Tired
I want I want
To go to bed
But words, they flutter
In my head
Like watching swarms of wasps or bees
Like hearing whispers through the trees
Like waiting for a tiger’s pounce
But with no rest, no wink or ounce.
I think I’m meant to be a writer
I’m far too critical to fail
I know in person I get nervous
And my thoughts sometimes derail
But on paper it’s a different story,
One that helps me boast in glory!
But then again perhaps I should hide
My shameful and disgusting pride
Cause I’m no better than another
Cause I can stitch some words together
It means far more I’m treated kind
Than showing you what’s in my mind
So I stay silent
My silent bind
Is it for your sake?
Or for mine?
The Apathy of Time
A gentle lattice of rain trickles down the carriage’s windows, a living, liquid curtain that distorts the stunning view of Scotland’s pastoral countryside. The West Coast Main Line is outstandingly beautiful, as is typical this time of year, yet my mood is marred by the nagging anxiety that I harbor in the back of my mind, a product of overwhelming uncertainty and the most ghastly fog to which I awoke in London this morning. The whole town reeked of rotted eggs, and something about the air made one feel as though one’s lungs were being crushed in. Not that anyone needs any help feeling that way, as of late. Talk about a year for the rubbish bin. It all started with the destruction of Cairo by fire, followed promptly by the passing of our beloved King George—God rest his soul. Take all that and add it to the Polio epidemic, that dreadful disease running rampant across the Empire—or what’s left of it—ravaging our children, no less. And if that weren’t enough to signal the end of the world, let’s cap it all off with the design and detonation of our first Atomic Bomb; why we’ve decided to follow the example of our wayward cousins across the Atlantic, I’ll never know.
And still, we carry on, as we always do. Be it into the jaws of hell or to the end of life as we know it, that remains to be seen.
“We’re coming up on Glasgow. You might want to start pulling your head out of the clouds,” says my traveling companion, Charles, from his seat beside me. He stands up and grabs the most grotesque-looking tweed briefcase from the storage overhead, something I’d never be caught dead carrying in public.
Charles is the Special Programs Advisor to the Secretary of State for War and, as such, the primary liaison in charge of financing my project. It also so happens we grew up in the East End together, a fact that certainly doesn’t hurt my chances of continued funding, though I’ve never been one to place all my eggs in one basket. This project must be able to stand on its own merit, independent of whatever personal history I may have.
“You look nervous,” he says, leaning on his seat with one arm.
I pull my attention from the window and grab my coat from the back of my own seat. “Perhaps I am,” I admit.
“What’s got you so upset, then?”
I sigh, letting my exhale carry the weight of my anxiety. “I’d be a fool not to know what this extended timeline is doing to you and your office. If we fail today, it may take years to seek out the bugs and rectify our formulas, and I'm guessing you can only divert funds for so long without people asking questions.”
There’s a pause where the only sound comes from the small number of other travelers in the carriage and the steady cachunk, cachunk of the wheels as they pass along the rails.
“Yes, well,” he says with a strained look, clearly concealing the fact that he, too, shares my concerns. “Let’s hope this is a smashing success, then.”
I give a weak smile in response and look back out the window. The stars are just beginning to peek out from behind the rainclouds, despite the fact that it’s barely four o’clock. It gets dreadfully dark up here in the winter—not that London is much better—though there’s something about the heavens at night that have always enchanted me. Most of the rest of the world seems to be perpetually focused on terrestrial matters—taxes, politics, moving borders a foot this way or that—truly something that baffles me to no end. Why would anyone be so engrossed in the matters of this war-torn, plague-ridden planet? Why would anyone be content to remain tethered to our small fleck of a home, our grain of sand in a sea of stars and galaxies? Personally, I find the most solace outside our thin blue atmosphere, up beyond the reach of the insignificant and inconsequential.
Well, in any case, the only ones who seem to agree with me are the Russians, albeit their intentions tend to lean on the viler side, a most unfortunate reality. Though, perhaps the American beast will be wakened at the threat of Russian dominance, as pride-driven as they are. But, the Empire cannot wait upon her prodigal son to stand as defender of the world, not again. We must take our future into our own hands, which is why it’s so crucial that my work succeeds, and that it succeeds quickly.
The train pulls into the station, and a small herd of us are ushered unceremoniously out of the carriage. Pockets of families wish each other well and give their final loving goodbyes, an emotional rabble that peppers the platform with sentimental trifle. I feel a tinge of guilt for seeming so heartless in my thoughts, but held within the frame of what I know we mean to attempt, it all seems rather trivial. Not that I blame them. The people of Glasgow never truly felt the sting of the war like those of us in London did. They never had to rush to cover their windows when the dreaded siren sounded to herald in the Blitz, nor were they forced to watch in dreaded awe as rockets rained down upon helpless civilians faster than the speed of sound itself. So why on Earth would they feel the same level of urgency that’s been so deeply impressed upon me? Why should they feel that same fire to never again become subject to the dominance of fear or any of her allies.
Anyways, the war has passed, and now we’ve turned our swords into plowshares. We fight a war of the mind rather than one of might—a cold war, to quote George Orwell, if you will. Wernher von Braun, the German-American scientist who developed the V-2, now talks about using his tool to send humanity to Mars. It seems mad, right? Using those lethal weapons, the very embodiment of Vengeance itself, to blast something, someone, off this planet, all in the name of science. But a weapon capable of flattening a city in a single strike seemed like fiction, too, before it became fact. And now, our charge, and the charge of any freedom-loving scientist, is to prevent the Red Menace from attempting to reshape the proverbial plow back into a weapon of unimaginable consequence. We must always stay one step ahead, if not more.
Von Braun purposes to build a platform in our planet’s orbit, a space station that we might use to launch ourselves to the Moon and beyond. The Russians and the Americans may soon accomplish such a feat, but we must be prepared, as the British Nation, to dominate well beyond the influence of Ares. That is where my research comes into play. The journey to realms beyond our inner Solar System may take a considerable amount of time, time that our physiology and biology do not allow. Therefore, the use of cryogenics is key to success when suggesting an expedition farther than the Asteroid Belt.
Today, I will be taking a frozen nap, as it were, just for a month, long enough to chemically analyze my cellular response and measure the aging process while I’m under. I could indeed have someone else take my spot, but I wouldn’t dare trust anyone else. Not with how close we are. If my test is successful, we could be sending people to the outer reaches of our Solar System in a matter of years. And the possibilities from there are endless.
The journey to the research facility just beyond the outskirts of Glasgow is uneventful, if not comfortable, in the unmarked government vehicle. Charles and I exchange no more than a few small words about the passing weather, and by the time we’ve arrived, my mind is quite thoroughly focused on the upcoming test. We pass quickly through the security checkpoints and end up within the familiar walls of my laboratory, which I’ve been using for a host of research experiments these past several years.
My assistants have ensured that everything is waiting and ready ahead of our arrival, and after everyone has settled into the viewing area, I give a few brief words describing the demonstration, then settle into the cryogenic chamber. It’s all rather quick, compared to the seven hour journey here from London, but I prefer it that way. I’m sure I should be nervous as one of my assistants closes the top to the chamber, but honestly, I’m too tired and too mentally strained to be nervous.
There’s a hiss as nitrous fills the chamber, and within moments my vision goes dark.
~
“Doctor Martin, sir, can you hear me? Can you hear my voice?”
I groan and open my eyes, only to have them instantly overwhelmed by a flood of light. Has the test run its course? Has it already been a month? It feels like only a few seconds have passed, not anywhere near the planned twenty-nine days. Regardless of how long it's been, I’m shivering uncontrollably, and I notice that my skin is an unrecognizable shade of purple.
It takes several minutes of blinking and rubbing before I can make out the blurred image of two figures standing in front of me. One of them is a rather tall woman with dark hair and a slender form, the other a sturdily built man with a cleanly shaved head and a thin layer of scruff on his face. Neither of them appear to be members of my research team, nor do they appear, well, for lack of a better word…normal. They have the strangest clothing on, though they do seem to be official looking—what with sidearms strapped to their chests and wearing what could technically pass as business attire.
“Who are you? Why did the test stop?” I grumble, shocked by the trembling roughness of my own voice. A slew of physicians appear at my side and begin fussing around my body, but I beat them off, and they retreat behind the man with the scruff.
“Doctor Martin, I’m Agent Ford and this is Agent Knight. We're with Her Majesty's Secret Intelligence Service, and we’re here to debrief you and make sure that you’re doing okay,” the woman says carefully, as if speaking to a young child that’s just been injured. Her tone is laced with a hint of, what is it…pity?
“Debrief me? Are you with Charles? Did he send you? I need to start running analysis right away—”
I make a move to stand up, but Agent Knight holds out his hand authoritatively, and I pause.
“Sir, I think you should take it slow,” Agent Ford says with an intentional dose of serenity in her voice. “There are a few things we need to tell you that might come as quite a shock.”
I take notice of the laboratory for the first time since waking up, and my blood instantly chills about ten degrees. The whole room is a wreck—bottles and beakers smashed everywhere, bullet holes riddling the walls, light fixtures hanging precariously from the ceiling, and skeletons, everywhere. Bodies upon bodies, obviously left abandoned for decades, if not more. And among them, over in the viewing area, is Charles’ trademark tweed briefcase, popped open and hanging by one hinge next to one of the bodies. My chest clenches as panic threatens to overcome me.
“What happened? What’s going on?”
Agent Ford furrows her brow in sympathy and takes a step forward, offering out her hand.
“You’ve been asleep for more than sixty-five years, sir. It’s the year twenty-nineteen.”
~
I look around at the bustling morning crowds mulling about Buchanan Street, all headed into unfamiliar shops or dining in any number of foreign-inspired restaurants. Much of what I see is a strange conglomerate of futuristic architecture, a city I’d hardly recognize if it weren’t for the familiar icons such as St Mary’s, Central Station, or the City Chambers. In spite of the madness happening in my life right now, though, I have to admit the smells pull my mind away from it all, tantalizing my appetite, and I realize that I’m insufferably hungry. I mean, why shouldn’t I be? I haven’t eaten in over half a century.
“You wouldn’t mind if we popped into one of those little caffs, do you?” I ask, taking every effort to keep the drool in my mouth.
Agent Ford smiles and nods. “Don’t worry, sir. That’s why we’re here.”
I put my hands in my jacket, temporarily consoled, and look across the way at an old-style church tucked between two towering residential blocks. It’s almost comically out of place, but admittedly soothing for some reason, as if it were placed there just for me, reminding me that even things wizened by time still have their place in this unfamiliar modern era.
“What happened?” I ask Agent Ford earnestly. “With the lab, that is. What went wrong?”
Agent Ford seems reluctant to answer, but eventually she caves in—despite a warning look from Agent Knight. “Your program was quite the black operation, Doctor Martin. As it happens, your friend Charles Baker was the only one in the government who knew about it. The day of your demonstration, there were several undercover Soviet agents present that took advantage of his secretive trip to witness your project, and they assassinated him, along with everyone else present. With no record of where he went or what his undisclosed plans were, his disappearance remained a mystery until just recently.”
“How did you find out, then? How did you find me?” I ask, still struggling to process everything she’s saying.
“The Russians recently declassified a batch of documents from the fifties—from your time, I mean. One of them was a set of hypothetical simulations that involved the assasination of high-level targets on British soil. Turns out, one of the simulations was based on an actual event, the one I’ve been describing to you. We ran it by the Russian Consulate, and while they didn’t explicitly acknowledge their involvement, it was clear we were on the right track with our speculations.”
“Russian Consulate? Are the Soviets friends, then?”
“Friends? Oh, no. Not exactly,” she chuckles. “But let’s say we’re in-between tensions at the moment.”
I nod, confused, but unwilling to press it further.
My mind quickly drifts to the flood of distractions vying for my attention, and I turn my head from side to side in an effort to soak everything in.
“So, tell me, Agent Ford, what did I miss? What’s the world been up to while I’ve been frozen away in the middle of Scotland?”
“Aha, not much, probably,” she says with an infectious smile. “You missed the Vietnam War, the Troubles in Ireland, the War in Iraq, Afghanistan, the dissolution of almost every British colony and territory, the rise of international terrorism, the destruction of our environment, Brexit.”
“Brexit?” I ask, confused.
“Nevermind. Don’t worry about that.”
“And of course,” Agent Knight cuts in, speaking for the first time, “England hasn’t medalled in the World Cup since hosting it in 1966.”
“Excuse me,” Agent Ford says, her face awash with disapproval, “but the women took bronze in 2015.”
“Ah, there’s a women’s World Cup, then?” I say, surprised.
Agent Ford nods and nudges Agent Knight in the side. “Sure is, and I have to say, our girls are playing much better than the guys right now.”
I concede a small chuckle, but internally, my stomach rejects the thought of laughing at anything Agent Ford has just said. Discouragement runs rampant inside my heart, and I scramble to recover the pieces of my spirit that are crumbling before my eyes. What kind of world did I wake up to? Perhaps it was naive of me, but I would have expected there to be huge strides forward in democracy, in unity, the end of war, the birth of human exploration on a cosmic scale. What I see now is frankly rather apathetic, superficial even, a demonstration of humanity at its most basal form. I give credit to the inhabitants of Earth for not annihilating themselves with atomic weapons, but it seems they’ve done everything short of it.
We turn into a cafe, and Agent Ford tells us to find a seat while she gets breakfast for us, something that dramatically halts my downward emotional spiral. There’s a mix of all sorts of smells in the air, and I can almost taste the sausage, the eggs and beans, a side of tomatoes, toast, and—most importantly—tea. A few minutes later, Agent Ford returns to our table and plops what looks like a glazed turd down in front of me.
“What in the hell is this?” I say, affronted by the gingham paper-wrapped ‘breakfast’ before me.
“It’s a donut,” she explains, oblivious to my offense as she takes a bite of her own turd.
“A donut? Where’s the sausage? Where’s the tea?”
Agent Ford looks up from her donut and wipes her mouth with a paper napkin. “Oh, I could get some tea if you want.”
She begins to stand but I wave her off and grab the pastry with sad disappointment. “No, no, it’s too late. What has happened to your generation? What happened to the sanctity of a proper British meal? This makes me feel like I’m back in Ethiopia getting my tinned rations, except instead of the Italians, I’m battling indigestion.”
Agent Knight actually chuckles a little, and Agent Ford gives an apologetic shrug. “It’s an American thing, I think.”
I scoff. “Makes sense. Leave it to the Americans to find a way to ruin even a good meal.” As we eat, my curiosity begins to get the better of me, and I gain the confidence to ask more questions, despite my initial discouragement. “What about space travel? Have we made it to Mars? Farther?”
“Well, we made it to the Moon,” Agent Ford says. “The Americans, that is. We haven’t quite made it there ourselves. Though I heard there might be some cooperation for a possible return, and we might even get to Mars within the next decade or two.”
With that, I fall silent and keep to myself for the remainder of the meal.
My work was supposed to enable the human race to break the bonds keeping us on Earth. The whole reason I went under in the first place was to advance science in the hope that future generations might use it to better themselves. To know, now, that it was all in vain, that humanity chose a path completely foreign to my reasoning, well, it puts me in a very bad place, indeed.
~
After World War II, humanity swore to unify, to never again let any issue come between us. Sure, it wasn’t long before that vision of utopia faded, but there was at least the hope of globalized harmony. From what I see, though, that hope has shifted, or become lost in the noise of everyday life. We could have probably gone further in science and in exploration, but we’ve watered down our dreams with things like ICBMs, politics, Keeping up with the Kardashians, and something called kale chips, I believe.
Still, I guess the world didn’t end, as I might have predicted before going under. No matter how bad things seem to get, Earth keeps spinning. We overcome. We adapt. We thrive. Because that’s what we do. Because we far prefer evolution, however small, to its alternative.
Taking Over
My intimate peerage of some four hundred and fifty students has reached its terminus. It has technically been two months, yet the sun has made one-third of its elliptical orbit since our last day together. For thirteen years we were, and now all that is left to say is that we once were. As we sat in dark rooms behind chipped plastic desks, before we knew anything of the volatile horizon on the other side of our cinder-block nursery, my classmates voted that I, out of the many, was the most likely to take over the world.
I do not see myself a conqueror, as they are so often on the wrong side of history. Nor do I see myself shoulder-to-shoulder with the men who inhale privilege and exhale oppression... all the while playing blind, dumb, and deaf. This world we are in has planted these thoughts as my interpretation of what it means to take over.
I saw no use in watching my own virtual graduation. I sat down at my desk and found the link to a video of some commencement speeches. I chose not to click the little blue line. What could be there that isn’t already in my mind? Life is full of unexpected problems, and we shall persevere; we are coming into the adult world now, and it is not what we expected; it is time for our generation to yield its power onto the world, and it is up to us to determine how that will happen. No high school commencement is complete without a redundant trip to the dictionary, therefore, instead of watching my own graduation, I went to Merriam-Webster.
My superlative, with its domineering connotation, implied to me that my peers had a perception of me which I found uncomfortable. To take over, as an infinitive, has three general interpretations. My inherent idea of the meaning aligns with the third: “to take or make use of under a guise of authority but without actual right.” That is not the way I want to take over the world.
The second meaning, I found more comfortable: “to take to or upon oneself.” The exemplar use of the words put it into terms of assuming responsibility, which I can accept. If anything, as an educated adult, I do feel responsible for the world–at least my corner of it.
I relate the most to the first meaning of taking over, which was the last definition I would have thought of if not for looking at a list of definitions. This meaning is “to serve as a replacement usually for a time only.” In this case, I accept my title. In fact, it is the only title I feel worthy to accept. I do not want to be president...as that position decreases in value alongside the national debt, nor do I want to be remembered for possessing the best seventeen-year-old body, or any other thing in the back section of the yearbook for the class of 2020.
In this life, in this world, I am here to serve as a replacement for a time only. The truth is that we are all of us just temporal replacements, here for a brief minute, waiting for those who will replace us. If this is it, and it is my turn to take over the world, as many have tried and many more will attempt, I would like to let the world know that I only intend to serve you all for a time, and God willing, this blue marble will be made better by it.
The girl tells herself this will be the last time
she lets herself be treated like this
that her softness is not a bad trait
that she’s just encountered people
who have taken advantage of it
the girl pauses the movie halfway
can’t stand the sight of a happy ending
her mind is a trap door
A rabbit hole determined to turn
everything into darkness
once she lets the ghosts creep back in
she knows there is no turning back
the girl cannot hear anything else
but the thousand times he said
I love you
except for the thousand times he said
I love you not
the ghost, this time not a ghost
but the girl stutters halfway into
her sentences
she knows even if her mind forgets
her body will remember
The girl -{renata ferretti}
Hummingbirds
The bottom of a dumpster is no place for a baby hummingbird. But there she is, shielded from wet newspapers and heavy trashbags by the branch her nest still clings to. Did you know hummingbird nests are made from spiderwebs? It makes sense, because they’re so small, and soft like cotton. But cotton doesn’t grow in California suburbs.
She should be dead. But instead, there she is, in the last place you would expect to find her. She’s breathing tiny little breaths illuminated by the green feathers starting to come through on her back. And if you lean in, you can see her chest rising and falling quickly. Some of her feathers are missing, and her beak is opening and closing in the near-darkness, and setting sun barely lights up the trash around her.
Half of me wants to push the branches aside and pick up the baby and her nest. Do the right thing. Call wildlife services and save her. The other half of me wants to scoop her up and place her on the hot concrete of the parking lot and crush her. She’s the size of a golf ball, and a thousand times more delicate. I would feel her tiny bones crunch beneath my foot like toothpicks. Her beak would break, and it would be quick, and afterwards I would poke at the smear of her body with a stick.
I wonder what condensed spiderweb feels like.
I reach down to pluck the nest from the branch. There’s something in it. Another baby hummingbird. It’s dead. I jerk back and drop it like it’s made of ember. One of its wings is pulled back over itself, bent in an unnatural position, and it’s stiff. It falls delicately through the leaves and lands next to the other. She doesn’t move, just breathes and breathes and breathes and stares at the body of her brother.
I watch her watch it.
I close my eyes, drop the heavy lid back down onto the dumpster with a clang, and walk to where her nest used to be.
The mother is flying around. She’s been circling for the past half hour, undoubtedly looking for her children. It’s sad, watching her. Imagine leaving your children only to come back to find the entire neighborhood gone. I wonder if birds even feel things. Does she feel panicked? Or just curious?
I walk back to the dumpster and crack the lid open. Neither of the birds have moved. It smells like the space under my front porch, and I wonder how many dead things are inside and under.
I close the lid, gently this time. I’ll come back to check on her tomorrow. Who knows? Maybe she’ll survive.
Rideshare
Jacket no tie, whiff of gin. The guy looked decent enough and shy of thirty. He’d probably want to chat. The rider was watching him, so Luis kept his look in the rearview quick. The guy’s hair had started the night neatly combed back, but some strands were out of place now.
“We should make the ten o’clock, right man?” he asked.
Luis had lived in Brooklyn all his life; Flatbush would lead them out of it in just a few minutes. “Absolutely, sir.”
“Sweet.” The rider drummed on his knees. “Gonna be a good night tonight.”
The drumming stopped after a minute, and Luis glanced back to see the man staring out the window, brow wrinkled. “I deserve a good night,” he said.
Here’s where Luis had to make the call: silence or small talk. “You’re going to the right place,” he said. “Birdland on a Friday’s pretty good for that.”
“You been to Birdland?”
Luis smiled. “Yeah. Yeah I have.”
“No shit, man,” said the rider, leaning forward. “John.”
“Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“So who’d you see?”
“A few acts,” Luis answered, accelerating to pull the Camry around a double-parked cab. “I used to play jazz in a band with a friend of mine, we used to go every once in a while. Think what it’d be like.”
“No shit. What’d you play?”
“Drums.”
“Fuck, man. I love the drums. What stuff your band play? Play anywhere I’d have heard of?”
Luis smiled. “Whatever we felt like playing. Never really went anywhere with it, but it was a good time.”
“Why’d you stop?”
Luis laughed. “Kids, marriage, jobs… hard to find time to play when you drive an Uber seven nights a week. You know how it is, can’t have everything.”
“You guys are fucking heroes, man. Driving my drunk ass around the city. You guys save my life, man.”
“Glad to be of service sir.”
“Come with me tonight.”
“What?”
“I have two tickets for Birdland at 10:00 tonight and my wife can’t make it. Come with me. You know who’s playing? Fucking Steve Smith is playing.”
“He’s awesome, man,” Luis said. “My friend and me saw him play a while back. The things he can do with a pair of sticks in his hands… it’s crazy.”
“So come with me. Let’s go watch Steve Smith bang on the drums. Here, two tickets in my fucking hand.” His arm reached into the front seat.
“That, sir, is the absolute best thing a rider has ever offered,” Luis began, “and you have no idea how much I appreciate it, but I’ve only been driving for a couple hours tonight, and I gotta make rent next week. My wife is—”
“How much you make in a night?”
“What’s that?”
“Look… Luis—glad your fucking nametag’s there—Luis, Bill Murray is the coolest guy in the world. Hands down. There’s this night out in LA, Bill Murray is going to a club or a movie or wherever the fuck a Bill Murray goes, and he takes this cab and the driver says he plays the saxophone, but Bill Murray talks to him and learns that he never gets the time to play. So Bill Murray says, drive to your apartment and get your fucking saxophone, and then they drove to a parking lot someplace and Bill Murray pays this guy for a whole night so he can just listen to him fucking play the saxophone on the hood of the cab. Now I’m not as cool as fucking Bill Murray, but I got some cash, man. How much you make in a night?”
“Really, sir, I can’t just—”
“Shut the fuck up Luis and be friendly.” Luis bolted upright reflexively, but John laughed. “Seriously man, how much you make in a night?”
“On a real good night, lotta people out?” Exaggerating toward an unlikely amount might be the best way to ease out of the situation. They were crossing the bridge now. “About six hundred.”
“Alright man, look in the rearview.” Luis obliged. “You come see Steve Smith play jazz with me, I’ll give you $700. Under the table, man.” It was real now – Luis could see the stuffed money clip. “My wife left me, man. My wife can’t use the ticket I fucking bought for her because she’s off fucking my best friend somewhere, so I was gonna go to Birdland and then go to Scores and get some titties in my face. I was gonna blow this fucking money on booze and titties, Luis, but you come with me to Birdland and watch Steve Smith play the drums with me and I’ll hand it to you instead. Now whattaya say?”
Luis inhaled deeply. The East River flowed to the sea below them, and the money clip in the mirror blocked his view of Brooklyn. Manhattan lights loomed ahead. He saw Manhattan seven nights a week through his windshield. He imagined feeling pavement under his shoes on a Friday night and remembered the red curtain at Birdland, remembered the way Steve Smith played drums so fast he could accompany himself. He considered what he could buy his wife with the extra few hundred.
“Alright, sir, I’m in.”
“Hell yeah!” John slapped Luis’s shoulder. “And drop the sir shit. I’m John, man. John.”
***
The club had not changed. They still served the smoked pork belly appetizer he’d share as a meal to keep the tab lower in his bachelor days. John assured him he should “order whatever the fuck,” but did not protest when Luis played small ball with a sandwich. Beverages were a different story.
“You are not drinking fucking soda. Waitress, he is not drinking fucking soda.” The server smiled, but she checked the neighboring table with her peripheral vision. Luis noted their obliviousness with relief. “Soda is banned, my man.”
“I’ll take a beer,” Luis offered apologetically. “Uh, Heineken.”
“Have the bartender mix me a gin and tonic. Light on the tonic, heavy on the gin. And keep it flowing, honey. Same with his fucking beer – no empty glasses.”
Luis caught the waitress’s eye, and she nodded back before stepping away.
“You know, John, we’re gonna walk to that parking garage after the show and I’m still gonna have to drive you, so I’d better take it pretty slow on the beer.”
“Fuck it! We’re out on the town, man!” John drummed on the table, causing the candle to rattle a bit.
“Well, thank you. This is really great.”
“Fucking right.”
“I mean it, man,” Luis continued. “This place, it’s been a long damn time. A long damn time…”
“You deserve this, man. You Uber heroes deserve fucking Friday nights.”
“It’s pretty nice,” Luis admitted. When the drinks came, Luis raised his beer. “To Friday night and Steve Smith.”
“To Steve fucking Smith.” Only slightly loud. With a drink in his hand, John seemed to be settling in.
Management does not permit Birdland to become crowded, but the club was full. Luis felt slightly underdressed with his khakis and polo, but a gentleman at the next table had jeans beneath his blazer, so it could have been worse. The instruments were set for Steve Smith’s Groove Blue Organ Trio. He glanced at the whole setup as he sipped his Heineken, but mostly contemplated two holy relics: Steve Smith’s set and the Birdland curtain. Red undulations spanned the space, and outlined in light, block letters from an age gone by: “BIRDLAND.” He was back to the place. In just a few minutes they—
“You need a Peloton?”
“What’s that, John?”
“I own a fucking Peloton.” Luis noticed his empty glass. The waitress approached them with another. “Overpriced exercise bike. You want it?”
Luis laughed. “We don’t have the space for that, man.”
“My wife fucking got it, for her birthday. From me. She always said she’d run cause in high school it’s the only exercise she could afford – one a those families where they live in this house in the development but can’t afford the fucking furniture to fill it, so all her friends had whatever shit they want, go to the fucking country club whatever, and she’d just run, so I think, we got money now, she can have the fucking Peloton. Bitch never touches it. Never touches it…”
They were about to announce the band.
“I’m sorry man,” Luis said.
“That’s when I knew and I still didn’t know, so I got her tickets, you know why I get these tickets Luis? One month anniversary. We date a month, she’s this awesome girl I wanna impress, so I bring her here. She never really listened to jazz, you know? I wanted her to see jazz, cause I love jazz. Guys on the team used to listen to Eminem and shit, and minute they’re outta my car, they always wanted to be in my car cause I had a cool fucking car, minute they’re outta it I’d pull a fucking Miles Davis CD or something outta the glove, I mean high school, people don’t get jazz…”
“—the Steve Smith Groove Blue Organ Trio!” Applause.
“…I took her here for our one month anniversary, so I get her tickets last month, to remind her, and you know what she says? You know what she fucking says?” The applause had quieted, and the jeans and jacket neighbor eyed them with irritation.
“John—”
“She says, she says to me—”
“John, they’re playing man, look—Steve Smith. Steve Smith, man.”
His head swiveled to the stage. He recognized and nodded with a smile. “Steve Smith.” He raised his glass. Luis clinked, and exhaled.
And then John’s glass was empty.
But he watched. It was impossible not to watch and listen. The organist wasn’t the draw, but he wore a Hawaiian shirt and couldn’t stop grinning as he riffed on the keys. There was no other way to put it – it was a groove. And drumming royalty sat just to his left, not twenty feet from their table. The club applauded the first number with the admiration due to master craftsmen, and the music came again.
“I need to see better,” John failed to whisper.
“This table is awesome, John. Thanks, man.”
John shook his head. “Need to see better. See his hands.” His chair scraped the floor, and he plodded to the open space next to the bar, six or so feet off the drummer’s shoulder. A waitress stepped out from the kitchen and around the intruding customer. On the way back through she paused and whispered to John, pointed. He said nothing and did not move. Luis focused on the organist, where his peripheral vision stretched to Steve Smith and no farther.
They slowed things down for the third number, and as it closed the waitress came and leaned on the table. “They’re talking in the kitchen. You should get your friend to sit down.”
John stood in the same spot, arms crossed.
“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can,” Luis whispered.
“Your friend’s gonna be in for it if he don’t sit down.”
“He’s not my friend, I’m sorry, I barely know the guy.” The audience laughed at a joke.
“You paying, or him?” the waitress asked.
“Him. I’m sorry.” The band started to play, and she walked away shaking her head.
It was, at last, the drum solo he’d waited for. Speed, precision, invention, played with the grace of countless hours atop measureless gifts. The sticks flowed over the set, and even Luis could hardly tell where one strike ended and another began, yet he could hear them all, distinct, and then a jerked motion off the left shoulder grabbed his eyes.
John had pulled his arm away from a stocky man in a suit, who now held his palms up but walked implacably toward the drunken man. When the palms reached John he jerked away again but stepped back, a pace at a time. Luis looked back to the flying drumsticks, strained to focus on a few more bars. He held his lock on the moment as long as he could before watching John turn away from the front counter toward the street. A few green bills still wafted to the ground where they had been thrown.
The club cheered the legend’s work, and Luis walked slowly to the door.
“Took you fucking long enough,” John spat.
“John, man, I got up as soon as I saw you going.”
“Fuck you, got up soon you saw me, don’t fucking ‘John’ me—”
“I’m sorry, I’m trying to—”
“You’re sorry, you’re sorry, she’s sorry, everybody’s fucking sorry. Why you fucking sorry, driver man? Answer that. Why you fucking sorry?” Pedestrians walked past without eye contact, stepping beyond the awning to find space.
“I’m sorry for the difficult time you’re having.”
“Don’t fucking pity me.”
“I just know that—”
“Fucking Uber driver pitying me. You know what I fucking make, man? You know what I fucking do? Smug little prick, gonna take me for a ride, see how much cash you can fuck me outta, goddamn thief.”
“You don’t have to give me that seven hundred. Just enough to—”
“Thief!” John shouted. “You fucking thief!”
Passers by no longer averted their eyes. A couple watchers stopped and stared. One talking on his phone was white like John and unlike Luis, whose stomach clenched. He raised his palms to show that he held nothing. He took a small step toward John.
“John. Sir. I’m sorry, very sorry about how tonight went. You deserved to have a better time than this.” John’s jaw had locked. “I know how much you wanted a good night, and it didn’t work out, and I’m sorry. You don’t need to give me all that money. Okay sir? You already paid your fare. I just need the money for the parking.” Foot traffic had resumed around them. Luis no longer saw the white man with the phone. John was looking up and over Luis’s shoulder now; the driver glanced back anxiously but saw nothing. “Can you give me the money for the parking? And then I’ll get out of your hair.”
“Why’d she leave?” John still stared into the distant city. It was difficult to hear his slurred speech above the traffic. “Why’d she leave me, Luis?”
Luis put his hands down and took a cautious step. “I don’t know, John.”
“Gave her everything. I gave her everything she’d fucking want, Luis. I just wanna give. I wanna be a giver who gives.” He pulled the money clip out of his pocket and held it out gingerly. Luis walked in slowly. “I said seven hundred, Luis. I wanna give you seven hundred.”
“It’s too much, sir.” He could see the wetness of John’s eyes.
“Please,” John said. “I don’t understand. I don’t understand why it’s all fucking hard. Count it.” Luis did as he was told. Even after what John had thrown to the floor in Birdland, there was still more than two grand in the clip. “Just take it Luis. Whatever’s there.”
Luis returned all but the $700 to the clip. He felt a qualm but had only a moment to calculate its weight; he put back another $200. “I can’t take it all, but I took what you said. Thank you, sir.”
John cried openly now. “Will you come with me, Luis?”
“I can’t.”
“There’s time.”
“I got my family. I need to get home.”
John’s unsteady hands pulled the remaining bills from the clip. “Luis, lemme give. I want you to have this. I won’t need it,” he wept. “Take the money, I won’t need it, I won’t need it.”
“I can’t take it, John. I can’t.” Luis hesitated while John cried to him on the street. “You’ve just done a lot for my family. I want you to know that, John. They’re everything to me.” He put his hand on John’s shoulder. The face kept sobbing. “I’ve got to go. I have to. But you take care of yourself. You hear me, John? Take care of yourself.”
“I just wanted to give,” John said.
Luis walked toward the garage. Turning, he thought he saw John shambling in the opposite direction. Closer, two young guys stood from where they had knelt, clutching wads of cash.
“It’s our night! You believe this shit?” one of them laughed. “Only in New York, bro.”
***
Home, Luis touched his lips to his sleeping son, then his sleeping wife, then a glass of rum and Coke. Stiff. He settled in his secondhand loveseat but left the television off.
There could have been other nights than this one. They swirled and played concurrently in his mind. There was a night where he said no and picked up another rider. There was a night where he saw the jazz trio’s whole set. There was a night where John drank less, and one where he took a swing at the man bouncing him. There was a night where Luis played the drums in a club himself instead of driving for Uber, but there was a night where Luis was in handcuffs, and there was a night where he said the right thing at Birdland and everything was alright, and a night where he said the right thing on the sidewalk after, and one where John went home and one where John never did. There was a night where the $500 in Luis’s pocket didn’t feel like blood money.
He blinked his eyes awake when his wife asked, “Baby?” Sunlight streamed onto a discolored carpet spot. He felt the empty glass in his hand and the wad in his pocket. “You OK?” she asked.
Luis stood and kissed her. Her arms encircled his neck. “I am now, baby.”
mirror
a shattered mirror
a reflection i didn’t recognize
the shadow of someone
a presence fading away
artificial lights on a tired mind
pieced out a seven-lettered name
misspelled the ending of our story
keyboards with the wrong keys
neon lights on a wasted soul
getting drunk in the darkness
chasing high only to wake up sober
i’ll do it over and over again
moonlight on an empty heart
half broken like silence at dawn
half dreaming like i stood a chance
wishing on every star with your name
a world beyond the glass mirror
a reflection that blocked the entrance
a world where the sky was darker
a world where the waves were rougher
the sky was an endless abyss
crystalized rain and black roses
thundering storms and raven feathers
emotions we couldn’t begin to fathom
the waves were the deepest shadows
fallen dreams and blood-stained knives
unspoken words and washed-up pain
the side of glass that actually felt real
i ripped out the outlines of the reflection
shielded me from the wrong things
i watched as my reflection fractured
crimson blood dripped down numbly
fingers traced against fragmented glass
a broken person fading away
but it’s not the mirror that’s cracked
a reflection in a million pieces
some nights i wonder
and some nights i shatter
some nights i feel like
i was on the wrong side of the mirror
- deathetix
The Wah Watusi
Nevermind that he committed suicide the next morning, Ernest Hemingway’s famous last words to his wife were romantic.
“Good night my kitten.”
By comparison, my husband Larry’s last words to me, “Come inside already. That garden of yours is gonna be the death of you,” sound lackluster if not controlling; and about as romantic as “Pass the salt.”
If Larry said those words once, he said them 999 times, repeated every time I was out there on me time, compulsively, belligerently, thrusting open the kitchen window on high octane, even when his sciatica was acting up, hollering each syllable with the same emphasis in exact order, like a mantra, unable to think creatively whatsoever, never contemplating reversing the two simple silly sentences, let alone inserting an alternate adverb, and why couldn’t he mix things up and call out to me from the back door, instead of the kitchen window above the sink each and every time? Couldn’t he for once avoid messing with the delicate hang of my pressed curtain tiers?
I’d just ignore him, sort of, because although I didn’t run in like possum on a vole back to the house, I could feel my shoveling arm auto shift into high gear, slicing earth like a deli meat until I plum tuckered out calling it quits. As I’d enter the back door all sweaty and ravenous; sorely in need of a beverage, a meal and a body rinse, he’d be sitting at the table twiddling and in-betweening waiting on me to fix his supper instead of putting up a pot for me, (mostly ’cause he was nearly blind as a bat towards the end), so naturally I’d get to fixing right away but not before I’d say,
“Larry you’ve gone and done it again! Look at my curtains!”
But the last time he called out from the window was different. By the time I got into the kitchen, I did not inherit the opportunity to demonstrate a retaliatory curtain kerfuffle. Larry’s head was face down on the kitchen table like a big pile of silly putty on a newspaper, deceased from a massive aneurysm.
The sad truth is, ironically; and I hate to admit this, Larry’s last words were 100 percent accurate. The garden was the death of me. I was found by my conscientious mailman too late; as I succumbed to heat stroke on a sunny unseasonable 95 degree day in early June. His postal eagle eye caught a glimpse of me while he stepped up onto the porch to deliver my chamomile tea. He noticed me in the side yard slumped over a cluster of azaleas and dialed 911; even attempted to pull me into the shade while my clippers were still married to my fingers, not knowing if it was too late, poor thing, since with the back of his hand he felt the high heat coming off my tomato face, expecting death to be cold, not realizing I was no different than a shrimp on the bar-be.
But that was then, and as I retell all that memory lane nonsense, Larry is right here beside me chucking a chuckle that brings out his sweet dimples, those same dimples that had been lost with age, swallowed up by the sundry cavernous lines that come with fretting over time. Not sure if I’m supposed to let the cat out of the bag, but on this side, when you get to the gate, there is a form to fill out. Old school, no wifi. You get a pencil and a manilla envelope with your name on the outside (obviously no need for an address), with your D.O.B. and D.O.D. under your name and inside the envelope is a questionnaire to be filled out with three absolute questions.
1. What age do you want to be for all eternity?
2. If you could do one thing with your time in eternity, what would that be?
3. If you could pick one person to share eternity with, who would that be?
Taking me somewhat by surprise, I wondered if Larry was right on the other side of that gate and if he was, what were his three answers? After laying him to rest, I admit I had not thought of him much while I toiled my days away betwixt the rutabaga and the beets. Don’t get me wrong, I loved my husband dearly and I was lonely without him, but a newly unbridled horse is gonna run.
Pencil in hand, slightly bewildered by my clarity, my mind automatically turned to our wedding day all those years ago, almost as if someone popped in an old VHS tape of our special day implanting it into my mind. There we were dancing The Wah Watusi in front of all our loved ones, like two 30 something year old kids, not caring who was in front of us, not wondering if we looked like fools; during the whole evening affair I maintained my focus on his luscious dimples, the comfortable sound of his laugh and our dancing feet; a sound I had forgotten about; the sound of young love.
Without knowing if my answers were to be accepted or denied, done, done, and done:
1. 30
2. Dance
3. Larry
And the gate opened, and there you were, weren’t you Larry, looking as dashing as you did on the day we said “I do.”
So you see? Death ain’t so bad after all. Never did think too much about it when I was alive. Larry on the other hand admittedly did. But I don’t hold it against him. I’m too busy dancing without a care and staring into those dimples that somehow had gotten lost between the root vegetables; somewhere out there, on the other side.
https://video.search.yahoo.com/video/play;_ylt=A0geJaZ1cLheGlIAhTfBGOd_;_ylu=X3oDMTByMjB0aG5zBGNvbG8DYmYxBHBvcwMxBHZ0aWQDBHNlYwNzYw--?p=the+wah+watusi&back=https%3A%2F%2Fsearch.yahoo.com%2Fsearch%3Fp%3Dthe%2Bwah%2Bwatusi%26ei%3DUTF-8&turl=https%3A%2F%2Ftse2.mm.bing.net%2Fth%3Fid%3DOVP.RTFxDKk2mlD0D1IfsO4eBQHgFo%26amp%3Bpid%3DApi%26w%3D144%26h%3D77%26c%3D7&rurl=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DOcQQi9vbZZE&tit=The+Wah+Watusi&l=171&vid=dd2bb24ac6a91cf9133270020b5debd9&sigr=7BO9UkxI8lPf&sigb=OcOFDOQAixMy&sigt=aY9R_.xDvhMp&sigi=Ir4ijp_tQf9e