Archive
Jarring the Kittens (Brooklyn Paramount, v.1)
Down the hall came the muffled meows of several small kittens. This is my first memory. I think I paid such attention because I wanted to play with them, but it was late, and mom said I had to stay in bed and sleep until morning. Their constant meows brought visions of them on my lap, crawling over and behind me as I picked them up to set them between my legs again. I couldn’t rest until their cries stopped and I knew they had all gone to sleep.
I awoke to another cry, but not from the kittens. My older sister was sobbing and wailing, and mom wasn’t around.
“Where’s mom?” I asked when I saw her with her head in hands, puddles of tears streaming from the cracks in her fingers. She looked up at me, but didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry V.V.,” I said, thinking I’d done something wrong. “Please don’t cry.”
“I killed them!” She screeched and wept into her hands.
“Don’t say that. What happened? Who’d you kill?” I wiped my face and found tears down each cheek.
“All of them.” At least I think that’s what she said. I couldn’t really hear because of her shaking.
When mom came back, she sat me down and told me the kittens were gone. I didn’t really understand, and asked when I could visit them, but she said I couldn’t visit where they had gone, because they had gone to heaven.
See, my mom does this thing with her church where she cans and jars fruits and other things. She says she does this in case we can’t get food anymore. Says the stores all have food now, but there might come a day when they won’t have any, or we won’t be able to go to the store because the snow is too high. This I understood; this winter the snow went above me, and until the two Smith boys from down the street came over and shoveled all the snow away, I couldn’t go further than three steps outside the big red house.
“So, why do we have to jar it all? Why can’t we just keep it in the kitchen?”
“Jarring food protects it from going bad,” she told V.V. and me. “It keeps food safe so we can store it for months and months.”
My sister took all this in and decided she was going to protect the kittens for months and months, so they wouldn’t get sick and die like the little one did two days after it was born. She set them all in a large glass jar, put the lid on and closed it tight. Then she went to bed.
Years later, when my sister was in high school, she came home one night smelling of beer. We didn’t live in the big red house anymore, not since my dad left and took a lot of our money with him – as an adult I learned he took over a hundred thousand dollars of property and college savings from us, his children – forcing mom out of the big red house and into a two-bedroom apartment. Mom was awake when V.V. came home, and she woke me to help.
“Get up and see your sister,” she said. “She did this to herself. I hope you never make this mistake.”
V.V. was lying in the shower tub, fully clothed, water raining on her face. Vomit stained her shirt as it flowed down the drain.
“Come here, lil brother,” she said to me. I was scared. This was the nicest she’d been to me in years. Usually her friends forced me to play butler, making me get them whatever they wanted, never letting me say anything to mom. V.V. just laughed, telling me it was my own fault for being such a momma’s boy. But no matter what they did or said, I never told mom anything.
“You okay, V.V.?”
“I just need to tell you how much I love you. I love you, lil brother. You’re always so good, so good to me. And I’m such a bitch. And please don’t think I’m a bad girl.”
“Watch your mouth young lady.”
We both turned to mom, standing in the doorway. Mom usually slapped my sister’s arm whenever she used those words, but this time she didn’t move.
“I just wanted to protect ‘em,” V.V. continued. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was seven. I just wanted to protect ‘em…that’s all.”
“Why are you talking like this?”
“Those poor kittens I killed in that jar. I didn’t know about air, or what it’d do to ‘em. I never mean to hurt ‘em…just tried to protect ‘em.” Then she fell to sleep.
“Vicki Virginia!” Mom ran over, pushing me aside. Water pouring on her back, mom shook V.V. until she woke.
“I love you too, mommy.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Mom stood and walked out of the room, saying as she passed, “don’t let your sister pass out.”
As mom left, V.V. started puking on herself again. I took the showerhead and aimed it at the mess so it went down the drain.
But that was much later. The first thing I remember is listening to the kittens meow before I slept, fading away one by one.
I awoke to another cry, but not from the kittens. My older sister was sobbing and wailing, and mom wasn’t around.
“Where’s mom?” I asked when I saw her with her head in hands, puddles of tears streaming from the cracks in her fingers. She looked up at me, but didn’t speak.
“I’m sorry V.V.,” I said, thinking I’d done something wrong. “Please don’t cry.”
“I killed them!” She screeched and wept into her hands.
“Don’t say that. What happened? Who’d you kill?” I wiped my face and found tears down each cheek.
“All of them.” At least I think that’s what she said. I couldn’t really hear because of her shaking.
When mom came back, she sat me down and told me the kittens were gone. I didn’t really understand, and asked when I could visit them, but she said I couldn’t visit where they had gone, because they had gone to heaven.
See, my mom does this thing with her church where she cans and jars fruits and other things. She says she does this in case we can’t get food anymore. Says the stores all have food now, but there might come a day when they won’t have any, or we won’t be able to go to the store because the snow is too high. This I understood; this winter the snow went above me, and until the two Smith boys from down the street came over and shoveled all the snow away, I couldn’t go further than three steps outside the big red house.
“So, why do we have to jar it all? Why can’t we just keep it in the kitchen?”
“Jarring food protects it from going bad,” she told V.V. and me. “It keeps food safe so we can store it for months and months.”
My sister took all this in and decided she was going to protect the kittens for months and months, so they wouldn’t get sick and die like the little one did two days after it was born. She set them all in a large glass jar, put the lid on and closed it tight. Then she went to bed.
Years later, when my sister was in high school, she came home one night smelling of beer. We didn’t live in the big red house anymore, not since my dad left and took a lot of our money with him – as an adult I learned he took over a hundred thousand dollars of property and college savings from us, his children – forcing mom out of the big red house and into a two-bedroom apartment. Mom was awake when V.V. came home, and she woke me to help.
“Get up and see your sister,” she said. “She did this to herself. I hope you never make this mistake.”
V.V. was lying in the shower tub, fully clothed, water raining on her face. Vomit stained her shirt as it flowed down the drain.
“Come here, lil brother,” she said to me. I was scared. This was the nicest she’d been to me in years. Usually her friends forced me to play butler, making me get them whatever they wanted, never letting me say anything to mom. V.V. just laughed, telling me it was my own fault for being such a momma’s boy. But no matter what they did or said, I never told mom anything.
“You okay, V.V.?”
“I just need to tell you how much I love you. I love you, lil brother. You’re always so good, so good to me. And I’m such a bitch. And please don’t think I’m a bad girl.”
“Watch your mouth young lady.”
We both turned to mom, standing in the doorway. Mom usually slapped my sister’s arm whenever she used those words, but this time she didn’t move.
“I just wanted to protect ‘em,” V.V. continued. “I didn’t know what I was doing. I was seven. I just wanted to protect ‘em…that’s all.”
“Why are you talking like this?”
“Those poor kittens I killed in that jar. I didn’t know about air, or what it’d do to ‘em. I never mean to hurt ‘em…just tried to protect ‘em.” Then she fell to sleep.
“Vicki Virginia!” Mom ran over, pushing me aside. Water pouring on her back, mom shook V.V. until she woke.
“I love you too, mommy.”
“Well, that’s just great.” Mom stood and walked out of the room, saying as she passed, “don’t let your sister pass out.”
As mom left, V.V. started puking on herself again. I took the showerhead and aimed it at the mess so it went down the drain.
But that was much later. The first thing I remember is listening to the kittens meow before I slept, fading away one by one.
Happy Hour in Philly (Having a Whiskey Coke with You, v.2)
He sat there, lanky, huddled over the bar. He was a mushroom grower down in Virginia not far outside DC, he loudly proclaimed during some small talk with the guy beside him. The wounds on his neck intrigued me. They looked like bruises from something blunt, two of them, side by side. He was skinny, his light hair cut just short enough to not need combing, and his head jetted forward like a cartoon caveman. From how he slurred and occasionally looked around surprised, bet he won’t remember anything from this bar.
“What time is it?” he asked the guy in the corner seat playing a game on a bar-video box. “Hey, hey buddy; what time is it?” His voice was crusty and nasal, like screeching tires heard through the gravel their sliding on.
I was about to answer, but the guy ended his game and looked at his watch.
“Just at five, man.” He began another game, and the drunken Virginian went on.
“Oh great,” he leaned. “I haf to catch the Greyhound down to Virginia, but I haf time to slug anotha down.”
The game player finished and walked out. He left a ten for the bartender. The drunk Virginian looked around in shock. I went back to reading, but had to peek when I heard an odd blowing noise. He had stretched himself over the bar. I thought, at first, he was trying to grab a bottle, and that the excitement made him breathe funny, but then saw that he was blowing the bill on its side so he could confirm that, yes, it was indeed a ten dollar bill there for the taking. He looked at me and all around, still in shock at his discovery.
I heard him walk to the video box and sit. There was a crumpling noise, and a game started up. He played about a minute, somewhat unsuccessfully it seemed, and was quickly back to his beer near my seat. He got bored with his triumph and looked around.
“What book ya readin’?”
“Huckleberry Finn.”
“Oh, wow,” his mouth open wide. “That’s a great one. Ya know, I was jus’ over here doing some writin’. More poetic, like musical writin’, jus’ talking about what I see,” he waved his hand around the air several times, “and trying to make sense on a napkin. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah. Writing’s fun.”
“Yeah. I should do some more writin’.”
“Then do it!” I raised my beer and slugged it back.
“I should!” He looked down at the bar, formulating the rest of his life. “I really, really should. I should take all this writin’, these napkins, and thread it in some coherent, some stream of, you know,” he searched behind the bar for the right word. “Stuff.”
He sighed aggressively. “I’m just an oyster mushroom farmer down in Virginia, but I think I’ve somethin’ to say. My sister has land up here. I could come up, plant different crops and jus’ start writin’; say, what time is it?”
I looked at my cell phone. “Five-thirty.” I put the book away and stood up. “Name’s L, what’s yours?”
“Yeah, I gatta catch a Greyhound.” He shook my hand.
“I’m catching a bus right now.”
“Yeah?” His glazed eyes lit up. “You goin’ on the Greyhound?”
“Nah, I have a Chinatown bus back to New York.”
“Yeah, I got a li’l wait for my Greyhound.”
I drew the stuffed backpack over my shoulders and threw a few bucks on the bar, wondering if they would ever see the bartender. On the way out I heard him find his new buddy.
“Hey man, could I get another before I go?”
“What time is it?” he asked the guy in the corner seat playing a game on a bar-video box. “Hey, hey buddy; what time is it?” His voice was crusty and nasal, like screeching tires heard through the gravel their sliding on.
I was about to answer, but the guy ended his game and looked at his watch.
“Just at five, man.” He began another game, and the drunken Virginian went on.
“Oh great,” he leaned. “I haf to catch the Greyhound down to Virginia, but I haf time to slug anotha down.”
The game player finished and walked out. He left a ten for the bartender. The drunk Virginian looked around in shock. I went back to reading, but had to peek when I heard an odd blowing noise. He had stretched himself over the bar. I thought, at first, he was trying to grab a bottle, and that the excitement made him breathe funny, but then saw that he was blowing the bill on its side so he could confirm that, yes, it was indeed a ten dollar bill there for the taking. He looked at me and all around, still in shock at his discovery.
I heard him walk to the video box and sit. There was a crumpling noise, and a game started up. He played about a minute, somewhat unsuccessfully it seemed, and was quickly back to his beer near my seat. He got bored with his triumph and looked around.
“What book ya readin’?”
“Huckleberry Finn.”
“Oh, wow,” his mouth open wide. “That’s a great one. Ya know, I was jus’ over here doing some writin’. More poetic, like musical writin’, jus’ talking about what I see,” he waved his hand around the air several times, “and trying to make sense on a napkin. Know what I mean?”
“Yeah. Writing’s fun.”
“Yeah. I should do some more writin’.”
“Then do it!” I raised my beer and slugged it back.
“I should!” He looked down at the bar, formulating the rest of his life. “I really, really should. I should take all this writin’, these napkins, and thread it in some coherent, some stream of, you know,” he searched behind the bar for the right word. “Stuff.”
He sighed aggressively. “I’m just an oyster mushroom farmer down in Virginia, but I think I’ve somethin’ to say. My sister has land up here. I could come up, plant different crops and jus’ start writin’; say, what time is it?”
I looked at my cell phone. “Five-thirty.” I put the book away and stood up. “Name’s L, what’s yours?”
“Yeah, I gatta catch a Greyhound.” He shook my hand.
“I’m catching a bus right now.”
“Yeah?” His glazed eyes lit up. “You goin’ on the Greyhound?”
“Nah, I have a Chinatown bus back to New York.”
“Yeah, I got a li’l wait for my Greyhound.”
I drew the stuffed backpack over my shoulders and threw a few bucks on the bar, wondering if they would ever see the bartender. On the way out I heard him find his new buddy.
“Hey man, could I get another before I go?”
Consolidated Edison (Having a Whiskey Coke with You, v.4)How many people have you killed, Con Edison?
How many lives broken by cheap materials and faulty labor? How many manholes blown to the sky by your pipe, pressure, and time? Or skaters singed by your wandering steam? Or apartments blown by your wayward gas? And what will you do the next time your ancient pipes burst? Or ruin another Newyorkian’s life with more pain, death, mourning, and strife? How many of your emergency vans, Con Ed, have been too late? How many streets blocked off in vain? And talk to me about Jodie Lane – do you feel her pressure at any time? That eastvillager walking her dogs down their regular route. Do you think she pondered stray voltage As she pulled the leashes, shaking on your service box, To find your current surging strong beneath? And how do you feel about the seven million you gave her family? Does it comfort you, the Oops Money you have to spare? Tell me, Con Edison, how much comfort did you feel When you found another thousand voltages straying around town? Did you ponder Jodie Lane, and her encounter with just one of the thousand? Were you happy to oblige Councilwoman Lopez, and agree with a frown? Did you hear her demands for no more “injury or death”? If so, then why has there been so little pressure on you all this time, Through your two-century monopoly spree as New York’s utility company? In 1977, to name a few recent disasters, you dealt with New York’s blackout. And again in 2006, but this time just for nine days, and only in Queens. We remember those pipes exploding in ‘87 and ’89 The workers killed by steam and energy. The buildings ruined by pressure and time. Blowing Gramercy Park to hell. 12 more exploding pipes since 87 – and counting. And these are the ones that made a difference, These are the ones that people came asking you to explain. Have you paid anyone for the Grand Central explosion? It blew from the pressure and time of a 1920’s pipe. Have you helped the family forget about the heart attack? It took their mother, rushing from your 40-story-tall wall of steam. Did you pay for the hospital to reform new skin to that man? You burned him with 400-degree vapor during the pandemonium. Didn’t you just pay to cover that lake, that 15-foot crater left in your wake? Do you know more about all this than we do, Con Edison? Do you know about more death than we can dream? Do you hear about those that go unnoticed? Do you close your eyes and blame freak accidents? Didn’t you try that with Jodie, Queens, and Grand Central Terminal? How many repairs, hasty and shoddy, have wiped your hands clean? How many cancerous lungs will never be linked to your leaking pipes? How many illnesses unknown and injuries never shown? And if you don’t have an answer, don’t you at least have a sneaking suspicion? I am beginning to think, Con Ed, that you’re showing your age; That monopoly status and profit pressures are becoming too much, Causing compromises in the basic services required of you. I am starting to wonder if those politicians are right when they question, Whether you should be controlled, broken up, or dissolved outright. And I contemplate a New York without seeing your trucks or vans, Serviced with companies by-the-dime, not so bloated with pressure or time. |
|
Impressions (By the Overpass, v.1)
Richard stood with the long umbrella folded under his arm, ready to spring into action, backpack cinched tight. It stopped raining before he came out to meet his friends, and now he felt foolish having brought such a big umbrella. His friends joked it made him a target in the neighborhood, and after a few beers and the sun gone down, he believed them.
“We’re definitely pioneers out here,” Jennifer had said. “Last week the news reported two people getting shot and mugged, and all that was said about the suspects was they were black males, ages sixteen to twenty-seven – that’s, like, everyone out here! But,” she continued, “we see more white people each month.”
Not tonight. He was hyperaware of his unmatched skin against the night, the super vigilance of eyes peering at him. Get a grip, he thought, but he couldn’t grip anything but the curved, wooden handle of his umbrella.
The bus was either slightly early or very late, but he stood alone, anxious. He decided to walk two blocks to a liquor store for some whiskey, thinking it would calm his nerves. He stepped into the small room, walled off with bulletproof glass by an old Chinese couple, and the hot air made him remove his hat. He looked around, umbrella under his arm, fidgeting with his beanie, and decided the best deal was a liter of Jim Beam. He placed the whiskey in his backpack and cinched it before leaving.
The cold wind nipped the top of his ears before he could put his loose hat back on.
There was a bus stop in front of the liquor store, and it made him feel safe for a while, but the minutes passed and the inch of confidence quickly disbursed into the night.
A car pulled up across the street. No one got out. It was in park, but still running.
A man began walking towards him.
The front window of the car rolled down.
A man stepped out from the passenger seat and stood looking at the man walking towards him. They stared at each other.
When Richard looked at the two, they turned away. Richard began to walk back the way he came, towards his friends’ apartment. If nothing else, he would just walk all the way back to the building and call a cab from there.
Paranoia. It’s only paranoia.
He tested the quickness of the oversized umbrella, slicing it through the air a few times before bringing it back under his arm. He mistakenly looked wealthy out here, or thought he did, an easy target.
It began to rain.
The sprinkling didn’t bother him, and he felt it would go to better use to keep the umbrella folded up rather than open. He walked across the street to the front of a bodega where a fat woman, wearing a bright yellow parka and a used-up curly blonde wig, stood below the covered awning; he felt her eyes twitch from his face to the umbrella under his arm.
She smoked. He hated smoking; when the smell of her Marlboro invaded his nostrils he thought of the old hag who used to rent a room out of his mother’s house.
People walked by, including the two men from outside the liquor store. When he couldn’t stand still anymore, he began to walk against traffic down the middle of the street, the mist seeping the ground and cooling. He walked slow, twirling the umbrella around with broad swings, mind occupied with nothing, when he saw tall moving lights in the distance.
As the bus waited at the light, two kids walked by and lingered behind. He could imagine the headline – White Man Hit by Bus Escaping Innocent Thugs – and felt nauseous as he kept composed.
The bus pulled up and he boarded. He sat at a single seat, pulling his backpack off and clutching everything tight against his lap.
When the bus pulled away, the Stop Requested light came on, but at the next stop no one got off. As the driver closed the front door Richard heard a man in the back.
“Getting off, getting off!”
The driver reopened the doors, the man mumbled something about him kidding, and the doors closed. At the next stop this scenario repeated, again with Stop Requested turning on, the bus stopping for nobody, and the drunk in back speaking up when the doors began to close.
“Getting off, getting off!” The doors opened. “Nah man, not this time.”
There were two plump women, wide in their seats, across from Richard. Both were very dark complected with similarly round cheeks; maybe sisters, or mother and daughter, Richard didn’t know. They had been talking, but became silent after the third time the drunk played his little joke.
After the fourth time they began to laugh.
“Getting off, getting off!” The doors opened. “Hah, got’cha again, didn’t I?”
Richard wanted to look, but couldn’t bring himself to turn around.
“Getting off, getting off!”
Black males, ages sixteen to twenty-seven.
Richard’s imagination made his nerves shoot, cringing at those words like nails and chalkboards, so he finally had to turn around to spy the drunk without being noticed. Instead of turning into the bus, he turned toward the window to look at the reflections. He looked back enough to see a girl sitting behind him. They made eye contact before he again faced forward.
“And I don’t know what to make…of…hey, I’m gonna have to call you back. Okay? I’ll call in like five minutes. Yeah, everything’s alright. My stop’s coming up.” Richard heard the girl gathering her belongings, watched her fidget in his reflective periphery.
He felt ashamed.
He couldn’t explain that he was a decent person, merely trying to get a glimpse of the drunk behind them. The girl eyed him closely, and got up to leave at the following stop.
“Miss?”
Richard looked across the aisle at the two plump women.
“She left something,” one of them said.
Richard turned around to see a black scarf on the vacated seat behind him. Without thinking, he grabbed the scarf and walked to the front of the bus.
“This is that girl’s, I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The driver opened the door for him, Richard leaving his backpack and oversized umbrella onboard to run after the girl.
“Miss!” He caught up to her as she spun around, and held out the black cloth.
“Oh my God, thank you so much!” She smiled and turned away. “I left my scarf on the bus just now,” she said to her cell phone, “and some guy just brought it to…” fading as Richard turned to see the bus pull away, the driver staring into the night of the street before him; he also saw the drunkard at the back doors, yelling something. Richard began running towards the next stop, hoping someone would get off and he could catch up, but half a block later the bus suddenly screeched to a standstill and the back doors opened.
“Fuckin’ driver’ll stop when I want him t’stop – I know my fuckin’ rights,” the drunk mumbled as he worked down the three steps from the bus to the street, holding the doors open as Richard ran up. “Here you go, buddy…fuckin’ driver…”
Richard returned to his seat, his things where he’d left them, and several blocks later he lit up Stop Requested.
“Thanks man,” he said to the driver staring forward, “have a good night.”
The bus driver responded with a nod, and Richard slugged his backpack over one shoulder, popping open the long umbrella as he stepped into the sprinkling mist.
“We’re definitely pioneers out here,” Jennifer had said. “Last week the news reported two people getting shot and mugged, and all that was said about the suspects was they were black males, ages sixteen to twenty-seven – that’s, like, everyone out here! But,” she continued, “we see more white people each month.”
Not tonight. He was hyperaware of his unmatched skin against the night, the super vigilance of eyes peering at him. Get a grip, he thought, but he couldn’t grip anything but the curved, wooden handle of his umbrella.
The bus was either slightly early or very late, but he stood alone, anxious. He decided to walk two blocks to a liquor store for some whiskey, thinking it would calm his nerves. He stepped into the small room, walled off with bulletproof glass by an old Chinese couple, and the hot air made him remove his hat. He looked around, umbrella under his arm, fidgeting with his beanie, and decided the best deal was a liter of Jim Beam. He placed the whiskey in his backpack and cinched it before leaving.
The cold wind nipped the top of his ears before he could put his loose hat back on.
There was a bus stop in front of the liquor store, and it made him feel safe for a while, but the minutes passed and the inch of confidence quickly disbursed into the night.
A car pulled up across the street. No one got out. It was in park, but still running.
A man began walking towards him.
The front window of the car rolled down.
A man stepped out from the passenger seat and stood looking at the man walking towards him. They stared at each other.
When Richard looked at the two, they turned away. Richard began to walk back the way he came, towards his friends’ apartment. If nothing else, he would just walk all the way back to the building and call a cab from there.
Paranoia. It’s only paranoia.
He tested the quickness of the oversized umbrella, slicing it through the air a few times before bringing it back under his arm. He mistakenly looked wealthy out here, or thought he did, an easy target.
It began to rain.
The sprinkling didn’t bother him, and he felt it would go to better use to keep the umbrella folded up rather than open. He walked across the street to the front of a bodega where a fat woman, wearing a bright yellow parka and a used-up curly blonde wig, stood below the covered awning; he felt her eyes twitch from his face to the umbrella under his arm.
She smoked. He hated smoking; when the smell of her Marlboro invaded his nostrils he thought of the old hag who used to rent a room out of his mother’s house.
People walked by, including the two men from outside the liquor store. When he couldn’t stand still anymore, he began to walk against traffic down the middle of the street, the mist seeping the ground and cooling. He walked slow, twirling the umbrella around with broad swings, mind occupied with nothing, when he saw tall moving lights in the distance.
As the bus waited at the light, two kids walked by and lingered behind. He could imagine the headline – White Man Hit by Bus Escaping Innocent Thugs – and felt nauseous as he kept composed.
The bus pulled up and he boarded. He sat at a single seat, pulling his backpack off and clutching everything tight against his lap.
When the bus pulled away, the Stop Requested light came on, but at the next stop no one got off. As the driver closed the front door Richard heard a man in the back.
“Getting off, getting off!”
The driver reopened the doors, the man mumbled something about him kidding, and the doors closed. At the next stop this scenario repeated, again with Stop Requested turning on, the bus stopping for nobody, and the drunk in back speaking up when the doors began to close.
“Getting off, getting off!” The doors opened. “Nah man, not this time.”
There were two plump women, wide in their seats, across from Richard. Both were very dark complected with similarly round cheeks; maybe sisters, or mother and daughter, Richard didn’t know. They had been talking, but became silent after the third time the drunk played his little joke.
After the fourth time they began to laugh.
“Getting off, getting off!” The doors opened. “Hah, got’cha again, didn’t I?”
Richard wanted to look, but couldn’t bring himself to turn around.
“Getting off, getting off!”
Black males, ages sixteen to twenty-seven.
Richard’s imagination made his nerves shoot, cringing at those words like nails and chalkboards, so he finally had to turn around to spy the drunk without being noticed. Instead of turning into the bus, he turned toward the window to look at the reflections. He looked back enough to see a girl sitting behind him. They made eye contact before he again faced forward.
“And I don’t know what to make…of…hey, I’m gonna have to call you back. Okay? I’ll call in like five minutes. Yeah, everything’s alright. My stop’s coming up.” Richard heard the girl gathering her belongings, watched her fidget in his reflective periphery.
He felt ashamed.
He couldn’t explain that he was a decent person, merely trying to get a glimpse of the drunk behind them. The girl eyed him closely, and got up to leave at the following stop.
“Miss?”
Richard looked across the aisle at the two plump women.
“She left something,” one of them said.
Richard turned around to see a black scarf on the vacated seat behind him. Without thinking, he grabbed the scarf and walked to the front of the bus.
“This is that girl’s, I’ll be right back.”
“Yeah, yeah.” The driver opened the door for him, Richard leaving his backpack and oversized umbrella onboard to run after the girl.
“Miss!” He caught up to her as she spun around, and held out the black cloth.
“Oh my God, thank you so much!” She smiled and turned away. “I left my scarf on the bus just now,” she said to her cell phone, “and some guy just brought it to…” fading as Richard turned to see the bus pull away, the driver staring into the night of the street before him; he also saw the drunkard at the back doors, yelling something. Richard began running towards the next stop, hoping someone would get off and he could catch up, but half a block later the bus suddenly screeched to a standstill and the back doors opened.
“Fuckin’ driver’ll stop when I want him t’stop – I know my fuckin’ rights,” the drunk mumbled as he worked down the three steps from the bus to the street, holding the doors open as Richard ran up. “Here you go, buddy…fuckin’ driver…”
Richard returned to his seat, his things where he’d left them, and several blocks later he lit up Stop Requested.
“Thanks man,” he said to the driver staring forward, “have a good night.”
The bus driver responded with a nod, and Richard slugged his backpack over one shoulder, popping open the long umbrella as he stepped into the sprinkling mist.
Pork Shank (Downtown Brooklyn, v.20)
The food was placed on the table. The two couples in the round booth ordered from the restaurant week’s prefix menu, getting two small steaks with fries and two orders of the two-and-a-half pound Crackling Pork Shank, on the bone. The Irishman at the left end of the booth sent back his extra spare rib side-dish, exclaiming to the food runner that the shank of pork in front of him was ungodly big. After everyone tried a bite of their food and a bite from their partner’s plate, the waiter returned.
“So how is everything tonight?”
“Great.”
“Could I get some steak sauce?”
The waiter nodded. “Very good.”
The waiter then turned to the man who hadn’t said anything and was still staring at his mound of pork.
“Is the Crackling Pork Shank big enough for you?” The waiter joked, “I could get another one, or two, from the back – bring ‘em right out.” The Irishman’s wife and the other couple laughed. Another waiter, passing by and overhearing the joke, also laughed. The Irishman looked up.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” The table fell silent. “What the fuck…what are you, some wiseass?”
“Yes,” The waiter was suddenly serious and soft spoken. “That’s what waiters are. It was a joke sir. I didn’t mean to offend; I’m sorry for…”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
The waiter went back to the kitchen, standing there a second before asking someone for the steak sauce. He brought the sauce without a word, a wide jar of house-made spiced paste, and the other three at the table quickly moved things out of the way for its placement near the steaks. The Irishman only looked up again when the waiter left.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” said the other man’s wife.
“You did say something about the size,” added her husband.
“Did I say anything to him? Did I invite him into our conversation? I thought that bartender of ours said he was going to give us a good server.” The others looked at each other. “I’m talking to his fucking manager. I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David; I don’t have to take this shit!”
The Irishman stood up to go to the restroom, and stopped when he was near the waiter. “Go get your fucking manager.”
The manager, who was nearby, heard this and went over after the man left. “What was that all about?”
“I made a joke about the Pork Shank at the table. He obviously took it the wrong way and started cursing me out.” The waiter shifts his weight to one side, then immediately back again, wincing slightly. “I apologized, but he won’t let up.”
“I just want you to know,” said the Irishman, wiping his hands on his pants, “that I have never been so offended in my life as I have by this man.” He pointed at the waiter.
“Sir, what did he do?” asked the manager.
“Making funny jokes at the table,” he replied, “him and his buddy over there, laughing it up at my expense.” He pointed to the other waiter who laughed, now speaking to people at one of his own tables.
The manager pulled the Irishman towards his table, away from the waiter.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by it,” the manager said. The manager was chubby, wearing a pinstriped dark gray suit, and had a spiked haircut that accentuated the way he stuck his head out as when walked. “That’s one of our finest waiters; I’ve never gotten any complaint about him.”
“Well, you have one now. I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David, and I was humiliated and totally offended.”
“How did I offend you?” The waiter came over to the two chubby men. “I was making a joke about the size of our Pork Shank, that’s all!”
“Did I tell you that I thought it was a big Pork Shank? Did I turn to you and say, ‘gee that’s a big Pork Shank’?”
“No, but you told my food runner and everyone at the table.”
“Then mind your own fucking business, guy.”
The manager pulled him away, shooing his hand at the waiter. He assured the Irishman that this would be rectified with a waitress taking over the table, and the two parted ways with some sort of understanding. The Irishman, though, was still fuming.
“That manager had better comp us something for all this stupid shit.”
“Excuse me,” said the other man’s wife. She went to the door around the corner, marked with a ‘W,’ and beckoned the waiter over while holding the door open.
“I am so sorry for that,” she said.
“I don’t quite know what that was.”
“Yeah…I have no explanation for that but the man’s a dick. He’s a dick, who happened to marry my best friend.” She let out half a laugh.
“Well, I’m sorry for creating a disturbance at your table.”
“No. Please don’t apologize. You just have to deal with him for a night. I have to deal with him for the rest of my life.” She gave a little smirk. “It’s you that should be sorry for me.”
“Thanks.” The waiter gave his waiter’s grin. “I hope you have a better night.” She walked into the women’s restroom, and he walked back to his station, all the time checking on his remaining tables as if nothing had happened.
The manager walked over to him and they both looked out over the floor.
“I’m putting the Italian on table twenty.”
“Forget that!” The waiter looked sharply at his manager, then back out toward the tables. “That’s my only good table of the night. I don’t have anything else but that.”
“What do you want me to do? It’s already ruined. I just told the guy he was getting another server.” The waiter walked to a couple sitting at a little table, all the while with the grin on his face.
The wife returned to the booth.
“That little peckerhead try to talk to you?”
“No,” she smiled pleasantly, “I just went to the bathroom.”
“I can’t believe the guy would say such a thing, I agree that he should be punished for this,” said the Irishman’s wife. The other man’s wife looked up at her best friend, then forked up a piece of her Pork Shank.
The waitress, the Italian, was informed of everything by the manager, and she took over the table. She was nervous and apprehensive about their reaction to her, as she was usually nervous about everything, and was as nice and as silent as possible. The Irishman continued talking about the incident as if he had been robbed in daylight, though he never said anything directly to the waitress. He did, however, call over the other waiter, the one who laughed at the original joke.
“Let me ask you something, guy; what did your buddy say that was so funny back there?”
“Sir, at this restaurant we enjoy an upscale, but friendly, light-hearted atmosphere. All the waiters like to joke around with our guests.”
“Well not tonight my man. Not tonight.”
“I am sorry you feel that.” He left the booth and went directly to his buddy. “God I was about to fucking lose it on your Pork-Shank table back there.” He talked while looking out at the tables. “What I should have said is if your fucking Blimey ass can’t take a joke, then maybe you shouldn’t go out anymore. God – it’s called humor! I thought the joke was funny, so did the rest of the table. That’s why we all laughed. I wanna wrap the American flag around his Blimey head, and beat him with a wine bottle.”
The two couples had their prefix desserts and finished everything up with the waitress. The men split the bill with plastic, and the Irishman made sure no tip was put on either receipt. The other man insisted on leaving a meager cash tip. He said it would go to the waitress, who at least finished their dinner without further offending anybody.
The four left the table and went back to the bar. During their walk over, the wife pulled her husband aside and told him to apologize, and to leave a bigger tip.
The waitress was looking at the table’s bill when the drunk Irishman stopped by her on his way to the restroom.
“You can blame that on him,” he said, pointing at the bill and then the waiter standing nearby. He didn’t wait for any response as he continued to the toilets.
“Honey, I know it’s not much, but that was your table.” The waitress gave the cash to the waiter. “Take this.”
“No, I messed up somehow. I don’t know how, but you finished the table, so you deserve it.”
“No honey, that guy is just a jerk. Please.” She handed the bills to him, which he shoved it into his apron pocket.
The Irishman returned.
“I just want you to know that you did nothing wrong,” he said to the Italian waitress, “it’s all this guy’s fault.” He pointed at the waiter again. “It wasn’t you. It was all him.” He began to walk back to the bar.
“Sir,” the waiter said loudly with an empty drink tray clasped in his hand. The Irishman turned. “Is there anything you want from me? Is there anything you need from me?”
“I don’t need anything from you, my man.”
“Then stop offending me. Now. I said I was sorry for the miscommunication, and still you continue this meaningless rant. I have never, never been so degraded, or offended, as I have been by you.”
“Well then, you now know how I felt at the table. We’re even.”
“Thank you! We’re even, so drop it.”
“No, we’re almost even.” The Irishman slapped his hand down on a nearby service station. “I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David. I’ll just give them a call. Tomorrow you’ll feel it. Then we’ll be even.” He turned and walked to the others in the bar. The waiter stared as he left, clutching the tray. The manager saw the exchange and came over.
“Can I go home now?” The waiter dropped the tray on his service counter. “My tables are all done.”
“Go in the back for a minute. He’ll leave soon.”
Thirty minutes later the two couples left the restaurant. As they were at the door, the chubby manager went to them.
“Once again, sorry for the mishap,” said the manager.
“Yeah,” responded the Irishman, “ya sure seemed like it. Not only was that the worst dining experience I’ve ever had, and I’ve been in the business a long time, but that was also the worst reaction to a situation by a manager I’ve ever seen.”
“What was the matter?”
“We didn’t get one thing comped from our meal.”
“But this wasn’t a, a…it wasn’t a food issue,” the manager replied. “It was a, a service issue…and I removed the server and replaced him from your table.”
“The steaks were cold.”
“Well, what do you want now?”
“I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David! You can rest assured that the waiter won’t have his job tomorrow. And I think I’ll talk to them about your messed up clean-up as well.”
“What do you have to call them for?”
“I can call them now! You want me to get Sean on the phone right now?!”
“Of course not,” said the manager. “We wouldn’t want to disturb the owners at this time of the night.”
“So how is everything tonight?”
“Great.”
“Could I get some steak sauce?”
The waiter nodded. “Very good.”
The waiter then turned to the man who hadn’t said anything and was still staring at his mound of pork.
“Is the Crackling Pork Shank big enough for you?” The waiter joked, “I could get another one, or two, from the back – bring ‘em right out.” The Irishman’s wife and the other couple laughed. Another waiter, passing by and overhearing the joke, also laughed. The Irishman looked up.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” The table fell silent. “What the fuck…what are you, some wiseass?”
“Yes,” The waiter was suddenly serious and soft spoken. “That’s what waiters are. It was a joke sir. I didn’t mean to offend; I’m sorry for…”
“Get the fuck out of here.”
The waiter went back to the kitchen, standing there a second before asking someone for the steak sauce. He brought the sauce without a word, a wide jar of house-made spiced paste, and the other three at the table quickly moved things out of the way for its placement near the steaks. The Irishman only looked up again when the waiter left.
“Who the fuck does he think he is?”
“I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it,” said the other man’s wife.
“You did say something about the size,” added her husband.
“Did I say anything to him? Did I invite him into our conversation? I thought that bartender of ours said he was going to give us a good server.” The others looked at each other. “I’m talking to his fucking manager. I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David; I don’t have to take this shit!”
The Irishman stood up to go to the restroom, and stopped when he was near the waiter. “Go get your fucking manager.”
The manager, who was nearby, heard this and went over after the man left. “What was that all about?”
“I made a joke about the Pork Shank at the table. He obviously took it the wrong way and started cursing me out.” The waiter shifts his weight to one side, then immediately back again, wincing slightly. “I apologized, but he won’t let up.”
“I just want you to know,” said the Irishman, wiping his hands on his pants, “that I have never been so offended in my life as I have by this man.” He pointed at the waiter.
“Sir, what did he do?” asked the manager.
“Making funny jokes at the table,” he replied, “him and his buddy over there, laughing it up at my expense.” He pointed to the other waiter who laughed, now speaking to people at one of his own tables.
The manager pulled the Irishman towards his table, away from the waiter.
“I’m sure he didn’t mean any harm by it,” the manager said. The manager was chubby, wearing a pinstriped dark gray suit, and had a spiked haircut that accentuated the way he stuck his head out as when walked. “That’s one of our finest waiters; I’ve never gotten any complaint about him.”
“Well, you have one now. I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David, and I was humiliated and totally offended.”
“How did I offend you?” The waiter came over to the two chubby men. “I was making a joke about the size of our Pork Shank, that’s all!”
“Did I tell you that I thought it was a big Pork Shank? Did I turn to you and say, ‘gee that’s a big Pork Shank’?”
“No, but you told my food runner and everyone at the table.”
“Then mind your own fucking business, guy.”
The manager pulled him away, shooing his hand at the waiter. He assured the Irishman that this would be rectified with a waitress taking over the table, and the two parted ways with some sort of understanding. The Irishman, though, was still fuming.
“That manager had better comp us something for all this stupid shit.”
“Excuse me,” said the other man’s wife. She went to the door around the corner, marked with a ‘W,’ and beckoned the waiter over while holding the door open.
“I am so sorry for that,” she said.
“I don’t quite know what that was.”
“Yeah…I have no explanation for that but the man’s a dick. He’s a dick, who happened to marry my best friend.” She let out half a laugh.
“Well, I’m sorry for creating a disturbance at your table.”
“No. Please don’t apologize. You just have to deal with him for a night. I have to deal with him for the rest of my life.” She gave a little smirk. “It’s you that should be sorry for me.”
“Thanks.” The waiter gave his waiter’s grin. “I hope you have a better night.” She walked into the women’s restroom, and he walked back to his station, all the time checking on his remaining tables as if nothing had happened.
The manager walked over to him and they both looked out over the floor.
“I’m putting the Italian on table twenty.”
“Forget that!” The waiter looked sharply at his manager, then back out toward the tables. “That’s my only good table of the night. I don’t have anything else but that.”
“What do you want me to do? It’s already ruined. I just told the guy he was getting another server.” The waiter walked to a couple sitting at a little table, all the while with the grin on his face.
The wife returned to the booth.
“That little peckerhead try to talk to you?”
“No,” she smiled pleasantly, “I just went to the bathroom.”
“I can’t believe the guy would say such a thing, I agree that he should be punished for this,” said the Irishman’s wife. The other man’s wife looked up at her best friend, then forked up a piece of her Pork Shank.
The waitress, the Italian, was informed of everything by the manager, and she took over the table. She was nervous and apprehensive about their reaction to her, as she was usually nervous about everything, and was as nice and as silent as possible. The Irishman continued talking about the incident as if he had been robbed in daylight, though he never said anything directly to the waitress. He did, however, call over the other waiter, the one who laughed at the original joke.
“Let me ask you something, guy; what did your buddy say that was so funny back there?”
“Sir, at this restaurant we enjoy an upscale, but friendly, light-hearted atmosphere. All the waiters like to joke around with our guests.”
“Well not tonight my man. Not tonight.”
“I am sorry you feel that.” He left the booth and went directly to his buddy. “God I was about to fucking lose it on your Pork-Shank table back there.” He talked while looking out at the tables. “What I should have said is if your fucking Blimey ass can’t take a joke, then maybe you shouldn’t go out anymore. God – it’s called humor! I thought the joke was funny, so did the rest of the table. That’s why we all laughed. I wanna wrap the American flag around his Blimey head, and beat him with a wine bottle.”
The two couples had their prefix desserts and finished everything up with the waitress. The men split the bill with plastic, and the Irishman made sure no tip was put on either receipt. The other man insisted on leaving a meager cash tip. He said it would go to the waitress, who at least finished their dinner without further offending anybody.
The four left the table and went back to the bar. During their walk over, the wife pulled her husband aside and told him to apologize, and to leave a bigger tip.
The waitress was looking at the table’s bill when the drunk Irishman stopped by her on his way to the restroom.
“You can blame that on him,” he said, pointing at the bill and then the waiter standing nearby. He didn’t wait for any response as he continued to the toilets.
“Honey, I know it’s not much, but that was your table.” The waitress gave the cash to the waiter. “Take this.”
“No, I messed up somehow. I don’t know how, but you finished the table, so you deserve it.”
“No honey, that guy is just a jerk. Please.” She handed the bills to him, which he shoved it into his apron pocket.
The Irishman returned.
“I just want you to know that you did nothing wrong,” he said to the Italian waitress, “it’s all this guy’s fault.” He pointed at the waiter again. “It wasn’t you. It was all him.” He began to walk back to the bar.
“Sir,” the waiter said loudly with an empty drink tray clasped in his hand. The Irishman turned. “Is there anything you want from me? Is there anything you need from me?”
“I don’t need anything from you, my man.”
“Then stop offending me. Now. I said I was sorry for the miscommunication, and still you continue this meaningless rant. I have never, never been so degraded, or offended, as I have been by you.”
“Well then, you now know how I felt at the table. We’re even.”
“Thank you! We’re even, so drop it.”
“No, we’re almost even.” The Irishman slapped his hand down on a nearby service station. “I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David. I’ll just give them a call. Tomorrow you’ll feel it. Then we’ll be even.” He turned and walked to the others in the bar. The waiter stared as he left, clutching the tray. The manager saw the exchange and came over.
“Can I go home now?” The waiter dropped the tray on his service counter. “My tables are all done.”
“Go in the back for a minute. He’ll leave soon.”
Thirty minutes later the two couples left the restaurant. As they were at the door, the chubby manager went to them.
“Once again, sorry for the mishap,” said the manager.
“Yeah,” responded the Irishman, “ya sure seemed like it. Not only was that the worst dining experience I’ve ever had, and I’ve been in the business a long time, but that was also the worst reaction to a situation by a manager I’ve ever seen.”
“What was the matter?”
“We didn’t get one thing comped from our meal.”
“But this wasn’t a, a…it wasn’t a food issue,” the manager replied. “It was a, a service issue…and I removed the server and replaced him from your table.”
“The steaks were cold.”
“Well, what do you want now?”
“I’m good friends with the owners, Sean and David! You can rest assured that the waiter won’t have his job tomorrow. And I think I’ll talk to them about your messed up clean-up as well.”
“What do you have to call them for?”
“I can call them now! You want me to get Sean on the phone right now?!”
“Of course not,” said the manager. “We wouldn’t want to disturb the owners at this time of the night.”