Obey The Red Hand

Paul happily agreed to walk Boris, his neighbors’ Pomeranian, while they were in Ireland.

“He’s a lovely boy,” Aidan said. “Bit of a psycho around other dogs. You’ll do well to steer clear of the park with him.”

The McGowans said to spend as much time as he liked in their apartment, to keep Boris company, and to eat and drink whatever was in the fridge. As he’d hoped, dog sitting turned out to be a pleasant working vacation for Paul, one that didn’t cost anything and also didn’t require him to leave Chicago. He got a bunch of work done on his thesis, since his wife Marisa was spending the week preparing for a big case at her firm’s office in St. Louis. Best of all, it also provided a welcome respite from Ian, Marisa’s younger brother, who had become stuck in their apartment since dropping out of Valpo after his second year and had so far resisted every social and vocational Heimlich maneuver intended to dislodge him.

Every morning Paul would run Boris out to the strip of grass in front of the building for a quick pee, then go off to teach his 9:30 class followed by some time in the library. He’d return to the McGowans’ in the afternoon to grade papers or work on his thesis. Around 4:00, he and Boris would make the loop up Kenmore to Loyola and back down Sheridan. Then Paul would grab some take-out and keep working while Boris snoozed on his plush little dog bed. Around 11, he’d head back down to his apartment, where Ian was usually still on the couch watching TV and texting back and forth with one of his friends back in Terre Haute.

On Friday, Paul put on his jacket before the afternoon dogwalk and noticed something in the inside pocket: the envelope with the check for the gas bill, the envelope he had assured Marisa he’d mailed the day before she left for St. Louis, a discussion they had because the payment was late. He told her he’d mailed it because he was sure he had mailed it. In fact, he could distinctly remember dropping it in the slot at the big post office in the Loop. So what envelope was that? This question occupied Paul’s mind for much of their walk, along with why Marisa was still so resistant to paying bills online. What, was she 70 or something?

As he and Boris were about to make the turn from Sheridan onto Granville and back to the apartment building, Paul spotted the mailbox on the other side of the street, just outside the entrance to Berger Park. While he was looking, the signal changed from a red hand to a white walking man.

We’ll be back across before the light changes, Paul thought. He scanned the other side of the street for dogs and saw none. Good. He and the little dog dashed across. He dropped the envelope in the box and pulled the door open again to make sure it had dropped. It had. Good. Boris peed on the northeast leg of the mailbox, for luck. Good. But when was the last collection time?

It took a surprising amount of effort to remove the snarling ball of fury that was Boris from the yelping and terrified Great Dane pup which had materialized out of nowhere, and whose owners were both shouting at Paul in what he took to be Polish. Paul struggled to remember how to say, “I’m sorry,” in Polish (or even Russian might be close enough), but all he could come up with was “Con permisso,” which was not well received. The Dane's owners hurried on down Sheridan, the woman looking back occasionally to cartoonishly shake a fist at him.

“Let’s go, killer,” Paul said. He loop the leash around his hand to take up the slack and discovered that there was no Boris at the other end. The bejeweled collar was still there, but there was no Boris in sight. Then Paul heard a distant snarl from inside the park.

The Other Side of The Wall

The rule in our town was that you never climbed over the stone wall that surrounded the old monastery. Some folks even walked faster on the stretch of road that passed by its circular gate. The men had bricked up the gate years ago, after the counter revolution had purged the order, burning many of the monks as witches and scattering the rest.
Some people said that at night, when it rained, the bricks grew redder until the opening in the gray limestone wall became a large mouth that would swallow up anyone who came near. Most folks thought this was just a story told to frighten children.

Of course some broke the rule and went over the wall, finding gaps or low spots. Some went to smoke before the permitted age, some to kiss before their appointed day, and some just to see what was on the other side. A wall, a fence, a barrier can have this effect on people.

I went over the first time on a dare. Temmus Coopson said I wouldn't because I was scared and a girl. So I scrambled right over. To this day I’m not sure how I did it. What was on the other side? Trees, mostly, and tall grass and the wind blowing through them. I brought back a hedge apple from one of the trees and waved it in his face. Temmus grabbed it from me and threw it and stomped away. I went and found it and took it home. It smelled of dirt and flowers and fresh-cut wood and was wonderfully ripe-melon heavy. I set it on my dressing table next to my hairbrush and comb.

That night a flash of lightning woke me. I closed my eyes and waited to hear the thunder but it never came. I soon grew drowsy again but just as I was drifting off there came another flash of light. I went to the window and drew aside the shade. The sky was clear and the stars shone and the moon hung over the barn. It must have been a dream, I thought. Then there was another flash, but it came from inside my room, behind me, on the table.

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Image: Quarry Wall Under Forest Moonlight by talented flickr user encouragement, used under a Creative Commons license.

Packing Up

- Give me an H!
- Why?
- No, silly, an H!
- No, stupid, why. Like why should I give you anything? 

Deb dropped the pom-poms back in the box and sat down next to Drew. 

- What's the matter, monkey?
- Why do you have to go?
- It's college, you know that. Someday you're going to go off to college, too, you know. Of course, it'll be a state school, if you’re lucky, but at least there won't be any pouty babies to leave behind.
- Very comforting.
- And now you get to live here over the garage. In what will forever and always be known as my room. But still, you get to live in it. For a while! 

Drew finally cracked a smile. 

- Now let's finish putting all this high school crap in these boxes and get out of here. I feel a Gaskin Blobbins run coming on.
- Are you really keeping this “world's greatest girlfriend” trophy? You and Troy aren't even going out anymore.
- Oh yes, I'm keeping it. Someday, when he least expects, I'm going to drop it on his big fat head.

_____ Image: pencil jar by talented flickr user Muffet.

Listen to Me, Dutchman

With another hour before the dinner service begins, Norman Martina and the Dutchman are smoking in the old card room on the third floor. Between them sits the ghost of Henry Grau, the club's former manager, savoring the fumes.

- I got to get out of this place.
- Yeah.
- I mean it, Dutchman! I got to go back to Aruba.
- Long as I know you, Martina, ten years now, you say this every winter.

Mostly used for storage, the card room had also become the winter break room for the remaining smokers on the staff, every one of whom figured that when old man Grau quit, after his heart attack two seasons ago, it wouldn't be long before he made them stand outside like smokers everywhere else.

- Last night my mother she come to me in a dream, Dutchman. And all my sisters too.
- They need money?
- It's no joke, man! I'm sitting right in this room and that old elevator from the kitchen --
- Dumbwaiter, says Grau.
- What?

Despite or perhaps due to this compulsory abstemiousness, Grau looked the other way the first winter. Keep a window cracked, he growled, and police your butts.

- I didn't say nothing, Martina.
- That's the name for it, says Grau.
- Whatever they call it, says Martina, the damn thing open up and there's all this light coming out.
- I don't think it even works anymore, not for years.

Grau died the next summer, after the disastrous Levine-Kauffman wedding. Karla found him slumped on the stairs, a few steps short of the third floor landing.

- You should go, says Grau.
- What?
- They stand all around me and then we start to rise up.

The Dutchman’s mind is suddenly flooded with an image: light coming through the ladder windows of his mother’s apartment on the Henriette Ronnerplein in Amsterdam.

- Wait, what happens?
- Listen to me, Dutchman!
- You should go.

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Image: Stacks of chairs by talented flickr user tyrone warner, used under a Creative Commons license.

Poco a Poco (Ma Non Troppo)

Emily jumped visibly every time the store’s electric door chime sounded.

Jesus, relax already, Nikki said. He probably won't even come in today.

Roger Greenwood had been coming into the store every morning for several weeks now to order a cup of coffee and then stand at the counter chatting amiably about himself and the many things he knew. This fascinated Emily, who came from a place where people took care to either not know too much or to conceal that knowledge.

She'd never met anyone who made their living as a composer, even if most of it sounded like someone trying to remember a long-forgotten hymn while kittens ran back and forth across the keys. But Berkeley was turning out to be full of people engaged in pursuits she either hadn’t heard of or wouldn't have thought viable.

Roger held his spot at the counter with one boney elbow and one hand propped against his oversized head. Occasionally his long fingers would trace an unheard passage on the counter while he spoke. Eventually he'd say something like, “Well, I’ll let you get back to work,” even though Emily hadn't stopped working the entire time.

Nikki was less charmed by the daily performance. He’s a glorified piano teacher, she’d say after he left. Emily knew Roger was basically full of it. All the same, the effort he put into impressing her was very flattering.

What she couldn't figure out on this cringey Monday was why she had agreed to drive down to Half Moon Bay with him the weekend before. On the upside, she now knew that she was allergic to mussels and that she hated grappa. What bothered her was that she wasn’t sure what happened after Roger kindly yet graspingly helped her out of the car and up to her apartment.

Cagey in Matters Aestival

- Why won't you tell me what you’re doing this summer? 

Susan looked up from her book. Todd stood in the kitchen doorway fastening his apron with the single-loop bow he’d recently mastered. 

- Like I told you, it's research and I can’t talk about it. Are you looking forward to equestrian camp?
- Fine, change the subject. 

Next came the sound of water rushing from the faucet. Susan flipped her readers back down to her nose.

- Honey, it's only three weeks. We'll go to the lake when I get back. I promise.
- Can't talk now, Mom, this kitchen is a disaster. Korma must be the Hindi word for explosion.

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Image above by talented flickr user neitherfishnorflesh, used under a Creative Commons license.

9 portraits

Portrait of the artist walking home from kindergarten, wearing an Indian headdress made from multicolored yarn and construction paper.

Portrait of the artist gnawing the sparkly polish off an already ragged nail.

Portrait of the artist misjudging the ceiling at the bottom of the stairs and spending the bulk of the sleepover at the emergency room with his mother.

Portrait of the artist pooting discretely as she waits in line at Starbucks, hoping the surrounding effluvia of coffee fumes will provide sufficient cover.

Portrait of the artist holding up his pants with one hand as he runs to catch the 71X.

A portrait of the artist, hung over at 2 PM on a Sunday, searching the cushions of her late-model Datsun for the ring she "borrowed" from her mother's jewelry box.

Portrait of the artist eating an untoasted toaster pastry while on hold with tech support.

Portrait of the artist in the lobby of his dentist's office building, pressing the elevator button repeatedly while a West Indian doorman shakes his head.

Portrait of the artist in Aisle 12 placing a bottle of sweetened ice tea at the back of a shelf after drinking a portion of its contents.*

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* Video installation from store security camera also available. See catalogue.