Month: April 2010

“What’s the point?  I’ve been to plenty of these types of office administration seminars and they’re always the same.  There’s just nothing else I can learn for this kind of work.”

“The point, Joyce, is it looks good in your file, which in turn reflects well on our department.  Besides, Baltimore’s a nice town.  You may enjoy some time away.  Maybe meet a handsome traveler?”

Joyce looked back at Carmen and smiled politely.  Carmen’s hair hung loosely around her shoulders today and the odd strand waved about as the breeze from the window blew into the break room.

“Like ships in the night, huh?  The problem is I have to come back here.”  Joyce stretched her neck as she bobbed her head back to finish the cup of coffee in her hand.

Carmen chuckled and stood up from her seat on the windowsill. “Relax, sweetie.  You should lighten up.  You’re too young to worry so much.”

Joyce smiled again and returned her gaze to the glass of the window.

“Why don’t you come out with me tonight?” said Carmen.  “Just us, and  maybe Laurie.  We’ll have a girls’ night out before you leave tomorrow.  It’ll be fun.”

Joyce’s eyes slowly roamed back to Carmen, half-closed and distant. “Thanks Carmen, really.  But I can’t.  I already have plans.”

“You don’t seem very excited about these plans.”

“It’s nothing big.  Just meeting a friend.”

*****

“So when are you leaving?” Ben asked.

Joyce turned her head as it rested on the pillow, away from the slow hum of the spinning fan above.  She moved and her hair got in her face, forcing her to gently nudge aside the short dark strands so she could see Ben.  Her eyes came to rest upon his cheek.  The slight ravine along his jaw faded in and out as he clenched his teeth and pondered the ceiling.  His typically pallid skin shone brightly as dawn’s sunlight seeped in through the apartment’s blinds.

She then turned away and asked, “What makes you say that?”

“You know I can’t stand you.”

“That’s funny.  I was just thinking the same thing. Do you suppose we had a moment of simultaneous thought?”

“No, not us.  That’s for people who care to acknowledge each other’s worth.  Really, if it wasn’t for sex I’d have no use for you.”

Joyce sighed and sat up, facing the door of his loft apartment where the blank expression of a woodcut child prompted a tear to emerge from her eye.  She wiped it away and stood, still looking into the eyes of the plump child whose expression became more devastating with each passing moment.

“You’re a melodramatic prick, you know that?”

“And you’re a misandric bitch, but here we are.”

“Go to hell.”

Ben groaned as he stretched his right arm.  “I’ll call you.”

She mumbled something as she entered the bathroom and Ben yelled “What?” before Joyce repeated, louder than before, “You can kiss my ass and next time you can get yourself off!”

Ben silently rolled onto his side and watched a sparrow flutter and hop across a tree branch.  It paused midway along the branch and looked past him and through the wall of Ben’s apartment, into the hallway.  He waited for the sparrow to look at him until he fell asleep, which was well before Joyce was in her car and on her way back to her South End apartment.

The light of the Saturday morning revelers blinded Joyce, as she was not in the mood to shine.  She would need to get home and shower again before packing her things and calling her dad to take her to the airport for the 9:00 AM flight to Baltimore.

Ben met his friend Michael for lunch later that day while he was in town.  They discussed matters of the utmost importance.

“I don’t see the point of black,” said Ben.

Michael laughed and picked up his cup.  “What point?  It’s tea.  People drink it.”

“Well, it’s essentially coffee.  You drink it for the caffeine.”

“Not necessarily.  Some people might just prefer tea.”

“Over coffee?  Have you tried black tea?  The stuff is rancid.”

“Some might argue that coffee is just as acrid.”

Ben shook his head and lifted his cup so that it rested in the air between them.  He sniffed, as if it were right under his nose.  “The simple man may believe so.  I defy anyone decent to choose black tea over a cup of dry roasted from Charlie’s with cream and sugar.”

“Simple man?”

“Yes.  A fool.  Someone who doesn’t know good coffee because he’s caught up in the machinations of a counter-culture where running against the grain amounts to being cool in the eyes of his peers.”

“Ah.  Thanks for the clarity.”  Michael tipped his mug and smiled as Ben stared on.

“Simple fools,” he said.  “All of you.”

“Maybe,” said Michael, “but this simple fool knows what he likes. Simple as that.”

“You can go to hell.”

“Only if they serve black tea.”

Ben scowled and stood up to leave.

“Oh, come on now,” said Michael.  “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere else.”

Michael shook his head and smiled as he looked up at Ben.  The Swedish flag waving from the window of the building across the street momentarily grabbed his attention, and as his eyes wandered Ben began to reach into his pocket for money.

“You know, you’re just like a child,” Michael finally said.  “Throwing tantrums doesn’t become you.  No surprise that you and the wife are ending it.”

“Well at least Irma would go along with my thoughts instead of opposing every damn point I tried to make.  In fact, what becomes me is company that doesn’t bore me with ridiculous conversation about inferior drinks.”  Ben dropped a five dollar bill on the metal grating that was the table top and walked away.  “Fun as always, Mike.”

Michael was left alone to enjoy his tea.

When Ben was around the corner Michael smiled again and said, “Simple fools.”

*****

Ben called Joyce while she was at a conference.  A bottle of rum, 151, lay empty on the floor beside him.

“Hey… fuck, where are you?  I mean, you know… call me back.  I’m leaving Friday.”

She called him back on a Thursday, a few days after her return from Baltimore.  The rain had ceased that day and she was in a mood to check her voicemail.

01… Irma calling to ask if she could come to visit.  It’s been a long time and Joyce really should come by for a girls’ weekend.  And Irma supposed she would like someone to keep her company.  Joyce isn’t too busy, is she?  Call Irma back!

02… Joyce Freeman, this is just a reminder that her dentist appointment has been cancelled on the twenty seventh due to an unfortunate accident in Dr. Bose’s family.  If Joyce could please call back the by the end of next week they will be glad to reschedule her appointment.

03… Ben asking where the fuck she was and telling her to call him back.

She muttered the word “asshole” loud enough to believe it, then picked up the wireless phone and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the same dull street scene she had born witness to for the past two years.  She remembered the first day she entered her apartment on the fifth floor.  The grove of trees across the street and a cute little bakery on the corner gave her hope that this was a wonderful place, and she would be happy here as she worked on her career and her new life.

Joyce dialed the phone and leaned against the rail, staring down into the masses on their way home from work.

“Hello?”

“Do you think it’s funny to leave me a voicemail like that?”

Ben laughed.  “Well it got your attention.”

“Hardly.  I can assume you only called so that I could come over and screw you?”

“You know me too well.”

“Sadly, I do.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Joyce smacked her lips and allowed her hair to gather around her face as she leaned further out over the edge of the railing.  She wondered if it was this easy.

“I’ll come by, but only if you apologize for being a dick to me.”

He told her, “I’m sorry.”

“Will you ever mean it?”

“Maybe.  Just don’t hold me to it.”

She remained silent as the noise from the traffic below rose up around her. Her bare toes jutted out from beneath the railing, and she wiggled them.

“Joyce?”

“Yea, Ben, I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Great.  Pick up some beer on your way over.”

“I’m not picking up shit.”

“You’re a real peach, you know that?”

*****

Joyce was in Rockport visiting her friend Irma that following Saturday.  Irma was in the middle of a divorce and needed a friend, which Joyce still considered herself to be for the time being, so she decided to spend the weekend with Irma.  The city was oppressive that time of year anyway.  The Sox fans were out in full force.

Irma, wearing an atypically unattractive frumpy red t-shirt and jeans, answered the door and began to cry immediately.  Joyce held Irma’s shoulders and allowed her to cry into the newly purchased Burberry jacket.  Irma’s tears were going to be costly, but Joyce was fine with that.  Her mother used to tell her, “Money’s money, honey, but it’s the friends in life that keep things sunny.”

Quaint sayings amused Joyce.

When Irma paused her inharmonious sobs, she brought Joyce to the dining room and explained again that he had been cheating on her with a bitch from the secretary pool at one of his offices.

“A secretary pool?  Really?” Joyce asked.

“Yea, a fucking secretary.  How cliché, right?  Fucking Ben… and some fucking bitch.”

“Well isn’t that kind of antiquated?  I mean, I hadn’t heard of such a thing these days.  Is this woman working in 1962?”

“What?” asked Joyce.  “I mean, Christ, what does it matter?  My husband cheated on me!  Some, some… some trollop eager to bounce on the boss’ penis just ruined nine years that I had to spend with that mother fucker.”

Joyce told her, “Sorry, it doesn’t matter.  You shouldn’t take him back.  Do you want some more –”

“I’m not going to stand by and let him be an idiot and then come crawling back to me.  And he’ll do it, too.  Idiot.  He’s screwed… himself.”

“I know, but calm down.  Tea?”

Irma told her yes, chamomile, and then apologized for being so ridiculous when Joyce came all the way down there to visit.  She still just couldn’t believe it.

Irma’s words were: “I hate him.”

Joyce nodded as she looked down at the mug and the teabag within, slowly floating down to the bottom.  She thought, then, that perhaps things shouldn’t be easy.  Perhaps her things should be difficult, or painful, or complicated.  Perhaps it’s all supposed to fall apart.

Joyce remained at Irma’s house until late Sunday afternoon, then drove back to Boston and arrived home in the evening.  She turned on the stereo on the shelf near the balcony and stepped outside with a six pack to just watch for a while.  The people on the street began to thin out, and the shopkeepers closed up for the night.  The odd bird still sang out to its mate, but she could not see where they were perched. Joyce sat and watched and drank until her eyes began to burn and the area between her throat and chest became thick and choked her, making her work to inhale every breath.  She rubbed her eyes and fought hard to keep them contained, going as far as to yell, “I don’t give a fuck!  I don’t give a fuck!” in hopes that she could beat them back with the strength of her voice.

Joyce’s phone began to ring and did not cease as she leaned back against the brick wall with the final beer in hand, and finally had to check who was calling.  One from her father, and one from Ben.  It all felt very familiar.

She stared at the list of names displayed on the phone’s screen, then lowered her hand to her side where it rested against the edge of the balcony, beneath the rail.  The music from the apartment wafted out into the open air as she finished the beer with her left hand and dropped the phone over the edge with her right.

“What’s the point?  I’ve been to plenty of these types of office administration seminars and they’re always the same.  There’s just nothing else I can learn for this kind of work.”

“The point, Joyce, is it looks good in your file, which in turn reflects well on our department.  Besides, Baltimore’s a nice town.  You may enjoy some time away.  Maybe meet a handsome traveler?”

Joyce looked back at Carmen and smiled politely.  Carmen’s hair hung loosely around her shoulders today and the odd strand waved about as the breeze from the window blew into the break room.

“Like ships in the night, huh?  The problem is I have to come back here.”  Joyce stretched her neck as she bobbed her head back to finish the cup of coffee in her hand.

Carmen chuckled and stood up from her seat on the windowsill. “Relax, sweetie.  You should lighten up.  You’re too young to worry so much.”

Joyce smiled again and returned her gaze to the glass of the window.

“Why don’t you come out with me tonight?” said Carmen.  “Just us, and  maybe Laurie.  We’ll have a girls’ night out before you leave tomorrow.  It’ll be fun.”

Joyce’s eyes slowly roamed back to Carmen, half-closed and distant. “Thanks Carmen, really.  But I can’t.  I already have plans.”

“You don’t seem very excited about these plans.”

“It’s nothing big.  Just meeting a friend.”

*****

“So when are you leaving?” Ben asked.

Joyce turned her head as it rested on the pillow, away from the slow hum of the spinning fan above.  She moved and her hair got in her face, forcing her to gently nudge aside the short dark strands so she could see Ben.  Her eyes came to rest upon his cheek.  The slight ravine along his jaw faded in and out as he clenched his teeth and pondered the ceiling.  His typically pallid skin shone brightly as dawn’s sunlight seeped in through the apartment’s blinds.

She then turned away and asked, “What makes you say that?”

“You know I can’t stand you.”

“That’s funny.  I was just thinking the same thing. Do you suppose we had a moment of simultaneous thought?”

“No, not us.  That’s for people who care to acknowledge each other’s worth.  Really, if it wasn’t for sex I’d have no use for you.”

Joyce sighed and sat up, facing the door of his loft apartment where the blank expression of a woodcut child prompted a tear to emerge from her eye.  She wiped it away and stood, still looking into the eyes of the plump child whose expression became more devastating with each passing moment.

“You’re a melodramatic prick, you know that?”

“And you’re a misandric bitch, but here we are.”

“Go to hell.”

Ben groaned as he stretched his right arm.  “I’ll call you.”

She mumbled something as she entered the bathroom and Ben yelled “What?” before Joyce repeated, louder than before, “You can kiss my ass and next time you can get yourself off!”

Ben silently rolled onto his side and watched a sparrow flutter and hop across a tree branch.  It paused midway along the branch and looked past him and through the wall of Ben’s apartment, into the hallway.  He waited for the sparrow to look at him until he fell asleep, which was well before Joyce was in her car and on her way back to her South End apartment.

The light of the Saturday morning revelers blinded Joyce, as she was not in the mood to shine.  She would need to get home and shower again before packing her things and calling her dad to take her to the airport for the 9:00 AM flight to Baltimore.

Ben met his friend Michael for lunch later that day while he was in town.  They discussed matters of the utmost importance.

“I don’t see the point of black,” said Ben.

Michael laughed and picked up his cup.  “What point?  It’s tea.  People drink it.”

“Well, it’s essentially coffee.  You drink it for the caffeine.”

“Not necessarily.  Some people might just prefer tea.”

“Over coffee?  Have you tried black tea?  The stuff is rancid.”

“Some might argue that coffee is just as acrid.”

Ben shook his head and lifted his cup so that it rested in the air between them.  He sniffed, as if it were right under his nose.  “The simple man may believe so.  I defy anyone decent to choose black tea over a cup of dry roasted from Charlie’s with cream and sugar.”

“Simple man?”

“Yes.  A fool.  Someone who doesn’t know good coffee because he’s caught up in the machinations of a counter-culture where running against the grain amounts to being cool in the eyes of his peers.”

“Ah.  Thanks for the clarity.”  Michael tipped his mug and smiled as Ben stared on.

“Simple fools,” he said.  “All of you.”

“Maybe,” said Michael, “but this simple fool knows what he likes. Simple as that.”

“You can go to hell.”

“Only if they serve black tea.”

Ben scowled and stood up to leave.

“Oh, come on now,” said Michael.  “Where are you going?”

“Somewhere else.”

Michael shook his head and smiled as he looked up at Ben.  The Swedish flag waving from the window of the building across the street momentarily grabbed his attention, and as his eyes wandered Ben began to reach into his pocket for money.

“You know, you’re just like a child,” Michael finally said.  “Throwing tantrums doesn’t become you.  No surprise that you and the wife are ending it.”

“Well at least Irma would go along with my thoughts instead of opposing every damn point I tried to make.  In fact, what becomes me is company that doesn’t bore me with ridiculous conversation about inferior drinks.”  Ben dropped a five dollar bill on the metal grating that was the table top and walked away.  “Fun as always, Mike.”

Michael was left alone to enjoy his tea.

When Ben was around the corner Michael smiled again and said, “Simple fools.”

*****

Ben called Joyce while she was at a conference.  A bottle of rum, 151, lay empty on the floor beside him.

“Hey… fuck, where are you?  I mean, you know… call me back.  I’m leaving Friday.”

She called him back on a Thursday, a few days after her return from Baltimore.  The rain had ceased that day and she was in a mood to check her voicemail.

01… Irma calling to ask if she could come to visit.  It’s been a long time and Joyce really should come by for a girls’ weekend.  And Irma supposed she would like someone to keep her company.  Joyce isn’t too busy, is she?  Call Irma back!

02… Joyce Freeman, this is just a reminder that her dentist appointment has been cancelled on the twenty seventh due to an unfortunate accident in Dr. Bose’s family.  If Joyce could please call back the by the end of next week they will be glad to reschedule her appointment.

03… Ben asking where the fuck she was and telling her to call him back.

She muttered the word “asshole” loud enough to believe it, then picked up the wireless phone and stepped out onto the balcony overlooking the same dull street scene she had born witness to for the past two years.  She remembered the first day she entered her apartment on the fifth floor.  The grove of trees across the street and a cute little bakery on the corner gave her hope that this was a wonderful place, and she would be happy here as she worked on her career and her new life.

Joyce dialed the phone and leaned against the rail, staring down into the masses on their way home from work.

“Hello?”

“Do you think it’s funny to leave me a voicemail like that?”

Ben laughed.  “Well it got your attention.”

“Hardly.  I can assume you only called so that I could come over and screw you?”

“You know me too well.”

“Sadly, I do.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

Joyce smacked her lips and allowed her hair to gather around her face as she leaned further out over the edge of the railing.  She wondered if it was this easy.

“I’ll come by, but only if you apologize for being a dick to me.”

He told her, “I’m sorry.”

“Will you ever mean it?”

“Maybe.  Just don’t hold me to it.”

She remained silent as the noise from the traffic below rose up around her. Her bare toes jutted out from beneath the railing, and she wiggled them.

“Joyce?”

“Yea, Ben, I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Great.  Pick up some beer on your way over.”

“I’m not picking up shit.”

“You’re a real peach, you know that?”

*****

Joyce was in Rockport visiting her friend Irma that following Saturday.  Irma was in the middle of a divorce and needed a friend, which Joyce still considered herself to be for the time being, so she decided to spend the weekend with Irma.  The city was oppressive that time of year anyway.  The Sox fans were out in full force.

Irma, wearing an atypically unattractive frumpy red t-shirt and jeans, answered the door and began to cry immediately.  Joyce held Irma’s shoulders and allowed her to cry into the newly purchased Burberry jacket.  Irma’s tears were going to be costly, but Joyce was fine with that.  Her mother used to tell her, “Money’s money, honey, but it’s the friends in life that keep things sunny.”

Quaint sayings amused Joyce.

When Irma paused her inharmonious sobs, she brought Joyce to the dining room and explained again that he had been cheating on her with a bitch from the secretary pool at one of his offices.

“A secretary pool?  Really?” Joyce asked.

“Yea, a fucking secretary.  How cliché, right?  Fucking Ben… and some fucking bitch.”

“Well isn’t that kind of antiquated?  I mean, I hadn’t heard of such a thing these days.  Is this woman working in 1962?”

“What?” asked Joyce.  “I mean, Christ, what does it matter?  My husband cheated on me!  Some, some… some trollop eager to bounce on the boss’ penis just ruined nine years that I had to spend with that mother fucker.”

Joyce told her, “Sorry, it doesn’t matter.  You shouldn’t take him back.  Do you want some more –”

“I’m not going to stand by and let him be an idiot and then come crawling back to me.  And he’ll do it, too.  Idiot.  He’s screwed… himself.”

“I know, but calm down.  Tea?”

Irma told her yes, chamomile, and then apologized for being so ridiculous when Joyce came all the way down there to visit.  She still just couldn’t believe it.

Irma’s words were: “I hate him.”

Joyce nodded as she looked down at the mug and the teabag within, slowly floating down to the bottom.  She thought, then, that perhaps things shouldn’t be easy.  Perhaps her things should be difficult, or painful, or complicated.  Perhaps it’s all supposed to fall apart.

Joyce remained at Irma’s house until late Sunday afternoon, then drove back to Boston and arrived home in the evening.  She turned on the stereo on the shelf near the balcony and stepped outside with a six pack to just watch for a while.  The people on the street began to thin out, and the shopkeepers closed up for the night.  The odd bird still sang out to its mate, but she could not see where they were perched. Joyce sat and watched and drank until her eyes began to burn and the area between her throat and chest became thick and choked her, making her work to inhale every breath.  She rubbed her eyes and fought hard to keep them contained, going as far as to yell, “I don’t give a fuck!  I don’t give a fuck!” in hopes that she could beat them back with the strength of her voice.

Joyce’s phone began to ring and did not cease as she leaned back against the brick wall with the final beer in hand, and finally had to check who was calling.  One from her father, and one from Ben.  It all felt very familiar.

She stared at the list of names displayed on the phone’s screen, then lowered her hand to her side where it rested against the edge of the balcony, beneath the rail.  The music from the apartment wafted out into the open air as she finished the beer with her left hand and dropped the phone over the edge with her right.

The Laundry Man’s preferred location is next to a large provider of fine liquors, alcohol, and/or booze for thirsty individuals. This means one can expect no less than two winos loitering somewhere along the street in front of the store on the corner, the Laundromat next door, and the motel on the right side of the Laundromat. They are the gentlemen no one speaks of (or speaks to, for that matter). Gentlemen whose days have been better and whose nights would be ended but for the saving grace of sweet Lady Liquor. They are sometimes loud, at times a bit shaky, but always a reminder not to drink alone.

The parking lot for the Laundromat requires customers to drive around back through an intricately hidden driveway. It cost the Laundry Man several sidewalk excursions and two Tall Lattes from the Starbucks establishment across the street (408 calories and $6.00, no tax) to eventually discover the hidden oasis. As he circles around and enters the hidden parking lot it appears to be at capacity, though on closer inspection he does see one parking space in the rear corner of the lot, facing the chain link fence of the motel. On his more inquisitive or introspective days he wonders why he is always granted a spot by the urban gods, but on this particular day he does not question divinity and proceeds into his place in the line-up. He finds himself between the eight foot-high red pickup truck and a rather timid beige Corolla, itself nudged between the aforementioned phallus and a poor orange imitation of the A-Team’s garishly painted van. The Laundry Man keeps on his black supermarket sun glasses as he steps out of the street-worn Jeep (a deep shame of his, for you see a Jeep is not intended to be driven into the grave on asphalt) and walks around to the other side where a passenger seat stands between him and three blue garbage bags full of laundry (he failed to appear at the Laundromat the previous weekend). He collects the sacks, over the shoulder they go (two in one hand, one in the other), and walks across the vastness of a parking lot devoid of life. Behind him the Jeep acknowledges his parting with a single beep.

The dearth of sound in the empty lot becomes all the more apparent as his footsteps and the melancholy sobbing overtake him. One glance to the right, beyond the green fence and low-hanging branches of trees in dire need of a pruning, reveals the source of the latter: Violin Guy. The red-faced, curly-haired youth sits on the stairs behind the motel, where the smokers and the more entrenched motel residents gather in the evenings to talk of days past and days to come. It is in the late afternoon, when the Laundry Man visits, that Violin Guy plays the sweet, sad songs of forgotten masters. He sits facing the back of the motel lot, away from all eyes that may come upon him. The left wrist locks then vibrates then returns to steady in the span of two or three blinks of an eye; the bow gently glides across the worn resin. The Laundry Man, a simple man, does not know of tone or harmony or chords, but he hears the weeping of Violin Guy’s instrument and knows it is something he should appreciate when he can, as he has for the month and some days that Violin Guy has been sitting behind the motel, playing the undeterminable serenade for the motel residents and Laundromatters carrying their bags and baskets across the lot.

Several seconds later the Laundry Man nears the back entrance to the Laundromat where he sees a duet of dirty pillows on the ground, next to a gray cast-metal pole. A leather strap lies tied to the pole, and tied to the strap lies a boney, white and brown-splotched dog. The dog has discovered pirate treasure (or something just as interesting) behind the nearby rusted green dumpster, and pays no mind to the Laundry Man and his garbage bags.

He enters the building to find the familiar glow of sickly pastel yellow and a news program playing on the television hidden away in a recess of the wall above rows of glass holes. Further along, at the bottom of the convenient ramp, he is struck by the enticing aroma of fabric softener and drying sheets. It fills the space, the gaps and crevices, and engulfs the rather unsavory air around some of the more free-spirited individuals in the Laundromat. The Laundry Man holds his bags closely as he maneuvers through the gauntlet of laundry baskets, bags, and carts that people feel compelled to place along his path just before he arrives. When he reaches the other end the Laundry Man discovers that the machines he intended to use are available. His machines are always available, another apparent gift from the urban gods. He chooses three machines, one for the contents of each of the three sacks. First are the whites (not many of those), next are the browns/beiges/grays, and finally, the largest load: the blues and blacks. The Laundry Man’s vast collection of denim pants, in varying shades of blue and black, are always the largest load. Once the three loads of laundry are safely placed in the machines he opens the black slots along the top and pours in an equal amount of detergent and fabric softener, each in the specified holding area where the liquids wait to play their part in the thirty minute cycle. The fate of the laundry is, for the moment, out of the Laundry Man’s hands.

The Laundry Man wanders outside with phone in hand and makes a call to the cousin, who had left a voice message the day before. The cousin has a request.

“I’ll need more information,” he says.

The cousin responds, explaining what is needed and when. The Laundry Man listens intently; the brown-splotched dog continues swiping its dirty paws at the corner of a green dumpster and the bow continues sliding along strings of inexpensive metal. Twenty minutes are invested in listening to the details of the request, discerning the details past the broken English and worse telephone signal. The cousin asks a question.

“Don’t worry, it won’t cost a lot.”

The Laundry Man ends the call with thoughts of unwanted travel on his mind. It bothers him, though he does not know why. He returns to the interior of the Laundromat to stand next to the machines, watching the television and not knowing what he sees.

When the machines cease their violent vibration the Laundry Man opens them and reloads the three sacks. He stands and stares at the wall below the television; two rows of ten large, emotionless eyes stare back at him. He chooses two from the many lined up along the wall and pulls the doors open. The white laundry is required to remain alone for reasons unknown to him (and others as well, he suspects) and are loaded into one hole alone. Along with the whites he places two sheets of sweet-smelling fiber, the same sheets that are found littering the Laundromat floor. A girl appears on his right as he starts to seal the hole again, slipping through between the Laundry Man and a large basket someone placed on the opposite side of the aisle. She is very young, wearing a shirt marked with green spots of varying size and tone. The Laundry Man smirks, unbeknownst to him, as he recalls a time when he wore clothing very much like the girl’s shirt. He returns to the other sacks and empties them into the second hole, placing three of the same fibrous sheets in along with the dark laundry. As he stands there placing the laundry in the hole the Green-spot Girl passes behind him no less than five times, each time pressing closer and closer to him until he feels she will suffocate him. The Laundry Man’s smirk vanishes as he thinks to himself that the girl should learn to control her affections, or at the very least restrain herself from rubbing against strange men. The inevitable thought that were she only five or ten years older… briefly passes.

When the laundry is loaded the Laundry Man retreats to the empty lot once again. He faces the loneliness, accompanied only by the rather somber melody from Violin Guy echoing to him across the lot and trees, in order to retrieve a book purchased from the local book retailer. He beeps the Jeep (two beeps this time) and then unlocks the door to pull the book out of its plastic bag: a tale of death, with an introduction by the author’s melodic muse. He takes the book and returns to the Laundromat where the indoor park benches await. As he approaches the benches near the front of the Laundromat he notices three whimsically cloudy men sitting, huddled on the wooden bench farthest from him. One sits with a device atop his lap, the two others flank and chat with him. The Laundry Man forgets the men are there just as quickly as he noticed them, and takes his place on the empty bench. He looks at the symbols sporadically located throughout the pages of the book, and finds meaning in them.

“What do you have there, hm?”

The Laundry Man turns to see one of the chatters looking at him intently, hands placed on his thighs. His weakly shaped whiskers twitch as his glance shifts along the Laundry Man’s face.

The Laundry Man hesitates for a moment, then asks: “What would you do if you went for a stroll with Death and she offered you a hot dog?”

“What?”

“I said what would you do if you went for a stroll with Death and she offered you a goddamn hot dog?”

The Chatter stares quizzically for a moment, then turns away. The Laundry Man resumes and time is allowed to pass uninterrupted.

Time is derailed as the Laundry Man sits, and when he finally glances up from the book he sees that the cycle is complete. He pulls a strip of paper from his pocket, the receipt for the book, in fact, and places it in the book to remember where the symbols resume their message (he will more than likely not resume for another month). He pulls the garbage bags from his pockets and proceeds to the fill them with the fresh and admirably clean laundry. He should fold them but the Laundromat is fast becoming full, and he does not wish to linger. The Laundry Man is not one to quibble over wrinkles.

Three sacks full of laundry and a book rolled into his back pocket, he returns to the entrance, leaving behind the sweet aroma and Green-spot Girl and men reaching over each other’s laptop devices. As he leaves the Laundromat he looks to his left to see two people, one a short, stout blonde woman and the other a lean, dark haired man, sitting on two dirty old pillows. A white dog splotched with brown sits between them on its haunches, looking in the Laundry Man’s direction.

He walks across the parking lot. The overbearing silence indicates it is late in the evening, and the laundry is once again complete.

As he sits and stares into the green fence and beyond at the empty stairs, he makes another call.

“Hey.”

…

“I wanted to hear your voice. Uh, listen. What’s my name?”

…

“I know, but please: What’s my name?”

The Laundry Man’s preferred location is next to a large provider of fine liquors, alcohol, and/or booze for thirsty individuals. This means one can expect no less than two winos loitering somewhere along the street in front of the store on the corner, the Laundromat next door, and the motel on the right side of the Laundromat. They are the gentlemen no one speaks of (or speaks to, for that matter). Gentlemen whose days have been better and whose nights would be ended but for the saving grace of sweet Lady Liquor. They are sometimes loud, at times a bit shaky, but always a reminder not to drink alone.

The parking lot for the Laundromat requires customers to drive around back through an intricately hidden driveway. It cost the Laundry Man several sidewalk excursions and two Tall Lattes from the Starbucks establishment across the street (408 calories and $6.00, no tax) to eventually discover the hidden oasis. As he circles around and enters the hidden parking lot it appears to be at capacity, though on closer inspection he does see one parking space in the rear corner of the lot, facing the chain link fence of the motel. On his more inquisitive or introspective days he wonders why he is always granted a spot by the urban gods, but on this particular day he does not question divinity and proceeds into his place in the line-up. He finds himself between the eight foot-high red pickup truck and a rather timid beige Corolla, itself nudged between the aforementioned phallus and a poor orange imitation of the A-Team’s garishly painted van. The Laundry Man keeps on his black supermarket sun glasses as he steps out of the street-worn Jeep (a deep shame of his, for you see a Jeep is not intended to be driven into the grave on asphalt) and walks around to the other side where a passenger seat stands between him and three blue garbage bags full of laundry (he failed to appear at the Laundromat the previous weekend). He collects the sacks, over the shoulder they go (two in one hand, one in the other), and walks across the vastness of a parking lot devoid of life. Behind him the Jeep acknowledges his parting with a single beep.

The dearth of sound in the empty lot becomes all the more apparent as his footsteps and the melancholy sobbing overtake him. One glance to the right, beyond the green fence and low-hanging branches of trees in dire need of a pruning, reveals the source of the latter: Violin Guy. The red-faced, curly-haired youth sits on the stairs behind the motel, where the smokers and the more entrenched motel residents gather in the evenings to talk of days past and days to come. It is in the late afternoon, when the Laundry Man visits, that Violin Guy plays the sweet, sad songs of forgotten masters. He sits facing the back of the motel lot, away from all eyes that may come upon him. The left wrist locks then vibrates then returns to steady in the span of two or three blinks of an eye; the bow gently glides across the worn resin. The Laundry Man, a simple man, does not know of tone or harmony or chords, but he hears the weeping of Violin Guy’s instrument and knows it is something he should appreciate when he can, as he has for the month and some days that Violin Guy has been sitting behind the motel, playing the undeterminable serenade for the motel residents and Laundromatters carrying their bags and baskets across the lot.

Several seconds later the Laundry Man nears the back entrance to the Laundromat where he sees a duet of dirty pillows on the ground, next to a gray cast-metal pole. A leather strap lies tied to the pole, and tied to the strap lies a boney, white and brown-splotched dog. The dog has discovered pirate treasure (or something just as interesting) behind the nearby rusted green dumpster, and pays no mind to the Laundry Man and his garbage bags.

He enters the building to find the familiar glow of sickly pastel yellow and a news program playing on the television hidden away in a recess of the wall above rows of glass holes. Further along, at the bottom of the convenient ramp, he is struck by the enticing aroma of fabric softener and drying sheets. It fills the space, the gaps and crevices, and engulfs the rather unsavory air around some of the more free-spirited individuals in the Laundromat. The Laundry Man holds his bags closely as he maneuvers through the gauntlet of laundry baskets, bags, and carts that people feel compelled to place along his path just before he arrives. When he reaches the other end the Laundry Man discovers that the machines he intended to use are available. His machines are always available, another apparent gift from the urban gods. He chooses three machines, one for the contents of each of the three sacks. First are the whites (not many of those), next are the browns/beiges/grays, and finally, the largest load: the blues and blacks. The Laundry Man’s vast collection of denim pants, in varying shades of blue and black, are always the largest load. Once the three loads of laundry are safely placed in the machines he opens the black slots along the top and pours in an equal amount of detergent and fabric softener, each in the specified holding area where the liquids wait to play their part in the thirty minute cycle. The fate of the laundry is, for the moment, out of the Laundry Man’s hands.

The Laundry Man wanders outside with phone in hand and makes a call to the cousin, who had left a voice message the day before. The cousin has a request.

“I’ll need more information,” he says.

The cousin responds, explaining what is needed and when. The Laundry Man listens intently; the brown-splotched dog continues swiping its dirty paws at the corner of a green dumpster and the bow continues sliding along strings of inexpensive metal. Twenty minutes are invested in listening to the details of the request, discerning the details past the broken English and worse telephone signal. The cousin asks a question.

“Don’t worry, it won’t cost a lot.”

The Laundry Man ends the call with thoughts of unwanted travel on his mind. It bothers him, though he does not know why. He returns to the interior of the Laundromat to stand next to the machines, watching the television and not knowing what he sees.

When the machines cease their violent vibration the Laundry Man opens them and reloads the three sacks. He stands and stares at the wall below the television; two rows of ten large, emotionless eyes stare back at him. He chooses two from the many lined up along the wall and pulls the doors open. The white laundry is required to remain alone for reasons unknown to him (and others as well, he suspects) and are loaded into one hole alone. Along with the whites he places two sheets of sweet-smelling fiber, the same sheets that are found littering the Laundromat floor. A girl appears on his right as he starts to seal the hole again, slipping through between the Laundry Man and a large basket someone placed on the opposite side of the aisle. She is very young, wearing a shirt marked with green spots of varying size and tone. The Laundry Man smirks, unbeknownst to him, as he recalls a time when he wore clothing very much like the girl’s shirt. He returns to the other sacks and empties them into the second hole, placing three of the same fibrous sheets in along with the dark laundry. As he stands there placing the laundry in the hole the Green-spot Girl passes behind him no less than five times, each time pressing closer and closer to him until he feels she will suffocate him. The Laundry Man’s smirk vanishes as he thinks to himself that the girl should learn to control her affections, or at the very least restrain herself from rubbing against strange men. The inevitable thought that were she only five or ten years older… briefly passes.

When the laundry is loaded the Laundry Man retreats to the empty lot once again. He faces the loneliness, accompanied only by the rather somber melody from Violin Guy echoing to him across the lot and trees, in order to retrieve a book purchased from the local book retailer. He beeps the Jeep (two beeps this time) and then unlocks the door to pull the book out of its plastic bag: a tale of death, with an introduction by the author’s melodic muse. He takes the book and returns to the Laundromat where the indoor park benches await. As he approaches the benches near the front of the Laundromat he notices three whimsically cloudy men sitting, huddled on the wooden bench farthest from him. One sits with a device atop his lap, the two others flank and chat with him. The Laundry Man forgets the men are there just as quickly as he noticed them, and takes his place on the empty bench. He looks at the symbols sporadically located throughout the pages of the book, and finds meaning in them.

“What do you have there, hm?”

The Laundry Man turns to see one of the chatters looking at him intently, hands placed on his thighs. His weakly shaped whiskers twitch as his glance shifts along the Laundry Man’s face.

The Laundry Man hesitates for a moment, then asks: “What would you do if you went for a stroll with Death and she offered you a hot dog?”

“What?”

“I said what would you do if you went for a stroll with Death and she offered you a goddamn hot dog?”

The Chatter stares quizzically for a moment, then turns away. The Laundry Man resumes and time is allowed to pass uninterrupted.

Time is derailed as the Laundry Man sits, and when he finally glances up from the book he sees that the cycle is complete. He pulls a strip of paper from his pocket, the receipt for the book, in fact, and places it in the book to remember where the symbols resume their message (he will more than likely not resume for another month). He pulls the garbage bags from his pockets and proceeds to the fill them with the fresh and admirably clean laundry. He should fold them but the Laundromat is fast becoming full, and he does not wish to linger. The Laundry Man is not one to quibble over wrinkles.

Three sacks full of laundry and a book rolled into his back pocket, he returns to the entrance, leaving behind the sweet aroma and Green-spot Girl and men reaching over each other’s laptop devices. As he leaves the Laundromat he looks to his left to see two people, one a short, stout blonde woman and the other a lean, dark haired man, sitting on two dirty old pillows. A white dog splotched with brown sits between them on its haunches, looking in the Laundry Man’s direction.

He walks across the parking lot. The overbearing silence indicates it is late in the evening, and the laundry is once again complete.

As he sits and stares into the green fence and beyond at the empty stairs, he makes another call.

“Hey.”

…

“I wanted to hear your voice. Uh, listen. What’s my name?”

…

“I know, but please: What’s my name?”

The voice is very loud as it booms from the hidden noise boxes. It is possible she is sick, as she sounds like those ill people at the doctor’s office, straining to sound cordial and inviting. But, her health is of no significance. The woman could step out from behind her curtain into the streaming masses and collapse and that little dark-haired boy with his back pressed against the window would not cast a glance. He does not care to hear what the horde of strange people around him bellows as they stand and wait, but the voice is very loud and it resonates into him. Only the voice, the shrill and unfamiliar voice that echoes through the vast halls of this wholly unkempt and foreign place. The voice is unwelcome at this time and it does not have the decency to go away.

A black sign hanging far above and in the middle of the high ceiling glows red and then dims yellow, occasionally readjusting altogether as old symbols vanish and new symbols appear. They are important, those symbols. It is not unlike the rare days when the little boy, his mother, and his father travel to the large white building to sit on wooden benches and hear the robe man speak. All the people sit and stand and kneel and look up at the robe man and the sad statues surrounded by strange symbols. His mother tells him he must do what the other people do and not make a sound, because it is bad to do so. His mother did not tell him to do that here in this white building, and he wonders why it is okay to be noisy here but not in the other place. All around him people pause their advancement through a line or through the horde to look up at the holy sign. It seems to direct them, or tell them what they are meant to do. The little boy, with his hands joined and placed between himself and the glass behind him, looks at the sign as well hoping to understand and receive the information.

His eyes fall back to the main area where so many people sit or stand or walk very fast. There are many places to sit, like the other white building, but these seats are separated and made of cloth, colored blue. A woman directly across from the little boy but very far away sits on the ground, her back pressed against glass just like his. There is a hat, just like the one baseball players wear, atop her head, with few strands of black visible beneath the edge of the hat. Her eyes are lowered at her lap where a book lies over her crossed legs. Those pants she wears are too short for her and he can see that she wears purple socks like a girl he saw one time on a playground swing. Her clothes look dirty, not clean and pressed like the little boy’s. She should ask her mother to clean her clothes so she can look nice for her visit to the white building.

The voice announces more important information in that familiar yet indiscernible foreign language. Why does she not simply step outside and talk in a normal voice? She is confusing the little boy, who strains to listen but cannot grasp what is happening.

As he listens his eyes are drawn away from the purple-socked woman and are unable to focus. Blurs are moving, across the wide expanse of the corridor between the little boy’s side of the white building and the purple-socked woman’s side. A red shoe, a black sleeve, a yellow ponytail, a brown backpack, a shimmery silver bag. They move across so quickly, so amazingly fast that the little boy can only notice certain parts of the whole, those that catch the eye. Where do they go, those blurs? To the big white flying tubes, or to some other mysterious location? The robe man and his children disappear, too, when the ceremony ends and the horde must leave the white building. Here in this white building there is no robe man, but there is a voice. The blurs come, and the blurs go. They have received instruction and must find their way through the great hall in the white building.

To the left, more people seated on blue chairs. Most of them are like the purple-socked woman, holding a book or a collection of gray papers in their hands. They sit and stare at them. Do they not hear the voice or see the many, many blurs of the horde around them? The little boy wishes he could shut out the voice, as they do, but he is just a little boy. He hears everything, and sees a great deal. The little boy can catch glimpses of the purple-socked woman and the glass behind her through the blurs, and it is much the same as the glass on his side. Faint shadows locked behind the glass, the sharp edges of the tops of white flying tubes.

A woman, standing a few feet away in conversation with a man, glances at the little boy. Her dark eyes meet his for a moment and those round, rosy cheeks rise and dimple as they often do, before returning to face the man. The buttoned shirt and pants she wears match the yellow shoes upon her feet. A marshmallow woman standing so starkly against the blurs and gray people around them. The man, in thick blue denim and a checkered coat covering his thinnest of male frames, does not look at him as the woman did. He glances at the window, the ceiling, the floor. His light-colored eyes looking everywhere, and thin lips parting and pursing as the conversation continues. The marshmallow woman and checkered man, the little boy’s mother and uncle, continue their conversation. They, too, seem ignorant of the voice.

Hands are weary and bright red from an extended period of being trapped between the little boy’s rear and the glass, so he stands straight and turns. Tiny needles overtake his palms for a few brief moments before he places his hands in his pockets. He looks at the glass, and there they are again: the blurs and the readers and that purple-socked woman. They are the people behind him but he knows it is not really them. Their ghosts are nearly invisible, blending into the pavement, the buildings, the fleet of white flying tubes, and even those dark mountains that are far, far away. The ghosts remain safely locked away behind the glass. They cannot touch him or bother him, not like the real people behind him can. He looks into the glass, at his ghost. It looks almost exactly like him, with the thick, dark hair, nice shirt with buttons, and those pants that itch and his mother told him to wear. The shiny shoes that are only for those rare days. But the ghost is not a perfect copy, poor thing. Its eyes are dark; in fact, they appear black in this glass and at this dark hour. They are not like his brown eyes resting in front of his face. His lips spread and curve upward, testing the ghost, and it passes the test just as it always does. He knows that one day his ghost will get sleepy, and then he will catch it. The voice echoes again behind the little boy, and he sees several ghosts near to his pause and tilt their heads upwards. Some stand and move away from their blue seats while others return to their reading activity.

As he looks out across the mountains the little boy is startled by his mother’s ghost. It appears beside his own, and he turns around because he knows his mother is behind him. She stands, her cheeks not rising and dimpling, but not quite solemn like she appears on the sad days. This look is not as familiar as the rest. It is blank, perhaps. She stares out across the pavement and white flying tubes then, finally, glances down at the little boy, and the dimpling returns. Her left hand comes to rest on his shoulder while her other hand rises and points at the glass.

“Mira,” she says.

The little boy looks at her, brows low and his bewilderment apparent, but then turns to face in the direction she is pointing because it is his mother. Her finger points to an area on the left side of the glass where a white flying tube slowly rolls towards the white building. A blue streak, starting at the front of the great thing and extending back past the wings and up to the spiked tail, runs parallel to the glass squares all along the side, behind which the little boy sees faces. He sees people from another place and another time, now arriving in his. The little boy scans the faces as the tube slows to a crawl then crawls to a stop. Some of the people seem happy, some perplexed, and some move about so quickly that he is unable to decide how they are feeling. When the moving finally stops many of the faces disappear altogether, and it is moments later that the little boy realizes that the people are moving towards the front where a small curved door has opened. Glancing down, the boy sees a vehicle approaching, bringing a set of stairs to the opened tube. The little boy vaguely remembers the curved door at the front of the white flying tube, but the driving stairs are a strange new addition to the processes of the white building. Soon, people begin stepping out of the tube and descend the stairs. There are children, a man with no hair upon his head, a large woman wearing worn sandals. One by one, they step out and onto the pavement below.

A thin man steps out from the white flying tube, one large brown bag in each hand, and advances down the stairs. He seems familiar but for the fact that all around his face is a thick mass of black hair. The little boy stares, and as he tries to trim away the beard the voice blares behind him. It distracts him, again, and he loses focus. His mother notices and says something, which if not for the voice he might have been able to hear. She seemed to indicate that he should look down at the bearded man again. The voice’s intensity increases behind him. As he tries to look, tries so hard, the ghosts of the people and things inside the white building take his focus away from the man. He sees as far as the other side of the white building, where the ghost of the purple-socked woman once sat. Only a vague outline of a glass wall remains. But he tries again and manages to focus on the bearded man when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. The voice, the voice is getting louder! Be quiet, voice, he is trying to figure out who this man is!

The bearded man looks up. His eyes rise to the white building, at the glass, at the little boy. There is a serene smile upon his face, calm as always, even with this black mask on his face. The little boy’s eyes glisten; his lips curve upward, much wider than usual. He smiles, and the voice goes away.

The voice is very loud as it booms from the hidden noise boxes. It is possible she is sick, as she sounds like those ill people at the doctor’s office, straining to sound cordial and inviting. But, her health is of no significance. The woman could step out from behind her curtain into the streaming masses and collapse and that little dark-haired boy with his back pressed against the window would not cast a glance. He does not care to hear what the horde of strange people around him bellows as they stand and wait, but the voice is very loud and it resonates into him. Only the voice, the shrill and unfamiliar voice that echoes through the vast halls of this wholly unkempt and foreign place. The voice is unwelcome at this time and it does not have the decency to go away.

A black sign hanging far above and in the middle of the high ceiling glows red and then dims yellow, occasionally readjusting altogether as old symbols vanish and new symbols appear. They are important, those symbols. It is not unlike the rare days when the little boy, his mother, and his father travel to the large white building to sit on wooden benches and hear the robe man speak. All the people sit and stand and kneel and look up at the robe man and the sad statues surrounded by strange symbols. His mother tells him he must do what the other people do and not make a sound, because it is bad to do so. His mother did not tell him to do that here in this white building, and he wonders why it is okay to be noisy here but not in the other place. All around him people pause their advancement through a line or through the horde to look up at the holy sign. It seems to direct them, or tell them what they are meant to do. The little boy, with his hands joined and placed between himself and the glass behind him, looks at the sign as well hoping to understand and receive the information.

His eyes fall back to the main area where so many people sit or stand or walk very fast. There are many places to sit, like the other white building, but these seats are separated and made of cloth, colored blue. A woman directly across from the little boy but very far away sits on the ground, her back pressed against glass just like his. There is a hat, just like the one baseball players wear, atop her head, with few strands of black visible beneath the edge of the hat. Her eyes are lowered at her lap where a book lies over her crossed legs. Those pants she wears are too short for her and he can see that she wears purple socks like a girl he saw one time on a playground swing. Her clothes look dirty, not clean and pressed like the little boy’s. She should ask her mother to clean her clothes so she can look nice for her visit to the white building.

The voice announces more important information in that familiar yet indiscernible foreign language. Why does she not simply step outside and talk in a normal voice? She is confusing the little boy, who strains to listen but cannot grasp what is happening.

As he listens his eyes are drawn away from the purple-socked woman and are unable to focus. Blurs are moving, across the wide expanse of the corridor between the little boy’s side of the white building and the purple-socked woman’s side. A red shoe, a black sleeve, a yellow ponytail, a brown backpack, a shimmery silver bag. They move across so quickly, so amazingly fast that the little boy can only notice certain parts of the whole, those that catch the eye. Where do they go, those blurs? To the big white flying tubes, or to some other mysterious location? The robe man and his children disappear, too, when the ceremony ends and the horde must leave the white building. Here in this white building there is no robe man, but there is a voice. The blurs come, and the blurs go. They have received instruction and must find their way through the great hall in the white building.

To the left, more people seated on blue chairs. Most of them are like the purple-socked woman, holding a book or a collection of gray papers in their hands. They sit and stare at them. Do they not hear the voice or see the many, many blurs of the horde around them? The little boy wishes he could shut out the voice, as they do, but he is just a little boy. He hears everything, and sees a great deal. The little boy can catch glimpses of the purple-socked woman and the glass behind her through the blurs, and it is much the same as the glass on his side. Faint shadows locked behind the glass, the sharp edges of the tops of white flying tubes.

A woman, standing a few feet away in conversation with a man, glances at the little boy. Her dark eyes meet his for a moment and those round, rosy cheeks rise and dimple as they often do, before returning to face the man. The buttoned shirt and pants she wears match the yellow shoes upon her feet. A marshmallow woman standing so starkly against the blurs and gray people around them. The man, in thick blue denim and a checkered coat covering his thinnest of male frames, does not look at him as the woman did. He glances at the window, the ceiling, the floor. His light-colored eyes looking everywhere, and thin lips parting and pursing as the conversation continues. The marshmallow woman and checkered man, the little boy’s mother and uncle, continue their conversation. They, too, seem ignorant of the voice.

Hands are weary and bright red from an extended period of being trapped between the little boy’s rear and the glass, so he stands straight and turns. Tiny needles overtake his palms for a few brief moments before he places his hands in his pockets. He looks at the glass, and there they are again: the blurs and the readers and that purple-socked woman. They are the people behind him but he knows it is not really them. Their ghosts are nearly invisible, blending into the pavement, the buildings, the fleet of white flying tubes, and even those dark mountains that are far, far away. The ghosts remain safely locked away behind the glass. They cannot touch him or bother him, not like the real people behind him can. He looks into the glass, at his ghost. It looks almost exactly like him, with the thick, dark hair, nice shirt with buttons, and those pants that itch and his mother told him to wear. The shiny shoes that are only for those rare days. But the ghost is not a perfect copy, poor thing. Its eyes are dark; in fact, they appear black in this glass and at this dark hour. They are not like his brown eyes resting in front of his face. His lips spread and curve upward, testing the ghost, and it passes the test just as it always does. He knows that one day his ghost will get sleepy, and then he will catch it. The voice echoes again behind the little boy, and he sees several ghosts near to his pause and tilt their heads upwards. Some stand and move away from their blue seats while others return to their reading activity.

As he looks out across the mountains the little boy is startled by his mother’s ghost. It appears beside his own, and he turns around because he knows his mother is behind him. She stands, her cheeks not rising and dimpling, but not quite solemn like she appears on the sad days. This look is not as familiar as the rest. It is blank, perhaps. She stares out across the pavement and white flying tubes then, finally, glances down at the little boy, and the dimpling returns. Her left hand comes to rest on his shoulder while her other hand rises and points at the glass.

“Mira,” she says.

The little boy looks at her, brows low and his bewilderment apparent, but then turns to face in the direction she is pointing because it is his mother. Her finger points to an area on the left side of the glass where a white flying tube slowly rolls towards the white building. A blue streak, starting at the front of the great thing and extending back past the wings and up to the spiked tail, runs parallel to the glass squares all along the side, behind which the little boy sees faces. He sees people from another place and another time, now arriving in his. The little boy scans the faces as the tube slows to a crawl then crawls to a stop. Some of the people seem happy, some perplexed, and some move about so quickly that he is unable to decide how they are feeling. When the moving finally stops many of the faces disappear altogether, and it is moments later that the little boy realizes that the people are moving towards the front where a small curved door has opened. Glancing down, the boy sees a vehicle approaching, bringing a set of stairs to the opened tube. The little boy vaguely remembers the curved door at the front of the white flying tube, but the driving stairs are a strange new addition to the processes of the white building. Soon, people begin stepping out of the tube and descend the stairs. There are children, a man with no hair upon his head, a large woman wearing worn sandals. One by one, they step out and onto the pavement below.

A thin man steps out from the white flying tube, one large brown bag in each hand, and advances down the stairs. He seems familiar but for the fact that all around his face is a thick mass of black hair. The little boy stares, and as he tries to trim away the beard the voice blares behind him. It distracts him, again, and he loses focus. His mother notices and says something, which if not for the voice he might have been able to hear. She seemed to indicate that he should look down at the bearded man again. The voice’s intensity increases behind him. As he tries to look, tries so hard, the ghosts of the people and things inside the white building take his focus away from the man. He sees as far as the other side of the white building, where the ghost of the purple-socked woman once sat. Only a vague outline of a glass wall remains. But he tries again and manages to focus on the bearded man when he reaches the bottom of the stairs. The voice, the voice is getting louder! Be quiet, voice, he is trying to figure out who this man is!

The bearded man looks up. His eyes rise to the white building, at the glass, at the little boy. There is a serene smile upon his face, calm as always, even with this black mask on his face. The little boy’s eyes glisten; his lips curve upward, much wider than usual. He smiles, and the voice goes away.

It is evening in the middle of the arid western summer, and a cabin lies nestled between the jagged, dry hills of south-east California.  Far from a past life.  The town of Randsburg is but a tiny speck on the map.  The single winding main street running through the sleepy town and leading down to the highway near old Burro Mine.  Along this highway and several miles further to the north-east there are fields of coarse, dry brush now as the night sky, unlit and untouched by the false luminescence of man.  Dark.  Creatures dwelling in the darkness scurrying, flying, fleeing, and making the dreaded music that the creatures of light fear as they hunker in the relative safety of their burrows.  Cacti standing tall among the brush.  A night owl perched on the tallest cactus in view of the cabin, staring into the brilliance of the fiery square floating in the darkness.

Through the lit window there is a room.  The house of oak and pine built for a purpose and sparing the luxury.  A single room is all he needs.  A floor on which to stand, a roof and walls between which he may be protected from the weather, a comfortable old rocking chair in which to sit and think and write when a viable thought crosses his mind.  A single room is all he needs.  In the center of the room there is an old wooden rocking chair, and in the old rocking chair he is.  An old journal in his hands, bound in cracked leather.  Yellowed and crisp pages poking out along the perimeter of the book.  Creases of time scarring the cover much like the creases of time spread across his face.  Laugh lines, frown lines, the old childhood scar now a deep rift across his right upper cheek.  The once finely trimmed black beard now a thick gray bush, extending from his cheeks down past the jaw line and well below the point where he used to shave, keeping the beard even and presentable.  It now grows wild, as wild as the fields of brush surrounding the cabin, for he is old, and when one is old there is no need to impress anyone.  His hair remains short, despite the absence of vanity, with faint streaks of black still visible.  The widow’s peak that once helmed the crown of thick strands now a distant memory, having given way to a broader and higher hairline.  The old man’s chest twitches beneath the fabric of his dull brown collared shirt as he rocks in the old wooden rocking chair, followed by his stomach, then arms coated in a layer of shimmery silver hairs, then legs tucked inside a pair of old black denim pants, then finally, his feet.  His feet protected by white socks with gray sole knit, warmed by the trapped heat from the fire, bringing the old man up and down in his old wooden rocking chair.

He sits in the center of the room.  A counter in the corner to his right provides kitchen space, and the stone hearth immediately to the right of the wooden counter is more than adequate for cooking meals.  Tonight, the aroma of boiled beef, carrots, potatoes, and salt waft out of the faded black pot in the fire.  The smell fills the room, much like it has many times throughout the old man’s life.  This was once a place used to get away from the pressures of life among the people and the false luminescence of man.  Now, it is his only shelter against the pang of reminders.  The old man is unable to deal with the reminders.  A weak old man, doing his best to forget until his last breath in the rocking chair.  He feels the onset of sleep, but he is not ready to sit and lay upon the cot in the corner behind him.  The old man continues sitting, rocking forth and back, staring into the crackling fire.  He adjusts his right hand, running the dark, wrinkled finger tips along the creases of the journal.  Eyes dart left and right as he stares at the fire, memories flooding back into his mind.  Reminders…

He allows his old dark eyes to glance above the hearth of the fireplace, face remaining fixed on the fire.  The eyes look up from beneath thick gray brows.  A large vertical portrait is hung on the stones, framed in rich, dark wood.  Portions of the frame still glisten from the lovingly applied wood stain that once made the frame shimmer in the light of a fourth floor apartment.  Now, the frame merely serves to hold the glass that protects the pencil-drawn portrait beneath it.  A woman’s face is immediately discernible in the top portion of the frame, lips pursed and curved upward as she smiles at the viewer.  Her eyes are fixed…  locked on someone past the viewer.  Was it the artist?  Was it a humorous occurrence just at the right moment?  Or, was she simply a wonderful model?  Only the old man knows why she looked past the viewer, and why she smiled so sweetly, her bared white shoulders raised as she rests her hands against the beige stucco of a balcony railing.  Fingers delicately folded, her fingertips gripping the rough stucco coating of the balcony.  Flowing black strands of hair cascade down onto her shoulders, free and gently nudged by the ocean breeze on a late summer afternoon.  Her black blouse stretched as she leaned back, legs and lower half of her body not visible in this particular portrait.  In sharp contrast to the black blouse, is her skin, as white and beautiful as the freshly fallen snow of the mountains the old man came to know so well.  Behind her a thick blanket of fog overtakes a large expanse of ocean, and a crimson gateway to the north fades into view through the white mist, extending from the center behind the woman and cutting off along the frame on the left side.  The sky beyond the bridge on left side of the portrait, behind the woman, a calming shade of blue; along the rim of the balcony, just barely visible, is the wide expanse of the urban sprawl below the building.  The remaining space is a random smattering of buildings and skyscrapers, as generic as any other around the world and of no particular interest in this portrait, this portrait of a woman hanging above the hearth of the stone fireplace.

The old man quickly averts his gaze, as he dares not stare at the portrait.  He may only steal a glance on the nights when he feels strongest and able to resist his thoughts.

As he sits, a wind flows around the cabin.  A strong wind, given that it had to travel over hills, forests, grasslands, deserts, and finally mountains to reach the cabin.  Yes, a strong wind indeed.  It gets stronger, seemingly bent on this particular cabin and this man.  And, as he sits, with his old cracked journal in hand, rocking on the old wooden rocking chair, the wind reaches him, flowing in through the seams around the door, from the fireplace, from unseen cracks in the cabin’s exterior.  The wind reaches him and his eyes rise.  His nostrils flare, mind set ablaze by the warm air circling inside the cabin.  Suddenly, he lifts his head, staring at the portrait.  His brows furrow, wrinkles around his eyes and along his forehead spring to life.  The laugh lines, and frown lines, and deep rift on his cheek all cast shadows across his cragged face.  The aroma from the air fuels the flames, an aroma as rich and lovely as the bloom of flowers in the spring.  And as the old man concentrates on the portrait, on the face, on the eyes, his teeth clench beneath his pursed lips.  The old man’s ears perk up and move ever so slightly, his rough palms now tightly gripping the arms of the old wooden rocking chair.  He hears a distant memory, a faint voice that excites him and presents that which will finally give him the peace that he seeks.

The old man stands.  He reaches under the old cot, reaching for the black canvas duffel bag that had served him well.  He ignores the ache in his knee as he hunches down by the cot, for he is quite able to take the physical pain.  That pain was never a problem.  The bag is filled with hastily gathered clothing, boots slipped on quickly, and an old olive coat slung over his shoulder.  The old wooden rocking chair continues its steady motion as he steps out of the door, casting its long and thin shadows across the floor.  The fire dies, the soup boils and burns until it, too, becomes cold and gray.

It is evening in the middle of the arid western summer, and a cabin lies nestled between the jagged, dry hills of south-east California.  Far from a past life.  The town of Randsburg is but a tiny speck on the map.  The single winding main street running through the sleepy town and leading down to the highway near old Burro Mine.  Along this highway and several miles further to the north-east there are fields of coarse, dry brush now as the night sky, unlit and untouched by the false luminescence of man.  Dark.  Creatures dwelling in the darkness scurrying, flying, fleeing, and making the dreaded music that the creatures of light fear as they hunker in the relative safety of their burrows.  Cacti standing tall among the brush.  A night owl perched on the tallest cactus in view of the cabin, staring into the brilliance of the fiery square floating in the darkness.

Through the lit window there is a room.  The house of oak and pine built for a purpose and sparing the luxury.  A single room is all he needs.  A floor on which to stand, a roof and walls between which he may be protected from the weather, a comfortable old rocking chair in which to sit and think and write when a viable thought crosses his mind.  A single room is all he needs.  In the center of the room there is an old wooden rocking chair, and in the old rocking chair he is.  An old journal in his hands, bound in cracked leather.  Yellowed and crisp pages poking out along the perimeter of the book.  Creases of time scarring the cover much like the creases of time spread across his face.  Laugh lines, frown lines, the old childhood scar now a deep rift across his right upper cheek.  The once finely trimmed black beard now a thick gray bush, extending from his cheeks down past the jaw line and well below the point where he used to shave, keeping the beard even and presentable.  It now grows wild, as wild as the fields of brush surrounding the cabin, for he is old, and when one is old there is no need to impress anyone.  His hair remains short, despite the absence of vanity, with faint streaks of black still visible.  The widow’s peak that once helmed the crown of thick strands now a distant memory, having given way to a broader and higher hairline.  The old man’s chest twitches beneath the fabric of his dull brown collared shirt as he rocks in the old wooden rocking chair, followed by his stomach, then arms coated in a layer of shimmery silver hairs, then legs tucked inside a pair of old black denim pants, then finally, his feet.  His feet protected by white socks with gray sole knit, warmed by the trapped heat from the fire, bringing the old man up and down in his old wooden rocking chair.

He sits in the center of the room.  A counter in the corner to his right provides kitchen space, and the stone hearth immediately to the right of the wooden counter is more than adequate for cooking meals.  Tonight, the aroma of boiled beef, carrots, potatoes, and salt waft out of the faded black pot in the fire.  The smell fills the room, much like it has many times throughout the old man’s life.  This was once a place used to get away from the pressures of life among the people and the false luminescence of man.  Now, it is his only shelter against the pang of reminders.  The old man is unable to deal with the reminders.  A weak old man, doing his best to forget until his last breath in the rocking chair.  He feels the onset of sleep, but he is not ready to sit and lay upon the cot in the corner behind him.  The old man continues sitting, rocking forth and back, staring into the crackling fire.  He adjusts his right hand, running the dark, wrinkled finger tips along the creases of the journal.  Eyes dart left and right as he stares at the fire, memories flooding back into his mind.  Reminders…

He allows his old dark eyes to glance above the hearth of the fireplace, face remaining fixed on the fire.  The eyes look up from beneath thick gray brows.  A large vertical portrait is hung on the stones, framed in rich, dark wood.  Portions of the frame still glisten from the lovingly applied wood stain that once made the frame shimmer in the light of a fourth floor apartment.  Now, the frame merely serves to hold the glass that protects the pencil-drawn portrait beneath it.  A woman’s face is immediately discernible in the top portion of the frame, lips pursed and curved upward as she smiles at the viewer.  Her eyes are fixed…  locked on someone past the viewer.  Was it the artist?  Was it a humorous occurrence just at the right moment?  Or, was she simply a wonderful model?  Only the old man knows why she looked past the viewer, and why she smiled so sweetly, her bared white shoulders raised as she rests her hands against the beige stucco of a balcony railing.  Fingers delicately folded, her fingertips gripping the rough stucco coating of the balcony.  Flowing black strands of hair cascade down onto her shoulders, free and gently nudged by the ocean breeze on a late summer afternoon.  Her black blouse stretched as she leaned back, legs and lower half of her body not visible in this particular portrait.  In sharp contrast to the black blouse, is her skin, as white and beautiful as the freshly fallen snow of the mountains the old man came to know so well.  Behind her a thick blanket of fog overtakes a large expanse of ocean, and a crimson gateway to the north fades into view through the white mist, extending from the center behind the woman and cutting off along the frame on the left side.  The sky beyond the bridge on left side of the portrait, behind the woman, a calming shade of blue; along the rim of the balcony, just barely visible, is the wide expanse of the urban sprawl below the building.  The remaining space is a random smattering of buildings and skyscrapers, as generic as any other around the world and of no particular interest in this portrait, this portrait of a woman hanging above the hearth of the stone fireplace.

The old man quickly averts his gaze, as he dares not stare at the portrait.  He may only steal a glance on the nights when he feels strongest and able to resist his thoughts.

As he sits, a wind flows around the cabin.  A strong wind, given that it had to travel over hills, forests, grasslands, deserts, and finally mountains to reach the cabin.  Yes, a strong wind indeed.  It gets stronger, seemingly bent on this particular cabin and this man.  And, as he sits, with his old cracked journal in hand, rocking on the old wooden rocking chair, the wind reaches him, flowing in through the seams around the door, from the fireplace, from unseen cracks in the cabin’s exterior.  The wind reaches him and his eyes rise.  His nostrils flare, mind set ablaze by the warm air circling inside the cabin.  Suddenly, he lifts his head, staring at the portrait.  His brows furrow, wrinkles around his eyes and along his forehead spring to life.  The laugh lines, and frown lines, and deep rift on his cheek all cast shadows across his cragged face.  The aroma from the air fuels the flames, an aroma as rich and lovely as the bloom of flowers in the spring.  And as the old man concentrates on the portrait, on the face, on the eyes, his teeth clench beneath his pursed lips.  The old man’s ears perk up and move ever so slightly, his rough palms now tightly gripping the arms of the old wooden rocking chair.  He hears a distant memory, a faint voice that excites him and presents that which will finally give him the peace that he seeks.

The old man stands.  He reaches under the old cot, reaching for the black canvas duffel bag that had served him well.  He ignores the ache in his knee as he hunches down by the cot, for he is quite able to take the physical pain.  That pain was never a problem.  The bag is filled with hastily gathered clothing, boots slipped on quickly, and an old olive coat slung over his shoulder.  The old wooden rocking chair continues its steady motion as he steps out of the door, casting its long and thin shadows across the floor.  The fire dies, the soup boils and burns until it, too, becomes cold and gray.