Characters

Real or invented, or somewhere in between.

Paul

I met Paul at the Wilshire/Western Metro station late on a Friday night. I was not out shopping for a meaningful if brief encounter with a meth addict on my way home from work, but 2021 is full of surprises so far. 

Paul's first words to me were "Never seen that before, huh?" He was stepping through the sliding door that connects subway cars, something riders rarely do. I had glanced his way when I noticed, but mostly I was staring down the length of the train car, which for some reason was unlit. My expression was one of mild concern, not curiosity. 

"What, moving between cars?" I said neutrally. "Yeah, I've seen that. I'm just wondering why the lights are out." At that moment, the lights went back on. Neither of us commented on it. 

I sat down in one of the spots facing the aisle, one reserved for seniors and the disabled. But it was nearly midnight and save for Paul and I, empty. With no seats in front of me, I could kick my legs out and lean back.  

Paul moved past me, deciding on his own seat. I took him in guardedly, unbothered but prepared to bolt if necessary. He was somewhere between 25 and 35 years old, with deeply tanned skin, close cropped light brown hair, and greenish eyes the whites of which glowed against his darkened skin. His clothes were tattered and filthy, with pants sunk half past his hips and work boots halfway unlaced. There was no question he was homeless and either an alcoholic, an addict, or both - but there was an energy about him, an alertness that gave me the impression he had plenty of fight still left in him. Paul was clearly on the losing side of life's many battles, but as of yet he remained undefeated. 

In the entirely empty train car, Paul chose the seat directly facing me, putting us mere inches from one another in the otherwise wide open space. I didn't flinch or glare or get up and move. I allowed it. I waited.

He slumped in his seat for a moment's rest, then immediately yanked the gaiter that covered his mouth and nose down to speak. I jerked upright, scolding "Ep ep ep!", the universally recognized sound for No no no, don't do that. The sound mothers make to their children when they grab at something they shouldn't. 

Paul understood and with both hands, pulled the dirty cloth back up over his face, this time all the way up, covering his eyes and forehead ironically, like an impudent child sarcastically making a point. He took a few sharp breaths, sucking in the fabric that bound his face tightly. It was an absurd and darkly comic moment that I nevertheless couldn't find the laughter for. Pretty much like most of the past year. 

I was a week past my second vaccination and feeling somewhat invincible, so when over the course of the next few minutes the gaiter ended up down around his neck and Paul's mouth and nose stayed totally exposed, I didn't say anything. I did some quick calculations in my head, the variables being

1. How likely I was to get the virus from someone who clearly roamed the city all day

2. How likely I was to get the virus at all when case counts in LA had plummeted so sharply

3. How bad it could possibly be for me if I did get it, now that I was all vaxed up

4. How good it felt to just sit next to another person with our faces seen clearly by one another, with our expressions of hesitancy or amusement or curiosity or compassion plainly visible, like real human beings sharing a moment of normal human interaction

and I came to the scientific conclusion of: Fuck it. 

Paul fidgeted while we waited for the train to leave the station. He crossed and uncrossed his legs. He pulled at the sleeves of his shirt. He cocked his head left and right. The way he jerked around it was like there was another Paul inside of him, restless and captive. 

"Do you live around here?" he let his head hang back on his shoulders, only turning his eyes toward me to ask this. 

"I live downtown," I said.

"Do you like it?"

"Yeah, it's okay," I said. The space where normally I would return the question to anyone that wasn't obviously living on the streets widened and widened, until there was just a chasm of silence. 

"Do you think I could stay at your place tonight?" At this he turned his whole body toward me, an acknowledgment of the seriousness of the plea. I held his gaze in return, smiled sadly, and shook my head. He nodded. What he'd expected. No hard feelings.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Elizabeth. Yours?"

"Paul." He thrust his hand out, but not as an invitation to shake mine. Instead he flattened his palm and held it directly in front of my chest, inches from the zipper of my jacket. He held it there, suspended, as if feeling my life force. He held his palm out to so long I started to think he wanted me to touch it, to meet it with mine. 

"No touching," I admonished gently.

"I'm not," he protested, truly enough.

Suddenly, Paul sprang out of his seat and reached into his back pocket. I watched as he pulled out an assortment of objects, none of which I could identify other than as things I would immediately throw away if I found them on my floor, and place them carefully onto his subway seat. A crumpled up bit of paper. A broken glass pipe. What looked for all the world like rocks but which I knew were not.

He fumbled with these things, putting one or another to his mouth, tasting, testing. I braced myself for I wasn't sure what. I told myself that if he lit the pipe I would have to move to the other side of the train. I didn't want to inhale anything. But just as quickly as he'd started on whatever this mission was, he aborted it. He sat back down, angled towards me amiably. Still fidgeting. 

"What are you on?" I heard myself asking.

"Meth," he said simply. "I drink a lot too." I could tell. I could smell it. "When was the last time you got high?" he asked me. 

I didn't point out the assumption or qualify which drug I meant; I just answered honestly: "A few weeks ago."

"Molly?" Paul had me pegged. I laughed a little and nodded.

"Yeah. I had some molly once but then they gave me meth. It was at a party. They didn't tell me. They were like 'Hey, you should try this blue!' and I was like 'I don't know, I don't know what blue is'. It was at this girl's house, all these people. I didn't know. So then I was like 'Okay, sure' but it was meth and I was hooked."

This monologue went on for a minute, Paul animatedly acting out the scene, changing his body language and voice to reflect the different characters of his story. I couldn't really follow. I just watched Paul deeply inhabit a moment from his past. 

Abruptly, he changed tacks, looking at me intently. "What's the longest you've ever stayed awake?"

I took a moment to genuinely consider the question. I thought of the time in college when my boyfriend and I shot out to Disneyland for a day and then drove back that same night, both of us having to work in the morning. I momentarily got lost remembering the sleep we finally had a day later, when we woke up so disoriented and dream-drunk we didn't even know what day it was. I thought, there must have been a time when I stayed up a day straight at least to write a term paper...

"Hmmm. Maybe a day? A solid day?" I offered this to Paul with a smile, as if it were a small gift I was hoping would delight him. By now we were pulling into my station, and I patted my backpack to check for my phone and keys as I started to get up.

"That's how long you've been alive," Paul said seriously, watching my face to see if I understood. 

There is a phenomenon that occurs when you take enough LSD, that you learn/know/understand things during the trip that escape you once the trip ends. It's just a fact of acid. You can't bring everything back with you, and you have to accept that some of the mind-splitting bits of clarity you glimpsed when you were in the wonderland are going to have to stay back behind the curtain until you're brave enough to go find them again.

That is how Paul's proclamation struck me. Like a slice of universal truth I nevertheless would have to take his word for. He was in a place I wasn't. He could see things I couldn't. 

I reached into my bag and opened my wallet, pulled out the twenty, the five, and the handful of singles inside. "When was the last time you ate?" I asked him. He dropped his head. "Here," I said. He shook his head. "Please," I said. He took the money but didn't say thank you. Just looked past my shoulder at the empty car.

All at once, I felt my heart crumpling up inside me. I was going to lose it. We walked out of the train together and I picked up my pace to let him know I was leaving the station alone. I turned back and held my arm straight out. I made a peace sign with my fingers, walking backwards, looking him in the eye, smiling fiercely.

"Don't be sad," Paul called out softly. I was smiling determinedly. I had purposefully, carefully composed this smile out of view, wanting to leave him positively charged from our conversation. But he had seen right through me. I shook my head at him, a liar through and through.

I managed to get a quarter of the way up the escalator before the tears hit, well out of Paul's sight. I wouldn't have wanted him to see me breaking in two like that. He has much better things to see, that maybe I never will.

 Percy’s Ink Shop

Percy's ink shop isn't his; that’s just how I think of it. It's a chain ink refill store at which I've spent an unfortunate amount of money over the past few months, thanks to all the estate paperwork. Percy is the Eastern European man who runs it, and with whom I've gotten to be friendly.

Percy and I have perfected our ink-customer-and-seller schtick. I come in, angry and frustrated about my piece of shit printer having devoured yet another $8 in cyan or magenta, and he talks me down with a bemused, patronizing tone. Then he spends five minutes campaigning for me to go out with him, while I ask personal questions designed to get him to reveal more bizarre/scandalous details about himself.

Among other things I've learned about Percy is that, before he moved to the states, he was virtually swimming in hot, eligible women, all vying for his attention and money. Percy was a god in The Old Country. Here, he's a pudgy, moon-faced thirty something ink store manager, with a little boy's haircut and massive, dark eyes.

Today I've brought a depleted cartridge of yellow ink. I always put the used cartridges in a little baggie so they won't stain my hands or clothes or purse, but for some reason I feel ridiculous doing so. As if they're toxic, or I'm afraid of a getting a little ink blot on me.

When I walk in, he's reclining behind the counter as usual, talking on his cell phone. He lazily starts to sit up when he sees me, and says, "I gotta go. Customer. Don't worry. It's a guy." His words are heavily accented, and he winks at me on the last one.

"I'm just going to throw my printer out the window," I announce, as he's snapping his flip phone shut.

He cocks his head at me, as if to say Really?? "Why do you do that. I just tell her it's a guy. Now I'm gonna get in trouble, because she hear you."

I remind Percy that he's at work. Does his mistress think his only customers are men? He takes my ink cartridge out of its hazmat container and examines it. "Where is the number?" he asks. I have no idea. Number? "There should be a number on here. A sticker. That's how I know what you have. You take the sticker off, I don't know what to sell you."

I unleash a stream of vulgarity insulting the integrity of my printer, its manufacturers and designers, and making threats towards its longevity. Percy tells me to relax.

"How do men date you?" he queries, not bothering to look my way as he scans the shelves for the correct replacement. "You're crazy. I would lose my mind if I was your boyfriend," he adds.

Speculations about my dating life are nothing new at the ink shop. Over the course of the past three months, Percy has seen fit to 1) try and set me up with various other customers, 2) try and secure a date for himself, and 3) inquire as to the health of my sex life. None of this is done in earnest or with malice. He doesn't take himself one iota more seriously than I take him.

He reminds me that if I were to date him, I'd be "a lot happier and calmer woman." I have no doubt, I say dryly. He wags a small blue box at me as he says, "And I'm not just talking about orgasms." I can't keep a straight face.

"You're insane," I tell him. "You should have your own reality show. Percy's Ink Shop. It'd be perfect for Bravo. All about your interactions with customers, the relationship advice, the inappropriate comments..."

He lights up. "I love Bravo!" he exclaims. "Millionaire Matchmaker!" I am not surprised. I am not surprised by anything Percy says.

"The show could follow your personal life, too," I continue, "which I bet is...fascinating." He knows I'm teasing, and he laughs. He knows full well how ridiculous he is.

Suddenly his face gets serious. He looks at me conspiratorially, as if about to disclose his secret KGB identity. "You know, I'm actually having a background in the jewelry business." And before I can finish the crack I start about Russian mobsters, he's reaching into his pants pockets and pulling out two fistfuls of tiny plastic baggies. I can see immediately that one has a ring of some kind in it, and the others, loose diamonds.

"That's it," I say. "I'm calling Andy Cohen. You need to be on television." I shake my head in wonder. "Percy! What the hell are you doing carrying around a bunch of diamonds?"

He doesn't answer, and just holds out his treasures, eyes twinkling. "Have you ever seen diamonds before?" he asks me, in complete seriousness. I inform him that I am not, in fact, Oliver Twist, and yes, I have seen diamonds before. I remind him for the fifth time at least that I was married (a fact he suspiciously forgets to file away each time) and I even had the pleasure of wearing diamonds.

At this, he pulls the ring out and holds it up between us. I can see now that it's a pave wedding band. He makes as if to slip it on my finger, but I pull away. "Huh uh," I say. "Once was enough."

As always, he discounts my ink, exhorts me to bring my dog next time, and sends me off in a better mood than when I walked in.

The Invitation

The grooming parlor where Vig takes the Maltese puppy Vicki brought home—six weeks to the day after he discovered her affair—is walking distance from their downtown Los Angeles apartment. But at nearly five months old, Freyda has yet to feel LA’s sidewalks under her paws. She travels to her vet appointments, play dates, and Vicki’s boozy brunches in a front-facing backpack that seems to polarize the humans she meets. Some exclaim at its cuteness, gushing over Freyda and asking permission to “say hi to the baby.” Others look away quickly, seemingly embarrassed. Vig, whose earliest experience of dogs was the pack of strays that roamed Parco Saraceno in his youth, hates the backpack. He’d rather carry Freyda in his arms (he agrees with Vicki that the streets of DTLA are too filthy for her to walk on). But today, he has no choice. Today, he needs his hands free to carry the invitation.

Vig and Freyda earn a few double takes as they cross town. The immaculate, snow-white bundle is striking against his leathery neck and forearms. On especially hot days like this, Vig’s already florid face deepens to a purplish carmine, giving him the look of a root vegetable left roasting too long. His clothing has been carefully chosen to emphasize this mediterranean coloring, which he secretly believes makes him exotically handsome. Garment-dyed polo, light wash jeans, and the same sneakers his daughter’s boyfriend wears. “My style is Malibu boomer,” he likes to joke, flashing veneers as white as Freyda. At fifty-two, his vanity is like an increasingly bored wingman, yawning and tapping his watch pointedly. Vig, however, is not ready to leave that dance just yet.

He walks with one hand lightly resting on Freyda and the other holding the invitation carefully away from his overheated body. It’s a simple flyer Vicki printed from her computer: You’re Invited! Please join us for our (First annual??) Tarts and Vicars Penthouse Party. Dinner and drinks will be provided, duh, so come hungry and horny. Costumes encouraged demanded! Clip art of a Playboy bunny in silhouette is pasted clumsily besides a screenshot of Hugh Grant in Sirens. Vicki ordered her outfit the night they decided on the theme. It’s the first party they’ve planned since Vicki’s affair ended—the first since months of nightly fighting have tapered off into a wary truce, brokered unwittingly by Freyda. Love for the puppy pours out of Vig so abundantly that her little body cannot contain all of it; the excess soaks slowly into the porous fabric of their relationship.

Still, the humiliation rankles. Vig knows that Vicki is lying about not having told any of their friends. He dreads their eyes falling pityingly on him as they walk in the door. So he is on his way to rearrange the board a little bit. If he is successful, the distraction will be so complete that no pitying eyes will even notice him. If he is not, the mere attempt will communicate all that he needs to.

Vig straightens his shoulders, clears his throat, and steps into the pet supply shop that houses the grooming parlor. Freyda, immediately recognizing her surroundings, wiggles and whimpers to be let free. He sets her down on the polished concrete floor and the click-click-click! of her tiny nails is the only sound in the otherwise quiet shop. Realizing she must be in the back, Vig lingers out front, letting the air conditioning dry his sweaty forehead. He watches as Freyda happily explores, taking her scent inventory of other recent canine visitors. Vig suddenly has a terrible thought. He realizes he forgot to stop on the way over to let Freyda relieve herself. She almost certainly has to pee—or worse.

“Freyda,” he says in a low voice, striding toward her. “Freyda, come girl.” She ignores him, sniffing intensely. Vig freezes. He knows that sniff. He hesitates, afraid to risk lifting the puppy mid-stream and having her urinate on him. Before he can make any decision, Freyda makes one for them both. She squats, blinking innocently at Vig as a soundless trickle issues from beneath her.

“Fuck!” Flustered, Vig grabs for the puppy with both hands. The invitation, still in his right hand, falls partially into the pool of urine, wetting the bottom left corner. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” Holding both at arms’ length, he carries Freyda and the wet paper back outside. A gust of hot wind lifts the invitation, grazing his wrist with dog piss. Cursing, he sets Freyda directly on the ground. The puppy sniffs the verboten environment excitedly while Vig collects himself.

His pocket vibrates: Vicki, probably. He doesn’t answer, busy positioning Freyda in the backpack once more. Another vibration: Vicki texting.

Babe where are you?

He waits a beat.

Groomers

Wasn’t she just there?

He looks at the message. Here it is. The long awaited moment. He moves his piece.

I’m inviting Billie to the party.

A very long pause. So long that Vig has time to consider whether or not to go back in and extend his invitation verbally, or to just go home. He sighs and rocks back and forth gently, a habit he’s picked up since carrying Freyda. He turns to look inside the shop’s glass front. From his vantage point, he can see all the way back to the small room where the dirty, smelly, and shaggy dogs of downtown Los Angeles are cleansed of their sins and made respectable again.

Then, he sees her. She’s hosing down a golden retriever in the huge stainless steel basin. Her back is to him, but her form is familiar. The smooth, strong line of her calves. The ponytail that swings as she works. His phone finally vibrates again.

The girl that clips Freyda’s nails?

Yes

A short pause.

Isn’t she like 25?

Vig doesn’t answer. He pictures Vicki on her couch, glass of wine in hand. The day’s makeup already washed clean from her cosmetically taut face. He stares at the words on his phone, at the number on the screen, as if it holds all the secrets to the universe. As if it can explain to him why his girlfriend cheated on him, why he decided to stay with her, or why he is here right now.

Freyda yips, jolting him out of his reverie. Love for the tiny being holstered against his heart floods through him. She is no doubt hot, thirsty, and confused by their lack of movement. He taps out his reply to Vicki.

Talk when we get home. On my way now.

Along the way, he tosses the crumpled up invitation into a trash bin.

Superhero

I feel restless, at home today. I don't have any plans for the evening, and know that I'll go bonkers if I spend the entire day and night cooped up in the apartment. So I grab a sweatshirt and head to the metro station. I have no idea where to go. I have no idea what to do. I should have started this adventure earlier; I could have gone to the beach. Now it's already three o'clock.

I'm languid in my movement, even though the temperature is dropping. I'm in the mood to sit back and observe, but against a change of scenery. I wish a moving sidewalk would unroll in front of me, like a red carpet. I don't need the pomp. Just some circumstance.

Below ground, I decide to take whichever train comes first. North Hollywood it is.

Hollywood and Vine. Tourists. Anxious-looking men smack star maps agains their palms and thrust them into the hands of passerby. They ignore me. What is it? The fact that I'm alone? Something in how I'm dressed? My headphones? Or, probably, the disengaged look on my face. I'm strangely flattered, to think I'm passing for a local. Wait, passing? I am a local. I live in Los Angeles. Some day it'll sink in. Probably the one I move.

The walk of fame. Star after star after star. I glance at the names along with everyone else. I know very few, which makes me feel ashamed. I should pick one, learn his or her story. Occasionally, an empty star. Nameless, ready to be stamped with glamour, making all the fame hounds drool.

I snap a few photos, wander, listen to The Walkmen. Heaven, on loop. This is depressing me. This was a mistake. There is nothing novel or noteworthy on this stretch. Head shops. Tattoo parlors. What am I doing here? There must have been a million interesting cultural events happening in the city today, that I could have gone to.

There's a superhero on the sidewalk up ahead of me. He's standing alone in front of a costume store, coaxing foot traffic inside. Only, there isn't much to coax. I suddenly realize that I know who this man is. He catches my smile of recognition - though he doesn't know its source - and steps towards me. I'm expecting the advance; from what I've seen, one of his superpowers is salesmanship.

I allow my smile to broaden as I slow to a stop in front of him. "I saw your documentary," I say in as friendly a way I can. It occurs to me that he must hear this all the time, and I hasten to add, "It was great. I think what you guys do is great. You're a fixture in Hollywood, and you make a lot of people smile..." I trail off dumbly, with no idea how to express what I'm trying to say. What am I trying to say?

Superman rescues me. "Oh, thank you. That's very kind," he says. "What's your name?" He shakes my hand, and we start to chat. His resemblance to Christopher Reeve is even more astonishing in person. The jet black curl on his forehead, his sharp but delicate facial features. The care with which his costume has been constructed - and is obviously treated each night upon removal - is moving. It's been a few years since I saw the film about him and the other men and women who make a living portraying famous characters on the streets of Hollywood. But I remember finding it fascinating - finding him fascinating, especially - and I'm delighted to now be speaking with him, face to face.

We talk very briefly about his work, and about the lawsuit he brought against the city to fight for his right to work the boulevard for money, before moving onto the topic of skincare. I've made some flattering (and genuine) remark about how youthful he looks, and he's now reviewing his daily cosmetic regimen for me. He doesn't just use soap, he explains. He uses conditioner, too. On his body. He lets it soak into his skin while he's washing his hair. "See, feel," he commands, lifting the back of his hand for me to stroke.

The graceful way he's holding his arm, and the papery, smooth texture of his knuckles make me think instantly of my mother. But it's more than his skin. It's his dark hair and crooked teeth. It's his whole general physicality, in fact: ectomorphic, fragile in spite of his height. She was the same way. His comportment echoes hers as well. Gentle. Vulnerable and a little bit broken, but with a latent strength. Someone who's had to bear a lot of pain, but is nowhere near ready to give up.

She was the same way in that regard, too.

I'm tempted to tell him how much he reminds me of her. I don't think he'll be offended. I think, in fact, he'll understand that I mean it as a compliment. He seems deeply empathetic. I think that if in trying to explain exactly how he's like my mother, the words become stuck in my throat and I can only shake my head helplessly as my eyes well up, that he won't become alarmed or uncomfortable. That he'll put his superhero arms around me, there on the sidewalk, and give me a superhero hug. And I think that hug might just transfer some of his power to me, in the same way that hers used to.

I think all of that, inside of an instant, as I'm looking up at this kind, engaging, couragous, dedicated, and somewhat tragic soul, whose story charmed me when I paid the DVD store $3.99 to learn its more intimate details four years ago. I have nothing in common with him. I have so much in common with him. We both pretend to be something we're not. We're both a little bit crazy. I want to tell him that he actually is a fucking superhero, for having the tenacity to get up every day, put on a cape and tights, brave the jeers of homophobic assholes, and live at the mercy of people considerate enough to tip him for a picture.

I've worked for tips, too.

I've worn some pretty ridiculous get-ups, too.

I envy his spirit in the same way I envy my mother's, because I'm not always sure I inherited it.

I realize I'm chewing up his time; there are tourists glancing over with interest. I excuse myself to go, thanking him for the chat. He encourages me to visit him again, next time I'm in Hollywood. "I'm here at the shop on weekends until Halloween, but weekdays you can find me at Grauman's. Come say hello," he says, using my name and smiling warmly. I promise to do just that. As I move away, I see a bottle blonde in a tube dress shake out her hair before squeezing against him, so that a bald forty-something in Oakleys can snap their photo.

I'm pretty sure she's not going to tip him.

I'm also pretty sure that the only thing she's going to get out of her superhero encounter is a shitty, posed cellphone pic.

The Magnificent Maple

I met the most magnificent maple. She lives down at the marina, right at the water's edge. In the summer she watches boaters come and go. Styrofoam coolers and cranked-up stereos. Water skis, life jackets, and excited shouts. In the winter, she sees snow silence the mountains around a still, steel-blue lake. In the spring she bears witness to winter's promises having been kept yet again. Rebirth and renewal, bloom and blossom. But I met her in the fall. And in the fall she herself is the thing to see.

The maple I met understands the inevitability of change. She meets it head on, with patience and grace. The wind chills her limbs and the sun dries her sap, and she blushes in anticipation of her impending bareness. Her blushes are a fiery riot of red and orange; they'll take your breath away. She captivated me from the moment I saw her, and I returned every day to watch her transformation.

I stood underneath her branches, close to her trunk, and looked up. I heard whispers passing between her and the sky, and the sun winked at me as if he too knew their secrets. A beetle cleaved to a knot in her bark, unbothered by what she was going through. Nature's apathy, writ tiny. At my feet were the leaves she'd shivered off, all sizes, their pigment faded to various degrees. Some as wide as my palm, and wine dark. Some no bigger than silver dollars, and peach, with pale pink tips. I couldn't help myself; I gathered them up by the handful. Each seemed more perfect than the last, and I piled them on top of one another, carefully aligning their maraschino cherry stems.

I carried these pieces of her away with me. They were still pretty, still smooth and pliable with the life she'd given them - but they were fast becoming memories to her, and I knew she wouldn't mind my taking what she'd already lost. Besides, I wanted to try and make something beautiful with them. It's always worth trying, I think, to make something beautiful of the things we lose.

Sandcastle Man

Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else. “The sea,” he mumbles to himself, his mind corroded by the salty air. “I am the sea and the sea is me. Sea me, see me. See me!”

Sandcastle Man has been hard at work. His face is puffy and red with the effort of trying to build something that matters. Crabs scurry by, accustomed to his messes. They’re temporary, after all. Gone by morning, one after the next.

A half-dead squid has washed ashore, and in a delirium of delusion, Sandcastle Man pulls it from the briny tangle of weeds at his feet. Its slick, grasping limbs thrill him, and he places it safely above the water line to watch him. “My little mermaid!” he declares. The squid grows limp and still.

Sandcastle Man digs and scoops and molds and smooths. Plastic buckets and shovels litter the beach, a testament to the sincerity of his conviction. But under his gnarled hands, all that takes shape are crumbling, wet lumps.

Finally finished, he whoops and dances and calls to the moon, who ignores him. “This one! This one this one this one!” Seagulls glance then glide on. The tide comes in for the kill.

Sandcastle Man lives at the sea, and will never live anywhere else.

The Burlecks

Mr. and Mrs. Burlecks are just home from the theater and settling into the parlor. In the fireplace, logs crackle and spit at one another, the only conversation in a quickly heating room. Mr. and Mrs. B are both terribly cranky, but for different reasons.

Mr. B is cranky because tonight he was in the balcony, not on the stage. Mr. B, an actor himself, cannot abide spectating, as he calls it. Then there was the matter of that loathesome Jessup, soigne and smugly fit. How did he always materialize when Polly was around? It was maddening. Not that Polly cared or much noticed, he assured himself, unconsciously tugging at shirt cuffs whose yellowing stains were concealed well enough in the dim room. His wife had no use for bankers. What a dull, dry existence they must lead!

Meanwhile, absently caressing the cretonne arm of the wingback in which she perched, Mrs B is equally lost in her discontent. The evening had begun pleasantly enough. She'd felt the usual wave of admiring glances wash across her the minute they'd entered the theater. All the tortuous indecision of the previous hour spent studying her wardrobe - and her mirror - melted away, her beauty reconfirmed once more. But then intermission came, and under the blazing light of a dozen chandeliers, Polly's charms diffused into the crowd at large. The playhouse was full of elegant young women. And most, she'd noted bitterly, wore dresses finer and more modern than hers.

Neither of the Burlecks are thinking of the play at all.

Dispatch from Dearborn

Darling Loulah—

Leadened is my pen today, for it is dire news which I must impart. Forgive me, dear heart, if before I unshoulder the heavy burden, I divert myself—and hopefully, you!—with other trifles, however briefly. Having so elevated us to such a plane of levity, I promise then I shall bravely reveal all to you, whose gentle virtue ever redeems me. It shall redeem me again today, surely.

Do you recall some months ago, when in the course of trying to impress upon you my fervent desire to continue my “musical education” here in Chicago, I spoke at length of a particular artiste? No doubt my soliloquy was tiresome, and perhaps now the details do not readily return to you. (And I shouldn’t blame you for finding the whole of my enterprise in this domain damnably frivolous.) But certainly, familiar as you are with the depths of my passion, you’ll remember the admiration in my tone. For in all my travels, no sounds have so captivated me as those in this esteemed gentleman’s oeuvre.

Lest I ramble further, let me roll up my rug of flattery and tell you straight out: Loulah, he comes to Chicago this October next. And I’ve procured a ticket! The concert hall in which he is to perform is said to be quite something, and only a short carriage ride away. How delightful, to think that when next I see you, our beloved oak will be shimmering with gold and my head will be brimming with music!

Otherwise of note—as promised, I am enclosing with this letter my watercolor of the lake. Failed as I have to adequately express in words her precise and utterly captivating shade of green, my clumsy hand will have to suffice. I feel it imperative that when I am so bold as to make an appearance in your mind’s eye, that great beauty likewise be in your thoughts. Oh, Loulah, almost daily I am at her side. Majestic or moody, she is the only companion who can soothe me through your absence.

And now for the regrettable coda.

I’ve had to concede Federal Plaza. Beloved Federal Plaza, through which my nightly perambulation was a reliable delight. Wide, smooth-stoned and still, with that curious crimson statue holding court. It is the skateboarders, Loulah. They have grown manifold. Tried as I might to hold the pedestrian line, those whippersnappers-on-wheels overwhelm me. They make clear their disapproval of my proximity, producing dangerously close skirmishes the likes of which my knobby ankles would never survive. I must re-route. I can see your frown as you read these words, feel your anguish for my loss. Do not begrudge them! They are young, and this world holds in store for them countless betrayal and pain. Let’s permit them the pleasures of play before adulthood throws obstacles which no ollie can overcome.

There, I have done it. I have pulled back the curtain on my cowardice. Would that the sunshine of your grace illuminates some small hope that you think me not a spineless poltroon. I know it does. I know it will, always.

November, Loulah! Godspeed that cheerful month. Until then I remain as ever,

Your James

Alice

She stalks through the automatic doors of the hotel lobby aggressively, her head tipped back so her jaw juts out like a dare. Daring us to stare, daring us to judge. She wears a black peaked policeman's cap, black sunglasses with huge circular lenses that dwarf her porcelain doll face, black knee highs above black Converse, and black dance shorts. Criss-crossed with perfect symmetry across each nipple is a black adhesive 'X'. I know they're pasties, I know she must have bought them, but their width and vinyl smoothness matches that of electrical tape so completely I have a brief vision of her throwing a roll of it, pilfered from her dad's garage, into her suitcase along with the rest of her getup. She'd be 85 pounds, soaking wet. If she's over nineteen I'd eat my hood.

Speaking of my hood, she's speaking of my hood. "Oh my gosh, you're so furry, I love it," she says without any intonation to warn me whether she's being sincere or catty. I'm dressed pretty provocatively myself, so my bitchiness radar is set to high sensitivity. So far this weekend no one's been anything but complimentary of my outfit, but I'm a middle-aged woman in footless fishnets and I'm decidedly on guard. And since the oversized frames hide her eyes, at first I'm not even sure that she's talking to me. "All pink and furry. I just want to rub you." Yep, she's talking to me.

"Go ahead." I smile at her, realizing that nineteen is probably pushing it. She's like a much younger, much frailer Juliette Lewis. But by now our group, which has been waiting in the hotel carport for our ride to the festival, is climbing into the van that's just pulled up. I get in ahead of my boyfriend and for the half-second it seems like she might sit directly beside him my stomach clenches ever so slightly...but then she announces her intention to take the back row instead. "Like the bad kids," she cracks, and everyone laughs louder than necessary. Than they would, I suspect, if the person making the joke wasn't a topless teenaged girl.

Her companion is a slight, sweet-faced kid in a homemade Pinocchio costume, with massive dark eyes that dart about excitedly, taking everything in. This is their first festival. She is clearly the alpha, he the adoring sidekick. I ooh and ahh over his every button and ribbon as he twists around to show them off. Meanwhile the girl stretches her arms out across the seat back, wondering aloud how many Alice in Wonderland costumes they'll see at the festival. Her body language is calculated to declare casual self-confidence but the stiffness of her shoulders, slouched slightly forward, betrays a touch of self-consciousness. I want to tell her it doesn't get any easier with age. But that if she's so comfortable with her body already, she might just get through it better than most. Instead Terence and I advise her and her friend on what sets to catch. Neither of them know any of the performers.

"I like shit like this," she explains, pointing at the van's ceiling to indicate the music playing. "That dirty, ratchet shit." I twist my lips, pretending to think. I hate trap and have no idea what to tell her, but my boyfriend chimes in with suggestions. When he's done, a wave of warmth comes over me. "You don't have any kandi!" I say, as if only now noticing her bare forearms, snow white and thin as reeds.

"I knowww!" she says, with exaggerated mournfulness.

"Okay well I'm giving you this." I separate an elastic bracelet of pony beads from the cluster on my left wrist and carefully pull it over the others towards my left hand. The beads are red, black, white, and light blue - the colors of the classic Disney character's frock. In the center of the kandi are spaced three short words. I doubt she'll get the secondary or tertiary references but considering her earlier comment I can't resist. It's just too perfect. Also, it's the tightest kandi I made and wouldn't fit a wrist much bigger than hers or mine. She lowers her sunglasses for the first time and the youthfulness of her saucer-sized eyes makes my heart thud. The intelligence, too. Ratchet shit, my ass. This girl is playing a part. There's more underneath the rebellious-Hot Topic-model-hoping-to-scandalize-everyone-with-bare-breasts act, I can tell.

I confess that I don't know the exchange ritual very well, and she perks up. "Oooh now I feel like less of a festival noob, teaching a veteran something." I laugh, but what I'm laughing at is the idea of being any kind of veteran to EDM. Since we're sitting in different rows we can't do the "respect" part of the PLUR exchange, but that's okay. She's lit up by the gift I've given her, which she fingers lightly as she reads out the words I strung on it, squinting with 3:00 a.m. post-packing exhaustion, doubting the phrases I'd come up with for my kandi were clever enough for the whippersnappers I might be giving them to. "'GO ASK ALICE'. Oh yay! That's perfect. Haha, I love it. Right on!"

My boyfriend squeezes my thigh and gives me a side smile as the van pulls into the drop-off zone. All dozen of us debouch into a dusty parking lot, putting on our game faces and our sunglasses, adjusting nylon and spandex and fur, tugging our few clothes into place and wearing less - or more - than we'd planned to that day.

Literally

Literally sat alone on an overstuffed Chesterfield sofa, at the annual Gathering of Misappropriated, Misapplied, and Otherwise Corrupted Words, nursing a French 75. She watched the party with apprehension. Her agent had been right; she'd had to come, if only for the sake of networking. She desperately needed some positive PR. The Dictionary Society of North America had fucked her, and they had fucked her good. Writers, linguists, and grammar purists everywhere wanted nothing to do with her - thanks in no small part, she suspected, to this hatchet job. Verbum non grata, that's what she was.

Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she didn't belong. Most of the secondaries here had officially turned decades, if not centuries ago. They'd had plenty of time to grow into their new meanings. As if to prove her point, a few of the pre-1700s laughed loudly at something Gay said. Literally suspected he killed at these things. So to speak. She crossed her l's and took a sip of her cocktail.

Earlier, one of the halfways had cornered her, asking a million questions about transition. Nonplussed was an elegant word, despite the perpetual knit of her brow, but she was terrified. Wanted to know what the process was like, how long it took, whether there was anything anyone could do to stop it. Literally had been frank. "Nope. Not a blooming thing. Language belongs to the people who use it; we're utterly at their mercy."

"But what about correct usage advocates?"

Literally snorted. "Correct. Go talk to Travesty about correct. He's got stories that will curl your hair." Nonplussed shuddered. She'd heard about the abuse Travesty had suffered after 9/11. He'd never been quite the same since.

"I just...I don't understand," stammered Nonplussed. Non plus literally means not more. No further. It's Latin!" she cried. "Don't they still teach Latin?" Perhaps unwilling to wait for an answer she already knew, the adjective excused herself, s's rustling as she swept off to the powder room. Literally just sat and drained the last of her drink. Everyword handled transition - or as her agent called it, "upgrading" - differently, she guessed.

Their exchange had caught the attention of several others, some of whom spoke in low voices on the far side of the room. They glanced her way every so often, clearly discussing her plight. Verbum non grata indeed. She sighed and fingered the lemon twist in her glass.

"Supposedly and Supposably, at your service." Literally lifted her eyes to see a pair of tall, dapper, impish looking words looming above her. Old French, maybe Middle English? It was hard to say. It was also hard to see much difference between them.

"Cousins," explained Supposedly, seeing her bemusement.

"Though these days, you'd think we were fraternal twins," added Supposably.

She extended her hand. "So nice to meet you. Are you..."

"Secondaries?" supplied Supposably. "Dear me, no. Just good old-fashioned confuseds."

Literally pursed her limps in sympathy. "That must be very frustrating."

"Ah, it's not so bad," said Supposedly. He snapped shut the clasp on a sleek silver cigarette case, offering her a smoke which she declined. Passing a cigarette to his companion and lighting one for himself, he went on. "You get used to it. Rather fun sometimes, actually. Can't tell you how many first dates we've derailed," he said with a wink.

"Supposedly, you're terrible." Supposably giggled, careful to aim his smoky exhalations away from Literally's face. "Really though, could be worse. Have you seen Cheeky? She's an absolute mess. Running around, shoving a lingerie catalog under everyone's noses. 'Honey,' I told her. 'You're going about this all wrong. You've got to own it.'" He examined his lengthening ash. "You'd think a word like Cheeky would have a better sense of humor."

"I don't follow," confessed Literally. "What's happened to her?"

Supposedly waved a hand impatiently. "Hardly anything worth crying over. Some fashion designers started using Cheeky to refer to, you know, knickers and whatnot that show a bit of, well--"

"Ass cheek," Supposably finished, raising his eyebrows dramatically. "Cheeky, in addition to saucy, audacious, and bold, now means literally exhibiting cheek."

Was it Literally's imagination, or had he deliberately emphasized that antepenultimate word? In any case, she was definitely going to need another cocktail.

Game

Three women in a trendy Los Angeles bar are playing a game. The point of the game is to make the other two women feel invisible. This can be achieved through any means necessary, and there is only one rule: never directly acknowledge the existence of the other women.

The players don't speak to one another. There is no explicit agreement to engage in the game, which begins spontaneously and will only be played in the company of men. Indeed, the secondary objective of the game is to gain the attention of those men. Scoring is subjective, but the women know when they've won points. They've been playing the game for years. They're very good at it.

Witness Round One:

Two of the women are seated with their dates across from one another at a U-shaped bar. The third has just walked in, and joins a small group that stands near the well.

Woman One sips her cocktail and, in between flirtatious exchanges with her date, surreptitiously assesses the other female patrons. She mentally dismisses nearly all of them as non-threatening. Two of the women, however, have registered on her radar, and she straightens in her bar stool. 

Woman Two is aware of Woman One and has been for several minutes. She's angled her body slightly sideways in her seat, forcing the man beside her to turn as well lest he appear uninterested. In doing so, Woman One slips completely from his view. Point, Woman Two. She dips her head, and her long, thick hair swings forward - a silky blond curtain to shut interlopers out. Point, Woman Two.

Woman One receives this message and accepts the challenge. Though the room is cold, she sheds her coat, slowly sliding out one bare shoulder at a time. Her provocative movements have caught the eye of the bartender and of her date, who feels a small surge of excitement laced with pride. Point, Woman One. Her coat hung, she casually reaches up to gather her hair, twisting it in her fingers before letting it fall. The action puts her beautifully toned arms on full display. Point, Woman One.

Woman Three is at a disadvantage. She's standing, not elevated in a bar seat like the others, so her body is mostly hidden from view. But she is exceedingly pretty and knows it. When one of her companions makes a joke, she laughs loudly enough to garner glances from several male strangers. Point, Woman Three. She leverages the attention, leaning unnecessarily low over the bar to order her martini. She giggles at something the bartender says before swinging upright again with calculated playfulness. Point, Woman Three.

Impotence

She was shaking with anger by the time she got home. She'd already replayed the scene in her mind half a dozen times; it skewed slightly more to her favor with each revisitation. She stewed memories of his apathy and aloofness until they had dissolved, broken down to the basics in her black-and-white thought. Bad. He was a bad man. And now they'd given themselves over to the powers of her interpretation: apathy had become willful cruelty; aloofness, hatred. It was essential to load up her pen with as much venom as possible - it made composing the letter much easier, and much more satisfying.

She dropped her keys and bag in the cold, empty kitchen, and stalked to her writing desk in the office. She lowered herself onto the hard-backed chair, straightened her shoulders, and lifted her chin. Hers was important work. The most important, in fact.

Finally, she opened the single drawer. It slid forward on the grooves with a soothing, smooth hiss, a whispered promise of revenge. Together we will right this wrong, it said. She lifted a single page from the stack of clean white paper, and pulled her favorite pen from the cup on the desk. The pen spoke to her, too, as she made the first stroke. Its angled metal nib scratched pleasingly, reassuringly across the page. Yes. This. This is the only way. They don't know. But you do. You know.

It didn't take her long. It never did. It was formulaic, and familiar enough to her that she only paused to find words that would fully convey how badly she'd been wronged. She told herself she wasn't embellishing. She believed herself. She told herself she was helping him. She believed that, too. 

When she was done, she lifted the sheet to what was left of the late afternoon light cutting through the office window. She tried to ignore the dust twinkling in the sun, stifling thoughts of the hours of drudging housework that stretched out before her. She silently read what she'd written, her lips mouthing the words, and occasionally murmuring aloud a phrase here or there: Dear Santa...a bad man...unfair...so mean...you understand...forgive him...don't take him off your list...he knows not...

So absorbed was she in her efforts that she didn't hear her husband come in the front door, call her name so softly that it seemed unwilling, and finally appear behind her in the office doorway. He watched her without interruption, because there was no point. It was a conversation they'd had a hundred times. She wouldn't be dissuaded. And since it made her feel better, he figured there was no harm. He'd just sneak back in later, when she was busy with the baby, find it, and quietly dispose of it like all the others. 

He turned to leave just as she started folding. That was the part that made him saddest. That was the part that was hardest to watch. She took as much notice of his departure as she did of his arrival. She had to focus to get the lines right. Symmetry was everything.

---

He waited until he heard her bathing the baby. Sounds floated down the stairs to the family room, where he sat reading the newspaper, his shoulder muscles gnarled into manifestations of the day's myriad stresses. Splashing. Infant gurgles. His wife's voice, singing and cooing to their child. He set the paper on the sofa beside him, rose, and walked into the dark office. He didn't turn the light on; he didn't need to. He could see it sitting on the floor near the desk, a bright white feat of childish engineering - of fruitless, angry geometry - sitting in a pool of moonlight. It was a lonely coin in a dried up wishing well. It was a gavel banging in an empty courtroom. It was dead and useless where it had landed, after she'd walked to the farthest corner of the office, squinted and bit her lip in concentration, carefully lined up her arm, and sent it sailing across the room, where it had tapped impotently against the glass of the closed window before hitting the ground.

Physics had gotten the best of it.  

He bent down and picked it up, looking it over appreciatively. She'd gotten better. The folds were razor-straight, and the plane's construction was complex. It was unlike anything he'd been able to make as a child, that was for certain. His wife's words crept out onto the wings, branding the aircraft with her indignation and righteousness. ...such a hateful man... He didn't unfold it, though. He knew he'd hear the story later, and that he'd have to emphatically agree that she'd been right, no matter what he secretly believed. The man crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it into the trash. 

Before he left the office, he stood for a moment in the light beside the window. He ran his hand over the smooth wooden patina of his mother's writing desk, clear and empty once again, patiently awaiting its next mission.

He sighed deeply, feeling sadness wrap itself around him like a straitjacket, and went to join his family upstairs.

Soon

She never went to the parties, even before the baby came. Her husband occasionally did, but he was detached and aloof, floating the perimeter and socializing only with a few familiars. He was a massive man, with a florid face, pale eyes, and a carefully guarded smile. The way he held himself, the terse replies with which he responded to queries about his wife's whereabouts, gave one the impression his size was a deliberate, even aggressive proxy for the woman who stayed behind, waiting for him to finish his single whiskey and return with fresh gossip to unpack. I'm here for both of us, his huge body seemed to say. He was less a shield than a ballast for her to cling to, in the bewildering parade of beauty, frivolity, and ostentation that she'd deemed Los Angeles to be.

As to the woman herself, she moved through life as if hiding from it. Head down, avoiding the eye of even her next door neighbors: her comportment was a curious mixture of awkwardness and efficiency. Her torso was still thickened by pregnancy, but her arms and legs remained gangly, appearing always to be tangled up in the dog leash, or the baby's carrier. She looked painfully uncomfortable in her own skin.

Still, she carried herself with surprising speed down the city sidewalks, maintaining an expression of urgency that allowed her to recuse herself from conversations she didn't want to have, with people she didn't want to know. Thoughts of a quiet house in the suburbs consumed her, and she pressed her husband nightly with questions about when, where, and how soon. In the meantime, she busied herself with her child, an enormous infant with dark hair and suspicious eyes. She channeled her anxieties into him, only feeling their release when his laughter bubbled up, temporarily breaking the spell of loneliness in the otherwise unremitting quiet of their loft.

Soon, she cooed to herself, and to him. Soon.

Seventy-Four Today

1. He loved crossword puzzles.
2. He was born and raised in Queens, NY.
3. He loved roadsters and convertibles.
4. When I was 17, things were really bad for me at home. My brother was out of control, my mother was drinking incessantly, and my grades were starting to suffer. So for my last year of high school, he moved from San Diego back to Scottsdale so that I could live with him, successfully graduate, and generally enjoy my senior year without domestic chaos.
5. He pretended not to love animals - it was his schtick to play the curmudgeonly old man - but he really did. Especially cats.
6. Despite having raised two of them, he was clueless around babies. His idea of playing with them was to shake his keys at them.
7. When we were in Buenos Aires in 2010, he confessed to me his disappointment that I wasn't going to have kids. But he also told me he understood and didn't blame me.
8. He really, really, really listened when I spoke to him. He looked me straight in the eye and heard me.
9. He loved pistachios.
10. And coffee ice cream.
11. He was a very aggressive driver, but a very good one.
12. He'd never kill insects if he could help it.
13. When he lived in Alaska, he used to hunt caribou.
14. He was a very skilled and highly trained scuba diver. When my parents were younger, they traveled the world, and he scuba dived in nearly every ocean. Later, he'd go diving in Lake Michigan, and bring trinkets and things home to me that he'd found in the water.
15. He enlisted in the Navy when he was 16.
16. He was an impossible flirt, often to my mortification.
17. We watched The Gods Must Be Crazy at least half a dozen times, and he would laugh like it was the first time, each time.
18. He had an infectious laugh, deep but raspy. He'd often laugh himself to tears, especially around his clever, wise-cracking brothers.
19. He forgave my brother, again and again and again.
20. He bought me all the books I ever wanted, whenever I wanted them. When I was in high school, he'd let me pile up stacks of them at the bookstore. Later, I had only to mention a title I was interested in, and there'd be a package from Amazon at my door.
21. When I was a little girl, he used to let me sit in his lap and draw small emblems on his sweatshirts, with a black Sharpie. I'd ask him what kind of animal he wanted (hoping he'd say rabbit or unicorn), and he'd say cockroach or spider or fly. I'd laugh and say, "Nooo, something pretty!" and he'd insist, "A cockroach! That's what I want!" So I would carefully smooth out the fabric on his breast, then do my six year-old best to approximate a pair of beetle antennae, or eight tiny spider legs, right above his heart. I told A. about this one day towards the end, when there wasn't much left to do but wait. I said I could still remember what some of the insects I'd drawn so many years ago looked like. When I finished telling the story, he got up, walked into my dad's office, and returned with a pad of paper and a Sharpie. He set them down in front of me and said, "Show me." And I did.
22. He loved to go tubing on the Salt River. Every year until I left for college, he'd take me and one of my girlfriends, or my boyfriend if I had one.
23. He never wore sunscreen, and was very proud of how deeply he could tan.
24. He tried to teach me how to drive a stick shift, but I was impatient and frustrated, and we both gave up.
25. He lied about his age on dating websites.
26. He loved his extended family very much, and kept up with cousins, second cousins, and even further-removed members far into adulthood.
27. He grew up afraid of his father.
28. He loved cheese and yogurt, but he hated milk.
29. He loved Chinese food, but he hated Mexican.
30. When he disapproved of something, he'd frown exaggeratedly and make a deep grumbling noise in his throat.
31. He'd sing when he got drunk.
32. He loved boxed wine. He drank gallons and gallons of the stuff, as if it were water.
33. He was a pack rat, but a very neat one. When he died, I had to face down an attic stuffed to the rafters with every document he'd ever touched - but it was all perfectly organized.
34. He regularly wrote letters to his congressmen and the president.
35. He often wrote letters of complaint and commendation to companies he'd done business with.
36. He was incredibly vain about his hair, which was thick and soft, and which he let grow long enough to wear in a ponytail. When he was dying, one of the hospice nurses would comb it out for him gently before binding it back up again. He'd already lost the ability to speak, but we could tell he enjoyed that.
37. He was the most stubborn and proud man I knew.
38. He taught me to question everything and everyone, including myself.
39. When I was a little girl, we used to sing The Unicorn Song together.
40. We sang On Top of Spaghetti, too.
41. He loved Johnny Cash and Patsy Cline. And Crystal Gayle.
42. He was mechanically-minded and could fix almost anything.
43. He could explain how almost anything works.
44. He was vicariously vain about my looks; he often told me how proud he was, that I was pretty and fit.
45. He always called me Deborah or Deb, but never Debbie (Elizabeth is my middle name; I only started using it when I moved to LA).
46. He never once touched me in anger, or physically punished me.
47. When he was really angry at me, he'd say I was just like my mother.
48. He taught me how to ski.
49. He had the best vocabulary of anyone I'd ever met, including all of my college professors.
50. He loved the ocean.
51. When I was younger, I'd lay next to him, following along while he read Stephen King novels that I was too scared to read on my own. He'd say "ok?" whenever he got to the bottom of a page. When I caught up, I'd say "ok," and he'd turn the page for both of us.
52. In the later years, after the divorce, when my mother was at her worst, at her weakest and sickest and most unhappy, he'd help her out. He'd send her money when he could, and talk to her for hours on the phone about my brother.
53. When I was a teenager, he teased me about being flat-chested. He said once, "Not exactly a sweater girl, are we?"
54. When he found out he had cancer, he told me how proud he was of me, of the person and woman I'd become.
55. He loved to make me spaghetti. Overcooked, with sauce out of a jar and a massive amount of Kraft parmesan on top.
56. He loved to make me bagels from the freezer. Lender's garlic bagels. He'd split one, still frozen, on a plate, and carve huge chunks of Land o' Lakes whipped butter on top, then microwave it until the bagel was soft and the butter melted. To this day, I don't think I've ever had anything so delicious.
57. He loved maps. His walls were covered with them.
58. He had a master's degree in engineering.
59. When he was in his 40s, he went back to school to study pre-law. He then went on to attend law school, though he didn't finish.
60. He lived in New York, Michigan, Alaska, Arizona, California, and Florida.
61. He didn't sing along to the radio, but he'd make a curious whistling/hissing noise that drove me crazy.
62. He loved Trident gum.
63. He was a true libertarian. Not the bullshit, hateful Tea Party variety that the Republicans have appropriated and whose beliefs they've tried to skew. True, hands-off, do-what-you-want libertarianism. He believed in women's rights, reproductive freedom, and marriage equality.
64. When he was dying, he was very restless, even though he had no energy with which to move. He was always trying to sit up and hang his legs over the hospital bed; but after days of not eating, he didn't have the strength to do it. Pillows didn't provide enough support for the position he wanted to be in. So during those last days, I used to climb into the bed behind him, and use my own body to prop him up. The nurses would help me sit him up, turn him sideways, and slowly scoot him to the edge of the bed. Then I'd wedge two or three pillows between my own back and the railing, and use my chest and shoulders to support his weight. He would lean back against me, relaxing, finally calm. All he wanted was to feel his feet on the floor, just for a little bit. He couldn't speak, but he seemed happy to be exercising some control over the situation. I'd talk in a low voice, close to his ear, and tell him how much I loved him. He couldn't see the tears streaming down my face, and he didn't know how helpless I felt. He didn't know just how much strength it took for me to do that. But he seemed as content and at peace as he could be, in those moments, resting against me. Later, A. would tell me that it was the most selfless thing he'd ever seen, the way I used my body to help and hold my father. I didn't get to hug my dad goodbye, not in the traditional way. But I got to do that.
65. He regretted falling out of touch with his brothers.
66. He took every pain to make sure it would be as easy as possible for me to handle his death, logistically and financially.
67. His favorite boyfriend of mine was my high school sweetheart, JJ. For decades after, he'd ask about him, always seeming surprised when I told him, "Dad, I haven't talked to that kid in years. I have no idea how he is."
68. He grew up going to Coney Island.
69. He had a tattoo of a pair of lips on his butt cheek. He got it in the Navy as a rite of passage when he crossed the equator.
70. He loved Elizabeth Taylor and Natalie Wood.
71. He loved, loved, loved chocolate.
72. He had a beautiful smile.
73. When he died of small cell lung cancer, he hadn't had a cigarette in his mouth for forty years.
74. He would have been seventy-four today.

Extra Bechamel

There's a creperie around the corner from my apartment, and every couple of weeks, I'll treat myself to one of their Croque Monsieurs. The owner/operator is a swarthy Frenchman, and extremely flirtatious. He'll call my order out unnecessarily loudly (the cook stands right behind him), while giving me an inexplicable wink. I interpret this wink variously as Oh, cherie, the deliciousness that you are in for! or Ne t'en fais pas! I will tell no one of this salty, starchy indiscretion! or We'd be hot in bed together, non?

A woman at the counter takes my money, and encourages me to add an Orangina to my order. I don't, because I can't look at the bulbous bottles without thinking of my ex, who used to pronounce it orange-jī-na, to make me laugh. She looks and sounds exactly like the woman that played Mary of Guise in Elizabeth, and I'm intimidated by her.

I watch the cook make crepes while I wait. He dispenses batter in perfect circles, and after it firms up slightly, slices bananas for filling. His fingers are so deft and quick that I don't even see the blade move. After the first time I watched him, I looked up the name of the special rake-shaped tool he uses to spread the batter. I was disappointed to learn it's called, predictably enough, a “crepe spreader”.

The creperie is conveniently located across from a salad restaurant, so if I'd like, I can sit at the window while I eat, and watch better dressed, healthier lunchers meet up to dine on more nutritious fare.

I usually get it to go, instead.

I haven't worked up the nerve to tell them to hold the pickle. I made the mistake once of asking the owner to hold the Bechamel sauce, because I thought it was some kind of mayonnaise. He enthusiastically disabused me of this notion, explaining that it's just flour and milk. When I told him that, in that case, the Bechamel sounded great, actually, he decided I needed extra sauce on my Croque Monsieur. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the standard dosage would be just fine. Now every time I order, he reminds the cook, "Extra Bechamel for mademoiselle!" And winks at me.

I don't want to seem ungrateful or fussy, but I don't want them to waste their pickles, either, particularly if I'm already taxing them for more than my fair share of Bechamel.

I looked up "gherkin" because I seem to remember it has an alternate French name, as well. It does. Cornichon.

Take that, “crepe spreader”.

The Ad

She was a woman pained by her own beauty, and mistrusting of it. Compliments would form haltingly on the lips of men wishing to flatter, but fearful of offending. She knew they meant well, but she'd rather they didn't try at all, so uncomfortable was it to hear the same carefully chosen phrases trotted out over and again. Their translations trailed in the air behind them, unspoken, but no less tangible. Amazonian. Freakishly tall. Lascivious smile. Toothy. The woman had never understood this need of theirs, to spin sugar from air. She hated to feel patronized. And once placed in her lap, the praise sat there unwelcome, like an infant she'd no interest in dandling.

But she was gracious, and she hid her impatience behind a smiling sip of her cocktail, or the slow crossing of her legs. Soon enough the facade would drop away, as it always did. And accumulated experience had emboldened her to cut to the chase quicker each time.

"Let's talk about the ad," she'd say, leveling her gaze into one part challenge, one part invitation. "Why did you answer it?"

Ghost

His ambition was the first thing she told her parents about. Then it was just a nugget of a promise, a wink at some future time when their security would depend on hers. Fledgling though it was, oh was it precious to her. It was every disappointed sigh, shoved back down their throats. It was the exemplary report card she'd never brought home. It was her ticket away, and above - far, far above.

Satisfied with the achievement of it, she promptly retired her own.

She slipped it around her neck like an amulet, a charm against her own uselessness. When she had nothing to hold onto, when anger and envy had depleted her of everything else, she clutched it tight to her chest. It thickened and gnarled into a knot that hung heavily between them. It was everything they didn't know about one another. It was everything they didn't love about one another. But they would, right? Someday? When there was more time? 

His ambition was a placeholder.

Soon it outgrew her, and she grew scared. The knot fingered into claws, scrabbling and scratching towards someplace higher than she could ever, ever reach. She chained herself to it with prayer, then blood, then fear and guilt. It dissolved everything, like acid. She looked to him for help, for reassurance that it belonged to them - but he wasn't there.

His ambition was a ghost.

Slightly Dirty Sweaters

I was watching an old woman knitting on the subway today, when suddenly she dropped her yarn. It rolled a good five feet, unravelling on the dirty floor of the train; everyone's eyes were drawn to the bright red ball.

Someone nearby handed the yarn back to her. She nodded a thank you, and brushed it off before taking back up her knitting needles.

She couldn't possibly have gotten all the filth of the subway car off of it. The dust and debris will be woven into whatever sweater or scarf she was making. Something no less sweet for the accident suffered during its creation.

It is impossible to always give love that is pure and untainted with mistakes or misapplied intention. Slightly dirty sweaters still keep us warm, though.

Boy King

He reminded me of a benevolent boy king.

Slight jutting of the chin. An almost imperceptible swagger. Wore collared sweaters in country club colors, but you could imagine him with a fur mantel and scepter. Pink cheeks with the baby fat still on them, and blonde hair he styled with a little too much care.

Always smiling, always lingering through our conversations as if assured of the next delightful thing I would say. As if assured of his own delightfulness. And you just knew he'd been hearing it all his life. The kind of kid the other mothers would gush over. Such a thoughtful boy. And he was.

Came to my desk one day looking for chocolate, strolling up with that self-assured grin. I knew I didn't have any, but I made a performance of opening my secret treat drawer, just to see his face when he learned I had a secret treat drawer. He'd never had dried mango, so I tore off a slice and handed it to him. "Just like being in the Thai jungle," I said, watching his eyes go wide with pleasure. For weeks afterward he would bring in new snacks for us both to try. Dried, spiced peas. Banana chips. We'd chew slowly, watching one another's reaction, then declare our verdicts. If I liked whatever it was, he'd insist I keep the bag.

On his last day, he personally returned his key to me--the only one so far to do that. He sat behind my desk with me and we stepped carefully through the trap of saying a professional goodbye when what you really want to say is Thank you for this small friendship or Our chats were a bright spot in my day. And though he'd left his position willingly for another job, I found myself assuring him of his very bright future, like a great, wise, dried fruit-dispensing guidance counselor.

Always that smile. Just once I would have liked to see him without it, seen a glimpse of whatever was heavy or painful underneath. Possibly nothing. I hope nothing.

Dichotomy

I know a man who mistakes arrogance for confidence.

Every morning, he dresses himself in his accomplishments. One by one, he lovingly pulls them on like beribboned medals, pinning them across his shoulders, checking the mirror to see how they reflect on him. He's quite satisfied with what he sees.

He walks out into the world, clinking and clanging, proudly announcing to anyone within earshot what each token represents. Everyone he meets already knows, though, because he's a record on repeat. They nod politely, abiding his conceit with patience, wishing he'd stop making so much noise.

He fancies himself an expert in the art of achievement.

He's happy to tell you what you're doing wrong, because it's an opportunity to talk about what he does right. He is his own favorite example of success. 

He is the master of the humble brag, and he never met a buzzword that didn't get him hard.

Women exist as an abstraction to him. He'll talk all day about how much he "values" them, but that's because he thinks he's supposed to say that. But listen to him speak about them and you can sense his misogyny. Women have hurt him, and he's out to hurt them back. He views them as challenges, as objects to be conquered. Beauty is their only selling point. The more attractive a woman he can place on his arm, the more impressive he deems himself.

He belongs to several dating sites, because he thinks he looks irresistible on paper.

He is incredibly, devastatingly, transparently insecure. Validation is heroin to him. The envy of others, crack cocaine. He is exhausted by the need to prove his worth to others.

He is extremely passive aggressive. When he cannot have something, he immediately and loudly dismisses it. He finds ways to subtly criticize the choices and lifestyles of those who threaten him, because he cannot stomach coming in second in any of life's competitions. And that's what life is to him: a series of competitions.

---

I know a man who has no idea how sexy his humility is.

He places his achievements deep in his pockets, assured of their existence, but with no need to put them on display. He makes me dig to find them, and when I do, they are like treasures unearthed. I unwrap the details of his life with delight, while he quietly watches. He doesn't need to say anything, because they speak for themselves.

He accepts praise with modesty, often deflecting it. And when he does, I am moved by a need to make him understand how impressive he is. I want to cup his face, look into his eyes, and tell him that he's amazing. I want to kiss him, utterly charmed by the secrets he's too modest to wear on his sleeve.

He's outgrown the need tick off boxes on a public bucket list. He either does things or he doesn't, but he doesn't parade his privilege in front of others, tone deaf to how entitled and boastful he appears.

If you asked him about the woman he loves, he'll tell you how smart, funny, and talented she is. "And she's pretty," he'll add as an afterthought.

I know a man who makes me feel like there's room for me in his life, because it isn't already too full of himself.

Dog Lottery

Well, dog, you're five. Happy birthday.

There was a time when I didn't think you'd live much longer than this, because of things I'd heard about giant breed dogs. But it's obvious you're not going anywhere for a while. At five years old, you have the energy and playfulness of a puppy, which is what you're still occasionally mistaken for.

Speaking of which, you were a ridiculous, pain in the ass of a puppy. Adorable, clumsy, hysterical when left alone. You hated to be crated, and you were terrible on a leash. But now that you're all growed up, I can't believe how much I lucked out.

I won the dog lottery.

Let's start with what a pleasure it is to walk you. You trot along beside me, and you only pull when you see a familiar face that you want to greet. The leash hangs slack between us, a wordless agreement to move at a comfortable, companionable pace. People are amazed at how good a walker you are - other dog owners, jealous. Even if you're in a mood to sniff every goddamn tree, you respond to my slightest correction, and settle in by my side, content just to be out and about. At night, when the streets are empty, I unclip you, and we sprint together down the sidewalk, you bursting with energy and joy in the cold night air. But you always stay close, and I never have to worry about you running off, or away. I take you everywhere I possibly can: coffee shops, the cleaner's, the tailor's, the salon, late night pizza runs. I even sneak you into the very edge of Grand Central Market, so I can get juice for our walks.

You're friendly to strangers, stopping cheerfully to say hello when you hear them exclaim over you. You've come to recognize the oohs and ahhs that mean someone wants to pet you. You allow yourself to be stroked, your chin to be lifted, and your gaze to be held, by humans you've never met. You read my energy, and if I'm nervous, so are you - but you never snap or snarl. Most days we can't go a block without at least one person wanting to meet you. You're unfailingly calm with children, even when they grope and pull and scream. You sniff toddlers' and babies' faces with gentle curiosity, to the delight of both them and their mothers.

At home, you're less a pet than a roommate. You keep me company for hours at a stretch, lazing about on your bed or the floor. You've learned to ask permission to be let on the bed: you'll stand beside it and look at me imploringly. Sometimes I'll indulge you, and throw an old sheet on top of my covers, so you can stretch out in luxury.

You're smart. You've learned your schedule, you read my cues - you know how to ask for what you want and need, be it a toy that's rolled under the bed, a trip to the park, a treat, or just a few minutes' worth of caresses. You're completely in tune with my emotions, and it never ceases to amaze me, how much your mood on any given day lines up with my own. If I'm sleepy, you zonk out. If I'm happy, you're playful. If I'm stressed, you pace.

When I'm upset, you're instantly at my side, pawing me, licking my face, whimpering. If I cry, I can't do so for very long - I quickly end up consoling you. But I don't even have to get to that point for you to feel the change in my energy; you reach me before the tears do. You've seen me through the death of two parents, a divorce, three moves, and a handful of breakups. You wait patiently while I travel the world. You never judge a single bad choice I make.

You love your toys, and play with every single one. When friends come over, you systematically present each of your balls, ropes, and stuffed animals to them one at a time, showing off like a child. You're no longer afraid of the toy basket I bought you a few years ago; you plunge your head straight into it and root around to get exactly what you want.

You've learned to talk, small growls and cries and barks and howls that I echo back to you. We converse together in your jowly voice, sometimes throwing our heads back and singing. You ask for meals. You whine for lost toys. You growl playfully for attention.

You've accepted the major changes in your life with grace and even, it seems, gratitude. Suburb to city. House to apartment. Yard to sidewalk. Smaller and smaller abodes each time. And yet you've remained sweet-natured, playful, well-adjusted. You let me know when you need some attention - a few minutes of tug-o-war, or a good long walk and some socialization. You've adjusted to loft life beautifully. You've made friends. You have play dates. You're a recognizable fixture in our neighborhood.

You're never picky. When things are tight and I run out of dog food, you're content with a few eggs, or rice, or whatever I have on hand. You'll eat salad, for god's sake. You love berries and apples, steamed carrots and broccoli. At least a couple times a week, we split a banana during a walk: you eat your half straight from the peel, like me, standing on the corner while we wait for the light.

Your size is never a problem - only a bonus. You're tall enough that in the morning, you can press your face into the bed near mine, wagging your tail when I smile and say good morning. Then, kisses. And yawns - you've learned to yawn loudly because it makes me laugh. Beside me on the sidewalk, I don't even have to stoop to stroke your back or finger your velvety ears. You're a sure, solid weight next to me as we walk. Sometimes when I'm feeling overwhelmed with happiness and optimism, I'll shut my eyes and tilt my head back to feel the sun, the breeze on my face. I keep my eyes closed for a few moments, knowing you'll keep leading us straight.

You delight onlookers with your sweet, puppyish face and goofy gait. When I used to get lonely late at night, I'd walk you by the bars and nightclubs, just to have some social interaction. You've made me friends. You're an excellent wingman, too.

You never complain when I have to leave you for several hours at a time, or if I spend the night away. You never have accidents, even those times where emergencies have kept me from you for half a day.

You're a riot. You'll lick a cut lemon and huge, foamy bubbles will froth from your lips. Sometimes you fart when you're play-bowing, and the noise will startle you. You run and slide down the hallway, slipping clumsily around corners. Your huge, post-meal burps are a viral YouTube video waiting to happen. I'm pretty sure I gave you a contact high a few months ago: you spent five minutes sniffing in bizarre circles and tracking invisible prey around a tree and into the air. You once stole a slice of pizza from a kid in a stroller.

We've perfected our relationship. You know when you can get away with pushing my buttons, and when I need you to be more independent. We understand one another's needs, and we meet them as best we can. And you forgive me every time I fuck up.

We have our own language. I have so many silly, secret, special phrases and pet names for you that no one else gets to hear. I grab you and nom-nom-nom on your head, your cheeks, your ears. You wag and smile. Sometimes when I've been at my desk for a long time, you'll come to me and paw my arm. Come sit with me. And I do. I sit cross-legged in front of you and stroke your front legs, kneading the calluses on your elbows and cooing at you. Every part of your anatomy has a special, silly name. I baby you completely, and you are a little bit spoiled - but everyone comments on how well-behaved you are, nevertheless.

Look, we both know this letter is for me, not you, but whatever. You're incredible, and a birthday card is the least you deserve for all the love and laughs you've given me this half decade.

I love you, dog.

 City Cinema

A man and a woman are sitting in a car outside the grocery store, parked within the pool of the store's fluorescent light. Their eyes are closed; her head on his shoulder, his arm around her. They could be at a drive-in movie, or taking in the view on Mulholland - oblivious to anyone or anything else. I only see them for a split second as I'm walking by, and their expressions don't betray whether they are in the throes of bliss or the depths of consolation. Whatever it is, they look for all the world to belong together, and to feel safe in that belonging.

---

From the side entrance of a restaurant, a man emerges, carefully navigating his road bike through the doorway. Over his shoulder I catch a glimpse of the kitchen: just-scrubbed pots, stacked sacks of rice, the mess of day's cooking slowly being cleared away. He lights a cigarette as the restaurant's manager steps outside, carrying a chair. Standing on the chair, the manager reaches up to click off a neon OPEN sign. One click makes the sign pulse. A second click sends ribbons of blue and red racing round the letters. A third click and the sign goes dark. The two men exchange the briefest of words and nods. Then one goes in and one goes on, and I am driven further into never ending cinema of the city.

Your Fat Little Dog

Your fat little dog

is staring at me across the aisle of this dirty subway car

I saw the way you yanked him through the door, even though he was scared of the gap below. (I don't blame him. Transitions make me nervous, too.)

Your fat little dog is staring at me as though he knows

I'd give him fewer treats, but more love

Ghost Guy

Ghost guy doesn't want to be seen. Not really. He lurks in the hallway, rattling chains, muttering the occasional, non-commital moan, hoping to be glimpsed in your periphery. But by the time you turn to face him straight on, he's vanished.

Ghost guy wants to haunt your life but not actually be in it. He'd rather be a secret than a centerpiece. He fancies himself mysterious and elusive, but if you could hold him still long enough to lift the sheet you'd see there's not much underneath.

Ghost guy will tell you he's "complicated." He likes the subtly self-effacing sound of that, likes the way it unhooks him from the responsibility of trying harder--of being better.

Don't be scared of ghost guy. He isn't real. Turn on some lights and he'll float away.

Badger and the Beast

 Badger and the Beast are thieves, first and foremost. They desperately want the precious thing you have—the thing which they traded off long ago. But they cannot reach into your pocket and take it, as it is intangible and perfect, and quite literally the best thing in the universe. They cannot take it, and this infuriates them. So they rob you of other things instead, contenting themselves with your discomfiture. They steal your joy, should you let it shine. They steal your dignity, whenever they can get their hands on it. They particularly like stealing your good mood—it’s simple and pure and ephemeral, and can be easily vaporized with a few well-chosen words.

Badger and the Beast have grown increasingly sadistic over the years. Stress and exhaustion have ground them down such that the full, natural scope of empathy and warmth has, within them, shrunk to a narrow slice. On either side stretch bitterness, envy, and the deep disappointment that comes with realizing decades too late that the wrong choices have been made. The wrong irreversible choices. Their souls are full of cavities, and ache with pain. Your pain is the only anesthetic, and they dose themselves liberally.

Badger fancies himself brilliant, undervalued, possessed of a rare talent. Something of a wunderkind, his exasperation at the lack of expertise in others is like a favorite toy to clutch and stroke. All day, every day, he runs his hands over the failings of others. Detecting and declaring faults. Comforting himself with them.

The Beast is quite stupid, and only knows a few basic games. She always wins, of course. Her targets are callow and unarmed—for now. But it is like watching a child play at psychological warfare: clumsy and transparent.

I see them, truly, and they are failing. They choose what is comfortable and easy, always. They do just enough to secure their reputation and take care of themselves—and nothing more. Blinders firmly affixed, they willfully ignore the shoddy foundation on which they are standing.

And they do it because they are thieves who cannot steal the unstealable.