28 Years:

Vacation Home: Day One

 

“I could sleep for a thousand years.”

He looked at the lighthouse flash of the digital dashboard digits. 11:58am. They’d started their trip only ninety-three minutes ago, almost strangers. Everything they knew of each other were outlines that vaguely made out the shape of the who, what, when, why, and was: names, origins, faint mutualities. It was all they knew, packed into the back of a car, along with duffle bags and only the most conscious of carry ons in their mobile cabin.

“Feel free, as long you don’t get jealous of the music keeping me company while you’re out.”

“Deal. Just don’t let the music get fresh with you, I don’t want to wake up to you crying about how the music got fresh with you.”

Three days earlier, Benni and Liam met for the first time. A random change encounter bridged by a mutual friend. When Liam first saw her talking to Stacy, one thought crossed his mind: “Who is that?”. He made sure to find out. Cornering Stacy, Liam asked him the same question out loud.

“Who? Benni? We used to work together. Why?”

It was a good question. A great one, even.

“I don’t know. What’s her deal? Tell me everything you know about her.”

Stacy rolled his eyes, simultaneously sighed, and replied to the audastic statement.

“You want me to introduce you to her?

“Yes, please.”’

They found her reading a book in the midst of the party - a collection of short stories by DH Lawrence. Liam was familiar with the anthology - his own copy was scrawled pages and pages over, illegible to anyone but himself.

“Have you read ‘The Blind Man’ yet?”

“Excuse me?”

“Nevermind, I don’t mean to be bothering you”

“You’re not bothering me. The music’s just really loud and I could hear you.”

Benni’s words were barely taking flight, but Liam had already started walking away when Stacy intercepted him, bringing him back.

“Benni, this is Liam. He’s visiting me from California.”

Liam waved proudly. Benni threw one back at him.

“What part of California? I just got back from spending some time there.”

“All over.”

“I wish I could say that.”

Stacy shook his head, and walked away to leave the two birds.

“What’s your deal? What brought you out to Broolyn?”

It was a long story. Would he tell her about the copious life disappointments that had brought his here, to this visit, or tell her he was just visiting, the most empty of answers filled with nothing? It was a question loaded with .44 caliber bullets, all chambers firing up. He aimed, he fired.

“Not much. Just came to visit some friends.”

Most women would’ve loved the dickish romantic mystery of his reply.

“That’s cool. But what’s your deal, really? I mean, really really.”

“I missed New York.”

Three words, but they were the three words that mattered, precise and honest.

“Yeah? Me too. It’s why I moved back.”

Liam was already liking this girl, even though he’d only exchanged less than 50 words with her. He decided to let himself be vulnerable. She seemed worth it.

“There’s just something about being in New York. Its like going on a work trip for a long time, and the whole time you’re gone, you forget about your bed because you’ve been sleeping in so many of them for so long. You get comfortable. But then your work comes to an end and you get home, you drop your bags, and you envelope yourself in the bed. And you remember - your sheets, your pillows, your mattress, your blankets, the hairs you forgot to clean up. All of it. And you remember you’re home. I feel all of that when I’m walking down 14th, grabbing a bagel, hanging with the city, and finishing the night with hot dogs and weird papaya magic drinks. Except right now, home isn’t New York. Home is Los Angeles.”

“But LA’s more like work,” Benni replied.

“Yeah.”

The stillness of their moment was lit only by the yellow burn of a porch light. Benni, always the brave one, asked another question.

“Why don’t you quit working and come home, then?”

Her eyes tilted down, his pupils multiplied on top of themselves. Maybe from the glow of the light. Maybe. Liam cut through the silence with another simple question:

“What’re you doing tomorrow?”

In real time, it was only a few seconds. But every movement Benni made in those seconds lasted for minutes, hours. She crossed her left ankle behind her right achilles, dropped her left shoulder from 90 to 45 degrees, brushed her hair back behind her left ear, and bit the right side of the inside of her cheek ever so slightly. She winced ever so slight, then used the precise words at the exact time with completely perfect pitch:

“Nothing yet.”

 

Bartering on a Tuesday Morning

He’d just gotten paid that Friday. He didn’t think it would be a problem to take her out.

Her - the woman he was so impressed by, and the woman he wanted to understand.

He remembered the first time – they’d waxed idiotic over a mutual admiration for Talleyrand.  He wanted to hug her at that moment. She hugged him first. 

Most people would’ve looked at her - the beautiful eyes, the girl next door smile, or the kick you in the shins good looks. That’s all they’d see. He wasn’t blind to the fact that she was a knockout. But it wasn’t everything. No. A lot of women are beautiful. That’s it.

The way she made eye contact with everyone, her subtle sincerity, her adorably awkward personality - everything about her. GUMPTION. She embodied it. It’s something he didn’t see often. If ever.

With eyes closed black, he pitched her the idea of walking around the lake together, and she caught it with a glimmer. They agreed to meet up on a Tuesday.

Soon after that was when he realized he had a lack of funds.  He wasn’t sure what to do. She wouldn’t care. But he did. He tried picking up extra shifts at other shops to make some cash, quick. But no one needed him on such short notice.

There were a lot of things he had – things he had for the sake of having things.  Looking around his apartment, he saw a hodge podge of junk.

Knowing they would be of better service to those in need, he consolidated his life to the necessities.

The morning of the big day, he gathered books, movies, clothes, anything a store would buy - and tossed them into the backseat of his car. A clock told him he had to 115 minutes. Because in 115 minutes, he had to meet her.

He drove around the city, finding places he never knew existed. Ulysses Books. Cinema Shangri-La. Atlas Clothing.

With each book sold, each movie bought, each article gone, hope grew. It was the purging of a life he didn’t want anymore.

He didn’t know why he was doing all of this. But - he knew she was…It isn’t hard to let go of things. They’re only that. THINGS. She was a beautifully weird woman. In that moment, she was everything.

115 minutes later, cash in hand, he readied himself to see her.  She was to meet him on the curb.

He drove around, looking for parking. Finally finding a spot to settle in, he waited for her. Nervous, he got out and looked to see if he could spot her. He looked at a screen:

“Flight 2714 – Delayed.”

Robbie & Jack

He crushed the cigarette into an ashtray full of half-smoked butts, rubbing out another minute into a collective of dust and nerves. He let out a breath of smoke, burning all the way to the tip of his tongue.  

He wasn’t supposed to be smoking anymore. Doctor’s orders. On the other hand, they had told him a lot of things over the years, and almost every messy heap turned into a barely noticeable speck.

Not this time, though. But Jack wouldn’t let himself believe they were right. He could give a fuck less. Besides, he was more concerned about the lady across from him, his friend, who’d had a rough one. He didn’t need pity. Not right now.

As a haze shrouded his worries, Jack looked at his company and locked onto her; she looked back with eyes shielded by frames and glass.

Robbie was wearing a shirt from her beau of the moment, a green button-down flannel, obstructed by her golden tresses laid heavily against the fabric. The left shoulder of her shirt hung off, as if in a constant shrug. Her torn jean shorts were as wildly frayed as the summer nights of Echo Park, her bare feet  kept warm by a day’s worth of heat. When she wasn’t drinking her whiskey, she was drawing circles on the rim of her glass, all the while keeping her porcelain eyes in a perpetual state of forever.

Jack took a swig of the drink in front of him. If there was a straw, he would’ve bent it over the rim of his glass, and puckered his lips whenever he took a sip. His heather grey shirt was drizzled with what might as well have been shit, and his pressed denim cuffed coarsely against his Red Wing boots.

The overexaggerated pursing of his lips told a lot about Jack - just as much as his drink: whiskey neat, side of water.

Robbie had seen it all before. She knew as much as there was to know about Jack.

This was just another night of friends having a drink, playing a round of verbal dodgeball. They hadn’t seen each other since Jack started dating Francis, and Robbie was busy enough trying to keep it together with Danni. But Francis was out, and Danni, too. They saw their window.

Whenever Robbie was in his company, Jack knew to exhale his smoke in another direction, an act she appreciated. It was friendship at its best.

She returned the courtesy with nights they’d spent too drunk to remember, but not so drunk that they wouldn’t remember waking up the next day, separately, and the conversation they’d had, an occurrence foreign to both of them.

For whatever reason, even though he thought she was a looker, Jack never got it confused. He knew what he was; a replacement boyfriend for the night’s she needed a sounding board, for the night’s she was fighting with whomever, whatever, and for the days she couldn’t be with herself.  

Tonight was a night meant for catching up and getting down. Robbie and Jack had the luxury of being completely stripped naked when they talked; they needed that in each other. No fronts, no armor, just them.

Robbie finally opened her mouth with the intent of forming words, when Jack cut her off.

“How you been, kid?”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean how’ve you been? I ain’t seen you in a minute.”

“I was gonna ask you the same. How’ve you been?”

“I asked first. Besides, you know how this works.”

She looked at him to see what he was getting at.

“So how’ve you been Robbie?”

“You know, lots of changes. I’m crazy with the new job. That place is a total shit show…”

“I didn’t ask about how your work is. I asked how you’re doing.’

“Work is good. I told you. How’re you doing?”

“What?”

“I asked how you were doing.”

“You didn’t answer the question. Is everything okay?”

“No I didn’t, and yes, everything’s great. You drink a little too much before I got here?”

“I’m only three dips into this glass right here and it’s the first one I’ve had all night. How’re things between you and Frank?”

“Everything is fine. I think it’s too early for us to be having these back and forths. I definitely haven’t had enough drinks to be talking about everything. And I haven’t seen you since Christmas. Are you alright?”

“I’m good…”

He took another sip.

“You know, lining my ducks up, getting my legs back. Yesterday, I finally got somethin’ done.”

“Oh yeah, what was that?”

“I told myself, ‘Jack, you’re gonna wake up tomorrow and not feel like shit.’ And here I am.”

“You’re a regular go getter.”

“Thanks.”

Robbie finished the rest of her glass, then filled the crystal back halfway. She reached for his pack of Camels.

“Can I bum one of those from you?”

“You don’t smoke.”

“I smoke around you, sometimes.”

He tapped a stick out of his pack and handed it to her, butt end out. Jack watched as she inhaled before it was lit, and burned her lungs like a pack a day vet.

“I forgot.”

She tapped the ashes off the smoldering end with her pinky, and dropped the lighter from her right hand to pick up the glass. Robbie put it to the light, examining its detail, the spectrum it gave off, and twirled the liqor like a hurricane before setting it down. She picked it back up after giving herself a beat; eyes down at the spinning gold. And Robbie drowned in the rest of her bourbon.

She coughed a bit.

“You in a hurry?”

“No, it’s just good bourbon.”

“Well, then you know you should sip it, right?”

“See Jack, you say that, just like everyone else. But I want all the goodness at once. Little sips don’t cut it.”

Jack sneered at her proclamation.

“So what if that’s all the goodness you got left, and you gotta ration it out a little bit? I’d rather hold onto that last sip until I know there’s no way I ain’t gonna be able to get it anymore. See Robbie, that way, it’s the last thing I get before I close my eyes.”

Robbie took another gulp.

“Yeah? And what if your eyes close up before your drink does?”

“Then it’s still the last sip I had before my eyes closed. Besides, when I wake up, I either got a drink waiting for me in, or someone else gets to have what I got.”

“I guess I’m selfish, then. Because when I have a glass, that’s my glass. Not theirs, not yours, just mine.”

Robbie twisted her glass around again, only to find it drunk up.

“Shit, is the bottle out?”

Jack leaned over the table and tipped his glass into hers.

“Yeah, but here, have some of mine.”

She flipped her hair and creaked her neck to the right.

“Thanks.”

Jack stared off into the night while Robbie locked eyes on him. The smog cut out the stars, and the sky was nothing but a dusty black sand. He said nothing, she said nothing. A buzz cut the silence, and Robbie looked down at her phone. Jack looked away.

2816 Miles (re-edit)

2816 Miles. That was the amount of distance between them when they went to bed every night.

He lived in a cheap efficiency apartment. The deep blue of his carpet was stained, turned near black. Dingy to walk on, the loose thread of the rug struck the soles every time any one dared to tread it, irritating them with the itch of an invisible bed bug that snuck into the walker’s psyche. The stove was covered in a sticky film that had sanitized itself into the white metal of the gas ranges, and forged onto the black handles of the oven, giving them a clear sheen and existence. A green rag valiantly failed to brighten an otherwise dingy heat box, which the stove could have easily been mistaken for and might as well have been. The ice box sat next to the stove, and it all but guaranteed that any efforts from the opulently dirty oven would fall short. The fridge was the one item which was pristine in appearance - but barren shelves, old milk, and the odor of molted garlic gave away its age.  

Still, Kero was home. His rent was low, the apartment big enough for the few things he owned, and at the very least, the place was his and his alone. Books smiled at him from their own little corner, his movies winked from another, and the kitchen was always ready with a greasy handshake. All of this somehow configured in his modest studio apartment - from his bed he saw everything, and he liked everything he saw. There was no discomfort, no unfamiliarity. He had kept the same blue bed sheets that were used in the apartments before.

Though previous tenements were larger, and had their own body facilities, they induced anxiety filled residences within vacancies in the usually empty faculties of his mind. From apartment 11 on Bush Street, to apartment #A on 17^th Ave., 500 on Oak Street, and last before, apartment 210 on Edgemont. None of them felt right. Now simply living in apartment 10 on Bellevue in a strange place he cognitively recognized. The soft fiber wood frame of his bed reflected dim light throughout the cozy dwelling, his cabinet record player, typewriter, and sewing desk harkening to older days. The flat screen TV, DVD player, and cell phone charger were the only objects of note that gave away that the year was, in fact, 2012.

Chuck was in a different city with different surroundings. While Kero’s was extravagant in its simplicity, her’s was simple in its extravagance. The Rhodes piano, slightly inoperable against the clean, white walls of her apartment, was the first exhibit to this end. While her furniture was also of an older and different time than the one she lived in, the apartment was an explosion of Chuck’s old fashioned tastes with extravagant means.

She lived in a neighborhood full of strollers and boutiques, with the only delinquents consisting of teenagers bored out of their mind and pre-teens with nothing worse to do than to break into buildings they thought to be abandoned.

Entering Chuck’s apartment, the kitchen, organized and quaint, turned her plain storage into ornate decorations, with a backsplash laid with an azure tile to greet new visitors. A few steps more, and her living room was reached. It was where the Rhodes sat (in addition to the a of knick knacks) that queued the onlooker that Chuck was an artist – in a different time, she would have most likely found herself amongst the elite of society in a city with more renown, or traveling – forever on the road.

The hard wood gave her solid ground to walk on, and only framed the watermelon colored sofa that said everything about her. Used laundry, not dirty, was sorted out in a messy pile next to her bed, and from this pile she decided the attire for her day, sometimes her night.

They were two people who fit each other in an unexplainable way. Though she’d grown up on the right coast and he on the left, they shared a commonality rare amongst anybody – a vicious passion that drove them to beautifully amazing and esoteric pursuits with carefully mad precision. Love, was amongst the first of these, and they’d both experienced the highs and lows of strong hearts and weakened minds, though they had already reached their state of weaknesses long before they’d met.

And it was within moments of meeting each other that they shared this intimate, yet open, chapter of their lives.

The story blurs here. Secrets that need not be shared with anyone transpired between Kero and Chuck, and these secrets were for them to live, remember, and love, and for them alone. He did. She did.

They’d met while one was visiting the city of the other. Their chance encounter should have been the same as any other number of chance encounters the two incur while on the job. At least for them. But as the days and months went by, Kero bore the gravity of their situation. They saw each other again after their first introduction. They were burning souls, whose fire burned brighter than others. It was unlike them to meet another with the same drive and affectation that they thought were only in themselves. They were not without differences. To suggest such a thing was blasphemy. But that within them, the blood that made them unable to ever yawn or bleed like anyone else – it was a collision of two stars falling chaotically through space, until finally meeting and producing a cataclysm. The result was a burst not like any other, seen only by the blind and felt by the dead. These moments, they were their secrets. Ones they kept, even after she left.

Months passed, and they’d barely spoken a word to each other. Kero wondered if he had romanticized the situation into astronomical, irreversible machinations.

His birthday passed, and it meant the start of another year. He wished that he had given her more than drunk whisky nights where he was only half functional. He wondered what another year would bring.

He had been with other women. On one night, Kero even slept with one of them to try and ease the pain of his broken down car, and to hide that he was experiencing a manic life breakdown. But it wasn’t the same. She was not Chuck, and Chuck was not her.

What Kero remembered wasn’t the feel of her skin or the touch of her lips. He remembered the feeling of an all encompassing emotion that overcame any situation in which the two found themselves alone. He knew that in some strange way, she loved him, and in the same way, he loved her. He spoke of it. She did not. It didn’t change anything. The way she looked at him, respected him, and loved him - the way she smiled and laughed at his social ineptitude and accepted that he was not one to give up, a trait she didn’t know what to make of. She only knew she was glad that he was there, even if he wasn’t. That someone loved her. Not because of a perfected idea someone had manifested about the two being together – he was aware of the wafty dreams that others projected onto her.

He knew of the way she nervously bit her lower lip, the way she had teared up without a dropped tear when they said goodbye, and how she maintained a facade of strength, trying to hide from others that she did, in fact, hurt, and cry, for fear that they would drink her sorrows. Kero was not one to draw anger or angst with Chuck, he only kept whatever tears she cried, and even the ones she didn’t, in a jar for safekeeping so that others would not hurt the girl who did not want to.

Others did not understand why he loved her. They did not need to know. Because like the typewriter written typed letter that she sent to him, they were the only two people in the world who knew, who needed to know. Others may have seen it; but who it was from, who it was to, who read it, and what is said – that remained theirs.

While walking the streets of his neighborhood, drinking from a flask, smoking a cigarette, a realization occurred, and forever, his mind would linger on whether the they were fathomable notion. It was on the day of Chuck’s birthday:

Her Birthday – 5/3

His Birthday – 11/6

5+3 = 8

1+1+6 = 8

Two 8’s.

2x8=16

2816 miles from his apartment to hers.

Most believe that life is nothing more than a series of random, chaotic occurrences with no event bearing more significance than another. Others believe in stories with unknown endings, like the random meeting of a boy and girl, on 9/10/11.

9+10=19

19-11=8

The Taste of Licorice

He thought about the women he’d dated the past few months. Winter was almost over. He flashed back to the one named June he dated in December, who never interested him with anything she said. The one in January named Dahlia who drew a lot, who smiled a lot, who looked too much like Her. And in February, the seamstress named Heather who knit sweaters, but had a cold heart and even colder taste in music.

He went out with every single one of them, all with the intention of a possibility. Everyone one of them ended with nothing but should’ve known betters.  He was open to finding someone, anyone. But even after, when he thought he’d been full of it, he’d be served reminders of Her at some later time and place.

He was glad none of them worked out. Even if he was still with any of them, none of them would have him. No, he had left himself with Her, and whether or not She wanted him, it was too late. He had left it all, not realizing it when he did. So, really, it would have been unfair to June, Dahlia, and Heather had it worked. Because the whole time, he would have wished they were not them.

He was happy. He’d settled back in. He’d also finally found an environment and time that suited him in all manners of his life. She was the only thing missing.

The day he found out that his days might be numbered, yet again, no despair came over him. Because he had finally loved again, something he didn’t think would happen again. Not after the divorce. Not after the first scare and fight with death. And not after almost losing what little he’d salvaged (friends, family, job) surviving the first two events.

It was impractical. But, love is impractical, a vicious, jealous chaos that occurs out of nowhere, with most parties not realizing that all around them, a cataclysm of pyrotechnic sparks were popping. The same sparks that make most people blind to love when it’s happening. Most people in similar situations would think the conditions ridiculous. They were the one who could only intermittently absorb the flickers of light. In this case, She was one of them. He was of an esoteric club, consisting of one member, wearing goggles that blinded him to everything except for those special tiny bursts, and who believed, that no matter the circumstances, it would work out. Somehow.

Maybe he was an idiot. It wouldn’t have been the first time. But he wasn’t giving up. On either account. Not on life. Not on Her. Even if both ideas prevailed over him, he’d still know -

With/er

He turned off the TV. The box had distracted them from the plethora of issues that sat in their living room, though their subscriptions had long expired. His thumb clenched the long black plastic, blood turning blue in his hands. The light flickered off the black, blinding him for microseconds at a time. As her lips softly opened, the controller fled from humanity, and into the crevices of their loveseat. She looked at him, watery, drowning. He looked back. He looked back at nothing.

11-10

“They’re fighting again.”

“Yeah.”

“Is it because…”

“It’s okay, it’s not your fault.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. They just do that.”

He sat on the bed, staring at the floor, trying to find the right words in the moment. Ben was only 6 years into their parents’ relationship. Brian had dealt with it for twice the amount of time. At his age, he was a gristled vet of Mom and Dad’s marital disharmony. Ben just began noticing the fights.

“How come?”

“How come what?”

“How come they fight?”

“I don’t know. Everything, I guess.”

“Even us?”

“No. Everything except for us. We’re good. I promise.”

Ben knew Brian meant it. Older brother put his arm around younger, and squeezed his shoulder. His eyes were telling the truth. At 6, Ben saw truth and lies in everyone’s eyes. His were always true. Brian taught him that.

Brian remembered a time when he had the same look on his face as Ben - except Brian’s only company was a mirror. He remembered being 5, waking up to the smell of bacon fat and eggs, excited. Running into the kitchen, the soles of his feet were cut up by broken glass, stung by fresh squeezed orange juice, and seared by the very pork grease he was so excited to consume. The scars on his feet were a reminder of that morning. Most days since then became like that one.

That’s when Dad started leaving, too. Missing in the night, he’d re-appear in the morning, as if teleported from the future. Mom filled these isolated nights with tears and sobs. In between were periods of tranquility - periods of nothing.

Then Ben was born. Brian was excited. He thought it might change things. But an innocent didn’t bring peace to the house. Ben brought a temporary solace with him, but after a few months, it was obvious that everything was the same.

When Ben was 4, Mom stabbed Dad for touching her . He was holding Ben.

Amidst the insanity, Ben and Brian still somehow knew their parents loved them. It was the only thing they agreed on. The boys knew this. But the decibels pulsating through the walls of their room during bedtime made it easy to forget.

“You okay to sleep?”

“No.”

“Well, you want to go for a ride?”

“Now? Won’t we get in trouble?”

“They won’t notice. Come on, get ready, we’ll leave in 5 minutes.”

“But Mom and Dad…”

“They’re busy. I want to ride my bike. Just come.”

“But…”

“Okay, well I’m ready, so I guess I’ll just go since you’re such a chicken.”

“Wait! Just let me change my pants and get my sweater. I’ll go!”

The boys snuck out the window and into the yard. Their bikes laid against the side of the house - handle bars and pedals kept their bikes from tipping over. They picked some peaches from the old tree and put them into their Jansport backpacks for later. Brian grabbed his bike, a green Motobecance that he’d just gotten a year earlier. Dad got it for him because he’d already grown to be 5’7, huge for his age. He thought Brian should have a real bike.

Ben saddled his old baby blue Huffy with matching graphics - they walked their bikes out, the click clack of their chains echoing into the empty night. The edge of the sidewalk and the darkness of the pavement forced a choice to be made.

“Where do you want to go?”

“I don’t care.”

“Right, well, just follow me, then, ok? And be careful. Let me know if you get tired or anything.”

They rode down the street, onto a dirt path the neighborhood kids used as their playground. But they only stayed at the mouth of the trail - the rest of it was cluttered by trees and a menacing shade. Brian and Ben rode with no fear.

“Do you know where you’re going?”

“Nope. Stay close, okay?”

The moon tore a hole through the sky. The woods of that forest lined the road, and the luminescence of the night framed a destination for the young adventurers.

At least, enough for them to see ahead, going nowhere in particular.

Django

She walked in with without the usual swagger. He noticed right away. She had been crying the night before. It wasn’t in her looks. Her face wasn’t done up in the usual way, although she didn’t look much different. Not to him. He saw it in her hands. He only noticed because he noticed lot of things about her. As she approached to order her coffee, he wrestled to get a smile out.

“Hey, how’s it going today?”

“It’s okay.”

“Same as always?”

“Yeah.”

He went back to work. He knew what she wanted. She wanted to be alone. He would’ve too. He had grown fond of her in their brief, awkward but quirky exchanges. She enjoyed them. He did, too. But from their impersonally intimate interactions with one another, he really only knew a few things about her. That she liked drinking macchiatos, followed by a black coffee chaser. She had a habit of scrunching her nose and eyes when she smiled or liked something. She enjoyed the written arrangements of Kerouac, Johnson, and Silverstein. And her name was Jackie, but she like being called Jack.

Panda finished making her drinks. As she put her hand out, he grabbed it and returned it to her chest.

“No worries.”

“Oh, no, it’s cool, let me pay for them.”

“No.”

“Really? It’s like that, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, at least break this 5 for me so I can give you a tip.”

“Nope.”

“Okay, then…”

Before she could finish her thoughts or action, he grabbed the tip can and and took a step back.

“You’re fucking kidding, right?”

“Maybe. If I am, it’s a pretty good joke, right?”

Jack smiled.

“Get out of here. You got better things to do than argue with me.”

“Maybe.”

As she walked away, Panda’s head tilted oh so slightly.

“You done?”

He looked up to Patty’s snickering face.

“Yeah. What was next?”

“Nothing. You two got something, don’t ya?”

“Nah, Pat, she’s just another customer.”

He was lying.

“Bullshit. Jack’s awesome. She knows our names, dude.”

She was right.

“So what? What do we got next? There’s a cup sitting right there.”

“It’s my cup. Get the fuck over it, already. Everyone has their damn drinks. Be real.”

“She’s cool.”

“Ok, whatever dude.”

“Fuck. You know I hate how you say dude.”

“Look, just because I said it that one night we ended up making out…”

“Yeah, and ever since then, you’ve been a guy.”

“Hardy har har. At least I own up to my shit. I wouldn’t tell someone like Jack to get out after she smiled at me when she was so obviously having a shit day.”

“Go hunt a dingo.”

“I haven’t lived in Australia for 8 years now. Fuck you.”

Panda thought about Jack. The way she smiled at him. He hoped it lasted the day. He wasn’t sure it did.

His shift went by without a hitch. He didn’t think about Jack much. But every now and then, when it got slow, and he had a moment of complete emptiness, his mind filled with thoughts of her. Smiling. And he smiled back at this imaginary realization.

He closed up shop and walked out the door. It was only a few blocks to his apartment, but this was a moment of peace. No interruptions. Just Panda, his headphones, and his music. He staggered with the soul of his songs. This was solitude. Winter was the perfect time to walk outside. The cold made him feel alive.

At home, he poured himself a rye, neat. A few sips, some rice and eggs, and a book. It was all he needed to get a good night’s sleep.

The next morning he woke up in time just for his shift. Headphones and music. The walnut door creaked as he entered. The resonance blasting into his ears had taken him to another world. A world so distant, he didn’t notice Jack standing right in front of him. Not until he hit her beanie off while he doing an amalgamation of the Charleston, the Twist, and the Truffle Shuffle as he passed the line.

“Shit, sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

She smiled, again.

“No, that was a dick move, Jack, let me buy your coffee for ya.”

“Do you even have to pay for coffee?”

“Well, no, but now you don’t either.”

“You’re making this a habit for me, y’know.”

“At least it’s just coffee and not coke or something.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what I meant. I meant talking to you like this.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

“Let me get back there.”

Panda hurried to get to the back and ready for the floor. After a few minutes, Jack was the last person in line. He had her drink ready.

“Aw.”

“I already hid the tip jar, so there’s no arguing today.”

“Okay, then…um…okay. I’ll see you later?”

“Wanna go to a museum?”

She smiled again. She was brighter today than she had been.

“That was sudden.”

“Oh, yeah, I do that. Nevermind.”

“Which one?”

“Whichever. It doesn’t matter. But we can go touch the art and everything.”

“Don’t you get in trouble for that?”

“I don’t know. But you gotta do it at least once. It’s epic.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re making yourself a part of history - fingerprints and all.”

Her smile turned into laughter.

“Okay. How about tomorrow?”

“Sure. It’s my day off.”

“Can the museum be my treat, though?”

“Nope. That’s not how this works.”

“But – “

“I tell you what. We’ll flip a coin. Heads, you take care of me. Tails I’ll take care of you. Deal?”

“Okay.”

He got his lucky coin out of his wallet. It was the same coin that got him to move three years ago. To here. Panda kept it close. The quarter was minted in the same year as his birth. With a nervous touch, he clutched the coin between his index finger and thumb on his right hand.

“Ready?”

“Should you be working?”

“Work’s not as important as this. Ready?”

“Yeah.”

It flipped into the atmosphere, flying as if on a wobbly plane.

TV

They talked through the night. They didn’t know what it was supposed to be. He didn’t expect it. After all, she was working that night, and he was supposed to be having dinner with someone else.

Radio looked at her, her flannel button up draped over one shoulder, naked on the other. And she looked at him, caught off guard by his intense sincerity masked behind silly suspenders and high cuffed pants.

They’d been through the ringer. Radio, a broken man piecing himself back together. L, with perfect balance but somehow couldn’t stop tumbling. Not lately. There was something about the two of them - it was more than their awkward persona. It was apparent from the start. It was the only thing apparent from the start.

Radio left the next day. He was visiting, and even though he was supposed to come back in a few weeks time, he wasn’t sure when, or if L would still be there. So he tried writing her off. He was enamored with her, but couldn’t let her in. Not after so many missteps and misunderstandings with others.

He gave her his card, and left it at that.

Radio wrote her the night they met. He wanted to keep his distance. Kept it professional. As much as he could, anyway. He’d only met her for 2 hours, during his trip. She’d be nothing. He’d be nothing.

They kept in touch. Often conversing about random comings and goings with work. Their discussions became their means of getting to know the other. The more Radio got to knew her, the more L scared him. She was more than expected.

He had met others like her before. But each of the women before her only had moments. She was always.

It was a problem. 2816 miles separated them, and Radio wasn’t even sure if she felt the same. He thought about her. A lot. He missed her. He couldn’t admit it though. He knew.

Radio wondered if it would be any different. All he had were random messages telling him she missed him and a hand-made postcard.

Life also got in the way. Radio was unsure of whether he’d even make it back. His trip had stalled twice already, and he waited a third. These were just fairy tales made up in his head, anyway. That’s what he reasoned.

It was ridiculous for him to think a woman like L would ever have feelings for him. He convinced himself.

Just friends.

Finally, Radio was going back. He’d been waiting so long , he almost forgot.

His first return day went by as slow as the hands on a clock. Radio wanted it to end. He didn’t have anything to look forward to. Just that work was going awry within 24 hours of his landing.

Towards the end of the grind, Radio heard his phone ring. He looked down to see that it was her.

L.

He picked up, hearing her voice at closer a range than any before. They were set to see each other for the first time in 2 months.

Radio reminded himself. He told himself over and over again. And then he saw her.

The rest of the night was…

There they were, lighthouses on opposite shores. Their lamps shone on the other for only a glimpse, questioning if there was another, if they were mistaken.

Then a moment, both their lights coincide in rhythm, they see each other, kindred souls, and their fires burn out.

Heirlooms (pt. I)

It had been a month since they met, a day since they saw each other again, and an hour since he woke up next to her for the first time. Dylan didn’t know what to think. He looked at Miranda, sleeping. He saw so much of everything, and anything, he’d ever wanted. They slept together, but didn’t sleep together.

He’d only known her for three hours in person. But in the little time they had with each other, they connected. He asked her to hang out when he got back. She said dinner. They left it at that, and didn’t think anything of it.

Over the next month, they’d intermittently contact each other through phone calls and letters. Dylan was surprised contact was maintained. His life was a trove of passer bys who lacked follow through on their words. Miranda hadn’t yet followed through. But she was following up, and it was rare for people to do so. At least with him. And then, she did.

With a yawn, Dylan knew she was awake. She raised her arms, as if she’d just won at bingo, and smiled his way. Dylan was quick to return the favor. He was worried about the words they would exchange next. For a while, they just smiled at each other. Dressing to the bare minimum. If anything at all. Miranda turned on the TV, and flicked it to the world news. She leaned forward – making sure not to miss a single word or frame. He stared.

“Do you want anything for breakfast?”

“Sure. What were you thinking?”

“I don’t know.

“Well…I dont’ really feel like anything. I mean, I’m hungry, but…whatever you want.”

“Pancakes?”

“As long as there’s real maple syrup and none of that fake junk.”

“Deal.”

They readied themselves for their first breakfast together, then jostled down the street to a greasy spoon of a diner. They walked through the door with a single question in mind. The waitress, perm, loose tag, and apron up high, asked them how many.

“We were just wondering. I mean, before we sit down and all. Do you guys have real maple syrup?”

The waitress looked at Miranda, with a sneer and a growl.

“What do you mean? Of course it’s real. Last time I check it wasn’t imaginary or nothin’.”

Miranda looked her up and down. She smiled and tried again.

“Well, is it, y’know, the real stuff though? Because a lot of places use that artificial stuff. I’m just wondering because it totally makes a difference.”

The waitress, Darla, at least according to her name tag, gave Miranda the look. The sort of look you give someone the finger with. Without the actual finger.

“Nevermind. Thanks.”

Dylan grabbed Miranda’s hand, and she froze in disbelief at his moxie. They we able to exit without further altercation.

“Who said that was okay?” she said, with slight sarcasm in her voice.

“Oh, sorry, I just thought. Well, she obviously didn’t get it. And I promised you real maple syrup. I figured getting to the good stuff sooner rather than later was…better.”

“You’re right. But that’s not what I was talking about.”

She looked down at his hand, and his eyes trailed. He realized he hadn’t just grabbed her hand. They locked fingers. He was still holding her hand.