Hate and Switch

Hate walked into the bar, exhausted and needing a drink. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed Love sitting on a stool by herself at the corner farthest from the door. Her shoes were off and her naked feet kicked peanut shells back and forth on the dirty floor. She drained a large highball in one swallow and motioned to the hunchbacked bartender for another. Hate tried to duck back out before she noticed him, but was blocked by a large mumbling party of Apathies that oozed into the bar like melting wax. The buzzing drew her attention. She looked up and saw Hate smiling sheepishly, standing in the doorway, and groaned. Discovered, he walked over.

   “Hello, Love.”

   “Christ! Not you again. Didn’t we have an agreement to stay out of each other’s hair?”

   “I just needed a little break.”

   “Look, we agreed. You get run of the place at night, and I get it during the day.”

   “Yeah, but…”

   “Yeah, but nothing! This is the third time this week, Hate. What is wrong with you?”

   “I need a breather. I’m tired.”

   “You’re tired?! Do you have any idea how tiring my job is?!”

   “I’m sure it’s very hard.”

Love took another big swallow from the freshly refilled glass sweating on the bar and then spat an ice cube back into it. She forced a laugh.

   “You’re damn right it’s hard… Especially having to undo your handy-work!”

Hate remained silent as he cast his eyes down at the floor to avoid Love’s glare. A cockroach scurried across the floor and over the peanut shells near her left foot. He noticed that the black polish on her toes was chipping.

   “My job’s hard too, Love.”

   “My job’s hard too, Love.”

   “I’m serious.”

   “I’m serious.”

Hate looked at her and sighed. Her face was screwed into a scornful pout, mocking him. He studied her puckered face as she glowered at him.

            She was beautiful, once. Radiant and flawless. Young. Alluring. Anyone who was lucky enough to discover Love was immediately gob-smacked- blithering, babbling, doddering. She reveled in it. They wanted her. Wanted all her time and all her attention. And she gave it… when she was young and strong and could. Alas, Love changed as she grew older. She couldn’t keep up. Love was stretched to her limits. She was drained. Love felt empty. She’d plead to Desire and Lust to cover her shifts (after all she’d gone to orientation with both of them and they knew about 75% of her job) but that always ended badly and soon Hate would be called in. She started skipping out. The few appointments she’d kept, she sleep-walked through. Love never lasted long. She soon stopped caring and was filled with Scorn… who was a bad influence on her. She dyed her crimson hair jet black and put it up in pigtails on top of her head, like horns. She started wearing vinyl and leather, studded chokers, torn fishnets and long black streaks of eyeliner. Love blasted Atari Teenage Riot, Einstürzende Neubauten and Venetian Snares on the portable iPod speakers that she strapped to her belt, specifically to freak people out.

            People feared her. Then they stopped believing in Love, or rather, stopped believing that Love mattered. Which was all fine and well with her. They could all suck it as far as she was concerned. Well, some very important eyebrows were raised, and the Director called her in and thoroughly chewed her out; warning her, in very explicit terms, that she had better get her act together or he was going to demote her to Longing, part-time, and she would lose all her benefits. The threat was enough to elicit exemplary work… for about 3 weeks. But when the Director was caught having an affair with the receptionist in Billing and was busted down to the swing shift in Limbo, Love regressed; going through the motions and slogging through the day. It helped a bit to get tipsy before her shifts… soused after… and soon, during. Punch drunk Love. It broke Hate’s heart. It did, however, make his job easier. Though it kept him very, very busy. Even the Apathies put in double overtime.

           

   “You just gonna stand there and stare at me all day?”

   “Sorry.”

Hate motioned the stooped bartender over and scooped a handful of peanuts out of the bowl on the bar. He cracked the shell of one and popped the contents into his mouth but then spat the stale nuts onto the floor.

   “Jeez. How long have these been sitting here?”

The bartender fixed him with an impatient eye, then barked.

   “Whaddya want?”

   “Midori Sour. Double shot please.”

Love belched out a snarky laugh.

   “Wow. You really are all man, aren’t you?”

He ignored her and tipped the bowl, sweeping the stale peanuts off the bar onto the floor. Then he downed the cocktail the bartender set in front of him.

   “Barkeep.”

Hate gestured to the bartender for a second.

   “Easy now, tiger. Think of your liver.”

He ignored the mocking again.

   “What are you drinking?”

   “I can buy my own damn drinks, thank you!”

   “Just trying to be friendly.”

   “That’s rich! Hate’s trying to be friendly.”

   “I think you’ll find that off the clock, I’m quite agreeable.”

   “And I think you’ll find that you’re not off the clock yet.”

   “Touché.”

            The lights in the bar went dim and then flickered as the front door opened and a tall thin shadow appeared in the doorway. Hate lifted his second cocktail to his lips and puckered as Love grabbed Hate’s hips and yanked his body closer to her, spilling half the contents of his drink over his shirt and shoes.

   “Hey!”

   “Shut up!”

   “These are suede shoes!”

   “Shut up!”

She quickly bent her knees to her chest and rested her feet on top of her barstool; pulling on Hate’s left hip and pushing on his right so that he was facing the door and obscuring her behind him.

   “What are you doing?”

Love hissed at him.

   “Just keep quiet!”

Death entered the room. He was a giant in black, bending down so as not to hit his head on the naked bulbs that hung three feet below the rafters. He walked up to the bar and called the bartender over.

   “Virgin margarita, please. Blended.”

The bartender scowled.

   “Why don’t you just go to 7/11 and get yourself a Slushie?”

Death frowned at the bartender and made a loud, low guttural noise. Everyone immediately fell silent and nervously turned towards the bar as their glasses danced on the tabletops.

   “Alright. Alright.”

Death laid his five bucks on the counter and reached for some peanuts from another bowl on the bar.

   “I wouldn’t eat those. They’re all stale.”

   “Hi, Hate! I didn’t see you there.”

He extended his hand for Hate to shake, but Hate demurred.

   “C’mon Death.”

Death withdrew his hand.

   “Sorry. I forget sometimes.”

   “S’okay. How’s business?”

   “Brisk. Too brisk. I’ve been pulling major overtime all week and I’m exhausted. I need to cash in some floating holidays and get away. How’re you doin’?”

   “About the same. I’ve used up all my floaters and most of my vacation, so I drop in here from time to time for a breather.”

   “Better busy than out of a job, huh?”

   “Yeah.”

The bartender hobbled over with Death’s margarita and set it on the bar. Death removed the wedge of lime that perched on the lip of the glass and placed it on the bar. It turned black and shriveled in on itself.

   “Good talking to you, Hate.”

   “Same to you. Say hi to… uh…”

Hate realized mid-sentence that Death was a bachelor and lived alone.

   “Take care, man.”

   “You too, buddy.”

Death leaned forward and looked down over Hate’s head.

   “Bye Love.”

Love straightened up behind Hate and waved to Death.

   “Oh, hi! Sorry, I lost a contact and didn’t see you standing there. Ah! There it is!”

Love pretended to scoop up an errant contact lens from the lapel of her blouse and pop it back into her eye.

   “‘Love is blind’ makes for a pithy adage, but it ain’t very practical.”

She giggled nervously.

“Good to see you again Love.”

With that, Death picked up his margarita and walked over to an empty table in a dark corner of the bar, next to the broken Arcade Quiz Games, and sat down.

   “What was that all about?”

   “Nothing!”

   “No. That was definitely something.”

   “Ugh… We dated.”

   “You dated?!”

   “Yeah. So?”

   “So? It’s verboten. He’s upper management.”

Love rolled her eyes and clucked her annoyance. Hate slapped his forehead.

   “Oh crap! He’s upper management.”

   “So what?!”

   “He saw me hanging out in a bar on the clock. Shit! I’m cooked! You too!”

   “Relax. He’s not going to say anything. He’s decent… he’s actually a really nice guy.”

   “If he’s so nice and decent, why aren’t you still dating?”

   “Because he’s boring as Sin.”

   “I’ve hung out with Sin. She’s anything but boring.”

   “You know what I mean. He’s as boring as he is nice. As dull as he is considerate.”

   “How’d you two hook up?”

   “I would meet him a few times a week after work.”

   “For what?”

   “Referrals.”

   “Referrals?”

Love sighed, impatiently.

   “When my assignments were mishandled by those two clucking chicken-heads who’d fill in for me…”

   “You mean the two who covered your ass?”

 “Are you going to let me finish?”

   “Sorry. Go ahead.”

   “Anyway… A lot of those lovelorn whiners wished for Death. So I figured I’d give him a call and hand him a number of referrals each week.”

   “So it wasn’t because you caught Scorn and Rumor in bed together?”

   “What? No…… How’d you hear about that?”

   “Rumor gets around.”

   “I’ll bet she does. Skank!”

   “Sorry. I interrupted again. Go on.”

   “Death was sweet… and grateful. He took me to dinners and bought me drinks. The more we hung out after work, the more preoccupied I became with Death. No one really knew anything about him. Except for a wave here, a smile there and a ‘nice to see you’, he usually kept to himself. The mystery of Death started to intrigue me. Plus, it didn’t hurt that he was tall, dark and thin and still had all his hair. I found him kind of sexy.”

   “He is quite the looker.”

   “I’ll slip him your number.”

   “I don’t swing that way.”

   “Not what I heard… I needed a thrill; something new and a little dangerous to get my mind off the mind numbing work, so I asked him out. We dated for a time, but that thrill never came. The man was as exhilarating as a tea leaf. It grew old fast. Real fast. I couldn’t take anymore museum dates, afternoon hikes or another night of jigsaw puzzles and spiced cider. He listened to Steely Dan and Air Supply records non-stop! It drove me nuts! One day, while he was taking a shower, I went through his stuff to see if he was hiding some kinky or titillating side from me. I found his diary stuffed between his mattresses and read it.”

   “I would have lost money on him sleeping in a coffin.”

   “Are you gonna keep interrupting me?! Tell me now and I’ll save my breath!”

   “Sorry.”

   “Seriously! You’re on my last frayed nerve!”

   “Sorry. I promise. Not another word out of turn.”

Love scowled at Hate for a hot minute…

   “I found his diary and read it. It was all names and dates. Nothing juicy or even halfway interesting. Just names and dates… That was it. I ran out the door while he was still in the shower singing ‘All Out Of Love’.”

Deciding against pointing out the obvious irony, Hate kept his mouth shut for fear of incurring Love’s wrath. The logistics of their relationship puzzled him, seeing as Death was clearly not someone you could run up to and hug, but he didn’t dare ask. A pregnant silence passed before Hate cleared his throat.

   “That’s it?”

Love shot daggers at Hate through her squinted eyes and swung around on her barstool, turning her back to him. She called the bartender over to order another drink.

   “Why are you such a… spiteful… cow?”

Hate immediately regretted his choice of words as Love swung around violently on her stool, kicking him hard in the knee.

   “Ow!”

   “You do this job and see what it does to you!”

Hate rubbed his knee as Love’s spittle flew into his face.

   “You think my job is duck soup?”

   “A trained monkey, can do what you do, Hate.”

   “Zat so? You try being the patsy for all the friction and conflict and hostilities in the world. You think I don’t take any of that anxiety home with me? I’m tired of all that corrosive negativity.”

   “Poor baby… YOU try having the fate of the world on your shoulders!”

   “Oh give me a break, Love! That’s a little self-important, isn’t it? The fate of the world on your shoulders?”

   “Yes!!”

   “What does the fate of the world have to do with you? Despite the cheesy lyrics on Death’s mixtape, Love does not make the world go ‘round?”

   “You think Hate does?!”

   “I know it doesn’t. Thank God…”

   “Hey!!”

The bartender slammed his large meaty palm on the top of the bar with a loud bang. Everyone jumped in their seats except Death, who was listening to adult-contemporary through his ear buds and doing a crossword puzzle he ripped out of the newspaper that morning. A bottle fell off the counter and smashed on the concrete floor with a loud crash.

   “How many times have I told you? I don’t want to hear that name in my bar!”

   “Sorry. Sheesh!”

   “Just one more time, Hate, and I’m throwing you out those doors, headfirst.”

   “Okay, okay… It wasn’t me that bent your spine, ok?”

The scowling bartender closed one eye and pointed a finger at Hate, but said nothing. Everyone returned to their conversations as the bartender pushed past Love and Hate to sweep the broken glass into a dustpan. Love swiveled her stool around and turned her back on Hate again. She lit a cigarette under the ‘No Smoking’ sign, took a long drag and exhaled with a sharp sigh. She nursed her drink between puffs of her cigarette, which she smoked down to the filter, before she spoke again…

  

   “What makes the world go ‘round?”

   “Huh?”

   “What makes the world go ‘round?”

   “Fear.”

   “Fear?”
   “Yup.”

   “That knuckle dragger? Are you kidding me?”

   “Nope. He make’s the world go round. We’ve paired up many times. I’ve seen him work. The guy is a machine. Fear is an amazing motivator.”

   “How does that ogre make the world go ‘round?”

   “You know better than most how Fear can rule a man’s heart, Love. He’s insidious. Fear wriggles into the heart and the mind and takes root, either paralyzing change or catalyzing destruction. He keeps man from happiness and sends him rushing headlong into mediocrity, or worse. He’s the arbiter of the status quo.”

   “And also the genitor of loneliness.”

   “Yeah. He’s got many talents.”

   “What about those with no fear?”

   “Everyone fears something.”

   “But what about those who aren’t ruled by fear?”

   “What about those who aren’t ruled by love, joy, sadness, hate, anger, jealousy, shame? You do what you can, you punch the clock and you collect your paycheck.”

   “Well, I can’t do it anymore, Hate. I can’t… I can’t… I… HATE this job.”

   “I’d gladly do your’s over mine.”

   “You couldn’t handle it.”

   “I think I could.”

   “It’s yours then.”

   “What?”

   “It’s a-l-l yours. Take it.”

   “Really?!”

   “Yes, really. I’m so done with it.”

   “And what’ll you do?”

   “I don’t know. Maybe Reiki. There are classes at the Learning Annex.”

   “Uh… why don’t you take my job? I think you have the right attitude for it. We’ll switch.”

   “Management would never go for it. That new director is strictly by the book.”

   “Don’t worry about him. He and I go way back. I used to play drums in his band in college. He’ll approve it.”

   “Ok, then.”

   “Great! I’ll have Obsession drop off the handbook of statutory codes and guidelines.”

   “Who?”

   “My… I mean your, new intern. She’s a little thick, but she means well. She’s also the Chairman’s niece. Just so you know.”

   “Great…”

            “Barkeep! Another sour and a… What’re you drinking, Love?…”

The Party (Book Excerpt #2)

I met her at a friend’s party. I forgot what the occasion was. ‘Enter Sandman’ was blaring and Arak was flowing like water. She was beautiful. Deep reddish-brown hair (natural), blood red lips, pale white skin and crystal blue eyes. While tits and ass and legs certainly have their merits, it’s always the eyes that closed the deal for me. I sat down next to her in the crowded living room. I was nursing a watered down Arak and watching some boring game show on the TV. She leaned over and said:
  “The women are buying their own drinks at Papillon’s tonight.”
I laughed. The room was full of Arabs, a few Persians and one or two Armenians. Smoking, drinking, arguing, laughing, playing backgammon. I got a visual of the owner of Papillon’s looking out over an empty banquet hall, scratching his head and cursing, and laughed again.
  “Polina.”
She offered her hand.
  “Heiko.”
I returned mine.
  “Heiko’s an unusual name. Where are you from?”
  “Germany.”
She winced.
  “Is there a problem?”
  “I’m Russian. I’m not too fond of Germans.”
I frowned.
  “I’m sorry. Maybe I can open up a peace dialogue by offering you some chips and dip.”
She laughed then gave me one of the most beautiful smiles I’d seen.
  “No Fritos.”
  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Be right back.”
I got up and scooped a handful of Doritos and french onion dip on a plate. I went to the kitchen and dumped the rest of my Arak in the sink and grabbed a Sprite. As I was walking back, I was surprised to notice that no one else had sat next to Polina. No one was talking to her. Maybe because she was different than everyone else. Who knew? I was glad though.
  “Here you go.”
  “Thank you. So what are the terms of the peace agreement?”
  “Well, if dialogues go well, there may be another plate of chips and dip in your future.”
She laughed. I got butterflies in my stomach. God I was easy. Get a beautiful girl with beautiful eyes and a beautiful smile who shows a modicum of interest and I melt like cheap wax.
  “I’ll tell you what, you make it a plate of some of that falafel and hummous and you may have yourself a treaty.”
  “You got it.”
I got up to fix her her plate.
  “Where are you going?”
  “To prepare your tribute.”
  “How do you know that I’ll be receptive or refrain from hostilities?”
  “I’ll take my chances.”
She blushed. Our eyes locked for a few seconds and my stomach did loop-de-loops.

I went back into to kitchen. My friend Farouk, the host of the party, was staring into the fridge.
  “Hey Freddy, where’s the falafel?”
  “It’s in the stove keeping warm. Want a beer?”
  “No. You know I hate beer.”
  “You’re the only German I know that doesn’t drink beer.”
  “Please. How many Germans do you know?”
  “A few. And you’re the only one of them that hates beer.”
  “It’s in the script.”
  “Huh?”
  “It’s in the script.”
  “What the hell does that mean?”
  “Nothing. Where’s the lettuce, tomato and tahini?”
  “Right here.”
He pulled a plate out of the fridge and handed it to me.
  “So how do you like the party?”
  “Not bad. You’re killing me with the Metallica blaring non-stop, but otherwise it’s cool. I met this really nice chick in the living room.”
  “Who?”
  “Polina.”
  “Who’s Polina?”
  “I thought she was a friend of yours.”
  “No. I don’t know her… oh wait. Dude, I think she came with a friend of mine.”
  “Male friend or female friend?”
  “Male. I think she’s his date, dude.”
My heart sank.
  “Stop calling me dude.”
He flipped me off. I prepared her plate with a faint hope that she came with a female friend.

She was still sitting alone, looking bored (I took it as a good sign). When she caught a glimpse of me walking back, she smiled again. I got butterflies again. I told myself to stop doing that because I knew that if she were taken, I’d be crushed… as sensitive as I am, and as easily as I attach to attentive women.
  “You made it. I was beginning to think you’d slipped out a window or something.”
  “Sorry. I ran into Farouk in the kitchen and we were discussing the anomaly of beer-hating Germans.”
  “What was the conclusion?”
  “Apparently I’m the only one on the planet.”
Smile.
  “So Mr. Heiko. What brought you to the States?… assuming you weren’t born here.”
  “I wasn’t. Just like a lot of people, my father thought he’d become a millionaire in America.”
  “How did that turn out?”
  “It didn’t. I hated him for bringing us here. I didn’t want to leave my extended family and friends.”
She made a sad face; had I not been into her, I’d have thought it was patronizing, but then she put her hand on my knee and said, “I’m sorry.” My knee instantly burst into flames and my heart nearly beat out of my chest.
  “Right now I’m not cursing his decision.”
She blushed and turned her head away slightly. Shit! Did I go to far? Why did she put her hand on my knee? She sneezed. I was relieved. She picked up one of the napkins on the table and daintily wiped her nose. My face got warm and suddenly the room was empty. It was just me and Polina. Though my ears started ringing, I could hear my own breathing. I could feel my palms sweating. I, discretely as possible, wiped them on my thighs.
Polina’s lips were moving but I heard nothing. She cocked her head and looked at me strangely. She was asking me a question and waiting for my response. I regained my senses with an almost audible “whoosh”.
  “I’m sorry?”
  “How do you say ‘bless you’ in German?”
  “Gesundheit.”
  “Oh! That’s right. Does it literally mean ‘bless you’?”
  “No. It means ‘health’. As in ‘I wish you health’”
She smiled and squeezed my knee again. I felt like I was going to faint.
  “So what’s your story, Polina?”
  “What do you mean?”
  “I mean where are you from? What do you do? What are the course of events that have brought you here to this couch?”
  “Well, I was born in Leningrad- which just became St. Petersburg again. My father was a civil engineer. I guess kind of the opposite of your father’s aspirations, his ambition drove him to uproot his family. Pulling strings, he moved us to Pilsen, Czechoslovakia- where he was a big fish in a small pond rather than a goldfish in the ocean.”
She seemed pleased with her joke.
  “Have you heard of Pilsen?”
  “No. Is it nice?”
  “It’s a small town outside of Prague and is famous for it’s Pilsner breweries. I’m surprised that you, as a German, don’t know it.”
  “I hate beer, remember?”
  “Ah yes. Anyway, we lived there for about 15 years. My father died and my mother moved us back to Russia to be closer to relatives. She was killed by mobsters when she tried to organize our neighborhood to shut down a local whore house.”
  “Wow. I’m really sorry.”
She shrugged. I grabbed her hand and she closed her fingers around mine.
  “I have to say your English, is amazing. I can barely detect an accent.”
  “But you CAN detect one.”
  “A very, very slight one. I almost have to strain to hear it.”
She smiled.
  “Thanks. I studied it for years in Prague. A cousin of mine who worked for the BBC in London would also send me videotapes of American shows like Batman & Robin and The Munsters, as well as the Rocky and Bullwinkle cartoons.”
We both laughed.
  “I had the best command of 50’s and 60’s American slang in all of Pilsen.”
I laughed again. I really liked this girl….

  “Baby!”
My heart skipped, startled. Polina quickly let go of my hand. I looked up and noticed a thin, tall, dark, hairy guy walking towards us. I recognized him from the InCAR meetings at PCC. Manwan. Manwar. Manoo. What the hell was his name?
  “Hey baby. This is Heiko, my new friend.”
  “Koko! What’s up dude?!”
I hated being called dude.
  “You know each other?”
  “Sure. I’ve hung with Koko many times at those meetings I was telling you about.”
Truth was we’d nodded at each other a few times in passing. There was no friendship. In fact, he always rubbed me the wrong way with his disingenuous sincerity. I hated the familiarity that some Middle Easterners feigned to make themselves feel big; well known and liked. I also hated that he called me by my nickname. Worst of all, I hated that he was her boyfriend. I’d seen this dickhead on the make many times; trying to dazzle some ‘progressive’ chick’s pants off with his dazzling sensitivity and cultural awareness. I felt physically ill that it worked on Polina. My heart broke.

CRACK! Farouk ran out of the kitchen into the living room and started swearing at Pascal, a mutual friend, who’d just broken the leg off a chair to impress his friends with his display of strength.
  “What the fuck are you doing asshole!”
Pascal just stood there grinning like an idiot. He was high again.
  “Get the fuck out, motherfucker!”
Farouk grabbed him by his sleeve, pulled him to the door and threw his ass down the steps. I heard a few “ughs”, “ahs” and then a crash when he hit one of the bikes at the bottom of the stairs. Polina looked horrified. Mannymoe just stood there cracking up. He walked to the door and looked down the stairs, laughing the whole time. Farouk tried to close the door but couldn’t because that dick was standing in the doorway busting a gut. Polina looked really embarrassed. Farouk cursed at him in Arabic and he finally moved. The door was slammed. Everybody got real quiet. Trying to hide the anger in his voice, Farouk yelled:
  “Who wants another fucking beer?! I sure as hell do!”

Conversation and party gaieties resumed. Mannymoe walked back to the couch shaking his head and laughing, but before he could reach us, Polina stood up and huffed to the kitchen. He genuinely seemed surprised that she was upset.
  “Women, huh?”
I didn’t respond.
  “So what do you think of my girl?”
I wanted to say ‘You don’t deserve her, you fuck!’ but just said:
  “She’s very nice.”
He nodded.
  “The best piece of ass a man could ask for.”
I felt my neck and cheeks getting hot. I mulled over the idea of grabbing that chair leg that Pascal broke off and bashing his head in, but thought better of it. Instead I pretended someone was calling me from across the room and got up.
  “See you at the meeting on Tuesday.”
I grunted at him and called him a ‘fucker’ under my breath. He cornered some chick near the tv and was on the make again. Slime.
I walked into the kitchen. Polina wasn’t there. I grabbed a handful of pretzels and Farouk walked in with the pieces of the chair.
  “That asshole was coked out of his skull again.”
I nodded.
 “I don’t understand him, Kok. Sober, he’s the nicest, sweetest, most genuinely sensitive guy I know. His parents give him everything he wants but he’s still depressed, so he’s constantly lit- which is when he becomes a gigantic idiot. I don’t understand it.”
  “It’s in the script.”
  “What the fuck does that mean Koko?! You keep saying that!”
  “It doesn’t mean a thing.”
He didn’t hear me. He was absorbed by the wreckage of his chair. He shook his head sadly.
  “My mother bought this chair.”
His mother died of lupus a few years ago. Farouk took it very, very hard. I put my hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze.
  “I’m gonna take off Freddy.”
  “Alright bro. Thanks for coming.”
He was still staring at the wreckage.
  “I want to say bye to Polina. You know where she is?”
  “Who?”
  “Polina. Laughing boy’s girl.”
  “Oh. She’s in the bathroom.”
I gave him a pat on his back and walked to the bathroom. I put my ear to the door and heard muffled sniffling; like she was crying. I knocked.

  “Just a minute.”
  “Polina, it’s Heiko. I’m leaving but wanted to say goodbye.”
She unlocked the door and I walked in. She closed the door behind me and locked it. She had been crying. Some of her mascara ran down her cheek.
  “I just wanted to tell you I had a really good time getting to know…”
She grabbed my face with both hands and planted her lips on mine. My knees nearly buckled. She kissed me for a long time. No tongue. Just lips. Hard. She hugged me tight while she did. Almost as if she were holding on for protection. I kind of felt the same way. Protected in her embrace. Strange. I’d just met her less than an hour earlier. Still. It was soothing. Warm. After what seemed like 20 minutes (but was more likely two) she pulled away… taking a piece of skin from my lip with her. My lip started bleeding. I just stood there staring at her, dumbfounded. She said nothing. She grabbed a few squares of toilet paper, wet them in the sink and dabbed at my lip gently. I swear I could have burst into tears then if she’d said anything. She threw the toilet paper away, washed the evidence of crying off her face, dried it, put her hand on my left cheek, kissed my right and walked out the door. I stood there… looking at my reflection in the mirror.
Someone knocked on the door.
  “Hold up. I’ll be right out.”
I flushed and ran the water in the sink to make it sound like I was finishing up. I opened the door and walked out. My friend Greg was leaning against the wall, waiting.
  “Hey Koko. What’s up?”
  “Same old shit.”
He laughed. It hadn’t occurred to me that given my exit from the bathroom, that comment seemed amusing.
  “I hope you lit a match.”
  “Nah. I marinade in my stink. Much like life.”
Greg frowned.
  “Alright then. I’m off to pinch a loaf.”
  “Happy baking.”
I walked down the hallway into the living room. Polina was standing by laughing boy. He had his arm around her. They were talking to Farouk and laughing.
  “You’re still here. Freddy told me you took off.”
I looked at Polina.
  “I had to use the bathroom.”
She averted my gaze. The phone rang.
  “I gotta go. Thanks again for inviting me Freddy.”
The phone kept ringing. Freddy put his cigarette in his mouth and shook my hand.
  “Later Koko.”
The phone rang some more.
  “It was a pleasure meeting you Polina.”
I reached out for her hand. She offered me a weak handshake. Embarrassed. The phone rang and rang. I nodded at Mannymoe and walked towards the door. The phone was ringing so loud, the sound was bouncing off the inside of my skull. I heard nothing else.

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.