Running Without Thinking

It was four days before Christmas Eve. Charlotte walked down 41^st Street to the New York Public Library. The weather was perfect for how she was dressed, in a brown shawl and her long sleeved, black shirt and her light black pants. She held her books tight against her side and likewise her hair was pulled back tight and instead of contacts she wore her glasses that day.

She greeted Carol behind the desk and grabbed a book from the pile to put it away. By the time she found the space she, for the first time, read the bind, which said, Running Without Counting by Arnold Kosen.

She walked back to the desk much slower than the speed she had been keeping since she got up that morning.

“You okay?” Carol asked.

“Hm?”

“Are you tired?”

“No.”

“Looked like maybe you saw someone you knew.”

“No.”

Charlotte wrote in her journal on the subway as it screeched and wobbled and the light occasionally dimmed. There were only a dozen other people in the whole car.

A tall man with messy hair and jeans stood at the pole in front of her. He said, “Can I read that?”

She continued writing. He looked around to see a woman looking at him, an older woman, expressionless. He cleared his throat. “Mam?”

She looked up with her eyes and not so much with her head, “What?”

“Can I read some?”

“Of this?”

“Yes.”

“No, of course.”

“I’ll get off afterwards and I’ll never see you again. It’s like an experiment, for me.”

“Do you have any personal writing that I can read?”

“Yes. Here.” He offered the small notebook from his pocket and she surrendered her journal. They looked at the last written pages.

“This is a to-do list,” she said.

He nodded and focused on her book. It read, “Today I saw a book called, Running Without Counting. I forgot to check it out. If only I could take books home. I’m in the wrong place and the right place, but I think that goes for New York City, my apartment, my occupation and my clothes but maybe nothing is, not my family, my language, my age, generation but yea, planet I’m not sure about.

His to-do list read, “Pick up Dan, Watch Jane’s video, Paint wall green, Recycle computer…”

“Can I keep this?” he said.

“No,” she said.

“This is very interesting stuff. I think we would make great conversation art.”

“I don’t speak as I write,” she said.

“I can tell that and it’s why I said that. I’m good at getting words out of people.”

“I’m getting off here.”

“The lions, right?” he said.

She only looked at him with concern. She took back the book and skimmed the last page.

“There’s a clue,” he said.

She didn’t say any more to him and got off. On the platform she slipped her journal into her bag and then realized that she was still holding the to-do list.

She threw it on her kitchen counter. A guy with curly hair walked to the fridge in shorts and a ripped t-shirt. “Hey Charlotte. What’s your Christmas look like?”

She leaned against the counter. “Nobody’s called me. It’s always complicated.” She sighed. “It’s never in one place.”

“Maybe we should both stay home. Or maybe that’s beat.”

“I don’t know Billy. It’s in a week.”

“Did you get gifts for anyone?”

“No. Did you?”

“Yes. Earlier today. I really don’t like it anymore.”

“I know what you mean. Gifts. It’s stupid.”

He cracked open a beer and drank, walking away. She took her coat off.

She laid in bed reading. She stopped and looked over at the to-do list on her bedside table. She switched to the to-do list and read it backwards. “Recycle computer, Paint wall green, Watch Jane’s video, Pick up Dan, Buy green paint, Drop off Dan, Send Maria a birthday card, Go for run, Christmas shopping, Quit job-“

She walked down 41^st street in a long, dark blue skirt and a dark, red shirt and a violet scarf. Her hair was down but she wore her glasses. The sky was gray.

“Check this out, Carol,” she said at the counter.

“Check something out?” she said, bewildered.

“A man left his to-do list on the subway.”

“Did you read it?”

“I read two pages almost but he gave me permission.”

Carol handed her a book, “Sounds like a story,” she said.

“Never mind.”

“I want to know.”

“Later I’ll tell you.”

She sat down at a table in Bryant Park, behind the library. She wrote in her journal, “He only read one page so it’s not fare for me to read more than two of his pages. He seems to know that I’m at this library. I mentioned the book but I don’t know how he narrowed it to this one.”

She looked around just to see if he was there. She put her things away and returned to the library. The eyes of the lion on the right wing of the steps seemed to follow her. The marble ceiling hovered above her head as she walked through the lobby, like clouds. She arrived on her floor and walked to her counter. “Has anyone come by looking for me?” she asked.

“Is that why you’re so early?”

“What time is it?”

“1:15. You were only gone for 15 minutes. Is this about a man?”

“Don’t put it like that. I have his very important to-do list.”

“What’s so important that he has to do?”

“Recycle a computer. Possibly pick up his son. This wall might not get painted green. He might forget to quit his job.”

“See. You’re saving him from remembering to quit his job. When Christmas is over he’ll remember the importance of having a job with a whole new year ahead of him.”

“You think he’s depressed because of Christmas?”

“He seems divorced, if he’s picking up his son.”

“Married folks pick up their children from things like sports.”

“And it’s on their to-do list? Is it a planner or a notebook?”

“A notebook. Yes, I understand. He figured out that I’m at the Lions. I’m just expecting him. I’ll be surprised if he just puts it behind him.”

“And he knows you work here?”

“He read a page of my journal because I gave him permission to on the subway.”

“Are you lonely?”

A single snowflake fell on her shoulder as she entered her apartment building.

“You have a package,” her roommate said.

“A package?” she asked.

“I tossed it on the couch. There was no bark. The puppy must be dead.”

She opened the book-sized package and removed Running Without Thinking. A chill went through her body. She looked at the window. Nobody was in it. She pulled the curtain down.

“This is weird- Billy?”

“Wha ah?” he said, brushing his teeth.

“This guy I was expecting to come to the library instead sent me a gift. It’s sort of annoying because I’d rather talk to him. Carol built up all these questions like does he have a son.”

“You met a guy Charlotte?”

“No.”

She put down her book in bed and switched it with Running Without Thinking.

The next day in Bryant Park she removed the to-do list from her pocket. He had filled about ten pages with it but nothing was crossed out. She read the whole thing, searching for clues. She circled, Suzie’s Art Studio and it’s Manhattan address.

After work she found the studio, where a woman was cleaning up alone. The door was locked. The woman opened the door, “Yes?”

“Hi. Do you have a child named Dan here in the daytime?”

“I have a Dan.”

“I have something of his father’s. I think so anyway. Can you help me?”

“Come inside.”

“He left his to-do list with me.”

“How did he figure out your address?” the woman said as they sat at a small table covered in crayon wax, marker inc and dried glue.

“I think he went to the library and figured it out.”

“He was a detective.”

“Did he just recently quit?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

“Should I be scared?”

“I think he’s a fairly safe person. But now that I know you’re a fairly safe person I’ll give you his number. How’s that?”

“That’s good- I mean, thank you.”

She knocked lightly on Billy’s door. “Will you come call someone with me?”

“Who? That man?”

“He’s just a guy. Come.”

They sat on the couch and she made Billy dial. It rung. Billy said, “Are you going to speak?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Hello?” asked a voice.

Billy gave her the phone. “Hello?” she said.

“Hello.”

She said nothing. Then, “Did you send me Running Without Thinking?”

“Is this Charlotte?”

“Yes.”

“Yes. Have you started reading it?”

“Yes. How did you get my address?”

“How did you get my number? My to-do list?”

“I’ve been meaning to give it back to you.”

“If you’re comfortable with human interaction we can meet at a coffee place and have a conversation.”

She looked at Billy. “Maybe right now?” she suggested.

Billy looked at his watch.

“It’s nine o’clock. I live in Manhattan. You live in Brooklyn. I can go there but coffee places will be closing.”

“You can sleep here,” she said.

Billy said, “Tell him you’ll call him back.”

“I’ll call you back.”

Billy said, “Have you ever-“

“I know.”

“Can it not wait for tomorrow?”

“I’m too curious. He quit his job. He paints walls green.”

“Let’s not have him sleeping over just yet. Invite him to Bryant Park.”

“I only get a half hour.”

“For lunch? That sucks. I see now. See him after work.”

“I don’t want to have dinner with him.”

“Trust me. Him sleeping over is more personal than that.”

“I disagree.”

“Would you sleep over his house?”

“No. No way.”

He gestured to say, ‘There you go.’

When she called back he said, “Can you call in sick tomorrow?”

“Well, I can meet you in Bryant for lunch.”

“That’s not enough Charlotte. Call in sick. It’s worth it.”

“Okay.”

The next morning she called Carol and not wanting to lie, said, “For personal reasons, I can’t come in.”

“Okay. I’ll see if Gwen can come.”

“Thanks Carol.”

She wrote in her journal until 10 AM when he rung her buzzer, She said to the intercom, “Doors open. Just come in,” and she showered. She came out with her blouse buttoned all the way up and jeans. She put her hair loosely in a pony tail. He resembled how he looked on the subway. His hair was a little messy but clean. He had on a maroon shirt. “Do you know my name?” he asked from the couch.

She shook her head.

It’s Alan. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes.”

“Me too. Do you like art museums?”

“I like one’s that I haven’t been to in a while.”

“How about the Brooklyn Art Museum.”

“I’ve been there.”

“The Whitney.”

“No, not in some time.”

“Shall we?”

On the subway she asked, “Why did you quit your job?”

“I was a detective. I realized that I didn’t want to catch people anymore.” He suddenly appeared older than she remembered, in his late thirties. She was 26.

“May I ask if you’re divorced?” she asked.

“You may ask.”

“Are you?”

“No. I have a son but I never got married. The woman was pro-life and I stopped dating fundamental folks.”

She laughed at this.

“Do you have my to-do list?”

“Yes.” She took it from her bag.

“Thanks. I should write my number on these. I’m impressed at your detective work.”

“Thank you.”

“Do you like the book?”

“Yes. It’s inspiring. It’s written by this long distance runner that had an epiphany while running.”

“To stop thinking?”

“Yes but I guess there’s more to it. Not thinking is a lifestyle. It takes a lot of confidence.”

“Why did you want to look at it at work?”

“I’m not sure. The title but I don’t know why.”

At the museum he made jokes at the paintings.

“This one’s about sodomy.”

“Stop it!” She said.

“This one is misunderstood. He was mocking minimalism. It’s sarcasm.”

“Really?”

“No.”

They walked past store windows with fake snow and a sidewalk Santa Clause.

“What are your Xmas plans?” he asked.

“I haven’t confirmed anything.”

“Christmas Eve is tomorrow.”

“Well. What about you?”

“This year Mary has this man over so I can see Dan another time. I’m just as weird as you.”

A moment later she said, “You make me want to quit my job Alan.”

“Yea? If only I took America to the museum, there would be anarchy.”

“I suppose. But what will you do for money?”

“I don’t know. Does that make you un-attracted to me?”

“No. I’m not saying I am.”

“I’m not attracted to me either. Let’s do something fun.”

“What is fun?”

“What do people in books do for fun?”

“They dance in castles.”

He stopped in front of the knights in the Met Museum surrounded by medieval artifacts and a very high ceiling. He extended his hand to her.

She took it and he circled around her elegantly, spinning her and then pulling her in. He put their arms out and led them as she laughed.

She ran to the statue of angels on the fountain by the pond in South East Central Park and stood on the ledge of the fountain. He followed slowly behind. She asked, “What do you wish for?”

“To be with you on Christmas Eve,” he said.

She climbed down.

He caught up with her.

“I have to go home,” she said.

“Okay.”

And she walked through the big tunnel alone. He put his hands in his pocket and turned around.

She didn’t get out of bed until 10:30 AM. It was Christmas Eve. Her mother and father both called separately. She asked if they would be upset if she stayed home. They said, no, to her relief. She didn’t write in her journal. She put on shorts and a sweatshirt. She ran through Brooklyn, trying not to think, passing people in big coats, everyone breathing visible breath. She ran until some snow began to fall and she looked up and ate some.

She didn’t turn her phone on until 2:00 PM when she had been reading Running Without Thinking, sitting on the floor by the heater, under the window.

She had no messages. She closed her eyes. In ten minutes Billy arrived, “Are you going to your parents’?” he asked.

“No.”

“Come to mine. Or is that the same thing? Anyway you are welcome and you don’t have to worry about bringing anything.”

“I feel like staying in.”

“What about tomorrow morning?”

“I’ll probably go to my mother’s or actually, honestly, I haven’t thought about it.”

“This is unusual behavior. I’ll give you a call later.”

At 11:00PM she finished Running Without Thinking. Then she called Alan. He answered, “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas. Are you with people?”

“No. I’m in a 24 hour coffee place that is actually open all throughout Christmas Eve and is in Brooklyn.”

“Where?”

“Two blocks from your building.”

She entered within twenty minutes. There was a hot chocolate waiting for her.

“I’m lactose intolerant,” she said.

“You can stir it. It helps when you have nothing to say.”

“I have things to say. Like when you’re running, you just go and you do what feels right, you do it trusting, or not trusting, but that’s how things happen, other wise you’d never know.”

“I think you’ve lost it.”

“I know. I’m very happy that I lost it. However I shouldn’t have left it chained to the meter.”

“It’s not very humane to do that, but then again, dogs are not allowed in.”

“We should have boycotted that store anyway.”

“But our children were hungry.”

Aim and Control

Aimless. Sometimes I feel so. All forms of life have an aim. Some forms of life are on United Nations associations or agencies. Some forms of life open up a chain of the same store & everyone that works there makes less than them and down the heirarchyof ideas makers to people who say the same lines at the register, memorized. There are the forms of life that are navigating their way and have met their limits.
Lost. All forms of life get lost. It makes on feel aimless and although their aim is never clear, it’s to figure out which direction to aim.
All forms of life, even bacteria lose their keys. UN agency workers lose their keys on the way to the deforestation or refugee meeting. Everyone has at least one key, which means everyone wants to lock up their home from some mysterious form of life.
I would neber enter your home uninvited. But you don’t have to believe me.

Michel James, starting on February 2nd, 2008, stopped checking email. He has 10,794 unread messages. Since February 16th at 11:50am, he has not read a newspaper. Since February 15th a 6:52pm, he quit watching televised news.
He also quit his job on February 2nd, 2008 in the morning.
He moved to India. He had no aim other than taking residence in India.
He wrote a letter before leaving the company but he took it with him. After a post-it saying, “not coming back –Michel”, he went without a computer. His wife was informed after his company about his trip to India. He didn’t pick up his cell phone for the first week and one day. It was a game he played with his wife to make her guess where he was. She saw it only as sheer recklessness. That only made her seem like his mother. He made love in India as well to a woman his age, 39.
She was only a bit attractive but magnetized towards his distance that he protruded. He was in another world besides India, if that’s another world.

All forms of life live within the created of the creator. This is true but what about the creator? Does the creator live both in and out of the created? The creator is like a car driving from the wedding to the honeymoon. The created beings are the cans dragging on the pavement.

(August, 2009)

The Movie Phenomenon

The Movie Phenomenon

I’m waiting for Andrew to arrive here at Central Park. He says it’s a famous spot but I’ve never seen it in a movie before.
“We’ve lived a life of parallel films,” I say to him.
“You think we’ve only seen different movies?”
I nod with my foot nodding too, in a green heel.
“One hundred percent?” he asks.
“Could be.”
“It’s impossible,” he says. “Titanic.”
“Never seen it. Have you seen Annie Hall?”
“Not yet but I was planning on it. I know. Grease.”
“I’ve only seen a play- a high school play version. Hm. Let’s see. Have you seen…”
“Apocalypse Now.”
“Just an I Love the Eighties clip.”
“I’m pretty sure it came out in the seventies but I’ve only seen parts too.”
“Wait. Did you see the ‘Smells like victory’ part?”
“No. Did you see the water skiing part?”
“I finally start laughing. I take his hand and take him to the water’s edge. I say, “I want this thing that can’t be true to last. So I’m not going to ask you, or even allude to the scene of Jenny running through the water in D.C. for Forest Gump.”
He doesn’t respond. Now, I figure he probably has seen it and is smart enough to not say anything.
It also occurs to me that kissing him now is opportunistic. Theoretically, I’m acting somewhat artificially because of one cute thing. I want him to be so smart. If I want something as beautiful as Forest and Jenny had I should wait for he sun to set at least half way. Not it’s too late and it would be silly to kiss him now. Maybe the moment doesn’t always come at the end. Shit.
He takes my hand and leads me onto the park’s path.
“The sun will set soon,” I say.
“I figure we’ll go to a cool place over on the west side.”
I’m too cool to ask where, extracting from his reservoir of not speaking when appropriate to not say anything. We walk all the way across, not really speaking. As soon as we hit Seventh Avenue he says, “Eventually…”
I look at him.
“We will see a film together and finally break the phenomenon.”
“We should pick this movie carefully.”
“Not tonight.”
“Why not?”
“I want to talk to you tonight.”
“Then we better stay out of natural environments.”
“I’m glad you said ‘natural’ environments and not ‘quite’ ones. Because the place I’m planning on taking you might not be too loud.”
We sit at a wooden table on the cement patio of a restaurant on a cliff wall on the edge of Hudson River Park. It’s totally night and we didn’t kiss during twilight. Our stars are the some-what distant lights of Jersey City. There is a four feet high cobble stone wall next to us. I love the wall.
I think he is very deliberate about his silences. “You’ve gone out with many women.” I meant to make that a question.
“That’s a real confident suggestion.”
“I mean. I think you’d be talking more to talk off nerves or you know- you’re not interested in talking about yourself anymore.”
“You are correct and incorrect. I have spoken too much with women in the past. But I have not gone out with so many.”
“What about with men?”
“Those were different times.”
“I’m sorry to be so inquisitive.”
“You should speak your mind. It started when we didn’t want to finally find a movie that we’ve both seen. You didn’t kiss me because you felt something so perfect happening but you didn’t want to ruin it. I’m doing the same thing.”
“We probably grew up watching the same T.V. shows.”
“I only watched one T.V. show growing up.”
“See. I can’t imagine my soul mate never having seen The Wonder Years. So don’t even tell me what show it was. I don’t want to know. I love this place and maybe I love this city and I might project some of that love onto you. What show was it?”
“I’ll call my mother and you can ask here. We’ll build suspense because it doesn’t matter. You won’t be sad whether it was or wasn’t that show.”
“Don’t call your mother!”
“It will be funny. You can ask her about my best friend that had a crush on her, my bully older brother Wayne, or even about Winnie, my biggest crush.”
I got up and walked to the wall looking over the Hudson ten feet away from the table. There were tops of trees below me. I wanted to make him chase me down into the blackened city jungle below. Probably because it seemed like rude restaurant behavior, I stayed.
Finally he joined me. Against my will, knowing a thousand other dates have kissed at that wall, I kissed him anyway and he went for it at the same time. Breaking away for a moment I said in the drunkenness of the kiss, “Mrs. Doubtfire.”
“No. Peter Herman’s Great Adventure.”
“No, and I think I’m grateful. The Childsplay series.”
“I saw the sequels- not the original.”
“Only the original. Kindergarten Cop.”
“No. You can basically forget about Arnold Schwarzenegger.”
“Our food is here.” We sit down. “Don’t you just love it when you get back from the bathroom and your food is waiting for you?”
“I guess so.”
“Just testing you.”
“What movie is that?”
“I don’t want to even ruin it when I show you that movie. I want you to remember that I said that. It will be extremely random timing when you here that sentence again.”
“I can’t wait.”

I’m putting lipstick on and this joke or ideas someone said at lunch today at work entertains me: “You can pull off romantic tricks from movies if this phenomenon is true.” So now I’m wondering if he’s thought about this. I no longer want to get around to seeing Gone With The Wind or any classic since I could find out that he stole an idea from it, unless of course he gives proper credit.
I have to admit that by the time I meet him down on West 3rd Street and
Sixth Avenue I’ve thought of all sorts of tricks from movies I’ve seen. I’ve contemplated the integrity like Thoreau and Locke going back and forth on the A-train.
I’m suspicious of everything he does or says. “This feels a little serious,” he says. “Once we’ve seen the same movie we’ve finally become coexisting beings in the same universe. Are you ready for this.”
“We both grew up on The Wonder Years. Therefore we coexist in the same universe.”
He puts his arm around me during the previews. I feel that although our lives have been made so parallel, having not seen and of the same films, we some how are like age-old friends. That’s a new feeling towards another person for me.
Two hours later, the quiet fellow finally approaches the deformed singer on the stage. She hugs him and the screen overwhelms in white light. There is a c-note sustained.
We walk out sharing a speechlessness. “Are all the movie that you’ve seen,” he asks, “totally a trip like Eraserhead?”
“I should ask you the same question.”
“How about a stroll in the Village?”
“Sounds delightful.”
Strolling amongst the bars, places with strung light bulbs, loud groups, mellow groups, tables on sidewalks, oddly angled streets and cobblestones we enjoy more of that shared contentedness of the moment.
“Why did you not watch TV growing up?”
“Well, my mother did not have a TV set. I used to visit my sister at my father’s house and traditionally we watched The Wonder Years. I saw films though. They were basically movies that my mother took me to see.”
“You make this seem less phenomenal.”
“I’ve seen many commonplace movies when I was a teenager with friends and when I was older.”
“There must be something about the films I’ve seen that differed from your mother’s and the ones when you were older.”
“I see what you’r trying to find.”
“Not what makes us different.”
“Never mind.”
“What makes our lives different.”
He looks thoughtful. “Our lives are different because we’ve seen different films?”
“Or because we relate to different ones too.”
“Well I’ve seen all genres.”
“I’m not trying to find out what it is okay. Forget it.”
“When we forget about this we might run out of a compelling bind to our union.”
“Other girls would think you sound weird. But you are speaking my language.”
“It’s- As long as it lasts, let’s just accept it. Let’s not ignore our case. If it runs out, which- if you love film like I do- it won’t, we’ll just see what happens okay. Believe in destiny a little bit.”
“I’m with you.” I put my hand in his in a sportsman like way but also a romantic way.
After a moment’s contemplation he says, “Oh my friend, Beth. You have missed out on a whole world of brilliance.”
“Is that from a movie?”
“Maybe. It’s more like the conclusion to a long sequence of artistic accomplishment.”
“To beauty,” I say trying to catch on to his sentimentality, with my hand in the air.

Breakfast and (Abdoh)ction

Breakfast and Abduction
Down at the Manhattan bridge overpass I watched the cars swim under me, faceless. If I were a maestro I’d perhaps orchestrate this noise. I get captured in scenes like this. I better get a move on.
The sun is coming out as I leave the overpass but I would have preferred rain. I do have a destination but I feel like my mind is a blank paper. She comes running towards me, my sister. She’s wearing a white dress, which bewilders me. Where’d she get those bangs? She grabs the book from my hand and opens it to the middle. She pretends to read from it but she’s using a made up language. She hugs me and walks away as if she doesn’t know me. Now I think I’m going to kill myself.
I close my eyes hoping that when I open them there will be breakfast on a table and we will be eating in some diner as a family. When I open my eyes the thought at least refreshed me. I am done with thinking and go on walking.
I sit down on the curb. I look up and see a U.F.O. I yell, “Take me!” I feel shy and self-conscious when it seems to notice me. I walk away from it pretending I didn’t just wave to it. It gains on me. I start running. I go into a deli. I order a turkey sandwich. When I come out the tall, thin figures in dark over coats take my arms and bring me into their space ship. I am actually happy. I’m glad I have some lunch to bring with me into the ship although I think I forgot to get water.
It looks like a recording studio in here. I remember the documentary I saw on Jimmy Hendrix. All this needs is leopard print but perhaps if Jimmy were alive he’d be a little modern now. “Do you have any water?” No response. “?Tienen alguna agua?”
“We’re bringing you home Francis.”
“Do you mean my current home or my original? Or do you mean destination, like Enlightenment?”
I notice that they aren’t speaking but a family on a TV is talking, a housewife, a little boy and a father picking up his briefcase. “Eat more toast,” says the mother.
The tall, mysterious figures bring me a plate of toast. I’m not sure if I should save my sandwich or not.
The TV is on pause. They fast forward it, press play and the father says, “Don’t go playing with hooligans.” Pause, fast ward, play. “Eat your breakfast.”
Finally they bring me tea so I eat the toast. The toast makes me so happy. It’s only slightly buttered. The orange juice reinvigorates my cells. I get up and introduce myself to these people. I look out the window. Already, we are in space. Maybe they’ll take care of me. Do they have water?
They take me and sit me back down on the couch. They recline it while one lifts my legs up, the other dragging a foot rest under it. They supply me with pipe and tobacco, one lighting it for me. “So a newspaper now?” I ask.
A figure holds up two papers, it appears one is from their planet and one is from Earth. I ask, “How hard are your crossword puzzles?” They give me the NY Times and one figure fetches me a pencil.
I finish the whole thing. I get up and stretch. A figure carries over a glass container, microwave-sized. After pushing a button it opens with a blowing sound, light protruding out of it. “Ooh, what’s this?”
A small puppy runs out of it. “There you are boy.” They take me by the elbows and bring me into a room. There is a bed. There is a grandfather clock. There is a dresser with pictures, little mirrors, some perfumes and little jewelry boxes on it. On the bed there lies a beautiful woman. She appears to be waiting for me. I’m not sure I’m in the mood to go over there. I turn around but the figures shift me back into the room and nudge me toward the bed. A figure puts a record on the record player. Another figure lights candles, another turning the electric lights out. Now I feel more at ease. I sit on the foot of the bed and the woman says, “I’m ready to make a baby.” I say, “Well, that’s good.” She starts to cry. A figure brings me a handkerchief and I pat the tears on her cheeks. “Now, now.” I say. “I suppose I can do this.” Her tongue, which drops from her mouth, is like a snake tongue. “Oh my god,” I say. “What are you?” The figures take her out of the room.
I sit there looking in my wallet for a condom considering whether it would be unethical to promise this woman a baby and sneak a shield in there. I stop looking and they bring her back and place her where she was next to me, legs up on the bed. I open her mouth and there is a human tongue in there. “What is this?” I ask. The figures leave us to ourselves.
An hour later I leave the room and look out the window. I enjoy watching the stars. I don’t feel like much is required from me when I look at them. The universe seems safe and complete and all I have to do is be peaceful. A boy runs up and tugs on my red robe.
“Hey boy.”
“Hey pop. Look at this trick.” He drops a yoyo down and brings it back up. “Wow boy. Where’d you get that thing?”
“Momma bought it for me.”
“Is that what you did yesterday at the store?”
“Yes and we took Lucky to the beach.”
Suddenly I remember my turkey sandwich.

short stories

I will post short stories here asap.