Best Fish Sandwich (A Short Story)

Sometimes you end up on a road you’d promised yourself that you’d return to someday—just wasn’t planning to find myself there alone and I certainly wasn’t expecting company after relaxing into the lonesomeness. I was myself one big planet when I burst through the door of that bar. Once I’d been jogging in unknown territory and passed a neon sign the size of a Chevy Impalla laid across the side of a thick brick square building stuck on a hum drum intersection on a road to nowhere or just about anywhere. It said BEST FISH SANDWICHES. I wasn’t too hungry and when that barkeep asked what I was after I told him I just wanted to have a look. The only other woman around was his assistant and she disapeared moments after I arrived. There were two TVs on and a small gang of blue collar men camped around the corner of the bar putting time on the clocks they like to watch with apathetic melancholy, hazed, unglued vision, and dead as a door nail reserve.
I went into the back room, the diner, and picked up a plastic menu off a false wooden booth. The lights were dim and the windows were blocked by old bar towels and blankets. The air was stale and silent. This menu professed to serve bar patrons as well as lodgers, I inferred that the Inn was upstairs and kept my questions to myself when I returned to the bar. I tried to give the men some sass talk, but no one was up for play. They just asked me if I was an English Student and I said I was done with school. A man who was sitting by himself acknowledged me and asked if I’d like a drink. I said yes and the bartender poured me a small beer into an hourglass shaped half pint and told me that I should come back some time for a fish sandwich. He said that during lent folks drive from all over the city on Friday nights just to have one; he said I wouldn’t believe how packed the place gets.
My friend at the bar wanted to know if I had a boyfriend. I said Hell No and that men were absolutely no good. He finished his beer and ordered himself another. He said he loved a woman once very much and that he’d wronged her and lost her and that he drank to remember and that he drank to forget--her and all kinds of stories. He was shacked up with his deceased mother’s second husband who was not his father and taking care of him as a testament to his faith in his mother and for nothing else. He asked if I ever wanted another boyfriend and I said I wasn’t sure—that I’d been hurt a lot. He wondered if I took any of what happened with men as my fault. After that I stopped saying things about how lousy men were and left off sharing anything about love.
He told me that his blood was half irish and half german. I said if that isn’t the hottest blood under the bloody sun. We laughed together. He said he used to sell drugs in the Hill District. He even got busted. I asked him what jail was like and he said that he didn’t know. He hadn’t served any time, instead he’d payed off a great lawyer who paid off a judge that got him out of a whole mess of jail and fines and bullshit. He said that this city was as crooked as they come; the bottom line is the only way to cross. I told him that was silly, if it was bad here, it was worse or just as terrible everywhere else. Corruption doesn’t choose just one city and plant it’s haunches, and even if it did we’ve got three rivers, greyhound busses, a postal service, and an airport to send it just about anywhere we like—even down to Texas if wer’e aiming for the moon.
I sipped my Coors Light real slow and studied his face. It was hard and soft like a baked grape turned raisin. Mushy beneath, but tight on top and pulled into creases by aging and dehydrating in the day’s rays. His color was red and even. His mouth was tight, dry, and tiny. His lips puckered when he spoke and his little eyes were steady with remeberance and shone the purest blue—like a baby. He said I love my neices and nephews. He smiled and told me his favorite niece loved to dance. She competed. She used to come over to his house; when he was upstairs working she’d be downstairs making a small girl’s ruckus. He’d holler down and ask what she was up to and she’d holler back just fooling around, but he said she knew she was trianing. She was always perfecting her moves. He couldn’t believe it. He said she competed to be the miss dance of Pennsylvanian and won. After that she went to Disney to compete and she won the national. He said she was incredibble. Everyone had said she was going to win. He didn’t go to Florida, but he saw the tape when they returned. He started to cry. He said she was so incredible, it was so beautiful how talented and hardworking and humble she was. He said that she made him so happy; she was just a little girl, but she was so smart. He said she got good grades in school too.
I thanked him for the beer, kissed him on the cheek, told him he was a good guy, and left. After that I drove to another place I'd never been but had meant to see. It was a bowling alley and it was packed. I sat at the bar by myself and watched through a giant glass window men approaching the lanes and firing their balls at the pins. One man in particular had beautiful form. Every man's style struck me as a keen expression of his impression of himself. Men would come in the bar to order beers and try to start up a conversation with me or stand close enough in silence possibly waiting for me to begin an interaction. But I just sat there and sipped my beer and watched the men through the window. I went to leave and a man chased me down the stairs and stopped me. He apologized for being so forward but wanted to aske me out on a date. I said I was surpised only one man had run after me. He asked if I had a boyfriend. I said no. He asked if I wanted to go out. I said no and thanked him for the invitation.

Ina (A Short Story)

Ina wore three strings of imitation pearls ascending in size and a stab of raspberry lipstick scribbled over her sardine lips. A white powder mask cloaked her face like a fog. She was tiny in every direction. She had old teeth and several black molars surfaced as she spoke. Still, hers was a sweet smile. Up close she smelled like those small bars of soap old ladies take from hotels and save in drawers. She was perched behind the shopping cart I first saw her sailing over the empty parking lot at dawn. Far off she was a dark blob over the glowing ground. She looked like a poem or a strange kind of song, one without lyrics or music. I had turned off the main road, headed for the grocery store. I pulled in between the yellow lines and her details came into focus. She inched along toward the entrance, her shadow wedded to the metal cage.

I spotted her inside, beside a wall of dry goods. Her legs looked like the skinny bars of crutches and she had clear jelly boots snapped over her flats. I tried not to embarrass Ina by staring in case they were special shoes. She must have caught me, because she said that she had bad feet like her grandfather. I thought she would tell me a story about how terrible her grandfather’s feet were. Her voice sounded excited, and she chirped like a kazoo. She said that as a child she lived in the Pennsylvania countryside. One afternoon her grandfather had gone out for a walk. When he hadn’t returned the family started to worry, so they went out looking. Ina said it was fine summer weather. He had sat down beside a stream that she said is much deeper now, more like a river. And resting there, under the tree beside the stream, he had gone away. And that’s how they found him. She said he was like her. Ready to move, hardly slept, and always up to something.

I hadn’t expected to meet her inside the store. I released the greasy cart handle and straightened my posture as I examined the contents of her cart. There were several boxes of chocolate Ensure, a family size package of Kit Kats, and a big bottle of blue Windex. Ina was admiring the flowered pattern of my sundress. She stopped and smiled at me in a searching way, like she was forgetting something. I was tempted to ask her why she’d brought her own cart. I glanced at Ina’s bare knuckles. She must have caught me, because she revealed that she had never married. Then she said that her mother had always asked if she would ever settle down. Ina’s answer was still the same: She didn’t have the time. Ina said that when her family moved to Pittsburgh she found her own apartment. When she finished at her clerking job in the train station she returned home to do some mending, sewing, or other kind of work. Her frail hunched body was no longer capable of precise, hurried movements. Dreaming up a younger version of Ina proved no less difficult than trying to imagine myself as being so much older.

Ina giggled like a woman in the presence of an admirer. I gave her a quizzical look, and Ina announced that she was a big fan of Kit Kats. She stored them in a Tupperware container in her refrigerator for a rainy day. She looked past me down the isle, like she was watching rain fall on the next town over. Ina said she had wanted to sell candy bars in the shop near her apartment. She told her brother and he said that he knew the owner there. He offered to take her down and introduce her, but Ina wanted to go alone. The manager liked her immediately. He offered Ina a cashier position at thirty cents an hour and she took it. Ina said she could leave the train station at five o’clock and arrive at the shop well before the shift at six. Sometimes, between her shifts, she liked to stop at Isaly’s. She would sit in a booth by the window, watch the commuters outside, and enjoy a cup of coffee or a scoop of butter pecan ice cream.

I pulled my cart back on purpose and let the wheel slowly crush my big toe. Ina kept talking. She said she stayed busy at the shop keeping everything in order, insisting that she was a hard worker. Once, the manager had asked Ina how she would respond if a thief came in demanding all the money from the register. Ina said she would not let him take it. The manager couldn’t believe it—he laughed. He told Ina that she could lose her life, but she didn’t care. The robber wouldn’t get that money—not from her. The manager said not to do that. If a person came in demanding the money, she was to give it to him.

A muffled voice announced something over the P.A. system. Ina and I shared a look of confusion. I told her that I had never ridden on a train. Then I asked about the station, expecting her to describe scenes from old Bing Crosby pictures, with women wearing fur muffs and singing gay show tunes all crammed inside a cozy club car. Her voice was proud and hollow like chords perfectly exhausted from an ancient organ. Ina said that all the other workers were afraid of the manager. She had taken her clerking job seriously, but she wasn’t scared of the boss. She treated him like he was anybody else. After all, they were the same age. Once, he called Ina into his office and asked her if she had a boyfriend or if she was hoping to get married. She told him the same thing she told anyone else; she worked two jobs and maintained her home and there was no time left after that.

I wanted to see her laugh, so I told Ina that my Gram was Bob Barker’s biggest fan and asked if she liked The Price is Right. Ina said she hardly ever watched Television, and she never turned it on in the morning. She kept busy walking around her apartment. Ina had an old pair of scissors she used to do clippings. She said you’d be surprised how much more you could fit in a garbage bag if you cut the newspaper into smaller pieces. Then she said that when people came back from the war they were given their old jobs at the train station. It wasn’t uncommon for the replacements to be laid off, but Ina was never dismissed. She thought her boss had kept her around because he felt sorry for her. Ina chuckled and looked up at the fluorescent lights as if heaven waited just on the other side.

My mother sent me to the store for a box of baking powder that morning. I’d searched my purse twice to be sure that I’d forgotten my phone. I knew she’d be calling to ask what was taking so long. She had undoubtedly begun entertaining abduction scenarios or imagining me in a horrific car accident. Ina couldn’t know how this agitated me towards action. She simply recognized my fading attention as I broke eye contact to consider the array of decaffeinated teas stacked beside us. She started to let me go—saying a young girl like me surely had things to do. And I did want to go—I had plenty of things to do. As well, the conversation had gone on for so long that what was really happening was no longer deniable, even for her. A young woman was humoring an older woman for a small window of her day.

Ina took a step, but I grabbed the green wallet from my cart and held it up for her to see. I told her that I had three hundred dollars inside. She sunk back into her stance. Then I offered Ina the only reason a friendly young woman goes around carrying so much cash (and so many ones). I made my living as a waitress. I told her that the night before I’d almost lost it. I was driving home when I realized I’d left the wallet behind at the coffee shop where I’d been reading. I went back and searched my booth and the ladies room, but it was gone. I hurried over to the barista. He asked a couple of questions and checked behind the counter. Then he handed me the wallet; I opened the flap and every last bill was there. Ina looked energized by my story, like a spring. I searched for a way to keep it going. Something relative to ask an old woman—I knew what the Windex and Ensure were for, and then it hit me like a box of wigs. I asked Ina if she had a cat.
Ina squeezed her little nose. Sadly, she’d been blessed with allergies. But she said that her favorite Uncle had lived out in the country with his pet cat. He had bad feet like his father—her grandfather. He was older and liked to sit in a chair by the window. She said that when this particular cat was a baby it was the very biggest in the litter. But as the cats grew older this one stayed the same size. I stopped listening for a minute while she talked about the cat. I assumed I’d be standing there for another ten minutes, and I should at least decide on the tea I was planning to purchase along with the baking powder for my mother.

Ina dropped her chin and drew a furled fist into her chest. Gently, she began to pet one hand with the other. She said that her Uncle enjoyed looking out at the country, watching for the occasional car, and this particular cat had made a habit of perching itself on his shoulder. She chuckled, she said people used to come by and say what a funny thing it was. Then, one day, when the fur all over his face finally got to bothering him—not to mention the weight of this old cat—her Uncle shoed it off and moved his chair outside. The cat got the message, sort of. After that, while her Uncle watched the scenery from the porch, the little cat crouched under his chair. Ina said she heard what people said, but she knew that animals weren’t just animals. There was something going on in there. I noticed that her boots’ clear soles created the illusion of space between the floor and her feet. Ina looked like the incarnation of a sprite or a perennial. It wasn’t hard to believe she was someone who could understand animals.

Ina cupped her hip and said it was a falsie. She said after the operation her brother’s wife insisted that she move into a bigger apartment. Ina’s home was an efficiency in an assisted living community for the elderly. Ina heard that the couple living in the two bedroom across the hall were moving out. She phoned the building manager and he confirmed. Ina’s brother and his wife were pleased and offered to help her move. They told her she needed to start spending her money on herself, instead of on everyone else. Then I noticed her purse. A turquoise rectangle of leather hung from her shoulder by a long chord thick as a telephone wire.

Ina said she enjoyed talking to her nieces and nephews on the phone; they were all college graduates. She said they worked all kinds of jobs at different hours, so she didn’t like to bother them by calling. Ina had worked out her own method. She would wait for someone to call. If she answered then they would both hang up and Ina would call back so that she could pay the charges. I imagined her pacing around her apartment, glancing at the phone, then looking out the window or sitting at the kitchen table to cut up the morning paper. I thought Ina would give me her phone number and ask me to call her. But she just stood there, gripping the cart and looking into my eyes, and, for Ina, I tried not to look away.

Goodbye Honey (A Short Story)

I used my tongue to examine the texture of my teeth while my co-worker drew directions on a napkin. He unbuckled and thanked me for the ride, and I said I was glad I could help. His pregnant wife was standing in the driveway shoeless. I reversed the car and they waved goodbye, shining in the white space stretching from my Volkswagen Golf. I left the napkin on his seat and guided the wheel in no particular direction. Rarely straying from my routine, I decided to make this trip a true detour. Traffic had settled. I was buzzing down a fluorescent Boulevard feeling the lightness of a place I’d never been when a glass storefront caught my eye. Something unknown had attracted me, and I found myself pulling over to park. The cement glittered as I walked back to the restaurant. I watched a long curious woman moving towards me. As we passed each other it felt okay to be lost, stopping to roam an unfamiliar area.
Scenes of Thai villagers living and working hung on the walls. Some ambient music came from a stereo at the bar. I sat down, rolled up my cuffs, and looked out the window façade beside me. The air smelled of sesame, spices and sweet coconut. It was empty except for the incredibly long Asian girl coughing and shuffling towards me. I really had to look up; she was taller than a coat rack. She sneezed and peeked two teary eyes over her notepad. She smiled like a bowling ball splitting an arrangement of pins.
“What’ll it be there fella?”
I had never heard a southern drawl sung by an Asian girl taller than a baby tree. A small orange flower fell from her hair when she coughed. Something about her particular combination of elements touched and twisted me. She was one of a sweet kind. One strange treasure hidden in an unremarkable Thai restaurant at dinnertime. Unknown and untapped otherwise and entirely mine—in a way. I breezed through the menu that her lacquered peach nails pressed into the table. I ordered Pad Thai and the Chrysanthemum tea she’d recommended, saying it was, “Real sweet an’ nice.”
A new sequence of dominos had appeared in my life, all resembling a sugary stele appropriately named Honey. It inspired in me a new generosity. But she didn’t tear a hole in my pocket by going the extra mile. Truth is, there was very little for her to do, except smile. After that, I was bought and sold. Honey’s smile was like a three-inch vacation or a window into the eternal respite. And she kept it up. She shoved the bills into her apron and walked off, but I caught her sweet shameless reflection in the dead TV mounted on the wall. I didn’t tip Honey for her work. I paid her for being special.
The next night, en route from the office, I blew through eleven yellow lights. This time I started at the top of the menu and ordered from the Curries. Honey returned to the safety of the counter and started scribbling. She was either doodling or doing a crossword. She struck me as both types; it was hard to get a read on her. My nostrils tingled and flared over a bowl of red curry powder, hot coconut milk, and vegetables. I came back the next night and every night that followed—including weekends. After a month I’d eaten the entire menu, start to finish. Heading home one evening it occurred to me that my return might appear as strange. My frequenting The Thai Palace had nothing to do with establishing a new routine or making a new friend or eating the food. But Honey never quivered. She would bare her green light smile and I’d exhale any fear of feeling like a stalker. In any case, no use for her wasting time considering the circumstances. She probably just categorized me as some kind adventurous eater who’d had the unfortunate experience of discovering Thai food in his late twenties.
I returned to The Thai Palace always around the same time. Each night Honey approached my table carrying a pot of hot Chrysanthemum tea. We exchanged pleasant hellos and she offered me no more than her description of the specials. I acknowledged Honey’s wishing-you-a-Happy-Birthday smile with my best impression of her visage. While I was eating she scribbled in her notebook, disappeared, or arranged bottles of tea inside a cooler. I didn’t print my number over Lincoln’s reposed gaze. She didn’t know my name, but I admired what I believed about her. That at her age she’d already learned what it took me several versions of heartbreak to understand. There is majesty in the unknown. Truth has no real words.
Monday morning I received an email from my superior. The attachment read “Edison, Parker Mr., E-ticket USAir Flight 1593.” My company sends me to San Francisco several times a year to confer with other human relations executives. It’s a trip I wouldn’t take otherwise. I departed the next morning. An easy flight, perfect Northern California weather, and the front desk welcomed me with a gentle, un-LA demeanor. I placed my brown Kenneth Coles beside my suitcase, uncurled on the couch, pressed a button on the remote, and the shades drew themselves.
The four-day conference was an intensive blur, and it wasn’t until Saturday morning that I thought of Honey. I skipped breakfast and walked until I found myself alongside the cable car route. The line ended before I’d reached one cherished west coast historical site, Ghirardelli’s Chocolate Factory. The wind tossed cool salty air around me as I devoured The Alcatraz Rock, Ghirardelli’s best sundae. I stared at the old prison across the Bay. A family appeared; two children went screaming down the hill past their parents. Then I thought of Honey. I focused on her and the few details I had collected. They were nice details, dependable, simple, consistent, and distant. They had nothing to do with me really, and that’s what made them so perfect. That with Honey I had no affect, no say, and nothing to offer but an extra twenty percent. And all those few dollars said were, “Keep doing what you’re doing. I think it’s pretty OK.”
When I returned there were bills, groceries, and laundry to catch up with. One night I opened the refrigerator to grab an apple and I remembered Honey. I had let it become two weeks. I rushed out of the apartment and started the car, wondering if I’d locked the front door. Up to that point, I hadn’t considered Honey romantically, but that whole ride I just played with her in my mind. I dressed her in white lingerie that slipped over her pert breasts, then in a black suit with no shirt on underneath, like a model. I didn’t want to kiss her. I just didn’t know what she looked like when she wasn’t wearing grey pants and a white shirt with a green square in the center.
Honey was off, but I stayed for the meal. I felt something—maybe sadness—when I peeled open my chopsticks and I couldn’t sense her hanging out across the room. A teenage punk rock version of the owner set a plate of the house Pad Thai in front of me. He bowed, stepped outside, lit a cigarette, and watched the traffic. I looked back. His father, a Thai immigrant in his sixties, was standing behind the counter with his arms crossed. I could tell that he was staring at his son, even without being able to see his eyes.
Then, a very strange feeling unearthed in my chest, like a seed sprouting its first green. Something simultaneously nostalgic and new. Then I placed it; it felt like prayer. I hadn’t prayed over a meal since Christmas dinner at my parents’ in Milwaukee. Though, that was more like happy collective mumbling. I squeezed my hands together under the table and stretched my head forward as far down as it could go. It just happened. My heart bloated, and then it tore. It felt like a parachute opening. I laughed to myself, marveling at the power of curry. I felt like a rookie boxer, but on the inside of the punching bag. Something in me wanted out—fast—but I had no words. I rode it out until my blood was redistributed evenly. When I started to eat my dinner it was still warm, just not steaming.
I opened the door and took in a bowl of stale city air. I looked up at the murky sky, all those stars obscured by electric lights. I drove under the speed limit with the windows down and listened to the traffic. When I got home I turned to the passenger seat and imagined Honey sitting there beside me. I would give her hand a squeeze, get out, go around the car, and open her door. I tried to picture her smiling, but it wasn’t the same really—I could remember that much. I unbuckled, reclined the seat, and shut my eyes. I woke up to an ache in my neck and my watch read 2:48AM. I remembered very little about Honey, but I knew she was gone.

Girls' Day Out (A Short Story)

Can you believe this traffic Margie?
Take a right there and we can take a short cut up that way.
I don’t know that area.
I do Sue…just turn up here and I’ll show you.

Sue wailed on her horn. Everyone in front of her wailed on their horns and the people behind her began to wail as well. There was an accident a mile down the road. A man opened his glove compartment to look for a tissue, ran the absolute tail of a yellow light and a mother rushing her son and his two friends to soccer slammed into him. Spencer had been standing up in the middle of the mini-van entertaining the Charlie and PJ with a story and flew forward into and through the windshield while Mandy, secured behind her seatbelt, pushed her entire body into the break pedal. After the ambulance and two cop cars arrived Mandy, Charlie, PJ, and Rick were all examined and reported to be physically fine. After breaking through the window of the mini-van Spencer slammed head first against the door of the sedan and his neck snapped. The ambulance and EMT persons served a transport to the hospital. A police report was filed, insurance information was exchanged, Spencer and Charlie’s parents were phoned, and a road crew was called in to clean up the mess.

Wait till you see this house up here on the right…don’t you love those curtains?
Which ones—Oh! Those are darling! The yellow, right?
Yes. I just love them—the houses up this way are so cute and nicely kept.
I don’t like that one.

Sue pointed to a big purple house with yellow columns and gargoyles at the entrance.

Me either, but I think it’s kind of funny having it on the block.
There’s nothing funny about an ugly house. If I lived on this street I’d have it demolished or get a petition going for them to re-paint it to look not so god-damned hideous.
OK. Left here.
Thank God we’re out of that damn traffic.
You can say that again.
I could sure use a cup of coffee. I haven’t really eaten all day.
Well do you want to stop for a snack up here, there’s a quaint little street where they sell little knick knacks and all that. There’s an adorable truffle shop and this homey cutesy coffee place I just adore—and I haven’t been there for almost ever.
Well I have to get this gift for Lizzie’s shower, but we can stop off for a moment. I don’t really feel like cooking dinner—damnit I’ve got that chicken thawing on the counter. Oh whatever, let’s just stop and have a little something. Do they have muffins?
Yes. And their scones are so good…the last time I was there the baker wrote out the recipe for me.
Ok.
Take a right, left at the stop sign, and then right at the light.

Sue turned the corner and parked in the first available spot.

That was lucky.
Where’s this place?
It’s at the other end of the block. It’s called Jaime’s Nest. Jaime is a woman. I think she and her husband own it together.
OooOOoo! Let’s stop in this little jewelry shop.

Good afternoon ladies. What can I help you with today?
Oh nothing really.
We don’t need anything. I’ve just never been on this street before…and we’re having a girl’s day so we’re checking out the shops.
Let me know if you need anything. Over here is forty-percent off.
Are chokers still in fashion Margie?
I don’t think so, but a lot of things on this street are Victorian looking. I think it’s a neighborhood theme.
I can’t believe I’ve never been here before. I love Victorian things.

The saleswoman took it as a good sign that the women hadn’t gone directly to the Sale table.

Would you ladies like to see something special? This collection is new.
Sure.
Of course!

Sue and Maggie walked over to the counter as the sales woman exited behind a navy velvet curtain. She returned with—
What a beautiful tiara! I had one of those when I was a little girl. My father bought it for me and I used to wear it everywhere.
You are too much Sue…my Becky wore one for her dance recital last year, but it was plastic. It came with the costume.
Oh let me hold it. Isn’t that darling?
Those are real crystals. Real silver. Look at the fine weaving and careful craftsmanship.

Sue and Maggie saw the sticker on the back. It said Made in Taiwan. Well I don’t have any use for a tiara now.
Never did, never will.
You getting anything here?
Not that I see.
Me either—Thanks so much!
Yes, thank you.
We’re off.

Sue glanced back at her car, then walked over and tugged on the handle. Maggie followed behind.

You ready to go already Sue?
No, just checking to make sure I locked the darn thing—do those look like storm clouds Margie?They sure do Sue.
We’d better get down to your little café before that thing starts spraying.

The women walked along the street pressing their purses between their waists and their arms. They passed a French restaurant, a music store, two card shops, and—
What is this place?
It’s an art gallery…I think.
Are those—

Dead bodies were hanging from the ceiling and encircling a pile of dead children amassed at the center of the concrete floor. Not only were—

They’re puking on each other!

But they were also—

Having sex!

With animals…in their eye sockets. A naked woman stood pissing on the pile of children, some of whom were puking and some of whom were fucking puppy dogs in the face and some of whom were fucking puppy dogs or cat skulls while throwing up. Instead of nipples two large curved cocks grew out of the woman’s breasts. She appeared to be screaming and tearing a giant technicolor American flag into halves. She had enormous purple dread locks rising out of her skull like great rivers that leapt down all over and grew around the ethnically diverse dead children, across the concrete, up along the walls, over the ceiling and down wrapped around the necks of four dickless, faceless hanged men. In place of their genitals and countenances were red fleshy craters. The figures arms and feet were bound with purple hair. A message was painted across the glass façade in white paint. RAPE MURDERS LIFE A puddle of urine surrounded the pile of bodies and four puddles of blood could be seen, one beneath each of the well hung men.

I don’t believe this…this, this—THIS! This is disgusting—and wrong!
Sue I think it’s just art.
That is not art. That is sickening and vile, no one should have to see that. We’re leaving.

Sue grabbed Maggie’s arm and led her away down the street.

I can’t believe that the people in this neighborhood would want something like that right there in the middle of everything.

There were several other couples casually strolling the street.

Maybe they don’t mind it? It is there after all.
Well maybe these are tolerant people. I definitely will not be moving into an area like this…certainly not this one.
I’m so sorry that upset you Sue. Let’s just go in here and get a nice cup of tea and forget all about that. We can cross the street and walk back to the car the other way…or better yet, we can go back a block and walk through the residential area.
I don’t have time for that. Besides the houses will probably just be lined in gargoyles or some stupid Halloween decorations.
You’re right Sue. The lawns are probably strewn with used tampons.

This made Sue laugh. Margie held the door for her as they entered—

Oh my—how lovely! How perfectly adorable, Jaime’s Nest you said?
Yes.
Here we are—Let’s sit at the table by the fire.
Great idea.
Let’s see…wow look at all the pastries in here—oh those muffins look divine. And they have carrot cake, my favorite-est!
Hi Girls!

A short, short haired woman rose up from behind the counter. She wore a long sleeved tie dye T-shirt under an apron. A popular Sunday comic was screen printed on the apron. It was a simple sketch. There was a rectangle. Above the rectangle was the title of the comic: Lake Michigan. Inside the rectangle was a concave shape and in angled print the words Made in China were scrawled across the X-Ray view of the lake’s bottom.

What can I serve up for you ladies?
I have the most darling apron at home—I really only wear it in the fall. But it has a great turkey in the foreground and this Pilgrim behind him saying “Nice legs!” And the turkey’s eyes are bulging and his eyebrows are raised. It’s too cute.
All my good aprons have winter themes. I can hardly stand to wear an apron let alone cook this time of year. It’s too hot.
Do you ladies need a little more time?
No we’re just gabbing it up—girls’ day, you know…
Of course, well, you’ve come to the perfect spot. Everything is baked fresh daily. And we have fresh coffee. Mochas. Espresso. Fresh brewed Iced tea. Whatever you’d like.

Just then Sue saw a photograph of a young man in uniform held against the fridge behind a yellow ribbon magnet.

Forgive me, but do you know that young man in the picture?
I do indeed. He’s my son.
That’s what I thought.
God bless him and God bless you.
Well thank you for asking and for the kind words. We miss him so much.
How long has he been overseas if you don’t mind my asking? I have three children of my own; five, eight, and eleven.
He was away almost two years. And he’s been gone now almost three, certainly got us hippie blooded atheists thinking about some kind of god…that one’s probably more accessible than the ones we should really be mad at.
Oh my. I’m so sorry.
It’s all right. We keep the picture up because we want to remember him. I don’t mind talking about—

The short woman bulked, her eyes bloomed with tears, she sucked in a quick breath, pulled out a handkerchief and snatched away the tiny blobs of salt water. She exhaled and smiled.

Kids are rebellious. They don’t get it. Who knows? Maybe he wouldn’t have joined if his parents weren’t so enthused by anti-establishment memorabilia…
Well I think this is a fine establishment and I would love a cup of hot coffee and a vanilla cranberry muffin.
Of course…and for you dear?
I’ll have a lemon scone and a hot coffee.
You ladies have a seat and I’ll bring it all over.

The short woman started setting things up behind the counter and Margie and Sue plopped down in the giant soft armchairs beside the fireplace and dropped their purses beside them.

Boy oh boy…what a day it’s been.
I know, I thought we were home free after getting out of that blasted traffic.
Well we’ll feel better after something to eat Sue.
I hope so. I feel terrible about bringing up that poor woman’s son.
She didn’t mind.
If she did she hid it well—at least it got me to stop thinking about all that disturbing garbage.
I think that’s kind of the point of that kind of art Sue.
Art to upset people? Art to give people nightmares?
Well no, but I’ve read that making art about a traumatic experience helps people to move forward and away from it.
Where did you read that?
In a women’s magazine.
Well my mother’s dead and I never painted a picture of it.
OK ladies.

The short haired woman placed two giant mugs of coffee on the table between Sue and Margie. Then she set down a plated muffin, a plated scone, cream, and sugar.

Will there be anything else? A glass of water perhaps.
I’m all right.
I’ll have a glass.
OK, make it two.
Be right back ladies.
See—this is art.

Sue held up a mug depicting Van Gough’s sunflowers.

I love this mug. It makes me happy. It’s pretty and friendly and there’s nothing strange about it.
Van Gough was a pretty crazy guy you know…I read about him. He was a vagabond, a hermit, and a stalker.
Oh I don’t care about all that. None of it matters, just look at the lovely flowers—what’s on yours?

Margie turned her mug around towards Sue. There was a shiatsu dressed in a sailor’s jacket and cap balancing on his hind legs on a rainbow beach ball.

Well that’s just adorable—Sue laughed—And it makes me laugh!

The short haired woman set two glasses of water on the table and walked away. Sue and Margie stopped conversing and took their plates and set them on their laps. They sat in silence eating their snacks and watching the predictable flames of the gas fire. Just then a very short woman with pale skin and slim eyes wearing an all white pantsuit slipped inside the nest. She walked over towards the women.
Excuse? Someone say two lady come down to here? You the women stand outside my space—yes?
Excuse me?
You want to come see? I show you. You buy old paintings.
No, no—What’s she talking about Margie?
I think she thinks we were someone who wanted to buy art from that gallery.
That crap—hah!

Sue turned away to show she was ignoring the conversation.

I’m sorry. I think you were waiting for someone else. We don’t buy art.

Sue decided to rejoin the conversation saying—

Oh we buy art, but we don’t buy garbage. We throw it out.
Excuse? A lady call today. She say two womens come to buy paintings.
I’m sorry that was not us.
OK. So sorry. So sorry. You enjoy. So sorry.

The small woman left.

I hope that’s not her art. I would never expect that out of such a tiny person—you know what? I can’t talk about it anymore.
It’s fine Sue.
Let’s finish this coffee and get out of here.

The women returned to the counter and paid the bill. They said nothing more about the woman’s dead son. The short haired woman said thank you and Maggie and Sue left.

Looks like that cloud just passed right over.
That’s nice for us.
Yeah, I get worried driving in the rain. I’m so afraid I’ll have an accident.
Do you want to cross the street Sue?
No, let’s just walk fast and ignore it.

And just as the women walked past the gallery some action inside demanded their attention. The tiny pale woman in the white pantsuit was hopping in place on the other side of the the words RAPE MURDERS LIFE waving and smiling. They couldn’t help but look. Then they couldn’t help but laugh.

If that isn’t a ridiculous sight I don’t know what is.

The tiny woman came to the door.

You lady want to come in? See my painting?

We can’t. And we won’t!

Sue gestured to the pile of children mounted by the naked woman.

This is a disgrace!

OK…OK…You think is scary. OK…you come, I show you pretty…so beautiful you be happy again. Come see now.
What do you think Sue?
You cover face—cover eyes! Follow—I show you!
Oh Lord—oh fine let’s just get it over with.

Sue put her hands over her eyes and took Margie’s hand who followed the woman into the back room. She turned on the light that pointed at a giant canvas hung on the wall. Sue opened her eyes and looked at the painting.

Is that a mother and child?
Yes. Mother and son.
Did you paint this?
It not mine. Young lady. She very good, very nice, very good.

She smiled and moved her hand around before her face.

So pretty. She very pretty too.

The tiny woman pointed out at the gallery—

That her too. She make many art.

She laughed. Sue and Margie were looking at the painting on the wall. The palate was basic, shades of pink. The lines were soft and simple; a nude woman curled around a small baby.
You like? Not for sale. I show you sale.

She showed the women a series of slides. The paintings were of flowers. The women agreed that they were all very beautiful.

You like to buy?
Sue you could get one for Lizzie…
Did you see these prices? I don’t think so.

After the tiny woman put the slides away the women asked to look at the painting on the wall a little while longer. The tiny woman said yes and left the room. Sue and Margie stayed long enough to forget about time. The woman watched them from outside the door. They appeared transfixed.

That really is a beautiful painting.
Yeah I guess this trip wasn’t totally worthless.
Because we got to see this incredible piece of art?
Well no, I mean, it’s nice, but I’m just glad I figured out what to get Lizzie?
You did?
Yeah I was thinking about it the whole time we’ve been standing here.

The tiny woman came back in.

So sorry not for sale.
It’s all right.
You come back please. I take you out—come!
Sue covered her eyes and took Margie’s hand who followed the tiny woman to the door. The women exchanged thank you and Sue and Margie walked back towards the car.

Just don’t look back Sue.
Trust me I won’t.
So what are you getting Lizzie?
Van Gough mugs—those’ll be perfect in her new home.

Hiking the Grand Canyon (A Poem)

I have dreamt about you my whole life Grand Canyon
As a child I knew,
“There’s a tear in the earth out there;
Somewhere people (and I) need to go.”
A place where folks scream ECHO!
Into a break that consumes shouts
And your answer back comes in the shade
Of peach clay and the sound of a donkey’s nay
Carrying the wide tourists up the cliff side
An easy ride on an animal’s strained hide
The day I finally climbed down into you
Wedged between your smudges of hot orange rock
And splashes of acid green cacti
I bedded in a hot tent beside lizards
And I woke (surrounded by crows) in search of the Colorado River
And at noon I stripped (swarmed by bugs)
And left my hiking boots on the shore to bake out the sweat
Set myself into your cool song
I submerged into silence
And swallowed the rushing voice of a great split
Of the distance between one thing

Untilted (A Poem)

There are pink slippers on my fingers that pad with a silky detached manner over these keys.
Attempting to create a force that seperates my knowing the path from the path knowing me.
The sky paints my pupils a plane gray today and my heart cools to stone.
But the ribbon red chords of hair spiral down and leap out across my vision.
And my soft gaze is assaulted by the vicious hunger of this spirit.
This origin that lives eternal in my mind fastened at the ledge of IMAGINATION History's highest cliff. (Honest Horror. and Tragic Truth.)
Frozen to the slimmest precipice rising and titling over growing needles of sand.
Every pore in me yawns and our thousand hearts contained within each miniature orifice simultaneously send out invitations to tiny pins to pierce in Saturday night.
For sharp, true objects to seek entry by racing force so passionate to appear soulless.
So brilliant to appear bland, how white is the container for all colors, including the ones I've never seen that some say live only in heaven (and I believe keep perfect cousins in hell).
I am the painter wanting to be painted.
And the painted wanting to paint.
I am the dragon's tooth and the pond's increasing scum.
I am the bed that's forever empty and the traveller forever lost.
I am bored at the truth and delighted by the lie.
I embrace bee stings and the way your flesh burns and the world dispears when your skin opens itself by a small tear (engaged by the world outside).
I am mashed into a paste and spread across perfectly placed bricks holding this entity together.
I am crumbling to bits on one end, letting go of the mural friends made together of friends making a mural together about friends making a mural together.
I am full where I am empty.
And false where I am full.
I am dead upon awakening.
And hungrier when I'm eating than when I'm starving, waiting in line for my fill.