back, alternating between the sight of me sitting and my laptop. My concentration was broken by the tapping of his crusty yellow fingers against the glass. With a jolt I sat at attention and looked at him. He tapped again and gestured for me to join him outside, on the bench.

I was once again a boy.

With great apprehension I looked around and found that no one else registered, or even showed a registration of the moment. The surrounding members of the coffee shop, drinkers and drinkees, were lost in their own world of reading, talking or working. Coming to my senses, I reminded myself I was not a little boy, I was a man and there was no danger lurking on the other side of the glass. I was a writer; there were tremendous gains for me in joining him on the bench. I stood up, confident in leaving my laptop where it was and opened the front door. With obvious effort the elderly gentleman slid to the right, providing me with more space than I needed.

The stench!

For the first time in my life I thanked God for my stuffy nose. If I could smell him through my current condition I couldn’t imagine the reality of the situation. He sat, staring straight ahead as I my slender frame grew acclimated to the harsh angles of the bench. Finding a comfortable position, I looked over at my new found friend, who continued to look beyond what I could see.

And so we sat.

And I waited.

The temperature was dropping and I realized I came out here only wearing a hoodie. The chill making its way up my spine was too much to ignore and I decided that no amount of creative inspiration was worth pneumonia. Before I stood up I turned around and saw someone had occupied my chair. He was staring at me and his fingers rested along the bottom of my laptop.

What the hell did he think he was doing?

I tried to jump up and instead rose tentatively and become overwhelmed by a phlegm filled cough that took forever to fully arrive. After enough germs were spread, I spat out the remaining nonsense and opened the front door.

Immediately I felt the unease as all eyes were on me. I took a couple of steps towards my seat and went to ask the kid what he thought he was doing at my computer but instead only gibberish poured out of my mouth.

“Sorry, sir. You know the rules. You’re going to have to go outside.”

I stared at the barista, who had come out from behind the counter, failing to comprehend the situation.

“C’mon, man. I just told you. Don’t make me call the cops again.”

As if a light bulb clicked on, I nodded and shuffled back outside to my familiar bench.

And I laughed.

 

Election Night

A dreary day descended into a depressing cold November night as Dale Whitmer sat on his bare mattress. He was new to town, new to the area and new to temperatures that fell below seventy. His soul was having a hard time adjusting to his unsavory surroundings, much like the critics had a hard time understanding his film. Leaving the “soon to have heat” one bedroom apartment a broker had procured for him the day before would be a chore, but his stomach could be silenced no longer. His options were simple—shake off the frostbite and leave his arctic abode or stay inside and chew on his frozen breath.

Dale chose option A.

Quite convenient for his present circumstances was a neighborhood bar down the block named, Etonner. Since he wasn’t looking for surf and turf and had no interest in trudging several blocks in his Burberry London Black Wool Single Breasted Trench Coat, the only jacket he ever owned, the quaint establishment would have to do. From the outside he could tell this would not be a most reputable of places. The awning that hung in front was weathered and no longer a confident green. The face of the bar was made up of ancient pinkish bricks that had been leaned upon, Dale surmised by the countless deadbeats who frequented this hole in the wall. He could see the cops arriving on scene to take away one drunk after another who attempted to headline their own main event.

Dale opened the door and several heads, along with the bartender, turned to look for a familiar face. As if belonging to a hive, immediate recognition that his particular face bore no resemblance to a regular came over the group and they resumed their drinking and carousing. Fine by Dale, he was there for a burger and a blast of hot air, preferably several blasts.

He walked up to the bar, already regaining sensation in his hands and asked the bartender for a table. When asked how many, Dale held up an index finger with not a hint of dirt underneath the nail. The bartender told him to take his pick of the many open tables to his right. He was a man in his early forties, Dale imagined, most likely a gym teacher who looked to earn extra money to support his family. Of course no one told him to have five kids, or to buy a house a little beyond his means. You are a product of your choices and this man probably had little of his own growing up.

Having seen too many Mafioso movies, Dale chose the table in the corner and sat against the wall, surveying his surroundings. This was the definition of a neighborhood bar; a shit load of pictures of who he presumed to be long dead regulars hung above the bar in cheap brown frames. They were a lineup of drunks and their soulless eyes met his stare and held. A local version of the Terracotta Army, guarding their emperor.

He pulled his eyes from the series of dead figures and continued his visual tour. The requisite dart board full of holes and chalk scoreboard full of permanent markings hung directly across from him on the other side of the bar. Most likely used by lonely men with a drink in their hand, looking to pass the time in their meaningless existence. The surrounding tables looked temporary and Dale guessed on weekends this space was cleared to make way for what the owner hoped to be a larger audience full of people with nothing better to do except stand next to other strangers.

There were two televisions, one flat screen and one vintage picture tube, on either side of the bar. They were muted, with closed captioning scrolling across the bottom of the screen. Dale was surprised the older box was a color one and knew its presence was due to a lower profit margin than expected. The election was today, and the the monitors were tuned to different news channels, with the political leanings of the bar readily apparent by what channel was on what screen. Both sides flaunted the same types of talking heads, each expressing the outcome of the race in the appropriate amount of joy or despair.

The actual bar itself was one big wooden plank extending itself along the entire eastern wall. The stools lined up were half full, Dale estimated only regulars would come out in this weather during the week and also assumed that his staring was starting to freak out some of the occupants. With a cough he reached for the menu standing on his table like a mini sandwich board and stared at his options. He could have a burger, with or without cheese, a chicken sandwich, a roast beef sandwich, buffalo wings or chive blini with crème fraiche and quail eggs.

Wait…

What?

Sensing the confusion, his waitress entered his field of vision and Dale already guessed her back story. She once had potential, was beautiful and full of personality and would have made a great wife to a great guy. Except birth control wasn’t a priority until it was. She was estranged from the deadbeat, happening only after they confirmed their poor choices with another. One was in college, one was in high school. She was once again alone, forgetting the random nights she woke up next to someone else. And this pattern went on and on until the entirety of her dreams flowed back into the sewer of life.

She had no interest in his back story or his blank stare and openly wondered if he was ready to order. Dale, shaking the fairy dust from his brown eyes asked her about the last item on the menu, the chive blini with crème fraiche and quail eggs. From her smile, Dale wondered how often she had heard those words and the resulting speech definitely put his guess in the upper hundreds. If Dale was going to condense her second act monologue into a concise statement he would say,

“Her boss lived in France.”

Sensing an opportunity to experience true beauty amongst the thorns, Dale ordered the exotic cuisine, along with a Grimbergen and gave a smile to dismiss the waitress. With his order taken care of, Dale was free to continue on with his examination. Looking over the occupants on the left side of the bar, he saw nothing but sport-themed hats and wretched faces. Men he felt who took an interest in gambling, ignoring their lack of talent in the activity. How much money had been collectively lost by the deadbeats staring forlornly into their dollar drafts? The rent, tuition, perhaps even a wedding ring hocked in desperation. These were men who did not know their limitations and in that ignorance remained in a prison of their own making.

A chime rang and in walked a gentleman in a three-piece suit, with the Webster’s dictionary definition of a Windsor knot. His thinning silver hair had a clean part commonly found on Wall Street and Dale guessed one would not find a piece of lint anywhere on the man’s body. A man with such distinction had to be a man who possessed some type of power and a man who possessed some type of power was certain to abuse the notion. Dale knew the man was full of avarice, cruel to his underlings with whom he expected to ring every drop of their soul until the last nickel was found. This was a man who shut his lights on Halloween and complained of too much revelry on New Year’s. His contempt was such that Dale had to mentally restrain himself from accusing the man of gross misconduct there on the spot.

Despite his outward appearance, the man was demonstrative in words and action. Dale anxiously stared at his hair to see if all his movement would shake a hair loose from its polish. This eruption of emotion was probably a passing storm, his true fury reserved from his mouse of a wife and the children he acknowledged with a handshake.

At that moment Dale realized this was the first bar he had encountered in a very long while whose only sound originated from its occupants. There was no jukebox and the televisions were silenced. Yet, based on an acoustic anomaly, he had a hard time hearing the older gentlemen who was deeply distressed by some event. Ignoring his inclinations to move towards the volume, Dale mentally took a step back and concentrated on the two younger men on the other side of the bar, one whom was in the middle of a Shakespearean monologue.

Based on the similarities in ages, Dale surmised the guy on the left was not lecturing the guy on the right. Perhaps he was giving some worldly advice, most likely involving women. The guy on the right was probably heartbroken, the Lothario who had met his match with a Don Juan who possessed an extra large wallet. The guy on the right listened, Dale gathered, to his friend tell him that there were other women, women who did not base their affections on quantity, be it physical or material. He would one day find the girl who mostly appropriately fit into the various nooks and crannies of his life. Until then, the young man should buck up and keep his eyes up—if not to see his upcoming happiness then to avoid tripping on his self pity.

His eyes darted back towards the older man who had offered the wrong opinion and was furiously holding fast to whatever position he maintained with another man, who could say to have his judgment influenced by his friends Jack and Daniel. Dale was able to hear the bartender attempt to smooth things over by offering both men a drink on the house, to keep the peace and tranquility the bar had tried to cultivate in vain over the years. With begrudging smiles, the two men agreed to disagree and saddled up to drink whatever tonic was being offered.

The excitement had ended.

His waitress came over and draped a place mat in front of him along with a carefully polished set of silverware. Before he could ask, she informed him her boss insisted that whenever someone ordered the chive blini with crème fraiche and quail eggs they received the appropriate eating utensils as well. Dale picked up the fork and felt like he held a talisman, for it brought him back to his youth when he was a dishwasher at his uncle’s restaurant. Regardless of his familial situation, his uncle was a stern taskmaster who would inspect his wash no matter how busy they were. If a fork was not polished to his satisfaction, his uncle would dump it back into the sink. Dale was warned from the very beginning, if his uncle had to do that three times he would be fired on the spot.

Dale held the fork to his eye, determined to spot the flaw. Then, the knife. Minutes passed as his eyes marched across the surface and Dale did not find a blemish. To the surprise of his waitress, who had arrived with his beer, he dropped his fork on the floor. Waiting a beat, Dale leaned over to his left and picked up the now filthy fork, placing it on the far left corner of his table. With a certain satisfaction, Dale sat up and locked eyes with his confused waitress. Her mouth began to open until she thought better and walked away. He stretched out his arms, a mixture of fatigue and exhilaration, took a sip of his Grimbergen and smiled. Dale didn’t need to check the televisions to know the outcome of the election, he already declared himself the winner.

The Thief

I knew she was a liar. Maybe not in the beginning, but I did. There was no surprise there; co-workers had questioned my judgment when I hired her as my personal assistant from the very beginning. She was nuts they said. She was crazy they warned. I brushed them aside, I knew what I was doing and it wasn’t like I was going to get involved with her.

Until I did.

Strange enough I could deal with the lies. Lies are harmless if you know the words are empty. Promises became the equivalent of Chinese food—unfulfilling. Arms length kept things safe. Our relationship was built on the immediacy of the moment and everyone at some point has steered that boat and enjoyed the ride. The warnings of an iceberg ahead were ignored because I didn’t need someone to shout them out. I could see them plain as day.

What I couldn’t see was how big the iceberg was, hiding in the depths.

I am guilty of doing something that I’d say a lot of people do nowadays. No, not getting involved with a co-worker. I meant automatic bill pay. That, in itself, is not the crime. The crime is not checking the bill. Instead of examining the contents on the statement I merrily went about my life in a blissful state of money coming in and money going out. My job was fantastic, three promotions in four years, and running my own division. It made the alarm clock a little softer in the morning. I was in the black, zero debt with spending money at my disposal. Let the computer balance my direct incoming deposit and my outgoing bills.

On a random Saturday in the middle of December, my brother asked if I ever cashed the check he sent me for our mom’s birthday gift. To make things easier we go in together. I buy the presents, and he sends me what he owes. End result, everyone wins. This year I had the brilliant idea to have my personal assistant do the shopping. She does the legwork, I give her the Mastercard and I win again. His request was a difficult one due to my memory being admittedly shoddy combined with trying to remember a check from six months ago. Giving thanks for living in the twenty-first century, I logged on to see my statement. Three clicks and a scroll later, there it was, the check deposited in bright green numbers.

So far, so good.

I was going to log out and go for a jog when I saw on the next line that I paid MasterCard a little under three hundred dollars. Interesting, since the only time I use that card is when a store doesn’t take AMEX. With a couple of keystrokes I was at the MasterCard site, looking at my previous bill. In between the random grocery bill and a gas station charge sat a one hundred twenty dollar charge for car insurance on a car I did not own.

Huh.

Digging a little deeper, I checked the previous month and saw the same charge. Another month, another charge.

Again.

And again.

Five months, five charges totaling six hundred dollars.

Who the hell had access to….

Change of plans. I wasn’t going for a jog. I was going for a drive. I climbed into my 2015 Altima and used all of its six cylinders to make it to her apartment building. A building I had spent many a night and a couple of mornings driving to work from. The good thing about being a familiar face at an ordinary apartment building is not having to ring a bell to gain admittance. All I had to do was wait a couple of minutes, see one of her neighbors and follow them inside with a smile and some small talk.

I walked through the dark green walls that covered God only knew how many layers of paint previously and walked up the three flights of loud marble steps until I saw the golden “3K” nailed to the slab gray door. At this moment maybe a thought came to your mind. You’re wondering how I knew she was home?

I didn’t.

And I didn’t care either.

If she wasn’t home I would wait until she was. There was nothing going on in my life that day. My social calendar was empty. The only need would be the inevitable hunger and my anger easily shouted down my grumbling stomach. Fortunately for me there would be no waiting. I could hear the house music blasting from behind the door.

I hated the music then, I abhor the music now.

I knocked on the door, three punches with the side of my right hand, and waited. A second or two passed and the volume lowered. I hit the door a couple more times and could hear the shuffling of feet coming towards me. When the door opened I saw a surprised face staring back at me.

“Hey, babe! You decided to surprise me?” She leaned in for the kiss and I side stepped her like I was Bruce Lee. Her face registered shock at my avoidance. “What’s the matter?” Since I was now inside she closed the apartment door. I felt the anger rising inside my stomach and it took all of the meditation courses I had taken in college to not lose my shit. Looking at her I could see she literally had two faces. When she was at work or out, she was always on point. Hair, makeup, clothes, the whole nine. Home was a different story. The hair was up in a messy ponytail, split ends apparent to even my untrained eye. The face was devoid of any makeup whatsoever and a JUICY outfit of some kind covered a body in need of some parlor tricks. We still hadn’t moved from our collective spots and I wanted to get this over with. Without saying a word, I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a folded-up piece of paper.

“What’s that?” I could tell she was tense, her words touching my ears like ghosts. I decided now it was time to speak and unfolded the paper like a magician about to unveil his latest trick.

“This is my MasterCard statement from last month.”

“Since when do you pay your bills?” Her attempt at levity fell to the Earth like Icarus. I swallowed the fury begging to rage against the dying of the light and locked my face down. A face she had cupped in her hands a thousand times on the couch to our right and in the bedroom down the hall. At one time she made smiling as easy for me as breathing. Now I could do neither and my words choked out through gritted teeth.

“Do you want to drag this out or do you want to admit what you did?”

“What are you talking about?” I’ll tell you what, the way she handled the situation made me think she missed her calling. To have the range to go from innocence, to ignorance, to comedic insight and now irritation showed some serious acting skills. She was running the emotional spectrum like a Kenyan in a marathon. Ignoring her words I said in the calmest voice possible,

“You have two options—either I go to the police and let them settle this or you admit what you did, pay me my money right now and it’s over.”

Her green eyes registered the gravity of the situation and she reached out for my hands. With obvious revulsion, I pulled back like they had touched a boiling pot. A tsunami of fear washed over her face and she leaned back against the tan wall. The image of a cornered rat came to mind. I was so locked on that thought I missed the beginning of whatever she was saying and didn’t care enough to ask her to repeat. All I managed to hear was,

“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” When she didn’t get the sympathetic reaction she figured would come her way her voice rose and the Italian came out of her arms and hands. “I didn’t know what to do! I figured you wouldn’t notice one month!” You know when you’re watching a movie and the character suffers a concussion? All the sound goes out and you hear a background whistle that gets louder and louder until the character shakes out the cobwebs. That’s the way I felt. My eyes were bulging out of my head and the whistle grew louder and louder until I finally exploded.

“One month? ONE MONTH?! How about FIVE MONTHS!! How about SIX HUNDRED DOLLARS!!!!”

“I just didn’t have the money. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” The tears came next and she sat down on her couch and collapsed into her hands. I made no move to comfort, nor did my words grow soft. I just stood against the door and waited for the show to end. After the tears ran dry and the sniffling stopped, she spoke up,

“I can’t pay you the six hundred right now. Give me two days and I’ll have it Monday morning.” I considered my options. I could wait two days. She would pay me Monday and I’d go to Human Resources and make sure firing her wouldn’t put the company in an awkward position. This was the win I was looking for and after a minute of silence I spoke up.

“If you don’t have the money on Monday we’re going to have a serious problem.”

“I promise you I will. I am so sorry, I’m embarrassed and I—“ Without saying a word I turned around and walked out. I couldn’t stand being there for one more second, listening to her spew her bullshit. I was done. We were done. All that was left was the waiting.

Monday morning came and went like any other. The afternoon dragged as it often does, the familiar beats of working at a job for four years. The only difference between this Monday and every other Monday that came before was the absence of my loyal personal assistant. I emailed HR if they received any word from her and received the equivalent of shrugged shoulders in reply. After an hour of no reply to my text, I called and went straight to voice mail. I left a firm, “Where the hell are you” message and pushed her from my mind for the rest of the day.

The moment I left work was a different story.

I drove to her apartment like a banshee, thankfully arriving in one piece without killing anyone. There were no available spots so I double-parked and bolted out of my car. My stomach bubbled like a cauldron and all sense of rational thoughts were being pushed aside by the color red. I wanted to find her and I was afraid to find her.

Throwing open the front door something to my left caught my eye. Her name, scratched out on the mailbox. I looked up to the sky and scrunched my face. There was a desperate need to scream and curse and I once again swallowed back the rage. A couple of neighbors walked in and the only information they could give me were smiles and sorries. Finally, I saw the maintenance guy and asked if he had seen my mystery girl. The old man scratched the back of his ear and informed me she moved out in a rush a couple of hours earlier. No forwarding address, no information given. She didn’t even care for her security, although based on the way she beat up her hardwood living room floor she probably knew there was no money coming.

Son of a bitch.

I went back to my car and sat without turning it on. I punched the steering wheel eight or nine times, then five or six more. If someone was driving past me they would have thought I was having a psychotic breakdown. To try and regain some control of my sanity I flipped the visor down and looked at myself in the mirror.

What was I going to do?

The option of the police came to mind and was ruled out just as quickly. Was it worth the hours I would have to spend filling out paperwork and giving a statement? They would probably stare back at me and think I was just another loser in a long history of losers ripped off blind by the women they thought cared about them.

I am not a loser. Six hundred dollars was not worth losing my pride.

Letting go a deep breath I turned my car on and began the drive home. With embarrassment and shame coursing through my veins I learned a most valuable lesson:

Never think you’re special. If someone is a liar, they’re going to lie to you. If someone cheats, they’re going to cheat on you. And if someone is an asshole, they’re going to shit on you.

Time to Wake up

The room was pitch black, yet he knew he was in a room and could make his way around. A woman who looked like his mom but was actually his ex-girlfriend, Marissa, came around a corner that didn’t exist two seconds ago to smile at him. She didn’t talk, the woman who was both his mother and Marissa, just beckoned him to follow her outside.

They were outside now.

He looked up and saw blue skies with white puffy clouds drifting about, like wreckage floating upon the ocean. He knew the name of those types of clouds and couldn’t think of them. He couldn’t think at all, just be.

A bee flew by his head.

Then another.

Then another.

Was he allergic to bees?

One landed on his left wrist. Too afraid to move, he bent his head down to take a closer look at the bee. Except when he did the bee went out of focus and became a black dot. He brought his face closer to examine the black dot and fell into the canyon size hole in his left wrist.

This was scary.

He felt anxious.

Suddenly he was sitting inside the classroom. Mr. Schultz was teaching science and he knew this day. In a matter of minutes, Mr. Schultz was going to split the class up into pairs and have them examine a blood slide under the microscope. He was going to be paired up with Angela, who he had fallen in love with since the moment Mr. Schultz sat them at the same table. Angela, with her blonde hair and blue eyes was beautiful and sweet and patient despite the obvious stars in his eyes. If this was now, right now he would have no problems talking to her. Hell, he could definitely date her. They were on the same level now, just not then. Then there was an infinite amount of miles separating them socially. Yet she was kind to him and never made him feel like he didn’t deserve to talk to her.

Oh shit, here it comes.

Gary Bulger, the guy everyone thought was funny because he was good looking and said funny things. He was friends with Gary at one time, a long time ago before status meant anything. He knew Gary was afraid of lightning and his father would yell at him for crying about it. Gary was a good guy.

Was a good guy.

Today, he wasn’t.

“I don’t know how he’s going to get any work done, staring at Angela’s chest.” The class laughed at him, Mr. Schultz said nothing in response and Angela gave him a disgusted look. He wanted to crawl under his desk and die.

So he did.

Bending his body like there wasn’t a bone to be found, he slithered on his back down the high back plastic chair and slid down below the desk. Waiting for him was Duke. Duke! His old golden retriever, the best dog in the entire world. Duke wouldn’t let Gary make fun of him. Duke was here to rescue him and so he hopped on his best friend’s back and raced across the desert.

Looking down at his best friend he saw Bill, his best man at his wedding. He was under water and now so was he, swimming in Bill’s inground pool while the girls splashed and laughed by the steps. Do they have their swimmies on? Where was his wife? Shouldn’t she be watching them if they were in the pool?

Why wasn’t he watching them?

Who was he watching?

He was at a table, in the middle of a room, surrounded by other tables. An old woman in some kind of work uniform sat at one of the tables, alone. She was staring out into the distance and he was aware they knew each other, but not really. More like a familiar face. The other tables filled up instantly with people and if he looked at a specific table the face came into focus. Those other tables held no interest to him. They didn’t matter.

He turned back to the old woman.

Was she crying?

Was he crying?

They’re sitting at the same table now. Crying together but not with each other. Two people, sharing the same space, feeling emotions that produce a physical reaction and not connected whatsoever. He didn’t even know her name. Did she have a name? Did she ever have a name? Why didn’t he ever ask her for her name?

What was wrong with him?

He stood up from the table and stopped crying. The old woman looked up at him and smiled. The old woman was his mother and she motioned for him to bend down. She had to tell him something. He was crying again, harder and deeper. There were sounds all around him, along with machines and his mother was sick. She wanted to tell him she loved him and he continued to cry and cry and cry. He couldn’t stop crying and he felt helpless, knowing there was nothing he could do to help his mommy. His tears turned her hospital bed into an ocean and he clung to his mommy so he wouldn’t drown.

The sun was shining.

He was floating on a raft in the middle of a deep blue sea. He should be afraid because there was no sign of land anywhere and yet he wasn’t. Just drifting along with the hot sun directly overhead. He wasn’t worried about a sunburn or not seeing land or anything at all. He continued to drift, letting the currents take him wherever they thought best. Everything was peaceful, everyone was peaceful. He turned to his left and saw someone standing on the water. They wanted him to jump in with them and go below and he didn’t want to. Why were people always bothering him when he was floating in peace? The person walked over and stood above him, floating over the raft. They blocked out the sun and he felt cold.

Why were insisting on bothering him?

The person bent forward so that their faces were practically touching.

It was his mother.

Time to wake up.

Patricia’s Donut Shoppe

“I’ll tell you what, that Obama…he’s not from this country and the media don’t want to report it. They just gave him the elections so that way he can come in and take everything from us. He’s already trying to take our guns so he can sell them to the Arabs in the Middle East. And he leaves our border unsecure so that way one day all those Mexicans can come in and vote Democrat! I even heard Obama is looking to change the Constitution so he can run for a third term! It was good enough for Washington but it’s not good enough for him! Which is no surprise because he’s not from this country and the media won’t report it!” Victor slammed his hand down to punctuate the last truth in his series of truths. His breath was labored and he looked around to see if the unwashed masses had heard his sermon. With a sigh he quietly muttered to himself,

“They ignored John the Baptist, too.”

The residents inside Patricia’s Donut Shoppe continued living their rainy Thursday afternoon. Melissa and Paige sat at the table closest to the door, alternating between math homework and gossiping about if Ricky was cheating on Ariana with Taylor. Paul sat on the other side of the room against the wall, chewing on his nails as he debated over whether to use the word, “splendid” or “superb” on the third page of his novel The Owl of the Night (working title). Amy stood behind the counter, watching Paul choose his words carefully and ignored Mrs. Pendleton fritter between ordering the apple crumb or a plain donut, a choice she grappled with every single day. The citizens of Patricia’s Donut Shoppe moved across their surroundings the way the stars moved across the celestial sky, slow and reliable.

Most of all, Victor.

Victor had been coming to Patricia’s Donut Shoppe since it was Ruby’s Coffee and More… the more often speculated upon and never solved well after it was sold to Patricia, who hadn’t actually owned Patricia’s Donuts for eleven years now. No matter the ownership or the culinary menu in question, Victor made his presence felt, second table against the wall. As the years passed, doom and gloom appeared, bogeymen that only Victor saw and everyone else ignored. He sat there every day, two newspapers opened in front of him, the crosswords ranging from entirely filled with some wrong answers to empty spaces with slightly wrong answers. He always had the same chewed on Bic pen in his left hand and to the untrained eye you would think Victor found the secret to immortal ink. His sideburns were bushy and gray, much like the hair under his old newsies style hat. A fashionista would not be in the wrong for describing his style as “disheveled.”

His face though was an entirely different story — always shaved. Although he may be lined with the canals of history, Victor thought it to be disrespectful to leave his house unshaven. A practice he had stuck to since 19 something or other.

Well before the characters inside Patricia’s Donuts were even a thought.

Victor would take his time revving his energy back to the boiling point. These days, he couldn’t carry on his political and social dissertations for longer than a couple of minutes. The words wouldn’t come together as quickly as before, nor could he maintain the ferocity needed when discussing such weighty topics. During these down periods he would sip his black coffee and munch on his powdered cruller and fiddle with the Bic pen that never left his left hand. His thoughts would fall out of focus until he gazed down and saw a trigger image or word and then he could feel the wind return to his sails.

The country was doomed!

“I’ll tell you one thing. My generation wouldn’t stand for any of this. The government with their satellites watching the computers and listening to our conversations. We fought the Russians up and down Asia to stop this from happening!” The last word pouring out of his mouth along with some pieces of cruller. “We didn’t lose Dave Nelson and Eric Cartwright and Barry Leary and all those other brave sons so the Government could send me a ticket for going through a red light in the mail!” Victor was gaining his steam and Paul turned the music on his Ipod up as he ruminated whether or not to delete the last half hour of work.

“And you’re going to tell me that I have to start learning their language? It was good enough to tell me to fly missions over Korea in English but not anymore? It’s a shame, a damn shame, that this country has gotten to this point! And you know why it’s gotten to this point? Obama! He wasn’t born here so he don’t care about us. And the media handed him the elections so that way he can come in and take everything from us. He’s got our guns! And our border is wide open so that they can come in and all vote Democrat! You watch, I bet you he runs for a third term. I bet you he does something to change the Constitution so he can become a King! Washington could have been king and he said no, but Obama is going to be king. And you know why? Because he’s not really an American and no one will say anything!” He slammed his hand against the table so hard the citizens of Patricia’s, despite a lifetime of hearing the words like a bad song, all stopped and stared at Victor, who sat there with tears filling those ancient canals.

As if his mental car backfired, Victor snapped to attention, wiped his face and looked down at the crossword puzzle. Eventually, Amy came over and told him they were closing up. As always she offered to drive him and as always he refused. His driving privilege long since taken away, Victor made the three-block walk back to his home. Rain or shine, hell or high water, Victor trudged along until he reached his front door. He could never get the key in the lock on the first or second try but eventually his front door opened. Victor shuffled into his dark living room to sit in his worn brown La-Z-boy chair. With a grunt he fell into his seat and turned his body to the right so he could see the picture in the frame. His wife Patricia smiled at him from behind the counter and across the boundaries of time. Victor smiled back. She was happy, healthy and blissfully unaware of what was to come.

Precisely the way he wanted to remember her.

Meanwhile, the grandfather clock ticked in the background, counting off the seconds until it was time to go back to go back home.

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