FIl woke early. Water dripped down from a crack in his foliage roof. He got up and patched it with some dirt and leaves.The rain would cake the leaves together. People wanted their news. He rifled through his pile of rags and pulled out a patched up raincoat. It was too big. He had 'borrowed' it from the local store, and he was small for his age. His morning routine. He clambered down the branches and jogged to the edge of the town by the highway. Everyday, he found the newspapers. He didn't know who left them there, but he took advatage of it to make some nickels. He had to walk back under the weight of all the words he carried. He put the news down, stuck the sign back on the bus stop, placed the cup by his feet, and waited. It would be a long day. The constant drizzle was no bother to him. He just sat back and watched another sorry day unfold.
The first sign of life was the swindler, picking up his S.S. money. He had a stain on his shirt. Fil swore the man did it on purpose. Alan was high yet though. Maybe this day would turn around for him. No. there he goes to get his supply of syringes. When he was safely back in the building, the crazy woman came out of the store. She looked both ways and hurried back to her appartment building, oblivious to the rain. Fil felt sorry for her. The showgirl came out. She was wearing a smile, as always. Fil could not see why. When the world helped him out, he would smile, maybe say something, but not 'til then.
Another slow day. No one really bought newspapers, especially soggy on-ow, he thought. Someone had just run into him. People never noticed him. He liked it that way. This woman didn't notice either. Her face was blocked by boxes of flowers, stacked in her arms.
He waited. Now dusk, it was still raining. A woman on her phone crossed the street to Oscar's. She looked tense. The man that had been following her since she came to this town went after her. She came out quickly. She had blood on her hand. FIl was worried. The man didn't come out. Resigned, Fil started packing up for the night. Things were getting strange. Stranger than normal. He wanted to get out, but this was the only place he could remain anonymous, but he felt that was about to change. The town was stirring from its stupor. He didn't like it one bit.
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Elizabeth smiled as she turned over in the sheets beneath the warm rays of sunlight streaming in through the window. She could smell a hint of pancake batter as the fragrance floated down the hall. He must already be awake. Stripping her legs of the white down comforter, she rose and slipped her lightly tanned feet into a pair of flip-flops. Suddenly two beautifully strong arms wrapped around her as the ever so familiar delicate nose tickled her ear. She smiled.
'Good morning,' he grinned. 'Did you sleep well?'
'What time is it?'
'Five minutes until breakfast, and a quarter 'till a stroll on the beach.'
'Excellent,' she whispered. She turned to him.
His hazel eyes were mesmerizing.
Her hand tingled as it ran through his short brown hair and rested on his shoulder. Their heads turned ever so slightly. Noses brushing, their lips inched closer and closer and closer . . .
Elizabeth sat up straight from her bed as a cloud of thunder shook the windows. She was sweating.
'It was just a dream,' she thought. 'Nothing more than a memory.' She paused. 'Like the mail my newly discovered neighbor so kindly incarcerated for me. No worries.'
Smiling, she allowed her feet to lead her to the small dining table with patience in each carefully placed step. The walls seemed to be falling away in her mind. Beside the laptop, a small leather-bound notebook lay open, with the name George Bernard Shaw scribed at the bottom of the page, and above "The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only man who writes about all people and all time."
And so she opened a new document and began to type.
Kurt Tucholsky once said, "Those who hate most fervently must have once loved deeply; those who want to deny the world must have once embraced what they now set on fire." As I sit before my evolutionary pen and paper, it is clear that my current state is a conjunction of completing deeds of necessity and returning to myself. Returning to the individual I used to be before I met the infamous Malcolm Gainnes. From the moment I met him I felt a looming presence surround me, like the sensation of a stranger looking over one's shoulder. It isn't necessary to look. The presence is known. This consciousness suddenly disappeared after I remembered my roots and faced him. At first it surprised me — the idea that a weight had been lifted from my mind. But then the thought is provoked - what caused this weight to exist in the first place? I will tell you now it is nothing more or less than having the deepest desire for what you wished in your heart to be true, knowing all along that it was utterly and completely fallacious.
Three hours later Elizabeth grabbed her coat and headed out the door. She needed something to get the crick out of her neck and relieve her pounding headache. The story was finally there. She had finally grasped the right entrance. Though it seemed to present a new and alarming problem - her fingers weren't able to endure the speed at which the story flowed through her mind. They were throbbing.
The sun hadn't risen when she reached the side walk, and she didn't care. She found she preferred the total darkness and the cool breeze which accompanied it. That is, unless it includes the presence of a questionable figure in the shadows. She stopped and turned towards the corner. A man wearing a trench coat and hat carried a briefcase. He looked like he was on the run. But what was he running from? Or to ....
Elizabeth looked to the ground. It was there again. Maybe it wasn't Malcolm who'd caused it that night, maybe it was ....
"Do I know you?" she asked.
"Did you take care of him?" he asked.
Elizabeth paused. 'Him?' What was she thinking? There has only been one 'him' in her life. "Knocked him senseless was all."
"Then it's done." And he disappeared.
Elizabeth turned away from the corner. 'I really need some coffee,' she thought.
Gusty day
It was a gusty day. Fresh with exciting. Invigorating right to the bone, chilling the heat, and jump-starting the mind. Marissa awoke this morning with a rejunevated spirit, and as always, she couldn't explain why. It was just a windy, gusty, intense sort of day.
Her day off from work, too. That was always a plus. And combined with the inspiring wind, the day's atmosphere was breathed cooly and easily. It was a Wednesday, no, maybe, a Thursday? -- it didn't matter. Marissa grasped the ball, handed to her by a mysterious force deep within the gloom of Washington Heights, and ran with it.
She slipped on her pink Chucks, remnants of her high school days. Before the baby, before getting kicked out, before Washington Heights. And off she skipped, spritely toward the Metro and then off to the University. She had her one morning class of the week, and she was excited.
Wait a second, what day is it again? Oh, Thursday -- good, she did have class and breathed a sigh of relief. And plus, tomorrow is Friday. She always appreciated Thursdays, though. The anticipation for the weekend always caught her senses -- she almost enjoyed the eager waiting more than the actual weekend. She lived by hope.
But not everyone did, and Marissa received a stark reminder as she saw Fil scramble around to repair his roof. He offered her a paper, and though she almost replied in the affirmative, she couldn't bring herself to it. New York Times, only. Not the Baltimore Sun. She had enough of Baltimore. In her mind, she dreamed of Broadway, Wall Street . . . Baker Street was the present, and she wanted none of it.
As her mind wandered off into the future, her past came back to shock her. No, not anyone or anything directly related to Hyannisport, Massachusetts. That didn't even matter. The past came to her in the form of Molina Rose, who shared her story. Once normal, even affluent, but then took a turn for the worse.
Worse? What am I thinking? she pondered. This is a great life, she retorted. This is freedom. No parents, no yacht clubs or tea parties -- no expectations. At least, none from anyone else. As Marissa hopped on the train to downtown, the only things she expected came from herself and herself only. All the cute boys at school, just distractions. All the foolish people in Washington Heights, all just distractions.
The future lay waiting at the other end of the subway line, at the other end of a college diploma, at the other end of a cul-de-sac, with a happy house, a happy family, and a happy life.
Charlie came up with a lame excuse to miss work the morning after he bought his tool.
"I gotta go to the doctor, I gotta stomach ache and I need medicine," Charlie lamely said to Ms. Wong.
"Okay Charlie! You make noodles when you come back though," Ms. Wong replied.
"Alright. The noodles, I got it." Charlie replied.
Charlie stepped out the noodle store and jacked the nearest bike he could find. He came upon a beautiful BMX bike with the black mags so nice, and he had to have it. Charlie whipped out a pair of metal cutters, busted the lock, and was rolling out in under 30 seconds. He popped a few bunny hops and wheelies, trying to look natural on his newly stolen bike.
Then Charlie remembered he had to stay focused. He scanned the worn out dump of a town that laid out in front of him, it wasn't New York and subways, but it would have to do. He had to throw up one of the biggest graffiti pieces he had ever done. All for her. He rolled down several roads but couldn't find the right spot to sketch out his master plan.
Soon, Charlie came upon a local, but lovable bum named Fil. He bought a couple of soggy newspapers from Fil, and inquired about some of Fil's favorite chill spots. Charlie knew bums always knew where straight spots to sleep were, and where there were bums, there was always a good spot to do some graffiti.
"Well, I don't know mister, some times when it gets really cold I will climb into the old warehouse at the edge of downtown and sleep in there," Fil replied, leaking out a breath that smelled of raw sewage and rat piss.
"Thanks Fil, I can always count on you," Charlie said.
Charlie popped a ill barspin of the curb and quickly pedaled away. As he looked at the sky's overcast clouds he could almost make out his mother's face smiling down onto him. He was surprised and felt chills go down his spine, Charlie looked up for one more glance; but didn't see the open manhole.
Blackness.
Charlie slowly lifted his head from the pool of salty sticky liquid around him. It was nighttime now, probably eight or nine o'clock. Charlie turned down to realized that his head was resting in a pool of his own blood. He remembered the feeling of the curb smacking him in the back of the head now. He got to his feet and felt light-headed. He could barely mount the bike to ride home.
When Charlie finally had ditched the bike and stumbled into the Chinese restaurant, it was probably one in the morning. He made noodles like a zombie, emotionless and tired. He fell onto his cot, and the blood on the back of his head had just started to coagulate, it had also stopped bleeding partially because of the immense amount of dirt in the gash.
Charlie slept deeper than he had in his whole life.
IV
Naublus felt empowered. His grey sun shone once again. His psyche was illuminated. His tread was sure and strong, and he stepped up into the United States of America.
"Oh, America the Beautiful!" Naublus exclaimed in a whisper. Ming Ming's: the immigrant builds a better life for himself. Washington Heights Apartments: Industry heralds an era of enlightened understanding. Oh, and the cars, the cars! America, speeding on its racetrack of glory.
"I love America," Naublus said, frowning. A gust carried the smell of fermented ginger mixed with gas. Naublus tipped over on his side, giving him a chigger's view of Washington Heights -- it looked majestic, grand, and surreal. Or was this all in Naublus' head. He scratched it find out, eventually ripping his scalp off.
"Naublus, Naublus, Naublus!" Lady Liberty, Naublus' precious ho. "What have you done to yourself? She sucked each jut of her crown like a popsicle, at which 55 crimson demon-fairies fluttered in. Each carried a hair, which they planted in Naublus boily, pimply scalp. As if baptized by Miracle-Gro, Naublus' crown of cell phone-black hair grew.
"There, there, Naublus my dear." Out of the grey, a huge, tornado-looking shape dropped from the sky, covering Lady Liberty. Up into the heavens she was sucked. Naublus breathed easier. Lady Liberty confirmed his love for America. Suddenly a flabbergasted tourist, he went sightseeing.
A grizzly bear of a man sold newspapers on the curb. Entrepreneurship, gotta love it. All-American.
Ahead of him, on the sidewalk, a Red Mustang jammed in a light post. The aftermath of a car crash. The diamonds on the driver especially caught Naublus attention. The high life, Mustangs and diamonds. God bless America.
Naublus could breathe again, the smog scrubbing his lungs of SMARTA air, which is really dust mixed with air.
Delilah awoke slowly. Sundays demanded a change in pace, even though, without a job or schedule of any kind, Sunday was really no different from any other day. But there was just something.
Delilah sat cross-legged in her bed and looked out the small window. Her bleak world was, as usual, suffocated by blanketed gray clouds. She counted the pigeons as they flew by. One. Two. Three. Four.
Five.
Satisfied, she looked around her small, well-decorated bedroom. Across from her her majestic vanity loomed, a seemingly worthy ruler of its domain. However, on closer inspection, the dresser felt dismembered, maimed. Delilah recalled the hopeless afternoon in January soon after she had arrived in Washington Heights, prying the mirror off with various kitchen utensils and basic tools. The day itself was enough to face first thing in the morning, she'd thought. She'd put the mirror out on the street that night.
The next morning, it was gone.
Delilah's eyes, slowly adjusting to the Sunday, fell upon the heaping pile of dirty laundry by the closet door. The day began to take shape.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Delilah turned her bedside lamp on and off, on and off. The red lampshade cast an awkwardly warm light on the whole room. With most of her clothes in a formidable mound on the floor, Delilah's dresser drawers seemed eerily deserted. With few options, she dressed herself, taking her time. The quiet apartment and quiet streets demanded nothing of her. Especially not on Sunday.
Draped in cottons, polyesters, wool blends, and denims, Delilah left her room, carefully avoiding the cracks in her beautiful floors. In the bathroom she brushed her teeth five times. With so many years of careful hygiene, her smile had the potential to be radiant, but the necessary mechanisms for such an act had long ago grown rusty and immobile.
On her way out the doors of Washington Heights, Delilah made her traditional Sunday stop at the mail room. She'd gotten her week's mail on Sunday since she moved to this building. Delilah's thinking behind the unusual timing of her trip rested in the fact that her timing was indeed unusual, and she was less likely to run into one of her neighbors. She found the small, square, metal cubby labeled 505 and inserted her small, tarnished gold key. She removed the small stack of letters before shutting the tiny door with a metallic plink. Then bag of laundry and collection of envelopes in hand, Delilah stepped onto the streets of her inhospitable neighborhood.
Before her mind became completely focused on her first piece of mail, she spotted the boy at the bus stop, selling papers. This Sunday he stood on the stack so that the pages would not rustle and blow away with the sporadic gusts. She felt so sorry for him. Some days she crossed the road and bought a paper. But not today.
She slowly walked the straight path to the laundromat against the wind. The drawstrings of her dirty laundry bag digging into the crook of her bent arm, Delilah examined the first letter in her stack. It was from the DMV.
Dear Miss Plunk,
We regret to inform you that your request to change the date of birth that appears on your license from January 24 to May 5 has been denied. We at the Department of Motor Vehicles are not at liberty to
Disappointed, Delilah shoved the letter back into the prepaid envelope and moved it to the back of the stack. Next came a post card from her brother. The first in nearly a month. She admired the beautiful turquoise of the Norwegian fjords, the daffodil sunset, the clean air before flipping the card over. Delilah managed a slight smile as she struggled to decode the message hidden in her brother's abysmal penmanship.
After her unexpected lesson in modern hieroglyphics, she eyed the third envelope as she arrived at the laundromat. Something was familiar about the way her name was written. Something comforting. But before she could make out the return address, a violent gust of wind tussled her hair, slammed into her chest like a sack of bricks, and sent the letter flying out of her fat fingers. Dropping her bag of laundry at the door of the laundromat, Delilah chased the letter as it danced across an empty Baker street and made its way for Barton. Still avoiding the cracks in the pavement, Delilah looked like a light-footed child chasing a butterfly.
The graceful envelope finally came to rest. Delilah quickened her pace slightly, worried the wind might pick up again and send the mysterious letter flying once more. Only as she bent her knees to retrieve the mischievous parcel did Delilah notice where she was. The sheer power of the many voices threatened to shatter the beautiful, tall stained glass windows that flanked the side of the otherwise bleak gray chapel. With no better reason than forceful curiosity, Delilah, letter in hand, climbed the wide cement steps to the large wooden doors. Her five plump fingers wrapped themselves around the brass handle and pulled.
Even with the door barely cracked, just enough to see through, the massive chorus accosted Delilah's senses with waves and waves of glorious sound. Their red robes glowed against the black of their skins, the ecstasy of their craft written upon their faces – eyes closed, heads tilted, white teeth glistening like the moon. All of them swaying on the bleachers in unison reminded Delilah of the summer breeze whispering softly to the soft flowers of the garden, His gar–
The door slammed shut as Delilah's attention flew back to the forgotten envelope in her hands. Her mind racing, fat fingers quivering slightly, she eyed the return address.
Oh my God.
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