Like Find Like

On November 21^st 1937, snow blanked the icy streets of Leningrad. Samovars everywhere boiled hot tea and people bundled up in overcoats. Despite the imminent winter, the inside of the Leningrad Philharmonic filled with warm and worthy applause. For over an hour after the Leningrad Philharmonic Orchestra’s forty-five minute performance of Dmitri Shostakovich’s “Symphony No. 5 in D minor,” orchestra members stood tall between ceiling-high organ pipes and an enthused audience. As the ovation carried on, conductor Yevgeny Mravinsky triumphantly waved Shostakovich’s score above his head like a newspaper declaring the good news. “Symphony No. 5 in D minor” was a hit. After Shostakovich’s highly criticized opera, “Lady Macbeth,” had been pulled from the theater for failing to comply with the conditions of socialist realism, the Composers Union declared that the premier of “Symphony No. 5 in D minor” had lived up to what they demanded he change in his compositions. Meanwhile the public’s symphonic experience took on different sentiment. The public experienced the symphony as a condemnation of Stalin and his wicked regime. The tremelo of the string section sounded out as inflections of despair, the hallowed ambience of a requiem. For an audience that had lost friends and relatives, these inflections evoked intense emotions.[1] Shostakovich found a way to disguise his composition to have a double effect — one of obedient compliance and one of cathartic incompliance. During the first performance of the symphony, people were reported to have wept during the largo movement.[2] Tears, yes, but laughter? No. Imagine Shostakovich sitting at his desk wearing his Pepsi-bottle-lens eyeglasses, composing “Symphony No. 5,” painfully aware of the weight of each note. The threatening whisper of Stalin entering the composer’s mind mid-bar, saying, “Shost, you’d better resolve that dissonance in the next few bars, or you’ll be sorry.” Had Shostakovich not tuned the forth movement of “Symphony No. 5” to a major tonality, it might have meant his life. In Soviet times, the line between compliance and incompliance (life and death) caused artists like Shostakovich to live emotionally torturous, desk-drawer lives.

Shostakovich’s friend Mikhail Bulgakov faced Stalin’s deadly line too. And although Shostakovich and Bulgakov fell into favor with Stalin, like making a deal with the devil, their forced double lives, one of compliance and one of secretive incompliance, drove them mad. Bulgakov’s most famous and highly regarded work, “The Master and Margarita,” in which numerous characters go mad from dealing with the devil, did not see publication until years after his death. The novel’s criticism of Soviet society and the Soviet literary establishment were not as easily concealable as Shostakovich’s orchestral attack on the establishment; and therefore, not wanting to cross the line between compliance and incompliance, fearing for his life like so many others during the Stalin era, Bulgakov kept his masterpiece in the drawer. In the 1920’s and 30’s, Soviet-Russian satirists needed poker-faced mimicry and chameleon-like sensibility in order not only to effectively be heard but also to survive. Even then, nothing was guaranteed.

Today, however, Russian literary and orchestral control is far less severe. Without such a deadly line between compliance and incompliance, writers like Victor Pelevin seem to have free rein to criticize, satirize, and critique Russian/global culture and politics — past, present, and future. Although, however far removed Stalin’s rule might seem, the fear that kept Shostakovich and Bulgakov in the drawer lives on in spirit. In Pelevin’s 2002 interview for BOMB magazine Pelevin says, “Writing Omon Ra, I sometimes felt scared of what I was doing. But this fear was residual, like white noise—there was no real danger.”[3] Without the line of incompliance (real danger) Pelevin’s fiction takes flight into hyper-hilarious satiric hyperrealities, the likes of which Bulgakov and Shostakovich could not have imagined.

The success and effectiveness of satire differs from place to place, year to year. Satire has the ability to disturb the order of things, as was the fear of Stalin and his regime. But satire has another effect, often not talked about, but arguable more important than, or at least the first step in, the goal of change. Imagine a time and place in which one word referring to change consigns you to the grave. Imagine a place in which you are helplessly suspicious of everyone you know, and every one keeps to themselves, full of anxiety and fear. In a place such as this, satire has the ability to bring people together. Catharsis is not an individual experience. People share the same hopes and fate. Like find like. Picture the rows of citizens inside the Leningrad Philharmonic. Massive sparkling chandeliers hang high above their heads. The cathartic laments of cello groups fill their hearts. And as they look around the room at one another, all they can do is connect through the silence of their tears.

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[1] http://www.pbs.org/keepingscore/shostakovich-symphony-5.html

[2] http://www.siue.edu/~aho/musov/reccom/reccom.html

[3] Kropywainsky, Leo. “Victor Pelevin.” BOMB 2002. Web. <http://http://bombsite.com/issues/79/articles/2481>.

The Good Judge

They all come into the courtroom singing some version of the same song. Cue Atlantic City by Bruce Springsteen. A guy out of work, down on his luck, tired of coming out on the losing end, trying to get by in a world turned against him meets someone who promises the answer to all his problems. With nothing left to lose he takes a chance and does a little favor that turns into a bigger favor. For a few days, months, whatever, his life seems to work. But eventually, it all comes undone. Every Friday in the U.S. District Court for the Western District of Washington men and women stand in front of Judge John Coughenour singing their sad song of a life come undone.

On paper, laws are easy. They’re hard and fast. They are written, passed, obeyed, broken, upheld, appealed and repealed. But it is in the judgment of a broken law where the real dilemma dwells. Judgment works with variables and determinates. It should not be done with automated impartiality, rather, with a holistic consideration of the unique circumstances in each scenario. This, however, has not always been the standard for U.S. District Courts. From 1985-2005, as absolute legal standards were set forth by congress, judges were repeatedly stripped of their judicial autonomy. Every U.S. District Court Judge was forced to abide strictly by congressional ideals and mandated sentencing guidelines.

***

Brian Turgeron, 42, white male, Canadian, sat next to his lawyer on the 16^th floor of the Seattle Federal Courthouse on Stewart Street singing his version of Atlantic City. His family sat behind him. They looked nervous, but sat with good posture. Mr. Turgeron was arrested and convicted for smuggling marijuana from British Columbia through the United States and into Mexico. Unbeknownst to him the smugglers he worked for were also heavily involved in trafficking cocaine and heroin. Before Turgeron got involved—in his younger years—he had been a bush pilot, flying from Alaska to BC. When his wife got pregnant Turgeron quite his never-home lifestyle and got a job as a logger so that he could be around more often for his family. After years of hauling lumber and doing log runs, back pain and severe arthritis caught up with him. Unable to keep the pace with the river logging industry, he lost his job and became highly dependent on prescription drugs. His doctor wrote him a refillable prescription for morphine, which certainly relieved the pain. But Turgeron’s mind went with the pain and he was unable to get another job because of it. During this time his wife left with their son, and Turgeron slid further financially. Depression set in. A couple of years went by. The one night at a bar near his apartment a couple of unfamiliar men introduced themselves. The men bought Turgeron a couple Molsons and told him they heard he used to fly planes, told him he could still make good money at it if he was up for it. The two men, Eddie Boucher and Turry Morin, wanted him to fly their plane down to Mexico and back to BC, stopping off in southern California on the way back. They told him it was safe and reminded him it paid well. Turgeron wanted his life back; he wanted his family back, and the only foreseeable way to get them back was to put a little money away and clean up his act. Turgeron took the job.

***

Before 1985, everything was different. The U.S. District Court system was the wild west. Without congressional impute or any oversight whatsoever, Judges had free reign to judge as they saw fit. Then, legal standards were absent and judgment was almost totally random. Racial prejudice and career gain played major roles in judgment. Two people convicted of the same crime in different districts might receive radically different sentences. Some judges were especially trigger happy with their sentencing and others extremely lenient. Each U.S. District Judge was in a very literal sense ‘the law.’

Today, a judgment is usually made within a guideline range recommended, but not mandated, by congress. Within the guideline range there are always three forces at work: the defendant, the probation, and the government. These three prepare cases and argue over what the final sentence should be, giving the judge various perspectives, pleadings, and points of view so that he or she can best understand the position of every person who has been affected by the case and will be affected by the final judgment—from the person who committed the crime, to the victim, to the general tax paying public paying for the proceedings. Ultimately, the judgment may go below or above the guideline range, but the judge must justify their decision for departing from the guideline.

***

Eight months after that Springsteen-esque night his neighborhood bar, Turgeron found himself in a forest in the North Cascades, pinned between the steering wheel of a Cessna and approximately two hundred kilos of marijuana. He and a cohort had taken off from a runway in BC and were heading down to Mexico. The building of the runway was commissioned to the farmer who agreed to let his land be used for the drug trafficking. During the construction of the runway, the farmer ran out of room, and instead of telling his commissioners about the problem he decided to finish the job the only way he could. The final fifty meters crooked drastically to the left. Upon takeoff, Turgeron realized the lazy farmer’s miscalculation and had to take off early to avoid crashing into the tree line. Without proper takeoff velocity the plane struggled at low altitude, in windy conditions, for miles. Turgeron’s bush pilot experience came in handy in the crash landing, but the two men could not avoid being trapped in the tiny plane. After hours of trying to free themselves they radioed a distress call with a ten thousand dollar reward to the first ATV to come unload the plane. Withing the hour, a couple resident men on ATVs came, relieved them of their load, and freed them from their trappings. But the plane was grounded, and Turgeron and his cohort were seriously injured.

Later that day, Border police found the plane and determined it was involved in drug smuggling operation gone wrong. They figured the men involved in the crash would have sustained serious injuries. The authorities alerted hospitals on both sides of the boarder. The following day Turgeron and his cohort checked in to a Canadian clinic with broken bones, claiming they were in an ATV accident. The police were called. They arrived at the hospital and the two men were arrested.

***

Between the years 1985-2005 many congressional sentencing standards were exceedingly high. Possession of crack fetched a statutory ten-year minimum and a maximum sentence of life. For twenty years, seventeen-year-old, fatherless, impoverished kids with any number of mental disabilities and abusive siblings were tried and sentenced strictly upon these congressional sentencing guidelines. And although judges, maybe better than anyone, understood the complexity of crime, their hands were tied. Depending on psychological and socio-economic factors, a judge might set a crack possession sentence at six months incarceration with twenty-four months supervised release. The government would appeal the decision and the case would come back to the court with a demand for a larger sentence. Ten years, minimum. The judge might say, “that’s unfair, plenty of rich kids are running around blowing coke and getting slaps on the wrist. Six months for this case.” The government, then, would appeal the decision for a second time and the case would come back to the court with a demand for a larger sentence—ten-year minimum. Eventually the judge would be forced to give in and follow the congressional guidelines without a say in the matter. If you think this is absurd and unfair, you are not alone. Judge Coughenour and countless other judges of all political stripes have openly disagreed with, apologized for, and in some cases, retired from the bench because of these congressional handcuffs.

***

After the arrest, Brian Turgeron was tried and convicted in the United States. He was given his sentencing date in Seattle, was released on bond, and went back to Canada with a decision to make. Because he played a relatively minor role in operations, extradition was highly unlikely for his case. Turgeron knew that if he were to skip his sentencing hearing and stay in Canada, the United States would not come knocking on his door—he would be a free man. But Turgeron would not feel free, of course. He still wanted his life back, his family. This time, however, he knew he’d have to do the right thing to get them back.

***

Ultimately and fortunately, the congressional mandate system failed. In 2005, the United States Supreme Court made a decision that drastically changed criminal sentencing. The United States v. Booker decision allowed for judicial discretion. The Booker case had been appealed and appealed all the way up to the United States Supreme Court, at which point Justice Stevens and Justice Breyer said enough is enough. Resulting from the Booker case, the Supreme Court finally permitted federal district judges to use their discretion and impose a sentence with reference to a wider range of sentencing factors.

***

On May 17^th 2010, Brian Turgeron reported for sentencing at the Seattle Federal Courthouse on Stewart Street. Judge Coughenour, reigning over the room and Tugeron’s sentencing hearing, asked if both sides, the defense and the government, had a chance to look over probation’s recommendation–forty-eight months with thirty-six months supervised release. They both said, “Yes, your honor.”

In sentencing hearings the defense always goes first. Turgeron’s lawyer approached the lectern and began his plea; his family sat behind him in the first couple rows of empty courtroom benches. Some of them held hands. All of them held their breath. It was the last hearing of the morning. Turgeron’s lawyer spun a sympathetic story and the judge looked on and listened. Their lawyer requested a sentence of twelve months incarceration with twenty-four months supervised release. He thanked the judge and sat back down next to his client.

The Assistant U.S. Attorney then stood up sharply in front of the judge. He spun a damaging castigation of the defendant. He said the fact that Mr. Turgeron was involved with not only trafficking marijuana, but also cocaine and heroine, and that he hadn’t initially complied with police questioning, and that if the court let him off with a light sentence the message the court would be sending to drug traffickers is a dangerous one. They (drug traffickers) can hire sympathetic old men to traffic their drugs and they will suffer no real punishment. Thusly, Mr. Turgeron should be incarcerated for sixty-four months with thirty-six months supervised release. And that anything less only encourages drug trafficking. The government’s lawyer gathered his papers and sat down alone on his side of the courtroom. The judge puckered his brow, and reviewed probation’s sentence recommendation.

***

In 1981, President Ronald Reagan appointed John Coughenour to the position of U.S. District Court Judge at the Seattle Federal Courthouse. At the time, the judge was an old-guard, ketchup-eating republican from a Kansas corn town. After nearly 30 years on the bench, however, after three eras of the District Court judicial system, Judge Coughenour has evolved into an absolute liberal, free from the traditions and conventions of his former leanings. He is one of the few remaining U.S. District Court Judges who was on the bench before 1985 and still presides. And he is better for it. A good judge does not cast judgment based on prejudices or career gain. A good judge does not cast judgment based only on the hammer and nails of the law, but with high consideration of the unique circumstances in each case. A good judge must judge with his or her finger on the pulse of the human condition and the connection it has to state of the world. A good judge judges with experience, with his or her head and heart.

***

Turgeron and his lawyer sat still. From behind the tall, tiered mahogany bench, Judge Coughenour finally looked up. He asked if Mr. Turgeron had anything he’d like to say before the final sentencing. Turgeron said that he did and approached the lectern. He had prepared a statement. He was holding it in his trembling hand. He began to read.

“Judge Coughenour, I understand you are a busy man and I am sorry for wasting your time and the time of the U.S. District Court.” He began to tear up. “I am here today because I want to honor the commitment I have to the crime I committed.”

The judge interrupted him. “Mr. Turgeron you could have stayed in Canada and avoided sentencing altogether.”

“Yes, your honor,” he said. He wiped his cheek. “But I respect your country and your laws. And I need to do the right thing here for my family’s sake. My son graduates from high school this year and I want more than anything to be there for him at graduation, to start over with my wife. They have been so supportive and if there is any silver lining in this it’s that I am finally getting my life and my family back, your honor.”

He said a few more sad words before sitting back down by his lawyer. The judge looked again at his three sentencing recommendations. He gave Turgeron thirty months incarceration with thirty-six moths supervised release and mumbled some legal jargon to both sides of the courtroom. Then to everyone’s surprise the judge asked Mr. Turgeron to return to the bench. He did. The judge told him he believed he was a good man on a good path. Turgeron humbly thanked him. The judge asked him to look into his eyes.

“Mr. Turgeron,” he said, “I want you to promise me that if you are released today and not sent directly to incarceration, then you will come back to Seattle after your son’s graduation to serve your time.”

Turgeron, stunned and sober, looked at the judge. “With zero hesitation, your honor, I promise to fulfill my commitment for the crime I committed. Yes, your honor, thank you.”

Teary eyed, Brain Turgeron turned from the judge’s bench and walked over to his family for a loving embrace.

A Thing I Did on a Beach in Florida Once

If John McPhee were to write this poem,

every member of my girlfriend’s family

would have been interviewed about the occurrence and thusly mentioned.

Between my girlfriend and her mother,

a familiar setting for the three of us,

I sat reading my book (The Ransom Of Russian Art by John McPhee),

pointing my sandy toes to the west toward the Gulf of Mexico.

Here, there are no overcoats to be worn, no artist’s union or secret police

to avoid and the threat of being sent to a labor camp

is about as far away from this Florida beach

as the high yellow sun that hangs overhead.

How lucky to be so far, in space and time,

from the struggles of Evgeny Rukhin

and those other “unofficial” Soviet-born artists,

officially trapped between crime and punishment.

It was a thing I thought of and then did—what freedom!

I stood up, leaving my girlfriend and her mother behind, and went,

book in hand, just in from the edge of the shoreline.

Waves splashed up my legs, washing past me and back,

sinking my two feet in the sand.

After a number pages, forty perhaps, (I wasn’t counting the waves)

I read that the K.G.B. burned Rukhin’s tiny apartment

with him in it. I looked down to find myself

ankle-deep in cold sand and heart-deep in the humanity of the thing.

Frames For Sale

EARLY THAT DAY sunlight splashed over the hillside like a spilt Mai Tai. It gathered in Charlie and Amanda’s room and cast a golden-orange tone over the whole thing. The two of them stirred in bed.

“What time is it?” Charlie said, blinking. His eyes were puffy and red. He was a bag of booze. They both were. They called it being over served, even though it was their party, their serving themselves. Amanda turned over on her side of the bed, facing away from her fiancée. She wasn’t awake enough to answer his question, nor did she have any better way of knowing what time it was than he did. It was too early. They both knew that much. Charlie burrowed his boozy head under his pillow, and the newness of morning passed into the bright heat of day.

***

Charlie got out of bed first and went into the bathroom adjoining their bedroom. He leaned over the sink and stared at himself in the mirror. Thick brown shocks of hair stood up in random places on the sides and back of his head. A few wrinkles gathered around his soupy eyes. He was reminded of the glass of gin he poured for himself as the last of their guests were saying goodbye the night before. He remembered stirring in the ice cubes with his finger.

Charlie cupped his hands, brought water to his gin-blanched lips, and faced the doorway that connected to the bathroom to the bedroom. He looked to see if he’d taken his glass upstairs with him when he went to bed; it would be on the bedside table, one of the few furnishings they’d brought with them on their move. He had.

Amanda lay diagonally across the bed with her hands and feet dangling over the edges. She had on a heather grey t-shirt and light-blue underwear. As she twisted around, corkscrewing and moving out of her starfish-on-a-rock position, the sheets bunched together underneath her and she pushed the pillows down beside her waist. Her bum stuck up like a robin’s egg in a nest. Charlie’s brainpan buzzed from the bathroom. He thought of all the men Amanda had woken up next to before him. Their names, the ones he knew anyway, sputtered around in his head like deflating red balloons. For a moment everything around him seemed to disappear completely. He didn’t know why he was thinking about Amanda’s exes again, but he couldn’t help it. Charlie looked into the mirror, splashed his face with cold water, rubbed his eyes with wet hands, turned the dial on the radio, and then got into the shower.

***

Downstairs in the kitchen Amanda sat at the table with crossed-legs. A half-full glass of water sat on the counter near the bottle of gin her friends had given them as a housewarming gift the night before.

“Morning,” she said, without looking up from her magazine. She raised one arm and pointed to the half-full glass, then gestured toward the sink to be clear she didn’t mean the gin. She was suggesting hydration, not more housewarming.

Charlie took the water and opened the windows on the south side of the kitchen to help air the place out. A woman’s voice came in with the warm breeze. It was an hour before noon and the temperature was rising.

“Yeah I didn’t advertise or anything, just kind of decided.”

She had the voice of a humming bird—quick, cutting, and nasally. It was their neighbor. They hadn’t met any of their neighbors yet. And although Amanda had grown up in town none of her old friends lived nearby. Charlie and Amanda only knew the surrounding houses and residents peripherally. On occasion they heard them.

“What are you looking for, anything in particular? I have some nice stationery cards that I got and some fun hats in the back if you want to try those on.” She was having a yard sale.

Charlie gathered the empty bottles on his side of the kitchen and listened. The woman’s voice only carried so far.

“I had this concussion recently that really messed me up. Forgot who I was, who I knew, my address—this address, everything. I felt, like, abducted. Like a movie or something.” She laughed a little. Her laugh was imitable. Whoever she was speaking with, if she was speaking with anyone, couldn’t get a word in edge-wise.

“Anyway, I got laid off so I’m trying to sell some stuff so I can move on.”

Charlie and Amanda’s kitchen was still spare. A teapot sat on the stove and a few pots and pans hung in the pantry. They had plates and bowls and silverware and glassware, but no art on the walls and not many spices in the spice drawer. A porcelain rooster sat alone on the plot of counter space that jutted out beside the sink.

Charlie said, “I think I’m going to go to that yard sale.”

Amanda didn’t look up from her article. “You’d better drink more water than that,” she said.

Charlie moved across the kitchen toward the recycling bin.

“There’s a yard sale going on next door,” he said.

“A yard sale?” she said.

“Yes. Next door.” He tossed a beer bottle into the bin and it broke.

“Jesus, Charlie.”

He tossed another. “Sorry.”

“I don’t want to be stepping on glass for the next week.” Amanda stood up  “Be careful.” She brought a dirty wine glass to the sink. “I think we should clean up a little before going out today.”

“We?” Charlie tossed a third bottle.

“What’s your problem?”

“I’m fine.” He was annoyed.

“Look, I was too tired and too drunk last night, Charlie. What are you pissed?”

“We need stuff don’t we? Is that okay?”

***

On his way over to the neighbor’s house a couple of teenage girls rode past on bikes. They wore shorts and bathing suit tops. The sun was hot. Charlie wished he had a swimming pool; wished he were floating at its edge in the green water with his arms crossed over the pool deck, someone wearing a two-piece bathing suit approaching him with lemonade.

His neighbor—he found out her name was Sherry—had a few folding tables set up and a quilt laid out at the back end of the driveway. Two leather jackets hung from the lattice that separated her place from Charlie and Amanda’s. Most of her stuff was in the open, but she had a few boxes for digging through too. Sherry was excited to see Charlie. She would have been excited to see a snake.

She went on and on about the stationery and the hats, her concussion and the spontaneity of the whole thing. All the while, Charlie, who interjected with the occasional mmm hmm and okay, fixed his attention on the framed pictures of Sherry. One captured a family picnic, Sherry eating corn with stray kernels and salty butter all over her lips and chin. Another showed her waterskiing on a calm lake. Some of the pictures were small, for placing in the back corner of a work-desk, and some were big enough to hang along a stairwell wall. In them, Sherry looked young and healthy, with all her long blonde hair, her skin smooth and her eyes alive with youth, like an immortalized actor in her first big film, frozen in that role forever. It took Charlie a moment to realize that people would not buy the pictures, but rather, the frames.  They’d buy them to put their own memories and lives in, to highlight the good parts and leave out the bad ones the way Sherry did. The way everyone does.

He continued to peruse, picking up and putting down Sherry’s things, half-listening to her stories, half-reconstructing the night before. He was surprised at how many names he remembered. “I must have made a good impression,” was the thought he had.

All the heat that had accumulated on Sherry’s driveway during the morning was now being released, making the air wavy and viscous. An old-looking sword caught Charlie’s eye. He took it from its sheath. The blade was as dull as dishwater, no longer able to slice, stab, or cut anything, no longer able to catch and release light the way new swords do.

“That was my ex-husband’s,” Sherry said with sober sharpness.

She walked out from behind her cash-table and took the sword and the sheath from Charlie’s hands. Reminiscence rushed over her pale face, like water over the edge of a tub–an act of displacement from her current moment. Sherry was a stout, no longer fit for water skiing, woman with thinning, brownish-blonde hair. Charlie tried to imagine what her ex-husband, who didn’t appear to be pictured in any of the frames for sale, must have looked like. Maybe she burned the pictures of him under a star-splattered desert sky in an emotional cleansing ceremony. Maybe they were in a shoebox inside collecting dust.

“I don’t know where he got it, but I’ll sell it,” she said, returning to the present moment. “You can make an offer. You can make an offer on anything if you think my price is too high.” Her eagerness shared a border with desperation. “A dollar for anything on that quilt!” She pointed with the sword, like a Colonel leading the charge.

Some time passed and Charlie had seen everything there was to see, which included nothing he needed. He pretended to take an interest in her stationery cards.

“We just moved in next door,” he said, holding a box of the cards, on which red and yellow Chinese lanterns were strung across the top. “Me and my,” he hesitated, “fiancée. She grew up here,” he added proudly.

Sherry stood with the sword in one hand and the sheath in the other.

“What’s her name?” She said.

“Amanda. Amanda Hotchkiss-George,” he said, George being his last name.

She slurred her words together to make one sound. “Don’t know her.” Then she went into rapid detail about her experience with the neighborhood, how much it’s changed, how the people in the area have all changed so much, how people change in general. “All like the weather,” she said, “Some days it feels like June, the next it’s January.”

She would have kept going, finding endless things to say, Charlie was sure of it, but a man driving a wood-paneled station wagon pulled up and stopped at the end of the driveway. The man got out of the car and left the motor running. He looked like he’d been painting. Charlie tried to determine whether Sherry knew the man or if he was there for the yard sale. He didn’t recognize him from any of her pictures. Sherry tidied the table with the stationery on it, and Charlie prepared himself to hear about it for the third time.

He knew how these things worked. When you’re around someone long enough you know all their jokes and stories, all their exaggerations and omissions. Some you like. Some you’re bored by. And some you wished you’d never heard in the first place.

The man wore shorts with frayed ends and sped around the driveway in dirt-white sneakers. Sherry told him about Charlie and his fiancée.

“They’re new to the neighborhood,” she said, pointing at Charlie, “but his fiancée, she grew up here in town.”

Charlie nodded over a box of books, but it was clear the man was not interested in conversation. He barley said hello. He combed over the quilt and the tables as if he were looking for something he’d seen a thousand times before, something he’d lost. He didn’t find it, but Sherry couldn’t help that any more than she could help the weather.

On the way back to his car the man stopped and turned and looked at Charlie. He slid down his dollar-store reading glasses so that they pinched the fat end of his nose.

“Just moved in did ya?” Charlie was surprised he’d been listening. “There’s an estate sale up the road you know. Over on Downing St.” Charlie didn’t know Downing St. “Should go all weekend too. If you want something, they’re selling everything. Even the hard stuff.”

The sun passed over the neighboring houses the way the short and long hands of a clock pass over the twelve.

***

The dishes were drip-drying in the drying rack next to the sink when Charlie walked through the kitchen. The whole room smelled like lemon. Amanda had cleaned. He walked into each room of the house, a glass of water in each hand, but he couldn’t find his fiancée. He called for her, elongating the last syllable of her name, but she wouldn’t answer. Eventually he went outside and walked the perimeter of the house. In the swelter of early afternoon, Charlie’s water glasses began to bead with sweat.

“Hey,” he said, finding her along the west side of the house, “what are you up to?” It was obvious she was gardening. The garden hose steadily trickling water: the soil drinking it up as fast as it came out. Amanda wore green gloves. She was tilling the damp soil with her fingers.

“Will you shut that off please?” She said, referring to the hose. He did.

“I heard there’s an estate sale going on over on Downing,” he said. He handed her the glass of water. “You know it?”

She took one glove off and drank the glass in four thirsty gulps.

“Thank you,” she said, exhaling. She wiped her mouth with her forearm. Some dirt smeared across her lips.

“What do you think? Should we go?”

Amanda let go of the glass and it fell into the upturned earth like a spade. Her hands went to her hips.

“Those over there,” she said, “are going to be sunflowers, tall and simple. And over there I’m doing zucchini. Batter-fried zucchini flowers.” Her mind’s eye looked forward to homegrown meals.

“I remember getting those at that place in Missoula,” Charlie said quickly.

“Marco’s,” she said.

“Yeah. Marco’s.”

A gentle breeze blew past the empty beds and over the two brick-colored planters reserved for tomato plants.

“I think we should go to that estate sale,” Charlie said, “Try to find a record player, or a carpet or something. We need a carpet.”

“We need a bed frame.”

“They probably have one! Some guy in a station wagon told me they’re selling everything.” Charlie grinned. “Everything including the hard stuff.” He raised his glass of water so that it was level with his eyes. His toast was a truce, and Amanda knew it. A smile bloomed out from her rosy pink, dirt-chapped lips and she dropped her gloves into the beds below.

“Let me get cleaned up,” she said.

***

The inside of the car was hotter than hell when they got in, the leather seats stinging their thighs. A neon-orange sign pointed them in the direction of the estate sale, and they made it there without any trouble. The house was cardinal-red, a split-level with hunter-green panel shudders and a row of shrubs lining the driveway. A few cars were parked along the sides of the driveway leading up to the house. Charlie and Amanda parked on the street and walked.

As they entered the house, a man with a whisker-framed face and brawny shoulders greeted them. He gave Amanda a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Charlie introduced himself, sure to include the part about being Amanda’s fiancée. The two men shook hands.

“Nice to meet you, Charlie,” he said, looking first at Amanda, then to Charlie, then back at Amanda. Despite his stature, the man’s eyes were tired, like he’d been crying, or rubbing chlorine out of them all day.

“Charlie, this is David.” She motioned with her hands. “We dated in high school.”

The invisible hairs on the back of Charlie’s moist neck struggled to stand on end.

Amanda continued. “David, it’s been,” her eyes went to the ceiling as if the last memory between them had been frescoed there, “years. How have you been? What are you doing here?”

“This was my folks house,” he said gravely. “They bought it about six years back.”

A silence swelled in the humid air. Charlie blurred his vision on the brass-amber carpet fibers below. He saw no reason in asking about what had happened. So his silence remained.

“Not the one you knew from high school,” David added.

“Right,” Amanda said. She reached for her fiancée’s hand without reciprocation.

Charlie didn’t appreciate the insinuation David was making about his fiancée. He remembered how that stuff worked: an afterschool movie that you only-ever watch the first fifteen minutes of, a lap-blanket to cover up whatever playful mischief goes on below the waistline. Or the stereo playing just loud enough to mute the moans and zipper-sounds, but not so loud that you can’t hear someone coming up the stairs. Charlie remembered. He pictured Amanda at that age, and then he imagined David’s sweaty hands all over her. A fist formed in his stomach.

“It’s all pretty hard,” David said. “There’s no script for this kind of thing.”

“I’m sure.” Amanda sympathized.

Charlie ran his thumb across the dusty console table near the front door.

“They got suckered into these timeshares in Florida,” David said, “that I don’t want, but keep getting the taxes and maintenance fees for.” There were pauses in between everything he said. “And probate court. Who knows what to do about that? The estate sale was my uncle’s idea. Did you ever meet him?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He’s a funny guy. You would have liked him. I mean you would like him. He’s still alive.” David looked around the room. “I’ll hold onto a few things, I think. Family pictures, my dad’s watches, wedding rings, stuff like that. Congratulations by the way,” he said, pointing at Amanda’s engagement ring.

“Thanks, David. God, I’m so sorry. What happened?”

“It’s okay.” David deflected. “It’s good to see you.”

If he had gone in for another hug and kiss, Charlie didn’t know what he’d do.

“You too,” she said, reaching out, touching his arm. “We’re going to look around a little. We just moved in up the street. Still furnishing!”

“Cool,” he said. “Nice meeting you, Charlie.”

Charlie smiled at him from the doorway, but didn’t mean it. David walked into the kitchen.

“So sad,” Amanda said.

“Yeah,” he said.

The room was slowly disappearing. White rectangles stamped across the bisque-colored walls where paintings and pictures used to hang, while round and rectangular furniture-leg divots dotted the carpet. Sales were going well, but over on the mantle the fireplace clock ticked away unnoticed. It was nearing four thirty and the sun’s rays were beginning their slow, horizontal decent on the rest of the day. Room by room, Charlie and Amanda made their way around the house until they stopped in the master bedroom.

“Look, Charlie.” It was a queen size bed and burgundy frame, complete with a headboard and footboard. “Let’s ask how much?”

The fist that had formed in Charlie’s stomach tightened. He shook his head no.

“Let’s just go to IKEA or whatever,” he said.

“They don’t have IKEA here, Charlie,” she said. “We came for a bed frame,” she put both arms out, “this is a bed frame.”

“I don’t like that style.”

“I’m asking.” She moved toward the door. He stepped in front of her.

“No,” he said.

She gave him a look as if to say, “Yes, I am.”

“You’re not asking him.”

Sunlight angled in through the window, brightening the room.

“What’s your problem, Charlie?”

David walked past the doorway. His steps were slow and sad, but he kept on walking. He, and Charlie and Amanda were the only ones left in the house.

Charlie stepped closer to Amanda, backing her against the bed. “It’s your ex-boyfriend’s dead parent’s bed frame!” he said in a whisper. Charlie thought about his fiancée and David romping around in it while David’s parents were away on vacation or out for a couple hours at a dinner party. Her on her knees, gripping the footboard with David behind her.

“Jesus, Charlie,” she said.

“We’re not asking. We’re not buying that thing!”

“You’re unbelievable,” she said, and sat down on the bed, her feet over the edge.

“Get off that thing,” he said.

She didn’t budge. He moved toward her.

“Get off it,” he said louder.

“Get away,” she said, tucking her legs underneath her, “Get out of here!” She backed up across the bed.

Quickly Charlie moved toward her and grabbed her ankle and tightened his grip.

“Off!” He said, tugging at her.

“Let go of me!” she cried, truly frightened now, “Get away from me!” She was kicking at him. Her voice sounded heartbroken. “You’re hurting me.”

Charlie, red-faced, worked to get a good hold on her other ankle. He would have her. His fingers wrapped tighter as he yanked his fiancée off the bed. She thudded against the hardwood floor. Her head snapping back, it bounced off the sideboard below the mattress, and she lay slack-limbed and still.

David’s steps came hurriedly through the house until he stood in the doorway. After a few tense minutes Charlie found himself outside on the lawn, looking back at the cardinal-red split-level with green shudders, wondering what he had done, and would happen next.

***

At exactly seven o’clock the sun set the clouds on fire. They burned brightly, from orange to purple, before turning the color of cigarette ash. The bright heat of day had finally turned to the dark of night.

Why the Bruins Should Lose the Stanley Cup

There are tons of perfectly good reasons to jump on the Bruins bandwagon, especially if you’re from bandwagon country: New England. From Augusta to Quincy, everyone agrees there is nothing more quintessentially New England than a blue-collar hero rising above all odds to hoist some token of triumph. “We want The Cup! We want The Cup!” No kidding, New England sports fans, everyone wants The Cup. Welcome to the NHL.

This year, it seems, the Bruins are the team that New England can thoughtlessly rally behind. The Bruins: A beloved bunch of rag-tag, lunch-pail carrying wage-earners looking to chalk up another New England sports title. It’s true the Bruins seem roughneck, taunting the Canucks to bite their fingers. (If it were twenty years ago, fists would fly without a moment of hesitation.) But are the Bruins really roughneck, or is it just the hard-nosed nature of the NHL, of hockey in general?

Vancouver and Boston have the top two per-player average salaries in the NHL, both clocking in at 2.7 million per year. So, the top teams make the most money and still get called blue-collar? It must be the NHL. If you want to root for a “blue-collar” team, go for the Islanders.

Only one Bruin potted 30 goals this season, and he’s a gritty two-way player from Vancouver. So far the Bruins’ leading scorer in the Vancouver series is a 21-year NHL veteran, also from B.C. The Bruins’ goalie was the 217th overall draft pick to the Quebec Nordics in 1994–a great year for netminders, as hockey fans know, Vancouver fans bitterly. The Bruins’ goalie slogged for years in the minors and in Europe. He didn’t become a starter in the NHL until age 31. Six years later, at the moment, he might be the best goalie in the game. Maybe team USA would have had better luck in the Vancouver Winter Olympics’ Gold-medal game if they’d given him the nod over Ryan Miller. Who knows? For now, the Gold medal lives in Canada, and so should the Stanley Cup.

But Canadians aren’t the only ones rooting against Boston. Blackhawks fans want Boston to lose, and Red Wings fans, too. Everyone in Minnesota has made Boston Bruins Voodoo dolls to stick hot needles into if it comes down to it. There is none of that Red-Sox-Nation crap going on in the NHL. And when New England sports fans complain about “The Drought,” how its been 39 years since wining a Stanley Cup, everyone knows they’ve has been too busy with Rajon Rondo, Tom Brady, and whatever under-performing Red Sox pitcher to name a single multi-season Bruins starter (aside from Ray Bourque) since 72’.

I predict that sooner or later New England sports fans will come around and get behind their MSL team, The New England Revolution. Of course, this won’t happen until the Revolution threaten to win something substantial.

10VE in the Time of Dial-Up

UPSTAIRS IN THE bedroom Weber leaned against the molding of the doorframe. He wore a plain white t-shirt tucked into grey wool slacks. In his hands he turned over a poem he had written when he and his wife, Lita, first started dating. The paper was as soft and neat as his slacks. The penmanship wound across the page like ancient ferns grown over ruins. Lita always said she liked his poetry. She honored it by turning it into bookmarks. Weber thumbed through the book his poem held pages in. He read Collins’ Fishing On The Susquehanna In July. It made him smile.

Sunlight, white and even, came in through the bay window beside their bed. Their house had been cold all winter, and the sun didn’t make it any warmer, only brighter. Weber’s oxford shirt  slung over the back of the chair near the front of the room, ready to be put on. The chair Lita used to lay her clothes over had nothing on it. She got up with the sun and dressed herself before Weber woke up.

By this time Lita had usually finished her toast and coffee, read her newspaper, and gone to work, but this morning was different. Weber could hear her shuffling around downstairs. He wondered what she was doing down there, but he didn’t care to see for himself. Weber worked from home, and during the day, while his wife was away, the house was his domain.

Weber got dressed, making sure to walk on the carpeted areas, listening to the clack of his wife’s boot heels downstairs. He listened intently as the front door opened and shut. She was gone. Weber stopped tiptoeing and took his laptop down the narrow hallway to the top of the stairs.

He was startled to see her standing at the bottom of the stairs. The floorboards, like a trapdoor, caved a little beneath his feet. Maybe they would finally give way, and he’d fall down some rabbit hole, feet first and wild with excitement. Or maybe he’d be shanghaied off to some foreign country to fight in some awful war, but on the way the ship would run aground on a vast reef, forcing everyone to swim to the nearest island and start over. Instead, the wood held on, and all he could do was stand still in the silence of his own wars. Lita’s head was cocked down, looking at something in her planner. She was motionless, and for a moment Weber thought he was hallucinating. Then she snapped her planner shut and looked up at him as though he were the help.

“Weber,” she said, “Don’t forget to pick up the lamb from Tony’s and the dry cleaning from Cleary’s before four o’clock.” She turned and closed the door behind her. A draft of cool air snuck in and shivered up the stairs to Weber’s feet. His toes twiddled in his socks, and he went for his slippers before finally heading down the stairs.

***

The whistle of the teakettle brought Weber into the kitchen and away from his workspace — his wife called it the playpen. He poured the first half of his French press into yesterday’s empty cup and stood in the doorway to the parlor. Wind buffeted against the parlor windows, rattling the outside panes and chilling his fingertips. He put his coffee cup on the coaster, where a motley jester cavorted. His desk was a mahogany roll top with a number of cubbyholes and a row of drawers with tiny brass knobs and pull handles. Weber’s computer sat amidst the busy little drawers like a wizard in magic shop, humming spells about anything anyone would ever need to know. He worked for a while. Then he went to the kitchen for the second half of his French press and a banana. Howling police sirens sounded off in the distance. His banana peel drooped over his hand like a flaccid hilt. As the sirens grew louder, Weber began to imagine police cars and fire trucks crashing across his front lawn. Firefighters in heavy, yellow jackets busting through the front door with their sharp red axes as if there were ten-foot flames and plumes of smoke escaping through the kitchen windows, a crying baby in a crib upstairs. The sirens faded and Weber realized his phone was ringing in the computer room.

“Hello,” he said, as if he didn’t know who was calling.

“Weber,” his wife said, “I’ll need you to take some of my scarves to Cleary’s when you go. The white one and the herringbone one, too.”

“And pick up a booklet of stamps as well.” She hung up the phone without saying good-bye.

Weber slumped in his chair. He chewed on bits of his banana and looked out the window at the bloodless sky, the rooftops all pointing to it. A bare lilac bush shivered in the wind, and a mouse huddled among the dead leaves that surrounded the base of the bush. Weber turned to his computer and began surfing the web. He read about ants and the violence of deep space before logging in to the chat-room he frequents on occasion.  

There was a public chat log in the middle of the screen. On the right there was a scroll-down list of users that he could send private messages to and might receive private messages from. These private messages opened in smaller windows that scattered randomly over the screen, almost as random as the fragmented conversations people were having in the public log section of the page. Someone posted a news-link about a group of hikers who had gotten lost in bad weather, but survived long enough to be rescued by a volunteer rescue organization. A user named Orlando commented on the link.

ORLANDO: you take your life in your own hands out there. and if your unprepared its your own fault and you don’t deserve to live. plus its a total waste of tax payer’s money to go out and rescue those fools.

A few other users wrote in agreement and some in opposition and the conversation moved on quickly. People said whatever came to them without much regard for being polite. Under the alias Earl, Weber private messaged a few users. He asked them how they were and where they were from, but no one responded. He swirled his cold coffee and sipped it. He wondered if he should post a link in the public chat log, something about coffee plantations or ants. He wondered what people wanted to hear.

To Weber’s surprise a private message box popped open on the left-hand side of the screen. No one ever private messaged him.

OLIVE: Busy?

A few seconds passed before he could organize himself to answer.

EARL: No.

He considered how boring this must sound. He typed again.

EARL: How are you?

OLIVE: im good. thanx

EARL: Are you talking to other people?

He immediately regretted the question, but he couldn’t take it back. Olive was slow to reply. Maybe she would never reply. He was too forward. He probably missed his chance. She must be talking to other people. Weber scrolled down the list of users. Olive responded.

OLIVE: yes

Before he could answer Olive, another private message box popped open. This time on the right-hand side of the screen. Weber sat up and clicked over to the box.

American Idiot: so u went with earl. of all the names in the world, u picked earl

He typed quickly.

EARL: My grandfather’s name was Earl.

He typed again.

EARL: I think it’s classy.

American Idiot: classy like a meatball

It was an insult, but Weber couldn’t help laughing at American Idiot. He was having a good time. Another message-box opened, and then another, and Weber suddenly felt like the cool boy in the cafeteria. He began sending messages, initiating. How are you? What are you doing? Is it sunny on your side of town? A user named Sonora replied.

SONORA: Hi!

EARL: Hi!

SONORA: what are you doing, hun?

EARL: Not a lot. Sipping cold coffee. Thinking about palm trees.

SONORA: sorry your coffee’s cold, hun. are you looking for something hot? i have something hot. do you want to guess what it is? c’mon, guess!

Weber’s pulse quickened.

SONORA: ok, don’t. i can show you if you want.

Weber closed all other private message-boxes and moved Sonora to the middle of the screen.

EARL: When? Where?

***

            Inside Janus’s Coffee Stop the espresso machine hissed over chattering baristas and clinking saucers, but all the customers were too busy to notice. Their faces glued to newspapers, books, magazines, and cell phones—poking at their cell phones. Weber remained in the doorway. He surveyed the room, looking for Sonora. She said she’d be wearing red, but she didn’t say what. He imagined a little red beret tipped at a cocky angle over long, glossy, brown hair, or maybe a red brimmed baseball cap, her strawberry blonde ponytail sticking out the back. He walked through the room slowly, inching between the tables, making his way to the bathroom. He wanted to collect himself before meeting his date. Maybe she’d have on red ankle socks. He hoped so.

A phone number advertising for a good time was written on the wall above the urinal Weber was using. The door behind him opened and closed and footsteps squeaked across the tile flooring. A man wearing a red t-shirt stood at the urinal next to Weber. The man unzipped. Weber stared dead ahead at the good-time phone number. It became blurry the way those abstract coffee-table prints do just before a sailboat or a hot-air balloon appears. He could sense the man was looking him up and down. Weber squeezed out a few tiny droplets, little piddles of pee—the crossroads of dehydration and anxiety—and stared deeper into the phone number. Both men finished, or in Weber’s case, decided to call it quits, at exactly the same time. At the sink, Weber kept to himself and soaped up nervously with cold water. The man in red was looking at him through the mirror now, this time not so discreetly.

Without lifting his head, Weber spoke.

“Are you Sonora?” He asked. “In red?”

“Your fly’s down, brother,” the man said. He turned off the faucet and left the bathroom.

Weber caught his breath and dried his hands under the air machine. When he returned to the main seating area of the tiny cafe all he could see was red—a red coral bracelet, a red backpack, red hoop earrings, a red bandana with maroon paisley twists. Someone had used a red marker to write the daily pastry specials on the white board. Weber was a bull, but who was the matador? Where was Sonora?

He ordered a cup of coffee and got himself a glass of water. He sat down at a table near the window. The sun was starting to set and the temperature was dropping. One woman with a red scrunchie got up to pack her computer away. Weber’s pulse got up with her. He watched as she squatted down to unplug her computer cord. She pulled it free from the outlet beneath her table, wrapped it and stuffed it, along with a few papers, into her bag. Weber couldn’t move a muscle. He wanted to stand up. He wanted to ask if she was Sonora, but all he could do was lean his head against the cold glass window. It was so easy to initiate online, just click and type and press enter. He should say hello, ask her where she grew up and what she did last summer, but he didn’t The bell above the door jingled and she was gone.

A number of other customers began packing and leaving: the woman with the hoop earrings, the one with the bracelet, the girl with the backpack who looked twenty, but was likely no older than sixteen. Except for the shuffling of bags and the moving of chairs the cafe was quiet. Even the espresso machine was taking a breather. Weber’s phone began to buzz from his pant’s pocket. It was his wife and it was definitely past four o’clock. Weber hadn’t brought her scarves. He decided he could hide those in his sock drawer and deal with them tomorrow. But what was he going to do about the lamb and the other dry cleaning? And what about the stamps? His eyes had a fearful, fixed look of avoidance, like a gazelle about to bolt from a pride of lions. He looked at her name, Lita, flashing on the face of his phone, her number flashing below. It continued to buzz. Thoughts ambushed. What about the phone number above the urinal and the good times that might be had from calling it? It continued to buzz. He thought about Olive and American Idiot, about the others who had privately messaged him. He thought about Sonora. Where was she? Why didn’t she meet him? It continued to buzz. He wished he were an ant, hiding under thick blades of grass; or an astronaut, floating out in deep space. He wished for the life of him he were fishing on the Susquehanna in July.

Weber looked up from his buzzing phone to the entryway where someone had come in. An tiny old woman with wiry grey hair and long fingers with knuckles like beat-up marbles stood exactly where he had stood when he first arrived. A red and white checkered hair-bow rested daintily on her head. She wore a red blouse with matching red velvet pants and red lipstick—love-red. The door was shut behind her. This was, without a doubt, Sonora. Weber’s phone stopped its buzzing. The old woman made her way past the specials board where an employee was erasing the possibility of lavender scones and currant bran muffins. She took short, stabbing steps like an injured sparrow toward the counter. Weber’s phone buzzed from his pocket one last time, alerting him to the voice message his wife left for him. His stomach was a fist squeezing an apple seed. He lowered his head and began to panic. “Bolt,” he thought to himself. Weber left his coffee on the table and headed toward the entryway. The old woman stood at the cash register, totally ignored by the baristas, all cleaning up and getting ready to go. As Weber approached the door, the old woman turned in his direction. They locked eyes. In another time Sonora must have been radiant woman, fair and symmetrical. But now all Weber could see was that her crow’s feet told the same old story as her gaunt cheeks. Weber and Sonora stared at one another the way a person stares at an important painting, trying to understand just what is so important about it.

“Earl?” She finally said, so hopeful.

Weber stood still.

“Are you Sonora?” he asked.

“I am,” the woman said. A giant smile grew on her face.

Weber put his hands into his pockets.

“There was a man here a minute ago, looking for you.”

The woman’s smile slowly turned over.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could say.

Weber left Janus’s Coffee Stop. He left the tiny old woman standing there alone. He got in his car, put his phone face down on the passenger seat, and drove and drove on down the road.

Forsythia for Cynthia

THE MECHANICAL DISCHARGE from her morphine drip station was the pulse in that room. Toward the end, when the coldness of death had come in like winter, she kept her thumb on that pulse. And even though she had little control of her own, she kept her thumb on that pulse. Everything, including the short, white trashcan in  the bathroom, was sterile and clean. I think they washed the peanut butter sandwiches before lunch. Over time her lunch grew increasingly rounder, from sandwiches with cheese and Triscuit crackers to bowls of tasteless broth and grapes, and eventually to pills. Her room smelled like pills and linen and although I knew her sense of smell had gone I couldn’t take it, the smell. I clipped fragrant lilac cones from our tree at home and brought them to her room, put them next to her bed. I wondered how many people died in that bed, on those sheets, on that day. It was a blustery morning and the drive from Bow took about fifteen minutes, not nearly enough time to consider real death. It was cold enough to see your breath that morning, but I don’t remember seeing mine. Maybe I held it until I got to her room. When I finally did inhale, I remember the air tasted like tears, heavy with my father’s sadness. I could taste it the way you can taste soil when you garden. My mother loved to garden. Before she died, relatives and friends filled her hospice room with flowers: forsythias and others I couldn’t name. She could name them all. I imagine the moment before she closed her eyes forever, taking one last look at the life around her, seeing my sleeping father on the couch beside her bed, looking at the love filled bouquets, all alive with color. Forsythia was her favorite.

Thanksgiving Free Verse

Outside in the icy winds of Useless Bay

a bright orange kite-surfer whips back and forth

over and between tumbling whitecaps.

I watch through wooden blinds

behind large binoculars.

A plain, empty coffee cup sits in front of me;

it reminds me of Ellie.

She is in Guatemala, thankful I’m sure,

among steamy coffee plantations, new friends, and old politics.

And I am here,

protected from the elements,

from the icy winds of Useless Bay,

drinking hot coffee behind wooden blinds.

Sailing back and forth like a bright orange kite-surfer

over and between tumbling letters and short lines,

thankfully writing poetry.

An Implicit Promise

IT WAS FRIDAY—Jazz night—and the band was playing ‘Four on Six’. The wait-staff wore all black and carried shiny drinks. Twelve oyster shells sat upside down on ice, and Charlie sat debating over a second glass of beer. He liked good cask ale, but he loved having his wits about him; and good cask ale, he knew, can really wilt a man’s wit.

His date, Hope, would have been happy to know the level of his contemplation. She sat opposite him, wore subtle lipstick, and was no amature when it came to dating. Some of her previous dates, nervous and trying to settle down, had gone suds up. So she learned to keep a one drink per date limit. Her rule was simple: over the limit, no invite up for a nightcap. Most of her other rules were more obvious, manners for example. Some were table and chair; some were bedroom related, which is precisely where Charlie was hoping they’d end up.

“Another beverage, sir,” asked their waiter, standing at the edge of the table, looking like Jeeves or Alfred Hitchcock.

“I’ll pass for now,” Charlie said to the waiter, “thank you.” He looked across to his date.

“Miss,” the waiter said, “another beverage for you?”

“Oh I shouldn’t,” Hope said.

“Coffee or cordial then?” Jeeves asked, looking to both of them. His hands tucked behind his back. The buttons on his shirt caught moody light.

“No, no, I’ll be up all night,” they said. Their response sang in unison and they shared surprised looks with cocked eyebrows. It’s good to have things in common on first dates.

“Just the check is fine,” Charlie said.

Jeeves shimmered off. Red and blue stage lights buddied up on the bandstand and the trio eased into the solo section.

“I say don’t vote at all,” Charlie said with a smile that could get James Dean’s Porsche back on the road. “It only encourages them, those charming bastards. Those bloated plutocratic kingpins! Can’t lead a monkey to a banana raffle!”

“Don’t vote,” she said, “you can’t be serious.”

He wasn’t serious. He didn’t give a good goddamn about politics. But he had held on the beer and was in the mood for a wit-spat. He wanted to see if she was game.

“I’m gravely serious,” he said. “Disbelief in magic leads to belief in government. And money!” He was quoting a wrtier and wondered if she would notice. She didn’t. “Politics are for boring no-lives,” he said. “Don’t have a passion for changing life; have a passion for living it!” He was onto something, as was the guitarist: Lydian mode. “Change is the remainder, Hope, the candle-ends of living. Burn brightly!” His forearms were lying flat on the table and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“I’ll try, Charlie. You’re a funny man, you know.” She smiled a knowing smile.

“Thank you,” he said.

Hope used a few different date vetting techniques. The ‘funny-man’ line was one of them. Any date she called a ‘funny man’ who afterwards quoted ‘Goodfellas’ was plumb done—her hands would turn over and back like a clocked out croupier. She found that men love to quote cinema.

“I can’t think of a more unpassioned bond,” she’d once said to her friend Wendy on the topic of man-peeves. Amanda later started a women’s group called Spinster’s Esteem for Life Force: SELF.

Hope’s curly nut-brown hair frizzed in the warm, jazzy air. She wore a peasant’s blouse that showed off her elegant collarbone and framed her perky coconuts perfectly. Her legs were crossed properly and comely, and her seersucker shorts likely  had belonged to an old boyfriend. She wore no socks and one of her shoes was off and on the floor below the table. Her toes twiddled along with the piano solo. Charlie loved a woman with good dexterity.

“So what do you believe in, Hope?” Charlie asked.

“I believe in birth, sex, and death,” she answered softly. The bassist was taking his solo. “Although sex leads to birth, and death might turn out to be something like being born … at any rate, I was born twenty-seven years ago. Someday I will die…” She stopped herself.

Jeeves whispered up to the table with the check and a thank you. Charlie took the check insisting on gentlemanly duties. Hope obliged and thought about what she had just said. I believe in birth, sex, and death. I was born twenty-seven years ago. Someday I will die…Tonight, I think I’ll have sex.

And indeed they did.

The solo ended and the head came back around with fluttering guitar notes and a bass that would have Art Blakey swooning. Piano chords comped and the crowd remembered they were listening to a song. Everyone looked to the bandstand for the final few bars, even Jeeves and his moody buttons. But Charlie and Hope had already vamoosed for their nightcap.

Hope’s apartment impressed everyone. Charlie was no exception. A Brazilian Walnut wood-floor stretched across the living room and Japanese art feuded on the walls. An old tube stereo silently hummed beside her record player. Intricately brush stroked ceramics filled with fresh lavender sat on modern end tables. Charlie picked one of the ceramics up and put it to his nose.

“Careful, Charlie,” she said.

“You know my mother used to make the most delicious lavender shortbread cookies and crème brulée.” He sat down on the couch, took another reminiscent whiff, and placed the ceramic down gently.

Hope relieved and sat next to him. A Hall and Oates album circled around under the needle and after a couple glasses of chilled Sake and few more snappy musings on the merits of magic, Hope tickled Charlie with her tongue like a calligraphy sensei strokes upon rice paper. Charlie returned the favor, noting that Sake and pussy mist is a delicious pairing. They veneered each other in sweat and cum to a degree that makes the Dead Sea taste and smell like distilled glacial melt-waters.

In the morning their feet anchored together at the bottom of the bed, pillows surrounding their nude bodies. Hope was dreaming about doing pull-ups when she awoke to find herself squeezing Charlie’s stiffening masculinity.

“That’s an inviting alarm clock,” Charlie said.

Hope giggled and kissed his chest, working her way south below the sheets and past his bellybutton. All during the morning licking; all during breakfast, Charlie delighted over Hope’s talented tongue and thought about the Jazz spot and his decision to hold on the cask ale and about how they were all related.

After she finished him she dressed herself in a black t-shirt and argyle socks and started in the kitchen. Upon cracking an egg for her signature eggs with tomatoes and sugar, a silent, mushroom spiced burp released up into her mouth. It reminded her of Charlie and she liked it.

“Excuse me,” she said. But Charlie heard neither the burb nor the apology. He was singing ‘Maneater’ and soaping up in the shower. She insisted he shower before breakfast.

Over eggs, grapefruit juice, gooseberries in simple syrup, and lavender honey on toast, Hope watched Charlie carefully handle his fork and knife. And although his napkin was not on his lap she hoped she had finally found a good man.

`

Luck Always Had It With Mon Gusto

MON GUSTO SAILED down the rumbling hallway with his back against the wall and his arms outstretched like Jesus on the cross. His feet tangoed across the dimly lit tiles, his fingertips tapping him forward in that Thelonious Monk staccato way, never quite sure what note he’d be playing next. Mon Gusto was alone in the hallway, but his mind mooned elsewhere: elsewhere to fall-apple pie, to pussy, and to the warm day mists of San Francisco. He had not fled to the underground with the rest of them but he could hear their scrambled echoes bouncing around between the booms and blasts. Instead, Mon Gusto took his chance to see what hid behind the big gray bunker doors across the compound. He had a sense about those doors, a single character subjective in the first person kind of sense. His sense told him that what he’d find inside–he was hoping for gold bars–would surely get him back to America. Back to his apple pie and pussy mist. In time were his fingers and feet as he two-stepped closer and closer to the bunker. Right foot, left foot, right foot, left foot, together, pivot. He’d remembered his way like a tango routine. And as the blasts kept on blasting he kept on tangoing toward those hopeful gold bars. The voices and fleeing footsteps had all disappeared as everyone in their right mind had made their way to the temporary safety of the underground shelter. Mon Gusto didn’t know who the attackers were; he doubted they were American, but it didn’t matter because he, Mon Gusto, who has never been in his right mind, decided at the onset of the blasting that it was time to end his Russian ruse. Like any good spy Mon Gusto managed to skip across the compound un-blasted and unnoticed, arriving at the bunker doors just in time. As luck would have it, and luck always has it with Mon Gusto, one of the attacker’s aimless booms, or maybe it was a blast, had landed near enough to the bunker that the doors were slightly jarred open. Mon Gusto slipped in.

To his surprise, a handsome woman wearing tight gray pants tucked into tall black boots sat at a steel table with her hand on a pistol and a big furry hat on her head. Mon Gusto remained calm.

“Remain calm. I am Mstislav. We must to get you to safety.” He said hurriedly in impeccable Russian.

She stood up and slurred a response. The leg of her chair knocked over a half-empty bottle of Vodka. Mon Gusto barely made sense of her garble. She’s about as far from pronouncing a sensible syllable as we are from Sao Paulo, he silently mused. Her posture and balance were equally unpronounced, but her Slavic jaw line was as pronounced as one could be. When the attack began she had decided, much like Mon Gusto, to throw in the towel. Only, her version of towel throwing was to find the best stash of Vodka on the compound and drink it until she couldn’t see straight. Mon Gusto felt at ease by her drunkenness. That, and she had left her pistol as she stumbled from the table. He surveyed the bunker. It was long with tall shelving on either side. Some of the trunks and boxes had fallen off in the blast and he could see a couple of hatches in the floor. Gold bars! He thought to himself. The woman wasn’t thinking at all. Not in Russian, or any language for that matter. Vodka had blasted her brainpan. Right foot, left foot, feet together, back. She did a drunken do-si-do toward Mon Gusto and like a perfect gentleman he put out his hand to guide her. She took it and tried to look into his shifting eyes. He scanned the bunker from ceiling to floor and eventually past her wobbling head to the back wall where he noticed a bulky door that had been jarred open by the blasts and booms. Still standing amiss fallen trunks, bust open boxes, and half-empty bottles, he looked at the woman. From under her cocked down furry hat her brow bent and her heavy lidded eyes squinted toward the door. Away they went, Mon Gusto leading on an eight-step tango. Gold bars! As they approached the opening she spoke again, this time into Mon Gusto’s ear. And although he had a black belt in Russian, he still couldn’t understand her dizzy-talk in the least bit. But, he did notice a sense of urgency and relation about her that wasn’t there before. They stepped into the room–forward, side, feet together–and there at the back of the room was Mon Gusto’s gold bar. A dust-covered coffin had slid off of the dust-covered shelving and lay opened on the dusty floor. It occurred to both Mon Gusto and the woman that the room had been closed for some time. In front of the unlikely duo and inside the coffin there was a wrapped up body, equally dustified and utterly unexpected. On the front of the coffin there was a nameplate, which Mon Gusto had to dust off of course, that read, even more unexpectedly, the following:

ADOLF HITLER 1945

Mon Gusto looked at his partner and she at him, this time with sobering eyes. She spoke again, and so did he.

“Finders keepers.” He said in English. She unwittingly nodded.

Another boom rumbled the bunker and Mon Gusto thought quickly. He thought about his boxing days in Mexico City and how easy it would be to knock out the woman and put her clothes on the corpse, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Instead, he twirled around the bunker checking for alternatives. Then, to Mon Gusto’s surprise, in mid twirl, the woman waved her arms and pointed to a musty trunk. He rushed over to it, opened it, and in it, found some old German army fatigues.

“Perfect!” He said, in Russian of course.

He dressed the corpse in boots, helmet, and all. And when he was done, Mon Gusto, or was it Mstislav, kissed the woman’s hand and looked at the doorway as to suggest she come with him. Another series of booms and blasts rattled the bunker. The woman looked down at the dressed up corpse then over to her bottle of vodka, then at her hand in Mon Gusto’s, and finally she looked into his eyes. They wasted no time. He gingerly lifted up the corpse, grabbed the gun and the vodka, and together they blasted off from bunker.

“This ought to get me home.” He said to himself, tangoing across the compound with the handsome Russian woman by his side and the corpse over his shoulder.