Nag Champa

The anemic sodium-light just above the rusted metal screen door flickered. Its weak light cast an eerie pall over the long dark narrow walkway to his door. A warm breeze blew past me as I stood there, summoning the courage to knock. My attention was drawn to a grey moth that pinged the large bulb in the fixture, over and over. I stared at the moth until my eyes burned. I drew a deep breath and knocked on the metal. The loud, sharp sound sent a jolt of electricity to my spine and I let out a violent shudder. I should never have come. I was growing uneasier, and that amplified my anxiety, making me jumpy. Just as I turned to walk away, the door opened slowly.

   “Yes?”

   “Hi Edward, it’s Sig.”

He looked at me through the bars in the screen door but couldn’t make me out in the weak light.

   “Sig?”

   “From class. You said I could swing by to pick up the syllabus.”

   “Ah, yes, Siegfried! From class. Come in; come in.”

He swung the door open and guided me inside with his hand on the small of my back. I immediately felt a hot pulse and walked in quickly to break his touch. The sounds of a sitar broke bottles in my ears as I stepped into his living room. His place was small and dark. The dingy walls were covered by ornate eastern tapestries; barely lit by orange and green lights that hung in every corner. A sheer dark blue veil was suspended just below the ceiling, spanning the room, making it feel even smaller. On the mantel of his faux fireplace stood a tall brass statue of Shiva holding a long sword in one of his many hands and two burning sticks of Nag Champa in another. The wispy clouds of smoke wrapped their thin hands around my constricting throat.  I hated the smell.

It was really unsettling, seeing him sitting two seats over from me in class at the learning center. I never thought I’d see him again. I thought he’d vanished decades before.  I wasn’t even sure it was him initially, but the ropey scar behind his left ear and those crystal blue eyes dispelled any doubt. They burned themselves into my memory like a firebrand. Though he seemed to have developed a pronounced lisp that I didn’t remember. Now, due to some miserable déjà vu, I stood in his living room.

  “Would you like some tea, Siegfried? I just put the kettle on before you came.”

   “No thanks.”

   “It’s quite lovely. Do have some. It’s herbal.”

   “No thank you.”

   “Well, I’ll fix myself one just the same, if you don’t mind.”

I nodded. He went into the slightly brighter kitchen and I heard the clang of a pot being moved around and the opening and closing of cupboard doors. Not wanting to sit down on any of his furniture I stood there in the middle of his living room. I began compulsively scratching my arms. He walked back in to the living room carrying two steaming cups and sipping from one.

   “Ah, that’s better. I brought one for you in case you change your mind.”

He placed the cup on a coffee table for me, where it sat untouched.

   “I noticed that you were looking at my old photographs on the bookshelf.”

In fact, I hadn’t. I hadn’t moved from the spot where I stood. He walked over and pulled down a framed picture and handed it to me.

   “That’s me… or was me in another life.”

It was a sepia-toned shot of a young man (about my age) with his chest and chin jutted out and wearing the cockiest of grins as he leaned on a cane. He wore a tall top hat and dark suit with a large medal pinned to the lapel and was flanked by two dark Indian men in white sherwanis (as he called them), with rifles strapped across their chests.

   “That was when I served in Bengal at Her Majesty’s request; during the Raj. I was the youngest regent in all of India at the time! Just after the second world war and just before the blighters kicked us out. It was the best of times, my boy; the best of times. Not soon forgotten… As you can see, it left quite a permanent impression on me.”

   “Hmm.”

He chuckled.

   “Those two buggers had their throats slit shortly after that picture was taken. And I got this souvenir.”

He pointed to his scar.

   “It wasn’t all sit-ins and salt marches. Don’t let those bloody history books tell you different… Would you like some tea, my boy?”

   “You’ve already offered.”

I pointed to the steaming cup on the table.

   “Ah. Drink up, drink up.”

   “No thank you. You said you had the syllabus?”

   “Syllabus?”

   “The syllabus for class.”

   “The syllabus for cla… Ah yes! My apologies. I’ve become quite forgetful in my old age. I’ve even forgotten that you were stopping by. I’ll get it now.”

He put his cup next to the other one on the table and walked back into the kitchen. Over the wailing of the sitar, I heard the sound of a file cabinet drawer opening and the rifling of papers.

   “It’s here somewhere, my boy. It’s here somewhere.”

Age had dulled his memory. He seemed to recall memories anchored two generations in the past with clarity, yet he appeared not to recognize me. Granted, my face has become more angular, I’ve grown another two and a half feet and my hair has grayed a bit, but my eyes remained the same. They always stay the same.

  “You know Edward, I used to live quite close to you as a small boy. In fact, you often came to my home and visited with my mother.”

The rifling of the papers stopped and he peered into the living room.

   “I did? Gracious. When was this?”

   “About twenty-five years ago. You were always accompanied by an old Persian woman.”

   “What was her name?”

   “Anais.”

   “The Persian woman?”

   “No, my mother.”

   “This was here?”

   “No. In Pasadena.”

Edward frowned and scratched his head.

   “I’m sorry, but I don’t remember. You say it was twenty-five years ago?”

   “Yes. You spoke mostly Arabic with her, as none of us spoke any English at the time.”

   “Ah. That must have been lovely, but I’m afraid that most of the noodle has turned to mush. I’m sorry that I don’t remember. You must have been a delightful boy.”

My fingers throbbed inside my clenched fists. He returned to the file cabinet and continued his search.

   “That is wonderful to know that we are old friends, Siegfried.”

The room felt like it was contracting and the smell of the Nag Champa was becoming unbearable. I felt sick; like I was about to vomit. I flew at the door and threw it open, startled by a young boy standing on the other side. I jumped. The unexpected fright threw him off balance and he fell back.

  “Here it is, Siegfried. I’ve found it.”

Edward walked back into the room waving the syllabus in front of him. He noticed the open door and the boy outside.

   “Funny, I didn’t hear the doorbell ring… Ah, Tomás. Bien-ve-nido a casa.”

Tomás got up slowly and walked into the living room, eyeing me fearfully. He was a timid, slight boy in a grey tank top and dusty blue shorts. He grabbed his elbows and hunched his shoulders close together. When I caught his gaze, he nervously looked down at his sandals.

   “This is my young friend, Tomás. His family lives on the other side of the building and his mother cleans my flat once a week. They moved here from Hermosillo, two months ago. Neither of his parents speaks English. I convinced them to let me teach him English before he enters school next year. Of course, they agreed.”

Edward grabbed Tomás’ chin and pulled his head off his chest. He leaned forward to look into his eyes, and tousled his hair. He closed the door with his right hand while he pointed to the sofa with his left.

   “Aqui.”

Tomás sat down dutifully. He wrapped his arms around his bare legs and rested his chin on his knees. He reminded me of a rolled up pill bug, hugging his legs. Edward handed me the notes.

   “Here you are my boy. I hope this helps.”

   “Why don’t you walk me to my car, Edward? I have a couple of questions about class.”

   “I really must start the lesson. I only have an hour with the boy, and every minute counts.”

   “It won’t take long.”

   “Really, I must get started.”

   “You’ll be back before he can escape.”

Edward squinted his eyes. Though he still smiled, his tone became curt.

   “I’ll see you in class, Siegfried.”

He put his hand on my shoulder and walked me to the door.

   “Thank you for stopping by. Good luck on the…”

I picked his hand up off my shoulder and began squeezing it. Edward winced and his mouth opened, but no sound came out.

   “Out!”

Tomás looked up, but was frozen to the sofa. His breathing grew rapid as he gripped the sofa cushions.

   “Out! Get out of here, kid! Go!”

I squeezed Edward’s hand until his knuckles cracked. He winced again and let out a pitiful squeak.

   “Go! God damnit! Go!”

I squeezed harder until I felt a snap in my hand. Edward howled.

Tomás’ eyes opened wide. His face went ashen as he shivered on the couch. A stream ran down his leg and pooled around his sandals. I threw the door open.

   “Get the fuck out!

Tomás bolted out the door and I slammed it behind him. I released Edward’s broken hand. He backed away from me, gingerly holding his broken hand across his chest. He opened his mouth to scream…

   “Hel…”

…but I punched him across his jaw; launching his dentures across the room in a spray of spittle and blood.

His shoulders slumped and he began crying, his lips sucked in over his gums.

   “Please. Please don’t hurt me. Just leave. I won’t make trouble if you just leave.”

I laughed.

   “It’ll be our little secret, hmm?”

I punched him in the face again. His nose crumpled under my fist, releasing a font of dark blood down his face and onto his shirt. He fell back against the bookshelf and collapsed on the floor; knocking his books and pictures down with a crash. As I approached him, he picked up one of the smashed picture frames and heaved it at my head. It ricocheted off my temple, opening a gash. The blood ran into my eye and burned.

   “No! No! Please, Siegfried. Please!”

I kicked him hard in his crotch and he doubled-over in pain. I snapped his head back with a kick to his head. He rolled onto his side and moaned, woefully.

I pulled him up to a sitting position by his hair. He slumped over, but I pulled him up again.

He blinked at me through two dark and swollen eyes, his split lips quivering.

I kneeled down and examined his battered face. He began sobbing.

   “Don’t cry, Edward. Don’t cry. Big boys don’t cry.”

I spat into his face and stood up. He slumped over again and continued sobbing.

I caught my reflection in a mirror as I walked to the door. A trail of blood ran down from my eyebrow to my chin and onto my shirt. I wiped it off on my sleeve, opened the door and walked out. The air was cooler outside. I drew in a deep breath and vomited all over the walkway.

Honeybaked (Book Excerpt)

The line was out the door, through the parking lot and snaked behind the Honeybaked to San Pasqual, where the rancid smell from the dumpster almost made me vomit, several times. I could taste it in the back of my throat. Alexa and I had been in line for over an hour now (twenty of those minutes with our shirts over our noses) and finally made it inside the store. Five customers remained in front of us. Even though I only put in a half day at work, I was wiped out. I couldn’t wait to be done with this line and sit down for a long while. Two frazzled looking old women in ridiculous hairnets worked the counter. One fat one and one thin one. Dick und Doff.
  "Next!”
The line moved three feet and lost a body. Four more to go.

Alexa was skipping up and down the aisle smacking the frilly cornucopia decorations hanging off the counters with her open palm. The bigger of the two women, with heavy lids and huge mole between her eyebrows, plopped her ample chest on the counter as she leaned forward.
  “May I help the next person?”
A gaunt bald man approached the counter as Alexa reached out to smack the orange cornucopia in front of them both. She caromed into him, fell backwards and ripped down the entire string of decorations from the counter.
  “Who’s child is this?”
The three-eyed woman glared down at Alexa- who was on the floor, tangled in string and crepe paper, looking stunned. She furrowed her meaty brow and scrunched her sharp nose at every face in line from back to front and then demanded again:
  “Who’s child is this?”
I sheepishly stepped out of line to pick up Alexa, who hadn’t moved from the spot she fell.
  “I’m sorry ma’am. It was an accident. If you have some tape, we’ll fix this mess.”
  “You need to control your child, young man.”
I wanted to reply, ‘She’s not a dog you hateful triclops!’, but instead apologized some more.
  “Yes ma’am. We’re sorry.”
I picked Alexa up and untangled her. She’d ripped one of the decorations off the string and smashed another flat, which I attempted to restore to it’s former plumpness.
  “Please apologize to the lady, honey.”
Alexa looked up at me with misty eyes and squeeked:
  “I’m sorry.”
  “Not to me sweetie, to the lady.”
Alexa turned to the triclops who was still glaring down at her and let out a wail. Great.
  “Sshh, shh, sshh, baby. It’s ok, it’s ok. I’ll fix it. It’s ok.”
Triclops sighed loudly and handed me a tape dispenser from under the counter.
  “Thanks. I’ll fix this up in no time.”
  “Next!”

Sniffling, Alexa held the string over her head (on tiptoes) as I taped the decorations back to the counter. The line moved two spaces in the time it took us to restore the festive holiday mood.
  “Thanks sweetie.”
She wiped her moist red eyes. I put the tape dispenser back on the counter and returned to the spot we stood in line.
  “You lost your spot.”
  “What?”
  “I said you lost your spot.”
The greasy fat fuck with a skullet who’d stood behind us, pursed what would have been his lips. He wore stained sweatpants and a moth-eaten Green Lantern t-shirt and stank of armpit and ass. He highlighted his indignation by setting his meaty fists firmly on his protuberant womanly hips.
  “We only stepped out of line for a couple of minutes. Be a pal.”
He was unmoved.
  “You stepped out of line, so you lost your spot.”
I wasn’t about to go to the back of the line again and wait another hour because of this asshole, so I stepped back to my place in line.
  “Hey!”
Jabba grabbed my arm and tried to push me out of line.
  “You lost your spot!”
I grabbed his greasy wrist and bent it back.
  “Ow!”
Triclops glowered at us from behind the counter but said nothing and continued helping her customer. I leaned in as far as Jabba’s tart breath and rank body odor would allow and whispered in a low voice:
  “If you touch me again, I’ll fucking lay you out.”
Alexa looked scared, so I let him go. He rubbed his wrist and stepped in front of us in line. The smartly dressed woman standing behind us tapped my shoulder.
  “It’s alright. You can stand in front of me.”
She had a thick Armenian accent. Her r’s leapt off her tongue, hit her palette and ricocheted off her capped white teeth.
  “Thank you very much.”
Her bright hazel eyes, sunk into a thin angular face, searched mine from under a heavy canopy of tidy eyebrows.
  “Are you Joe’s son?”
  “Joe who?”
  “Satorian”
  “Yes.”
  “I knew it!”
She smiled wide.
  “Jeesht hyret gelmanees.”
Then she repeated in English, in case I didn’t understand.
  “You look just like your father.”
I politely smiled.
  “I hear that all the time.”
…and I fucking hated it.
  “It’s true! Exactly like Joe!… Hyret eench bess eh?”
And again in English in case I didn’t understand.
  “How’s your father? Better?”
  “Yes. He’s been out for a few months now and he’s doing much better. He started driving again and is working again, part time.”
  “Good. Good… is this your daughter?”
Alexa clove to my side with her arms wrapped around my leg and squeezed.
  “Yes. Alexa.”
The woman opened her eyes wide and pinched Alexa’s chin with her thumb and index finger.
  “Lochoom!… does she understand Armenian?”
  “No.”
Nor Turkish. Alexa squeezed my leg harder.
  “Ow, baby. Not so tight.”
The woman winked down at Alexa and smiled with her lips pressed together. Then at me with the same tight smile.
  “Tell your dad that Anahid from Hovig’s said hi. He’ll know me.”
  “I will.”

Jabba was at the counter, waiting for his order to be filled by the thin woman. She couldn’t find a record of his order and was coming undone.
  “It’s Amos Sax. S-A-X. I placed my order on Thursday. Look again!”
  “Sir, I’ve checked five times. I don’t see your order anywhere. There’s no receipt and there’s no box in the back containing your order. You must have called another Honeybaked.”
  “No! I called this one! Check again!”
  “Next!”
  “Hey! I’m not leaving until I get my order!”
  “If you don’t get out of line, I’m gonna brain you with my Dr. Scholl’s!”
I let out a loud sharp laugh. Jabba turned around and gave me the stink eye. I taunted him; swinging my hand down, holding an imaginary cudgel. Anahid clucked her tongue three times.
  “Vie Eshek.”
  “Next!”
He returned his attention to the woman behind the counter.
  “I told you…”
  “Next!”
  “I’m not…”
  “Next!”
  “I’M NOT LEAVING UNTIL I GET MY ORDER!”
The store fell silent. Everyone, who wasn’t already riveted, spun around to gawk at the scene. Jabba repeated in a softer but still defiant tone:
  “I’m not leaving without my order.”
The thin woman stared coldly at him for a long hot minute. Jabba stood his ground so she bent over to take off her shoe; eyes locked on his puffy head, presumably weighing her target options. I was gleeful in anticipation of the delightful scene I was about to witness, but was gawk-blocked when Triclops stepped in.
  “You handle the next customer, Ada. I’ll take over here.”
Ada straightened up and went to the far end of the store, as far away from Jabba as she could.

  “Next!” 
  “C’mon sweetie. That’s us.”
Alexa still clung to my leg, so I hobbled over to the counter and waved over my shoulder.
  “Nice to meet you.”
Anahid waved back.
  “You too.”
Ada was wearing a sour expression and an ‘It’s GREAT to be ALIVE!’ pin on her apron.
  “Yes?!”
  “We’d like to pick up our order, please.”
  “Name?!”
Alexa cut off the blood flow in my leg and my foot fell asleep.
  “Daddy?”
  “Hold on, baby. Satorian. The order’s under Satorian. S-A-T-O-…”
  “Daddy.”
  “One second sweetie. –R-I-A-…”
  “Daddy, I don’t like this place. Can we go please?”
  “We’re picking up pilgrim food for tomorrow, baby. It’ll only take a few minutes.”
  “I wanna go Daddy. Please!”
  “Alexa, you need to be a big girl right now, ok? Daddy’s almost done.”
Ada waited impatiently behind the counter, drumming her fingers on top of the display and sighing.
  “N.”
  “What?”
  “R-I-A-N. Satorian.”
Ada went in the back to get our order. Alexa pulled on my leg while we waited and began head-butting my hip.
  “Da-ddy… Da-ddy… Da-ddy… Da-ddy…”
I put my hand on my hip, palm up, to absorb the blows from her forehead. Both her feet were on my right foot. Her little fists clutched the seams of my jeans around my thigh, which she pushed off of and pulled back on, head lowered. She launched on the ‘Da…’ and landed on the ‘…ddy’.
  “Da-ddy… Da-ddy… Da-ddy… Da-ddy…”
The force of her head-butts grew with her impatience and a couple times she smacked the same (by now) tender spot on my hand.
  “Ow, Alexa. That hurt. Please stop.”
She ignored me.
  “Da-ddy… Da-ddy…”
  “Alexa! I asked you to stop.”
  “Why?”
She stopped chanting but continued head-butting.
  “Because you’re shaking your brain loose and the next time you sneeze, it’s gonna fly right out of your nose.”
She stopped.
  “Uh-uh!”
  “Mm-hmm! Then what are you gonna do without a brain?”
  “…… mommy sez you don’t have a brain, daddy.”
  “Z’at so?”
  “Mm-hmm. She sez you’re a care-grow because you don’t have a brain.”
  “A scarecrow.”
  “Mm-hmm, a care-grow… are you a care-grow daddy?”
  “Yes…… and your mother has flying monkeys in her closet.”
Alexa’s eyes opened wide.
  “Mon-gees?”
  “Mongees.”
Ada returned with our food in a big cardboard box and two big bags, which she set on the counter.
  “Startorminen.”
  “Satorian.”
She ignored me and read off a list while checking the box and bags for the items.
  “One whole roasted turkey, one half roasted chicken, one quart vegetable stuffing, one quart macaroni and cheese…”
Alexa tugged on my hand, still wide-eyed.
  “… one quart garlic mashed potatoes…”
Tug, tug, tug.
  “Daddy?”
Ada kept reading off the list.
  “… one family size chicken Caesar salad…”
  “Daddy?”
  “Hold on baby.”
  “… one sweet potato pie, one pumpkin pie and one cheesecake.”
  “Daddy?”
  “Excuse me one second.”
Ada sighed again while I bent down and turned my attention to Alexa.
  “Sweetie. Please give me two minutes here and then I’ll give you all of my attention when I’m done. OK?”
Alexa’s eyes narrowed. She pursed her lips, furrowed her brow and folded her arms across her chest in dramatic fashion while she harrumphed.
  “’Kay.”
  “Thanks angel.”
I kissed her forehead and straightened back up. My knees popped.
  “Sounds right. What’s the total?”
  “Seventy nine sixty eight.”
  “Ouch! Are you charging for the box and the plastic bags too?”
Ada was not amused.
  “Seventy nine sixty eight.”
She took my four twenties, handed me my change and smiled one of the fakest smiles I’d seen.
  “Have a nice day, sir.”
As I grabbed the box and the bags and Alexa’s hand (no easy task), I noticed that Jabba was still at the counter arguing with triclops. She looked like she was about to jump the counter and strangle him with her hair net.
  “You have a wonderful day now too, Ada. Toodle-pip.”

  “Daddy?”
One of the plastic bags was slowly slipping from my fingers as we walked past the putrid dumpster and the long line of people back to the car.
  “Da-ddy!”
  “Yes baby.”
  “Does mommy really have flying mon-gees in her closet?”
  “Yes, sweetie.”
One handle slipped off my finger.
  “Whoops. Can you hold this bag please, Alexa?”
Alexa grabbed the bag and held it straight out in front of her between two tightly clenched fists.
  “Thanks, baby.”
Alexa’s brow was still furrowed. I could tell that she was still trying to process the flying monkeys in the closet. The look on her face and the bag swinging from her fully extended arms made me laugh. Alexa looked up at me.
  “Daddy?”
  “Yes, my angel?”
  “Will the mon-gees bite me?”
  “On no sweetie. They would never hurt you… or mommy.”
  “How come I’ve never seen them?”
  “Because they hide in the pockets of mommy’s old dresses and only come out at night. If you look for them, you won’t see them because they turn invisible when they’re scared.”
  “Are they friendly?”
  “Just to you and mommy. Mommy sends them after people she’s mad at.”
Alexa looked thoughtful.
  “Mommy’s mad at you a lot a lot, daddy.”
  “I know, sweetie.”
  “Won’t they hurt you, daddy?”
  “They’re afraid of Senf and Muttley, sweetie, so they don’t come around.”
Alexa smiled but then frowned again.
  “What if Zef and Mumley are sleeping or in the bathroom?”
  “I have super monkey spray, angel. I’ll be ok.”
Alexa’s wheels were still spinning when she asked in a hushed tone:
  “Daddy? Do you think mommy would let me send the mon-gees against peoples who maked me mad?”
  “Made you mad. Mommy keeps them pretty busy baby, but I’m sure she’d let you borrow them.”
Alexa perked up and started marching happily with the bag swinging wildly, straight out in front of her. The bottom tore open. The sweet potato pie fell out and splat all over her shoes. I hated sweet potato pie anyway.

Breath

Was our love too strong to die, or were we just to weak to kill it? The lyrics repeated in my head like a skipping record. Accusing… I guess it was the latter. I looked down at her chest. Her labored breathing. In. Out. It was hypnotizing. I tried to recall how many times I laid my head on that chest. Rising and descending in rhythm with her breaths. Lulled into a hazy trance. I tried to recall how many times I saw that chest heave in the staccato rhythm of crying. Her chest communicated more than here eyes or her lips ever could. Her disappointments manifest in her heavy breathing. I looked at my watch. 10 minutes. Her breathing had slowed then stopped. I removed the pillow and shoved it under my head as I lay down and breathed slowly…

Snap, Crackle and Pop

I was late again today. 10 minutes. The boss’ll have my ass for sure, I thought. Fuck him. I took off my jacket and threw on my smock. “Hey Pete! Can you tie me up in the back?” I washed up and went into the next room. The fire was already blazing. The body on the slab was naked and the fire was famished. It had a never-ending appetite and was hotter than hell. I pushed the body in and closed the hatch. The fire roared and turned orange. I remember the one time Pete locked me in here for kicks, while a body was burning. The snaps and the pops of the flesh and fat sizzling; the crack of the bones snapping in the intense heat. It stuck with me, bothered me… but not as much as when I had to slide that beautiful girl in. Gorgeous little girl. Couldn’t have been more than 7. So still on the slab. She almost looked asleep; her arms crossing her chest. I couldn’t do it. The boss called Pete in to do it. After she “reduced”, as that asshole liked to call it, he told me to sweep her up and put her ashes into an empty urn. I didn’t. The fuck suspended me for a week without pay. This was my second day back. Two days. Twice late.

It’d been about 45 minutes. He should be “reduced” by now. I went in and swept him up into a waiting urn. The shards of bone that didn’t burn down and glowed a bright red would be thrown out with the rest of the trash at the end of our shift, after they cooled. If the city ever found out, there’d be heads rolling. The boss didn’t care. He wanted them gone. The trash-man already hated picking up our trash without knowing what it contained. He said it gave him the creeps to pick up trash from the “grim reapers”.

The disquieting thought once again came to mind. I thought of how my own body would burn; history rendered beneath scorched skin. The hot memories of love and hate sizzling and bursting open. The snap and crackle of all I’d ever done, concluded. The hiss of all I’d ever wished for, released. The happiness, the fears pooling bittersweet beneath charred flesh. All those years, the sum of it all- reduces to ash. A large sandwich baggie worth of dust in the bottom of a cold urn.