Iron of the Sky

by Ryan Downey

  “Obviously it’ll have to be a recent example,” he replied. Laughter was reserved to the select able to catch a heuristic joke. “I feel like a magician revealing his tricks.” After a moment weighing his options, he noticed the same girl who asked the question, Tori, was wearing flip-flops with jeans. An odd fashion to be sure. He stared at her wiggling, open toes. The silence was growing. “There’s a tendency to stray from logic when someone’s trying to win an argument where they know they’re wrong. Several ways it could be done. One great way is to take a small offense of the other person and make it seem much worse than it is. Act like a tiny insult is a grievous offense. All of a sudden ‘why would you do that’ becomes ‘how could you.’ ‘That’s not fair’ becomes ‘are you kidding me.’ I was fixing a shortie pro bono for a friend and he couldn’t get past a fight. Both characters were battling back and forth. Logically. He couldn’t get anywhere because it made too much sense. Let the wild accusations fly. Men deflect and women project. And God help you if you logically box them into a corner. Forcing tears, why do you want to hurt me. Like you woke up this morning to go hurt her. Like it’s your life mission.” He stopped to breathe. It did little to slow him down. “So you have to turn the whole thing on itself. Think like someone who doesn’t know what they’re talking about, creating a literary anomaly as you’re supposed to only ‘write what you know.’ Say whatever comes to mind. Don’t be afraid to throw dirt in the eyes. Once you knock your main down, the audience will follow.” In the heat of his little speech he had removed his reading glasses amidst talking with his hands. He replaced them to the bridge of his nose. Schoolbag on shoulder, he nodded to his dear old friend and walked out the door in need of a cigarette.

  Tori was sorry she asked. He was sorry he quit.

  Better Days

  She had always wanted one. She sat, legs crossed, in her brand new bay window in the breakfast nook of her very old house. After pinching a few pennies over the course of several years, she put a down payment on a classic Victorian three story home upstate with a yard she didn’t need and a garden she didn’t tend to. The window was open a crack on either side letting in a soft spring breeze. It had been seven weeks since she’d first walked through the threshold of her abode as a homeowner. And seven years since she had said goodbye to the bright lights of Manhattan.

  Flipping casually through a fashion magazine, she rested her head against the windowpane. A squirrel hopped along the wooden fence separating her yard from her neighbors’. A cloud rolled by briefly casting a shadow, sending a momentary chill that caused a slight shiver. The wind blew causing the old house to shift, the upstairs floorboards to creak and leaves that were very green to flutter. Logic told her it was just the structural insecurity of a building that had somehow survived into modernity. Superstition sent a second chill down her spine and she was now more convinced than ever that her new old attic was haunted by a colonial family that had died of this epidemic or that a few centuries prior. Such legends were played to death throughout that and many other communities like it, mostly for the sake of passing tourist. She had taken it to heart, however, and as a result the final floor of her home was off limits from magic hour until dawn. Typically, it wasn’t an issue. But given she had just moved and half of her life was still in boxes, occasions did arise where she needed a colander for pasta or tennis shoes for tennis on days where she convinced herself she was going to actually play and she could really use someone brave enough to go up there.

  Another page turned when a knock at the door caused her to lift her head. Brow furrowed, she wondered who it could possibly be. She unfolded her legs and hopped off of the window, a physical feat that quickly reminded her of her age. Her floral sundress rippled as she gracefully made her barefoot way across the living room floor. Reds, oranges, yellows, blues and whites flitted as the woman who would rather be left alone than loved set eyes on a brown hat peeking through the front door’s window.

  She opened the door most casually and without regard knowing full well a stranger stood on the other side and knowing full well the crime rate of her new township was practically nonexistent. The open door revealed his shirt matched his hat and his shorts matched his shirt. He inquired how her day was as he passed the electronic signature capture forward. As she looked down to craft a sloppy, squiggly moniker her eyes fell upon a small rectangular package. Her eyebrows were getting a workout today. “Your boyfriend must have jumped through some hoops. With the new liquor laws.”

  ‘Dave’ was the name on his nametag. She read it as her gaze rose to his dumb face. Now she was deciding if she was more pissed at ‘Dave’ for his presumption of donor or his spoil of surprise. Not that a box of that height and width could have been much of anything else really. It was more the principle. She said nothing, giving him a nod and sparing him correction, and on his way he went.

  The porch boards were cool to her feet as she stepped down to inspect the package. She searched for a return address finding one from California. In the Napa Valley to be exact. She didn’t know anyone in Napa; it was likely the address of the winery itself. Dead end.

  The package sat on the floor. The bottle on the table. She sat in her antique chair, window adjacent, racking her brain. It wasn’t Greg. It wasn’t James. Chris? Maybe it was Chris. No. No, last she heard he was happily married and expecting. Who could it have been? Pondering the mystery was soon overcome by a desire to host her own personal Sunday brunch starring her favorite wine. The quandary dissipated and the glass raised. To… better days.

  364 lesser days passed. She arrived home carrying a bag of groceries and she ascended the porch stairs to find a canary yellow note stuck to the door. Her old station wagon clicked as it always did after killing the engine and served as a slight distraction while she read the note informing her she had missed a package delivery.

  Note in hand, she debated just getting back in the car. But perishables perish. Butter melts no matter how low the sodium, ice cream no matter how non-fat. And a fish that was so easily duped into a net days prior stood no chance against the greenhouse effect within the trunk of a station wagon. She unloaded her groceries with increasing haste as her curiosity compounded. Not that it was an unusual day for her to receive a gift. But what could it be. So wrapped in the question she rushed out after unloading her plunder sans her spring jacket. The hand-me-down tweed lay carelessly on the couch as the door slammed and she drove away.

  The trip to the local post office was brief, not surprisingly. The wait at the local post office was brief, very surprisingly. She traded her John Hancock once more for a familiar looking package. Déjà vu all over again. She nodded to the teller and took the small, rectangular box with her. She was sufficiently weirded out now, the return address being the same as last year, but was eased by the fact that this particular brand of Chardonnay pairs exceptionally well with blackened Mahi.

  The year prior she had asked around, thanked a few wrong people, even almost sent a Thank You note before finding out the intended recipient wasn’t the culprit. The gifter never presented themself and now she sat in her driveway, the engine clicking, next to the deaf mute. She held the steering wheel with its worn, sunburn leather covering and moved her feet slowly back and forth on a floor mat that she could almost see through. Fortunately she had outgrown shiny new cars years ago and had come to the realization that holding your breath while turning the key was better than paying a landlord’s mortgage.

  Dinner was quiet. She was alone, so there was that. But she had also neglected to put music on. No Glenn Miller or Tommy Dorsey. No Miles Davis or Oscar Peterson. Just her and the bottle. All of a sudden she surprised herself. It was no longer troubling or weird. She was sad. Without the knowledge of the gifter’s identity, she lacked the capability of giving thanks.

  Years passed and the pattern continued. Every year on that day she knew to buy fish or poultry because every year on that day she received a bottle of Cakebre
ad Cellars Chardonnay. Even after they stopped making it. Whoever it was, they were well stocked.

  Fifteen bottles later she was sitting in the bay window once more, enjoying a glass and a half and it finally hit her. An article discussing Thomas Jefferson’s affair with Sally Hemmings and John Adams’ knowledge of it made casual mention of Independence Hall. This combination of elements left her mind with one place to go.

  She wasn’t sure why she had never considered him before. Sure, she had ex-boyfriends and ex-lovers with greater means. Even with his accrued wealth over the past couple decades, he wasn’t even close to her richest former. But she was convinced now it was him. Yes, surely it was him. For he was kind. And he looked out for his own. Consistently misunderstood and grossly underrated. Could hit, but more importantly could get hit and keep moving forward. He was cocky, only sometimes with valid reason. He was older and dirty. But he was Brotherly to the right people. Well planned, ill executed. News oriented, but improperly educated. He was damaged, slow to change and hateful towards it. He was cultured, but close-minded. Reserved to stand in his own way. Undyingly patriotic. Stuck in the past. The eternal underdog. He was Philly.

  And she was New York.

  PART IV

  Dinner

  He came home from the market later than desired. Half a day at the office did not afford the amount of time he needed to combat the holiday crowds at the Terminal. Time was of the essence, she would be there any minute. And there was the strict curfew to consider. When days were at their shortest, they had the least time together. It wasn’t that she’d be an ogre about a later supper, hard on him for his perpetual tardiness. A friend recently told him that he’d be late for his own wedding, a bold yet accurate prophecy if the day ever came. Another friend upon hearing this statement modified and told him he would be late for his own funeral. The laugh was short-lived seeing as if anybody could be-. Giddy anticipation teamed up with frigid air and was driving her from work all the faster. No man ever cooked for her before. He worshiped her. Worshiped the ground beneath her. She couldn’t believe her luck. Which was an interesting coincidence because funny enough, neither could he.

  He unpacked his bags with the same tactful precision with which they were loaded. He began with the protein. Two one-pound tuna steaks, ½ pound of jumbo shrimp, ½ pound baby sea scallops. Then white rice, wheat bread, butter. Next he turned to the produce bag. Fresh garlic cloves, lemon, lime, coconut water, one large white onion, a pineapple, a mango. From the state store bag he removed a bottle of decent, moderately priced, domestic, non-vintage white wine. He was only going to use it for cooking, but as a wise chef imparted to him, you wouldn’t drink a cheap wine, why cook with one. Plus, it would make chugging it while cooking much easier. Not a drop to be wasted. He also removed a bottle of Patron Silver, she was a tequila girl. He removed a bottle of Captain’s Private Stock, he was a rum guy. Thanks to her. And he removed a large bottle of champagne. Which was also decent, moderately priced, domestic, non-vintage. A little of everything for a special night.

  He grasped the measuring spoons frowning. Even if he had a list of proper measurements in front of him, he had no use for them. Such extraneous measures weren’t needed to prepare a meal when the cook bore keen eye and sensible palate. Back in the drawer they went. He had everything he needed. Placing the cutting board on the counter, he began chopping pineapple and mango. The onion was up first cooking wise, but it made more sense to cut fruit first. Sweetness in the onion made more sense that pungent astringency in these tropical delights. The chopped fruit was placed aside, board washed, and garlic mincing commenced. The onions were next. Tears were inevitable. Though it didn’t stop him from fighting them with all his might. Three cups water for one and one half cups rice. Getting clever, he substituted two cups tap for two cups coconut. Once the rice was done, he added the chopped fruit and moved it to keep warm on the back burner.

  Sauté pan began to sizzle as the minced garlic and onion petals were dropped in heated vegetable oil. Wooden spoon passed them casually from side to side ensuring they would brown, but not burn. Then in went the shrimp, which he deveined and peeled while onions and garlic caramelized. He tossed back a swig of the white wine and poured two swigs worth in the pan, keeping the wooden spoon busy. After he was certain the backside of each shrimp was pink, he flipped them to even the sides. The smell of his garlic shrimp was wafting, aromatic, but not mood inspiring. Candles set throughout the house of passion fruit, key lime, and cinnamon were lit while he waited for the other side to pink. Unseasonal for some, but it created the proper atmosphere for the menu.

  The tuna, done right, wouldn’t take long at all. Which was good because she would be over any minute and he still had to prepare the cocktails. He cut off a large slab of butter, about an inch and a half thick and melted it down in a large frying pan that usually only saw the likes of all beef hot dogs or grilled cheese. Flash frying would create the desired crisp on the outside, leaving the fleshy center tender, red, rare.

  Four pieces of wheat bread were popped into the toaster. Set to dark. Once toasted and cut in half, they’d make a fine bed for the garlic shrimp. Ah crap. Half toasted and it hit him. He forgot the scallops. They might turn out a tad underdone, wouldn’t be the worst thing. Same as the tuna, nice brown crispy exterior was key. Which reminded him. He sliced one of the limes and squeezed it over the fish and scallops. Another minute or two and plating could commence. Lime squeezed over the rice would give one last tropical flare to his trademark side. It was sticking to the edges of the pot; he had left it warming too long. A metal spoon scraped it loose and it was good to go.

  As he was finishing the final touches, his heart jumped. He heard the all too familiar door slam as she came in. Quick like a bunny he dumped handfuls of ice cubes into two rocks glasses and worked up her cocktail first. Silver and lime juice, touch of Grand Marnier, and her margarita was ready to party. His rum and ginger was an easy fix too as he heard an unfamiliar rubbery sticking, sucking and smacking with each step. No further thought to it was given as she climbed wooden stairs and he patiently waited to see his Pretty Girl’s beautiful face when she turned the corner.

  La Vie En Rose

  His time served in corporate America was short lived. Just shy of a decade. 9 years and 4 months may only be substantial to someone who never confined themselves to the living death that is the persistent sound of typing and bullshitting set to no radio soundtrack in the unholy and unnatural glow of fluorescent light.

  Desk jockeys racing to nowhere on the wild ride of elevator stops with the semi sweet taste of kissed ass lost the sincere displeasure of his company several years back. Tooth, nail, and anything else he could swing or throw were used in his fight against normalization. Skipping corporate sponsored outings, using corporate charge at strip clubs, telling the government it was expense by way of business, holiday functions, picnics, happy hours. One hour of happy wouldn’t cover the other eight. If he had known what it would have cost him in the following years, he may have drank up.

  Her name meant something. The family had been an institution in the city since century turned and only an elite few were allowed in. Enough to eliminate the need for inbreeding. Noblesse oblige was duty, sentence really and while he was no pauper, when he left a comfortable position at a Fortune 50 to finally turn part time passion into full time mission, he sealed his fate. Afterall, her family could think of nothing more degrading and deplorable than dating a writer.

  She was always the black sheep, pardon the expression, especially with the whole weathergirl nonsense. But while he would do what was best for himself, she was willing to sacrifice for legacy.

  Quitting was done without tact. He colorfully illustrated where things could be shoved or stuck. His stellar creativity exercised to the fullest extent. While the unnecessary theatrics did rouse claps made anonymously behind cubicle walls, it was approval from those whom he needed none.

>   As he sat at his antique mahogany desk exchanging stare between photograph of her and the abyss, he contemplated whether the level of begging required to get his job back was surmountable. Freedom secured from corporate America meant freedom retained. Even if begging would work and even if the rumor his former boss had himself been fired, it mattered not. It wasn’t the reason they broke up. Switching from desk to bed, he lay with hands behind his head a la Ferris Bueller. He looked at her side half expecting to see her, half asleep, ready for one of his trademark sneak attacks. Only the ghost of her remained.

  The ghost in her was keeping her awake. She too had just given up on what she was trying to do and gone to bed. Futile, she never slept. Looking for him in his spot, but finding another man in his place. He was asleep and she thought about calling. But couldn’t risk the fight if he woke. Engaged to a fiancé she had no intention of marrying, she knew her place. The light sleeper was a hard hitter. Marne Fleming knew exactly how to hit her where it hurts. In spite of great beauty and matching success, she was sensitive and carried the burden of low esteem. The man who knew too much in ways of taking advantage of the cursed groggily rolled over to make room for her. The man who refused to do so had plenty of room, finding only a long strand of iron-gray hair to play with. Convenient as gentle rest hopped in the backseat to let toss and turn take the wheel as he longed for the sleep that outlasts love.

  Dark Matter

  They never wanted the connection anyway. Had no choice but to deal with her, as is often the case with relatives. Good riddance. With the ties that bound cut, there was no sign of her or her kind. He was there. He never wanted these connections. As is often the case with relatives. The theory of relatives says that the innate drive toward survival keeps that which would otherwise be loner part of a clan. But crimson platelet water flowing through vein takes longer to dry up than love and when they saw he without his shadow and another by his side, no one bothered to question it.