by Ryan Downey
Tired of waiting he turned off the television and put his shoes on. A weary world traveler visiting Beirut for the third time inspired him to venture out into the city of which he never tired. Enough TV for the day.
First on the agenda, walk along the Schuylkill. The park would be teeming with dogs dragging sticks, hipsters whizzing Frisbees, old folk feeding fowl. Plenty of people watching opportunity. He’d leave his big black Frisbee at home as he would have no one to throw it to and locked the door behind him.
A mile or two into the trail and he was bored. And hungry. And damnit, he forgot his wallet. So he returned to his house in Graduate Hospital to run upstairs to get it. His downstairs neighbor and tenant, Vicki Corcoran, a woman he had only made the mistake of sleeping with twice, passed him coming in. She smiled politely and moved past awkwardly. He took the stairs two at a time and reaching for his wallet saw a familiar blinking light. He had a message. Hope sprang eternal. Listening returned him to Earth, just an offer for a gig. Next on the agenda was a late lunch at Penn’s Landing.
As he signed the check and declined the offer for a small to-go container for what was left of his burger, he took a last good look at the water. Bodies of fresh water were never as appealing to him as the salted, though he found it captivating nonetheless. Shopping in Rittenhouse was next and he figured he would swing home on the way. Better planning may not have seen them ping ponging back and forth across the city, but as there was no ‘them.’ There was a nice dark blue fedora in the Goors Bros. window and if he decided to buy it he didn’t want to have to carry his ball cap around. Dropping his hat on the counter back home, there was that blinking.
Multiple messages. As he ran through them he was glad he neglected to hold his breath this time. Still no word yet.
The streetlights flashed on as he adjusted his new hat in the glow of lamppost. The Continental, size 22 ¼, it fit beautifully. Tilting it slightly to the side, he shoved his hands in his pockets and jingled his keys as he pressed his brachium to the post. This hat was a tad more appropriate to his sport coat than the bright red Phillies hat for which he traded it. Contemplating reservation cancellation, he weighed heavily the humiliation of being stood up, one he had become more than accustomed to over the years, against how hungry he was. Hunger KO’d and he was on his way to the famous steakhouse that was once a bank. Though to be fair it was Center City. Every building used to be a bank. He considered shooting home beforehand. Finding no viable excuse, he decided to go right to dinner. Screw it.
So stuffed he could barely move and seriously buzzing from sharing an expensive bottle of New Zealand’s finest Sauvignon Blanc with himself, the final item on the list was far less appetizing than it was an hour ago. Barhopping with the intent to find a place to fool around drunk in public carried a much different connotation when done solo.
Landing on the idea that hard drinking could be performed as easily and far more economically at home, there set his new destination. He gently placed his smoking plastic back in its leather sheath and headed outside in search of yellow chariot.
Keys crashed on kitchen counter with great melodrama, as did the thud of wallet. He tipped his new fedora back, revealing a cresting wave of gray hair. Debating between radio and television, he compromised and popped in Fantasia. One foot helped another as he pushed off his Cole Haans. Whiskey bottle grasped firmly, he made the mistake of sitting down in his chair before searching for the remote. Back up, across the room he spied the bulb. No flashing light. Not a single. God. Damn. Word.
When The Wine Is In…
Summer was over. Didn’t really seem to matter. Not at world’s end. At 24.55°N and 81.18°W Key West cooked in a tropical soup year round. Just shy of 1700 miles from the equator, the island chain’s hook hid its most popular destination from most major hurricanes, but not from that Florida Sun. Gone now for several hours, the effects remained. He sat, still breathing heavy in a rattan chair with his feet on the open windowsill. This was a surreal place. He never sat so near the ocean without the unmistakable nightly lull of the surf. And he’d never been geographically closer to Cuba than the nearest Wal-Mart.
His scruff was turning beard. No longer short enough for scratching an itch on his arm, he simply pushed his fingers through his softened bristles. Time had taken their edge making his face pillow soft. Useless to one as averse to cuddling as she. But she was asleep and facing the other way and he was in the window with his throw pillow face. Alone with his thoughts.
The water was calm. Even for the Keys. Reflective glow bobbed here and there, but an overall stillness steadied through. His eyes moved from end to end gently tucking the landscape in with his gaze. An iguana, up either really late or really early, scattered out from his daytime hiding spot. Foot traffic caused him to ditch his efforts to cross the street by day. Now he was free to do as he please. Bad news for certain nocturnal insects if fruit was scarce.
The lizard stopped, still as the night air. Still as the palms that lined the boulevard. A sudden breeze rustled the trees, knocked the shutters, flapped the blinds, tickled his feet and swayed the iguana to bob his head. She didn’t stir an inch.
He slapped his left foot with his right as a mosquito tried to get a snack. Between the heat and extreme cardio, his system couldn’t spare a drop. The few cubes he put into his glass of water didn’t stand a chance, sips became increasingly tepid. It felt good to be back at it. She was more beautiful than he remembered. Only their third outing this go run and they were on an island getaway. Granted, the island lacked all manner of glamor, but that fit him well and fit them better. It was hard to believe that in the modern world in this part of the globe there were still rooms that had no air conditioning, either unit or centralized, but dammit if they hadn’t found one. The room was part of an old house owned by a friend of hers on Roosevelt Boulevard in the northeastern corner of the town. Elizabeth Moore had climbed the ranks in computer programming and in her partial retirement decided to save on travel by buying a rundown three bedroom in one of her favorite vacation destinations. It would be another month or so before she’d leave her cozy New York apartment for the winter and took no issue and bargained no charge for her fellow Manhattanite to get some quality R & R.
Their bounds may have been overstepped when they tore into Liz’s personal wine stash, but it was nothing that couldn’t be easily replaced, at least not for him. It was too late for a trip to the store and they were feeling particularly amorous. Chardonnay has done wonders in the art of deal sealing.
The empty glasses were on the dresser to his right. Lipstick lacking a sealing agent reminded him which glass was hers. He picked it up and studied it. His thumb ran smoothly over her lip print, firm enough to catch every contour, gentle enough not to smudge. He pondered. He pondered why she was an outsider to two, rather than one of three. A quick glance caught her shifting where she lay and he returned the glass to its mount. In a complete fog she raised her head and stared at him blinking repeatedly. As her thoughts settled and her dreams finished ending a question crossed her mind and once more he saw her true self.
“Do you like me?” she inquired aloud. After she asked she rubbed her eyes, he looked like a weird blur. Once her vision adjusted to the light and her mind adjusted to being back in this humid room on an island in southern Florida, she managed to make out the expression on his face. Pensive his expression, furrowed his brow. The question of the question hit him harder than the wine. He stared at her longer than he needed to. “Yes,” he finally responded, “of course.” She didn’t smile at his answer; rather she pulled her lips back into her cheeks, satisfied on some level with the response. There were no follow up questions. On many nights, either over the phone or in person, he spoke to great lengths on behalf of his affinity.
The bugs outside played their soundtrack right below the screened window. He breathed hard, his lungs working overtime to compensate for the heavy lingering summer air. Their ga
ze remained fixed in the darkness. “Do you like me?” He almost didn’t bring himself to ask. She swallowed. Not from anxiety over the question that had never really crossed her mind. Just because she was still waking up. “Yes,” she affirmed in a small, sweet voice. The rasp soothed his soul and the answer was simple, but gratifying. Not another word was spoken before she returned to her slumber. And they both missed the point. She didn’t need to ask. And he shouldn’t have had to.
Proxima Centauri
Balled in the front. With a very definite cone-like formation, faded. With smaller linear dashes on either side. Not nearly as bright at the back as it was at the front. The one obscure rutilant light making its way through the blinds of the window and traveling gradually with the movement of the sun casting a streak across the motel room wall. It was so stuffy, like there was no oxygen. The humidity had sucked the air out of the room.
She fell on Alabama the night before. Got in late so she didn’t do much beyond check-in. Not that there was a whole hell of a lot to do. Recent promotion gave more chance to travel, making clear how little the world had to offer. What a drag.
It was almost time to get up. She fiddled with the fun size candy the housemaids left on pillows instead of mints. Cute idea she thought. Hadn’t had a lunch date in some time. Wasn’t particularly excited about this one. She made the mistake of calling him from the Montgomery airport and blew her master plan. With cloak in carry-on and dagger checked, cover forfeit and once again he just “happened to be in the area.” Suspicions still felt confirmed of something wrong with this guy as the odds that anyone she knew ‘just happened’ to be in Alabama had to be astronomical. The new guy, Rodney Stein, a fellow tribesman, was last on her mind however.
He was. And that damn streak. And the S.S. Pleiades. She should have let him get ice cream. A subsequent trip to New York and she took him for frozen yogurt. And she knew ultimately he didn’t care. Still, she could be a real pain in the ass sometimes. She knew it. Didn’t do it on purpose. When something is of no consequence to one’s self, easy to forget it may be of great consequence to another. She opened the candy bar and snacked on chocolate, caramel and nougat while she pondered. The alarm went off and a quick shower and pant suit stood between her and an awkward rendezvous. Maybe she’d set up a rendezvous of her own. Give him a call. Wait, no. Well yes, she could certainly call him. And soon. But given her coordinates, she could do him one better. After her shower she would cancel her lunch. Rodney gave her the creeps anyway. She wasn’t sure which landmark she would go with. Either would certainly suffice. Monuments to a powerful stand. A different time. She supposed she would just go with whichever one was closer. Jail in Birmingham or bridge in Selma, affecting and probably boring at the same time. Whichever she chose, she knew one thing for certain. She would take the bus to get there.
Shabbat Shalom
For once, he was traveling on business. A friend at a local university burned a favor and under pressure he found himself back in Chicago. There was never any desire to return beyond his first trip, through no fault of Chicago’s own. The buildings were tall, the streets were paved. The river ran and the statues were shit on. It was a city like any other. But the long weekend he had spent there so many years ago left a note of melancholia around every corner. He steadied his eyes everywhere he went. If he kept looking ahead, he might not see the bar. The deli. The fancy Italian restaurant or the steakhouse owned by a former NFL champ. The hotel. The park. Not really remembering where anything was would surely lead to unpleasant surprises.
Dressed, he was back in bed. Or on it. He wasn’t familiar with local Chicago television, but since he knew he would be doing a bit of walking, he figured he’d try to catch the weather. Strangely, there was only one option at this hour. A beautiful young meteorologist, Chelsea O’Neill, 25, blonde and slender, who had grown up in Aurora and moved to the big city with dreams of being on television to provide her people with up to the minute forecasts, had some good news for anyone out and about for the day. He turned the news off. It wasn’t her of course, but he couldn’t stomach one more day of the seven day. Odd thing to be unable to handle weather. Chicago wasn’t the only city to have some everyday.
The dining hall adjacent to the lobby designated for the complimentary continental breakfast was packed with suits. He didn’t think he had to be dressed for the occasion, but his wrinkled, half open button down swam awkwardly through a sea of ties. Not that he really cared. He wasn’t much for first impressions or worrying about the opinions of a bunch of strangers he’d never see again. The coffee was fresh, had to be. Moving way too fast to get stale. He picked over his fruit and the blueberry muffin he thought he wanted went relatively untouched.
Showering was not on the agenda and neither was changing. There didn’t seem to be a need. He was there to be heard, not smelled. He picked up his school bag, having never purchased a briefcase to replace it. Dropping his plate off in the appropriate dish drop area, he grabbed a Chicago Sun-Times in the lobby and strolled listlessly through the double sliding doors. With several hours to kill, he would take the opportunity to make his way to Navy Pier. No memories waiting for him there.
What a unique and wonderful place. Rides and amusements comparable to those found at a northeastern seaside resort hundreds of miles from the nearest ocean. Finding a bench in front of the Terminal Building was no issue and he sat with the Windy City’s sole remaining rag, enjoying glances of a great view between articles. The view felt familiar, minus the salty aroma. The news was the same. Major upset in playoff baseball. Political scandal involving unsuspecting interns. Mother drowns her four children in a bathtub. Going to rain again. They should just print the damn things a day in advance, predict the future. Same old song and dance.
A speaker above his head played instrumental versions of top selections from the Great American Songbook. He barely noticed at first as he turned from page to page. Had he, it may have hit him sooner. But it wasn’t until one of the less popular songs played. The moonlight on the lake. The promises they made. And all in an instant the things they did last summer were as clear to him as ever. She wasn’t the one weighing heavy on his mind. It caught him off guard and he wasn’t sure why. Afterall, it was her hometown and while they’d never travelled there together in all their romantic ventures, she spoke of it often in reference to many of her friends and most of her family. The story about the time she went to a Cubs v. Phillies game at Wrigley Field when she was eight and inhaled hot dogs so fast that she threw up all over the stands made him chuckle, but the fond reminiscence would more or less end there.
His free time was dwindling and now dancing on a pier he had never been on in his life was all he could think about. It was time to go. He passed several food stands, but if his appetite was compromised before, it certainly was nowhere to be found now.
The University was south, but the bus he needed was north and kept close to the waterfront heading towards Chestnut Street. Hearing the song had put his head through a loop and his guard was down. So when he saw her sitting at a table near a window in a café for a casual lunch, two or three double takes were required to ensure he wasn’t just seeing things. Again, it was her hometown. But again, she was seldom there. A respectable suit, who looked like he belonged at the continental breakfast, sat across from her. Pigs in shit would have been put to shame by his ear to ear. And why not. A gorgeous, successful, older woman made him the envy of the staff. She looked content.
Befuddled by the odds, he didn’t stare long. It was rude. Glare and gleam shot across his right eye, temporarily blinding him and jarring him from his stance in time to move on and go unnoticed by the diners. Once safely past the building, he stopped for a minute. Looking back at the café door as another couple passed through he harbored consideration of going in to say ‘hello.’ The passion it takes to pump bad blood through one’s veins had dissipated years prior. The only thought on his mind as he decided against it i
n favor of catching his bus was what had brought her home. As it happens, she was in town for a wedding.
The class sat with ill-developed anticipation. The only real bonus here was that they didn’t have to take notes as nothing that would follow would find its way to test or quiz. A few eager students were anxious to hear what he had to say. That is until they saw him. He was older than they realized and more tired looking than someone should be in the early afternoon. He was slovenly, unkempt. Not gross or even ugly, per se. Just looked like had he put any effort into his appearance whatsoever, a different impression would be given. A razor and ironing board go a long way for a generation used to things being sleek, shiny and polished. And this dinosaur was about to lecture them for the next hour.
His speech was impressive. Clearly he knew his stuff. The delivery could have used some work. While his intellectual points were all landing gracefully, any attempts at humor either fell flat or were simply skipped. Self-editing on the spot became the name of the game as joke after joke was omitted. Not that it was a comedy routine, but the material felt dry in preparation, needing a spritz of humor.
The speech concluded with generous applause. He nodded appreciatively and gathered his papers holding his breath. Dread overtook as he hoped in vain that the inevitable wouldn’t happen. Then, Professor Horton White, his longtime friend and colleague polled the class asking in the remaining minutes before dismissal if anyone had any questions for their special guest. Their special guest, gracious, yet begrudged, put his bag down and scanned the room. Northbrook native, 22-year-old Tori Beckman was the first and one of only a few to raise her hand. She was called on with a silent nod. “You spoke earlier of how availability heuristic is the biggest influence in all forms of writing, including the editing process. Could you give an example of a time where your personal experience really came into play with a project?”
