Dark Suit

            I own only one suit. Just the one. Black. The pants that came with the jacket no longer fit around my waist and upper legs, so I’ve since bought some pinstriped charcoal slacks that don’t constrict my thighs. I like to think my I’ve simply grown stronger and my leg muscles have thickened with maturity since the spring I begged my mother to buy the suit in time for my senior prom. If you ask me after a few pints, though, I’ll probably own up to being fatter than I was those mere three years ago. Odds are I’ll be fatter still in another three.  So it goes.

            I have three ties, two are black; one is skinny, one is standard width.  If I’m looking to win over the good will of parents, I wear the former.  If there are grandparents involved, the latter.  I only bought the third, a red skinny tie, to match my date’s cherry red dress at prom.  It hasn’t seemed appropriate since.

I’ve worn the ensemble maybe twelve times.  Like I said, Prom, which fortunately fell close to my cousin’s wedding, and then three other weddings to follow—one of which ended in divorce a year later, my brother Mikey and his disproportionately nicer and handsomer girlfriend married young, and never seemed especially fond of each other to begin with.  At least, that’s how it seemed to me, even as I was pulling my tie off after the reception.

I’ve heard that one in two marriages fails, so I like to think that they were doing other married folks a favor, statistically speaking.

Beyond that, I’ve worn the suit on three Easter Sundays, my mother’s funeral, and maybe a handful of other occasions whose details escape me.  My job requires that I wear a button up shirt to match the look of the predominantly overweight forty-somethings with whom I share cubicle pods.  But the job, even at meetings and holiday parties, never requires a full suit.  Suits are only for the management guys upstairs.  In fact, for those of us in the cubicles, our dress code all but explicitly tells us to leave the suit jackets home. It’s never said outright, but there is a reason I don’t get to wear the jacket.  While I own a suit, I’m not supposed to wear it.

My job is essentially glorified data entry, operating system maintenance—occasionally typing the same codes and passwords I’ve typed hundreds of times before, making sure servers don’t crash—“the higher-ups” as they are mysteriously known, tend to think that we in the dimly lit basement must be some kind of mystical-goblin-wizards.  They have as little understanding of what we do as we have for their—judging by their BMW’s and Mercedes Benz’s—substantially better-paid positions.  They usually tilt their heads, grinning a little smugly, offering a “good morning” when we enter our red brick building at dawn. They rarely complete the ritual though, pretending like they don’t see me or the other techs when we all abandon ship at 5 o’clock.

I get it.  I understand.  I really don’t take it personally.  While they’re probably rushing home to their families in the suburbs, I’m just walking across the street to my studio apartment.  As we push open the big glass doors, heading toward our contrasting residences and our real lives, the disparity becomes vividly clear.  The suit, just like the physical locations of their offices, higher up, is supposed to remind us that these people and my people are fundamentally different.  To someone who wears it every day, the suit is the uniform of a leader, a drape of authority. The president wears a suit every day because he has to.  It isn’t a costume for him the way it is for me.

This is why I slow my pace to stay behind them when they leave, knowing they’re trying their damndest to make a silent escape.  Sometimes I’ll stop off in the bathroom and just sit in the stall, waiting until they’re all gone.  I always hate myself for it.

Today, a Saturday, I’m wearing my suit.  I’m going to a wake.  I really didn’t know the kid who died, not all that well.  Chris Chun and I went to the same high school, but he was a few years my junior, so we never talked much past a few sophomoric jokes here and there when I’d see him in the courtyard at lunch. Sometimes he’d bring leftover Chinese food from his parents’ restaurant to share with whoever sat nearby.  We had a few mutual friends, my brother included, but beyond the time it takes to eat an eggroll and some lo mein, we never spent much time together.  He sure wanted to be my friend though.  I know it sounds lousy to say in light of his passing and all, but to be completely honest with you, he always seemed way more excited to see me than I was to see him.

After I graduated, I ran into him on The Loop from time to time, and he was always eager and beaming, like we hadn’t seen each other in a lifetime.  He’d usually invite me to a party or some other event about which he had apparently not been properly informed.  One time in particular he was “pretty sure” it was on the East end of town, that apparently it would be “a rager.” He wasn’t sure when it was supposed to start but maybe I could give him a ride.  I told him I had plans but that we should, in fact, hang out when I wasn’t so busy.  I think this is when I gave him my phone number, feeling guilty for putting the guy off yet another time.

He text messaged me probably twenty times that first week he had my number.  At first, inviting me to join him at the movies; I politely declined.  After a while—along with requests to “hang out or something”—he started telling me more and more about himself, his girl troubles, his asshole teachers, how excited he was about starting trumpet lessons.  Thinking about it now, that’s when I really started to like the goofy guy.  I admired his persistence.  Most of all, I felt sorry for him, and I really started to feel worse for rebuffing him every time he asked to hang out.  Even so, he persisted in offering the invitations, and I persisted in putting him off.  I wish I could say why.

 The last time he asked to hang out, he only wanted to “grab a bite to eat, “ or “maybe grab a coffee.”  I told him I had to pick up my friend from the airport.  I didn’t.  I played video games for four hours straight.  This was about a year ago.

So when my brother called me at work last Wednesday to tell me that Chris had apparently died from a brain aneurism at a comic book convention, of course I felt immediately very sad, and I also felt like the biggest scumbag on the face of the earth.  

“Do you want to go to the funeral with me?” he asked.

“Is it open casket?”

“What difference does it make?”

“I dunno.”

“Yeah,” he said, “it wasn’t a fucking car accident, you idiot”

“Hmm. Alright, I’ll go.  Is his whole family going to be there?” I asked, wincing at my own stupidity.

“My God, are you drunk?  Yes, his family will be at his funeral.” he said.

“Yeah, I know, sorry, I just, you caught me off guard.  I didn’t even remember what an aneurism was until just now. Maybe I’m having one too.”

“It’s okay, man.” his tone gentler,  “Think can you pick me up? It’ll be Saturday.  Do you have anything to wear?”

“Yeah, email me the details.  I’m at work.”

“Sure thing,” he said. “Later, Greg-o.”

“See you Saturday, Mikey,” I said, and heard what was either a scoff or the click of a receiver.

So, today, I drink a tall mug of black coffee and get dressed for the funeral; every part of the suit feels different than I remember, too starchy, hotter.  All the garments are the same as I’ve worn to formal events before this; the wool jacket with slightly padded shoulders, which makes me look freakishly wide when it’s tossed over my already broad frame; the white button-up shirt I never wear by itself because of the red wine stain on the inner elbow—from my brother’s wedding, I think; those pinstriped slacks; my loafers, creased badly enough at the toes to be both comfortable and embarrassing.  I try to cover the creases up with shoe polish, but it doesn’t help much.  Last, I tie on the wide black tie as I’m pretty sure grandparents will be at this funeral, watching their grandson being buried.  Their grandson.  It doesn’t seem right.

The coffee begins to churn in my stomach, and I realize I need to eat something.  All I find in my refrigerator is a bunch of week-old grapes.  In my pantry, I see a can of kidney beans and a box of mac’ and cheese.  I decide the grapes will have to do, and take them one at a time.  Some are sour, soft, and deflated.  I pick around them, selecting the firmest and brightest of the failing bunch.  The cold juice seeps out as they give way to the pressure of my closing jaw.  I’m struck by the floral aroma of my childhood.  I remember walking around the garden my mother so dearly loved and meticulously cared for.  I remember when I was too oblivious to be anything but happy and hopeful.  Like her.

Like the grape, the memory soon breaks down and disintegrates to mush.  I try not to think about her these days, not like it changes anything.

I’ve heard somewhere, from some comedian on TV, I think, that grapes are the fruit of opportunity.  Where some are mealy or overripe, and some never really develop—like miniature off-color imitations of the real thing—there is always a chance for redemption somewhere in even the sparsest of clusters.  I can’t remember where the joke went after that.

On my way to pick up Mikey, I don’t know if it’s all the caffeine or what, but I start to panic, breathing erratically.  I pull over and call to tell him I don’t think I can make it.  I could have told him I got a flat tire, feigned food poisoning, I could have said it felt too familiar, too much like when Mom died, anything.  Instead, I say, “It’s just too weird, I didn’t even know him that well.”  This is the only excuse I can muster.  Pathetic.  Mikey tells me to suck it up before he finds me and breaks my nose. 

“Fine.  See you in ten,” I say.

So we drive to the funeral home in silence—not intentionally, mind you; I just forget to turn on the radio.  I’m not thinking about music.  I focus on the road and Mike just stares out the window.

When we arrive in the parking lot, he springs out of the passenger seat, having caught the eye of a very emotional Courtney White, who I think he dated for all of 3 months back in eighth grade.

“See you in there, Greg.  There’re some people I need to talk to.”

I snort disapprovingly as the door swings closed, but I’m half-relieved he’s gone. Beyond cracking jokes, Mikey and I have often had trouble talking to each other one on one.  With Mike, if it’s not fart jokes, it’s uncomfortable silence.  Dad’s even worse.  He doesn’t even laugh anymore.  He just talks about his damn sailboat all the time.  It was easier when we were kids, when Mom was still helping us all get along, and Dad was still interesting.

 I sit in the car for another fifteen minutes, trying to work out what I’ll say to Chris’s parents, to his younger brothers, to his five-year-old sister.

“Hello, Chris’s family.  Nice to meet you.  I’m some asshole that treated your saint of a son like garbage for the past few years.”

Or, “Hello there, adorable little girl.  Death sucks, huh?”

How about, “Sure is stuffy in here, eh guys?”

 I keep at this until I resolve to let myself off the hook, and go with a simple, “sorry for your loss,” which is about as honest as I can be.

I dig up all the courage I have to climb out of my weary Corolla, and walk into Cypress View Funeral Home.  I notice the lights in the entry are very low and that a purple carpet leads to the room where Chris’s body is probably laid out.  I follow the carpet to the room—which is packed full—and find the blown up photo of Chris just inside the double doors; it’s surrounded by flowers, and is draped in a banner that says, “Our beloved son.”  

The funeral home guy greets me, and points to the guest book, somehow managing to smile amidst an enormous crowd of lamenting friends and family.  I walk to the guest book, sticking to, “I’m sorry for your loss,” struggling to make my handwriting as tidy as possible.  I read some of the other entries.  Most are directed at Chris, “We’ll always have Pikowa Creek, dear old friend,” “You meant the world to me.  I love you, Chris.”  

Some are geared towards his parents, “He is the sweetest boy I’ve met.  Take care of yourselves.  You’ll all be the center of our prayers.”

All but mine are personal.  All but mine are sincere.

I attempt to draw a silhouette of a trumpet next to my name, but I have no idea how the valves are supposed to look.  It turns out terrible, like a confused cobra or something.  Before I can fix it, another group of mourners enters behind me.  Three girls I recognize from Chris’s class at school.  They’re wailing and sobbing uncontrollably.  I turn the page to hide my entry, and get out of their way.

I approach the viewing room and hover over his casket.  My stomach flips and I feel hot.  Chris is very pale.  Hollow.  This doesn’t even look like him, and he’s not smiling the full, goofy smile I remember; this smile is more restrained.  The mortician didn’t know him either.  I wince, and I feel the tears beginning, though I can’t say what it is that exactly is making me tear up.  Shock?  Guilt?

Well, it’s guilt that finally makes me turn and walk away from the casket toward his family; they’re all smiling the same toothy smile I recall so clearly.  They wear his smile—on all of their faces—even as they are breaking down, weeping, even as their lives become objectively worse, forever.  Through the tears, and with glistening wet faces, they smile.

When I step to her, Chris’s mother gives me a hug.  She says in her heavy Vietnamese accent, “thank you for being a part of his life.”

All I can think to say is, “I’m sorry.”

She hushes me, hugs me again.

I walk to a pew and sit there for a while, feeling a little dazed.  I barely hear Mikey when he tells me he’s going to catch a ride with Courtney.

Just “being a part of his life?” How is that enough?  She must be saying that to everyone.

But she wasn’t saying it to everyone.  I could hear what she was saying, and she wasn’t saying that to anyone else.

Then, I notice that Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah” has been playing on repeat since I arrived.  I look down at my watch to see that I’ve been sitting in the pew for an hour.

I stand up to leave.  Crowds have come and gone, and still more are coming to see Chris, to say good-bye.

I look over at Chris one more time, and see that his suit is grey cashmere and perfectly tailored.  He has a royal purple tie.  In death, in silence, he commands the attention of the room.  His smile no longer looks so affected; it looks deliberate, thoughtful even, calm and forgiving.  I whisper how sorry I am, how I wish I had at least grabbed a coffee with him.  I tell him sorry I never told him much about myself.  I whisper that I, too, wanted to learn to play an instrument, just maybe not the trumpet, and then I tell him I’m sorry for making a joke about the trumpet.

I leave the building still whispering at Chris.  I suppose you could call it praying.  I tell him about my mom, and how I haven’t felt right since she got sick.  I tell him that my dad has been building a sailboat since she died.  I clarify that I know it’ll never be finished because dad’s afraid of the water.  He’s afraid to leave his garage.  I tell him my brother doesn’t look me in the eye.  I explain that he’s the bravest of us cowards.  One day, he’ll muster enough courage, or selfishness, or sense of self-preservation to move away, leaving my father and me to our dim devices.

I take off my suit jacket.  I don’t deserve it, not here.  I weep into its wool as I stumble to the car.

Coq au Vin

Charlie pays for two every time he rides the bus. The bus driver once tried to stop him, insisting it wasn’t necessary for him to pay passage for his rooster. Charlie called her a racist and said Pico doesn’t want to be treated differently because of his condition.

 “If he weren’t so enraged,” he said, “he would have told you himself.”

Pico can’t talk. He never could and, without divine intervention, he never will. Charlie knows Pico is a rooster, but Charlie has convinced himself that this situation might be temporary.

            That being said, Pico is undoubtedly Charlie’s dearest friend. Likewise, never has a rooster loved a man in the way that Pico loves Charlie, at least as Charlie sees it. Every day since the day following his 64th birthday—when Charlie found Pico under the overpass at Bronx River Parkway—the two have bathed together and prepared meals together, rarely eating poultry, but sometimes indulging in some sliced turkey cold cuts from BuyMart.

They watch “The Price is Right” on Sundays, guessing at the values aloud as the contestants do. Pico, with his limited understanding of finance, is almost always dead wrong in his estimations. He’ll say, “cluck,” when the value is actually $450 or “b’caw,” when the answer is $59.50. As Charlie understands it, Pico’s inexplicable adoration of Drew Carey keeps the rooster interested, even so. Charlie misses Bob Barker.

            Most mornings, after a shared bowl of cholesterol-friendly corn cereal, they take the bus to the entrance of the Bronx Zoo and watch the ducks at the pond. Pico has and eye for one of the mallard ladies who frequents the place. Charlie knows he isn’t much of wingman and always compliments Pico on his bright green feathers and sparkling personality a little too loudly, which most often solicits worried looks from families passing by.

            Charlie is used to this sort of attention. Even when he was a younger man, people always seemed uncomfortable around him. He always muttered in school. When forced, he answered questions with single word responses, which is actually harder than one may think. “Which way are you headed, Charlie?” might be answered with “Southeast.” To “How did you feel about The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn?” he’d respond with a simple, “superlative.” To "Why'd the chicken cross the road, Chuck?" he'd employ the occasional compound modifier, "other-side." 

Even the sweetest children would rarely speak with him after an initial attempt. Once, Charlie’s parents sent him to the school guidance counselor for what was supposed to be a one-hour session. After about thirty minutes in the same room, the counselor stopped asking questions altogether and started working on his taxes. He later told Charlie’s mother that he would not meet with Charlie again, saying, “Perhaps the boy is just a little slow.”

While the school bullies wreaked havoc on him early in his schooling, they all began to avoid him after he started calling them his “buddies.” Apparently it’s unsatisfying to give a kid a swirly if he’s smiling the whole damn time, just happy to have the attention.

After his mother died, even his father—who remarried about seven weeks later—stopped speaking to him altogether, and Charlie’s single-word responses slowly faded to silence.

That is, he remained mute until he heard Pico. Charlie had long since taken to poking around under the Parkway overpass—where he would take pull after pull of the flask he kept in his inner breast pocket and polish hood ornaments for Christmastime. On one such excursion, he came upon Pico, then a yellow chick peeking out from the inside of a Spaghettio’s can.  Without hesitation, Charlie scooped up the little bird in his cupped palm, covering him with his long jacket sleeve.

That morning, Charlie briefly considered taking the animal to a shelter but, perhaps thanks to a long suppressed paternal instinct, he decided to care for the creature himself just as the four o’clock bus to Fordham arrived. It was in that aisle seat, in the fifth row from the front, that he first heard Pico speak.

According to Charlie, Pico, with a charming South Brooklyn accent said, “you ought to tell the lady over there that she has a nice smile.”

Charlie, shocked, concerned he was losing his mind, turned to the chick peering out of his sleeve and then the lady, “Did you hear it?” he asked tentatively.

“What’s that, Hon?” asked the smiley thirty-something girl with a 50’s style getup, likely heading home from a shift at the Riverdale Diner down the road.

“What the bird said, about your smile?” he couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to a woman.

She pulled out dingy white earbuds, “You coming on to me, guy? You’re sweet, but I had a long day. Just not in the mood, ok?” she said as 

“He said your smile is nice!” Charlie told her, more assertively than he remembered ever saying anything.

“Mhm,” she turned her whole body to the window, dismissing Charlie, his bird, and everyone on the bus in one graceful gesture. She left at the next stop.

Behind him Charlie heard someone say, “creep.” And no one else said anything until Charlie’s stop.

When the two arrived at Charlie's apartment--if you could call it that--Charlie begged the bird to say something else. Other than a literal peep, the chick was taciturn until much later in the evening, when Charlie offered him a puff of his leftover cigar and a bite of his reclaimed bagel, to which Charlie heard, “you bet, thank you.”

Once the ice was broken, the two talked for hours about religion and politics. And every night since, as Charlie would recount, the two have smoked cigars together and complained about politics. By mutual agreement, they avoid matters of religion.  And even when it comes to politics, they avoid discussing specific candidates, as neither Charlie nor Pico wants to come across as judgmental.  After they have exhausted themselves, the two climb into Charlie’s twin bed and coo each other to sleep.

Without fail, following about 6 hours of sleep, Charlie wakes up earlier than Pico and loudly coughs up yellow-gray phlegm in the echoing bathroom. Pico finds this very irritating—especially with his vivid imagination—and punches his pillow until the mental image of Charlie’s mucous coating the porcelain sink is overcome by dreams of the lady mallard. That is, at least, what Charlie makes of his responses.

           

On one particularly cold fall morning, Charlie shook Pico awake and told him they must go to the corner store buy some toilet paper, which they have needed increasingly more frequently since Pico got into the prunes.

Charlie put on his frayed Hanes briefs, an almond toned tank top, a white collared shirt—the one his half-sister gave him ten years earlier when he insisted he had nothing to wear to her son’s Bar Mitzvah—a bright blue sport coat, gray pleated pants, and wide-brimmed straw hat. One more time, he tried to slip a jean jacket over Pico, but Pico shook it off this time too.

Charlie pushed him into his own jacketfront.

He stepped out into the street, where everything seemed unusually saturated with a yellow-greyish hue. They trudged slowly against the sharp, cold wind until they arrived at a Neon embroidered liquor store. In the covered entryway, a lumbering man in a yellow and green flannel shirt smiled sheepishly at Pico, who was now sticking his chest out farther than usual in an effort to look tough.  The man continued to stare. Charlie reached for the cold, aluminum handle of the convenience store’s door when the shifty man asked in a smooth, raspy voice, “How long has he had it?”

            “It?” Charlie asked.

            “The Bird Pox, man. Number one killer of roosters in North America, homie,” he sputtered as a crumb flew out of his mouth.  “It’s second in South America. I know it when I see it, man. I’m a vet,” he said, still chewing, occasionally swiping his teeth with a tongue of doughy residue.

“There’s no such thing,” Charlie said, certain that the man is toying with him like the bullies of his youth.

Another, much smaller man appeared from inside the store. He was holding a bottle wrapped in a paper bag, a little wider than the wine Charlie usually carries.

The first man continued, “Sure, if you put him in our care, bro. We have the vaccine, err, antidote to the chicken…rooster disease. Yeah, we can treat him up, bud.” 

Charlie, still panicked, struggled to light up his cigarillo.  He offered Pico a puff.   The bird took a deep draw, and exhaled a slow steady stream.  He caught the man’s eye with what looked to Charlie to be a threatening glare. 

Pico cleared his throat with a low b’cuck, then said simply, “No thanks, buddy. No thanks.” 

Charlie smiled, and looked up at the man.  “You heard him, asshole.”

Thirty (A Short Story)

These are the numbers that reign over my mind: It’s six o’clock PM and ninety-nine degrees, 4/05/2013.

Every time I turn my face away from the blazing grill to wipe the sweat from my brow, the ardent blinking of the LED screen clock face reminds me of the hours ahead and of the sweltering heat that besets me. I wonder if hell looks like a restaurant kitchen line. Surely it sounds like one. “Closing time” blares on the radio. The irony sinks in, but not one of us is amused.  The song was never one I liked, but what little charm it may have held has burnt away.
There are fifty-two tables a 20-seat bar in my version of Hell. Every seat is occupied. I'm told there are about more waiting in the entryway, watching the hostess like she's Saint Peter or Charon or something.

As I step over a fallen French dip sandwich, I scoop up some parsley-infused butter from a waist high cooler with one hand while the other reaches to the stainless-steel prep table to garnish a well-done hamburger, which now more closely resembles a hockey puck on a Kaiser roll than the fat and muscle from which the patty originated.

They call this the “Service Industry.” When I was nine, I earnestly told my parents I wanted to help people someday. This is not what I meant. Besides, this isn't someday, it's every day. 

I sure as hell never wanted to be subservient. The owner pays up a modest wage, which keeps us fed, clothed, and modestly sheltered for another two weeks at a time, to work for the benefit of others—not necessarily those who need our services, merely those who want it. In this regard, people we've never seen are our patrons; they patronize us, albeit unknowingly. And worse, some of these people might be the same people that gave us wedgies in 8^th grade. Maybe it was that kid who pantsed me in front of Trisha Swift when he found out I had a crush on her. One of these people might be the very same guy with whom I collided in the regional soccer finals in 11^th grade. In fact, I generally assume the clientele is composed entirely of people who tormented me or whom I confronted at some point in my life. I’m not sure which is more detrimental to my equanimity, which is tenuous at best.

“How’s long on that pork-chop, Jeff?” the manager pipes up as he customizes a filet of tuna with a lemon slice and a flaccid sprig of parsley as what passes for garnish here.

I respond with a, “ Three minutes, Bubsy,” and before I acknowledge his quiet comeback, I’m again looking at the clock. It’s 6:04.  In customary fashion, we briefly surface, and submerge again.

Tonight, I’m cooking with Sean—the flustered manager—, profane Evan, and quiet Johnny. We are called cooks, but what we really do is put out plates. Big plates. I think Dante would have invented a new section of hell for the enablers of gluttony if he had seen the mounds of food we put out. I wonder if the plates in Italy are like this.

We put out plates, and we talk to distract ourselves. Every night, we talk about something banal—the Predator movies or Star Wars, or we repeat old conversations about other movies, TV shows, or bands. We are loud and mouthy. While we seem very opinionated, none of us is really much concerned with the Predator movies. No one cares over much about Arnold Schwarzenegger.

We’re driven—in general—by a fear of poverty and in these moments of debate and plating, unwavering spite.

In case I haven’t already made it clear enough, I've come to resent the people I feed. I've never met most of them but I am fairly sure they must be terrible. Why would twelve people reserve a table two days ahead and all order Hamburgers? And why should they be so very disgruntled when said burgers don’t instantaneously materialize on their tables? Grilling ninety-six ounces of well-done hamburgers takes time.  We’ll put out your hockey pucks as quickly as we can.

“How much did they tip anyhow?”

“Five dollars on a hundred dollar check,” Shane the server grunts.

Not one of us is surprised. Apparently the group held hands and prayed together at the table. People who pray at the table never tip well.

I bet Jesus would at least have tithed. Ten percent was probably a great tip in those days.

Evan, who is about as white a paleface as you’ll find, manifests his frustration by dismissively saying what has become cliché here, “I fucking hate white people.” We savor this sort of irony. But perhaps we are speaking more literally than we realize. Most of us are white, sure, but very few of us are particularly fond of ourselves. Most of us nurse what little self-esteem we posses with cigarettes, beer, whiskey, or any combination of those things. At least, I know I do.

Another ticket comes in. Sean barks a combination of entrees and appetizers that we’ve heard only a thousand times before, his impatience weighing on his tone:

“Burger, tuna, burger with blue cheese, salmon, she has a gluten allergy so no marinade, strip steak, pork chop, fries on the side, oops, mashers on the side on a couple of those, and a side salad. And a four top with a full salad with chicken, and three French dip sandwi—ah hell, just read your tickets.”

I scramble to comply as sweat stings my eyes, cursing the “point of service” ordering system as more tickets roll in.  They keep rolling in.  I often hear the drone of that printer in my nightmares.

At 6:30, Shane requests a cup of soup for his table of four. I stride over to the soup-well and fill one small, off-white porcelain bowl with a light yellow-orange substance and put it in the small window that separates us. He thanks me cordially but I know he isn't overly grateful. It isn't his soup, after all. In fact, judging by the intensity of his gaze upon the rubbery glop, it’s likely that he hasn't eaten all day.

I shrug. I say, “No problem.”

My oldest ticket is pushing twenty minutes and the new server asks me to grill a steak between medium-rare and rare. With nine pieces of meat on the grill and five in the convection oven, guessing at which temperature a stranger prefers his or her meat doesn't rank very high on my scale of priorities. I decide the schmuck must mean rare. He’ll most likely send it back to “get rid of some of the red.” I’m guessing he would have sent it back either way.

Our most beardy prep cook, James, walks into the kitchen. Somehow it’s only 7:00.

Sean’s voice penetrates the haze, “James, hop on the line. Jeff, go grab a smoke.”

I smile, I whip off my apron, and I tell Sean I love him. He chuckles more loudly than I've heard all night. While he’s probably just excited that his own break is approaching, his over-enthusiasm distresses me, though I’m not sure why.

We aren't supposed to walk through the dining room on our breaks. We’re supposed to go out through the back and smoke by the garbage. Usually, I abide. However, tonight the NCAA “Sweet 16” becomes the “Elite 8.” Last I heard, the game was tied forty-to-forty and winning the pool we started with the servers could afford me groceries for a month.

So I walk through the dining room where flat screen TVs line the walls only to find that the score is now sixty-four to forty-two with four minutes left in the game. My brackets are busted. I turn away from the screen and glance around the dining room.

            Generally, I predicted the assortment of customers pretty accurately. Most notably, the guy who pulled my pants down in front of Trisha Swift in elementary school is actually sitting at table 12 with his arm around, of course, Trisha Swift. Their eyes almost meet mine, but to avoid an awkward wave, I turn to glance at table 10 where a group of Frat boys and Sorority girls speak too loudly about having the “worst day ever.” Apparently their Political Sciences test was “rigged” and “brutal.”

I almost make it out the door when a man in a three-piece pinstripe suit and carrying a black leather briefcase, surrounded by other men in suits, nods lifts his brow to catch my eye, taps the shoulder of my chef coat, and says, “be a dear and grab me a water, will you?” The suits around him muffle their laughter. I pretend I didn’t hear him and continue walking outside.

I fire up my cigarette curbside. The red glow is a welcome sight. I’d explain in greater depth why I enjoy these breaks so much but I’m not looking to sell anyone on these things. It’s a dirty habit. I look at my watch and take a drag every twenty-five seconds. I figure I can get the most out of my break this way. It takes me about ten drags to finish a cigarette. If I puff every twenty-five seconds, I’m guaranteed at least four minutes of unadulterated break. Plus, the break feels longer when I watch the second hand.

No matter how closely I concentrate on the time, my break eventually draws to a close. I swallow the bitterness, flick my depleted cigarette, and drag my feet inside and through the dining room yet again.  It is 7:06.  As I pass the suit-clad asshole I’d met before, I swear to overcook the steak I hear him ordering. As I look towards the TV to see who won the game, I hear a slight whimper behind me.

I look around, expecting a child, and see her—a red-haired girl, maybe 25 or 26 at the oldest, at table 30. I hadn’t seen her before. I don’t know how I could have missed her. Maybe she arrived while I was smoking.  Anyway, she’s crying, huddled in the corner.  I mean, the food here is pretty bad, but I don’t think it’s that bad.  No, the table is bare aside from a glass of water and two sets of silverware.  She’s with a man with a curly brown hair and a pink and teal striped collared shirt. I can only see his back as he leans toward her. He’s failing at consoling her, perhaps even increasing her grief. The girl’s gleaming face is lovely and slender. She has the fullest lips, and the tears don’t diminish her beauty; instead, they make her luminous.

 I consider meandering over closer to make out what the two are saying, but fall back when I realize how creepy that would seem. Plus, Johnny, Sean, and Evan are all waiting to go on their breaks.

I walk into the kitchen, wash my hands, put my apron back on, and return to my grill. I try to return to the grind, to the endless, dim chore, but the girl’s face won’t leave me, prevailing over the banter, the food, the job, and even the time. Why is she crying? Did that guy break up with her? Did someone die?

She’s just another customer, I tell myself.

“I was worried you might never come back,” laughs Sean.

I’m sorry I did.

I laugh the most genuine laugh I've let loose in weeks. I wonder why I don’t laugh more often. As I focus on the line, my new ticket comes in. It’s a two top at table 30. The beautiful girl and her collared associate. She wants a 12oz. chicken breast with truffle oil potato wedges. He ordered corndog bites to go.

I grill her chicken as well as I would make it for my own mother. I sear perfectly crosshatched char-marks into the meat. I pan-fry her potato wedges in duck fat left over from the soup special the night before instead of using the rancid soybean-shortening fryer. I ignore the restaurant’s “truffle and mushroom flavored olive oil” and drizzle a generous portion of the truffle oil my parents brought me from Italy and which I hid in the restaurant for—until today—my own food exclusively. Upon finishing the chicken, I apply a generous coat of tomato vinaigrette and plate the meal as carefully as I am able. I shave some Parmesan on her wedges instead of sprinkling pre-grated nubs.

When I’m done, I fill up a glass of water and grab the girl’s plate. Sean watches me, bewildered.  I hear his, “Where the hell are y…” as I pass the threshold between kitchen and dining room, apron and all.

 I walk the plate to table 30. I tell the man his corndog bites might be delayed as they are hard to catch. The girl giggles, tears nearly dried. She accepts the plate.

“Thuh-ank you.” She says through a thick, but still delightful, Eastern-European accent.

I ask her for her name as brown-curly man scoffs.

She blushes and smiles, embarrassed. “I am soo-ry. I do not u-understand Engleesh very… um... very much.”

I say, “It’s no problem at all. Enjoy your meal,”

“OH. Olga! My name eez Olga.”

“Nice to meet you Olga, I’m Jeff.”

I watch her trying to assemble and translate the words to the language she thinks in.

“Goodbye.” Says the man, in his similarly thick, slightly deeper accent.

I wish them a good night and smile as I appreciate Olga’s beauty one last time.  The curly man is relieved to see me off, and rightly so. I should find my own table.
Instead of returning to the kitchen, I turn again toward the front exit. I place the glass of water in front of the man in the pinstriped suit. His jaw drops a bit, evidently shocked, or maybe just drunk. Before he manages to formulate words, I’m striding out the door, striking my heel to pavement. The numbers fade from thought as I step over my still-glowing cigarette.
 I don't know where to look yet, but I know what to listen for:
"Hey, pull up a chair."

In response to Wyeth.

In the cool afternoon breeze

and the warm light of day,

the girl in the cotton candy dress

might as well

be staring at the sun.

She claws at the dry earth.

Profound longing,

monumental,

protrudes from her bones.

The ashy earth’s dust

cakes her shoes like

the perishing barnhouse

has thickened with soot.

She remembers singing,

still hears hymns emanate

from the once polished

windowpanes and white-washed shutters.

She remembers Christmas in pajamas.

The strong walls,

now worn and dark,

protected her from frost.

Just as the heartache gets

unbearable, she thinks

"At least it's warm here."

Statuesque

Giant hands

fashion man and woman out of mud,

molding hands, feet, faces.

This creator grins as some turned out looking just like she,

even if that wasn't the way she'd intended.

She looks to see that her hands are dirty.

When the figures have dried,

she places them in a terrarium.

They are motionless, and she winces at sad gazes.

She has created a masterpiece,

but hasn't a clue where to seat it.

So she sets the figures free.

She quickly finds she's

made a glorious mistake.

She has created a particular beauty
 with traces of the grotesque.

Unfortunately, she's the first to understand

that they will always go hand in hand.

Some clay figures crush the others,

she says they fall from grace,

some very few couple up,

and find the deepest understanding,

if only an understanding of the other.
And some merely run.

But all of them desire

to be more than clay.

Each will mold something of his or her own.

And will become more whole.

Someday, maybe,

more dense than stone.

And this will make a Sculptor proud.

Prosophobic

I sent away the roof and second story of the house I dwell in,
and the only thing separating me from the stars
was distance.


There are rocks tied with strings to my heart
that would stretch it to its limit 
should I put too much distance between you and me.


Upon the grave of the best friend I ever had,
bamboo now grows.


The bicycle trails that are painfully ordinary
but reliable 
hold my rage and happiness secret
better than any person has.


The creeks mingled with my grief, 
even when I was afraid to let any other see it.

Can't I just put the people and the memories in my backpack,

and find a place where they are short on Ben's?

Do cities have admissions offices?

I'd would like to apply for a Major in Beatitude
and a Minor in Amplitude.

Distance--


From Saint Louis:
126 Miles


From Virginia:
903 Miles


From New York:
978 Miles


From Seattle
1,613 Miles.


From Iceland:
 3,237 Miles


From Greece:
 5,680 Miles


From China:
7,224 miles 


From New Zealand:
7,796 Miles


From Nearest Star:
93 Million Miles


From Contentedness: