by Jack Lothian
Fran says this is when all hell broke loose, because two women, whom she did not know, but was sure they did not live in the neighborhood, started to yell and point at my wife from the street below. Because there was purple splotch on her head. A little lingering paint from a three foot tall flower. Right smack dab in the middle of her forehead. Good going, Beth.
Now, could my wife have shouted down, I am painting a mural on my daughter’s wall? Sure. Could she have quickly grabbed the paintbrushes and paint can and dumped them over the fire escape as proof? Maybe. But she didn’t. She did the totally wrong thing. Beth panicked.
Fran said Beth shrieked, “Oh No!”(pretty much the worst thing you could shout, right?), cupped her hand to her mouth like she had been caught, scrambled back inside, and slammed down the window.
So once upon a time…
Yelling on the street about how there is a purple left.
Yelling on the street about how she has a little girl.
Mob forms (same way you’d imagine it would, just no torches or anything.)
Wife tucks daughter into cabinet to hide her.
“Be very quiet, honey, no matter what you hear!”
Mob breaks down apartment door.
Child is missing.
Mob demands to know where kid is.
Wife tells them it is none of their mobby business.
Wife is thrown out of window.
Mob’s Colombo-like detective skills match paint on wall to paint on wife head.
Mob disperses quietly.
Husband stands over crumpled body of wife.
Franny Fishwife tells story and holds husband’s hand against his will.
Husband thinks of sticking a paintbrush through Fishwife’s eyeball.
* * *
After that, you’d think I’d never leave my little girl alone again. You probably think it’s atrocious that I do. That I tuck her in three cleared out lower kitchen cabinets, equipped with blankets, pillows, an LED battery-operated chili-pepper light string, an exciting array of plush pastel animals, a few picture books, a Hello Kitty! thermos, and some of Beth’s lavender sachets from her lingerie drawer. What am I? A monster? Leaving my daughter in the dark, after what happened to her mom?
Okay, Smartie. Let’s take Daddy Doyle’s Multiple Choice Quiz, shall we? Don’t worry, you don’t have to study to pass the test. Ready?
When you are running out of food, and it is the end of the world as you know it, you should:
Go out onto the street holding a kid with a blue head in one hand and a tire wrench in the other.
Go out once a week, tuck your kid in a safe hiding space, and pray nothing goes wrong.
Starve
So, how’d you score, everyone?
* * *
Tommy’s Deli has three aisles of tall metal shelving that run back to a wall of four glass-door refrigerated cabinets. One door has a long crack in the glass, and it runs the length of the door, hastily taped over with black gaff tape. The tape barely holds it together, but somehow I don’t think the city code officer will be stopping by tonight. Over one of the glass doors is a sagging vinyl Pepsi sign pushed into the sheetrock with two rusty thumbtacks, the famous red and blue logo chased by some dingy orange flames. And while there are indeed soda cans in one of the glass cabinets, they are not cold and they are certainly not Pepsi. Just a mish mash of bargain brands, mostly lemon-lime, and a few cans of birch beer covered in what looks like dried mud. The other glass cabinets, also sans-frigidness, are filled with everything and anything. Blankets, flashlights, Christmas wrap, folded Great Adventure t-shirts (all small), a few random board games that my kid would have recognized, about 25 boxes of semi-crushed bran flakes cereal, a few soiled boxes of gingerbread pop tarts (Kelloggs execs musta tied one on before the new flavor conference meeting that day) and enough cans of chicken-n-star soup to build a small fort.
Except for some of the flea market items bulging from aisle shelves, the deli looks the same as it always had, even before the mantis propelled her bony shoulder blades into all our lives. The walls of the narrow store are dark pumpkin, roughly painted over bubbled sheetrock. A checkerboard of half-decayed fiber tiles remain in the drop ceiling. Ugly ass, uncovered fluorescent tube lighting. A green plastic house plant in a brass pot suspends from three chains in the center of the store. A large wall clock, reminiscent of grade school, minute arm missing, hangs on the left wall, its lower rim touching a pyramid of powder cleanser cardboard tubes. And the award for reverse feng shui goes to…
I grab six cans of soup from the glass cabinet, hang a quick left to swing back up aisle two, and crash into the ponytail lady, knocking her armful of naked baby food jars to the floor. And yep, they all broke.
“What the hell-” I hear Tommy bark from up front. Ponytail has already dropped to a squat, frantically searching through the mess, fingers be damned, for a jar that might have avoided the carnage. There aren’t any. Just broken glass and carrot mush, some of it on the tips of her pointy black boots.
She looks up at me, eyes all a tear, and the most pitiful voice I ever heard says, “Bobby likes the carrot flavor.” But here’s Tommy now with a dustpan and broom, scooting me out of the way, and asking us who’s paying for these, and I know it’ll be me. Does chivalry get a mark? And if so, what color would it be?
I’m standing there. Looking down. Just watching Teddy sweep the scratchy mess into an ancient army green metal dustpan, all the while emitting exasperated puffs and mumblings about his linoleum floor, a very “old man” thing to do. My dad used to do that, too, right after he beat me up. Murmurs and overdramatic exhales, like I had totally inconvenienced him by making him take off his belt and reset the toppled furniture he had thrown me into.
Ponytail, the young mother whose week I just wrecked, is still in a squatting position. I am assuming she is a young mother, and sincerely hoping the famous Bobby who likes carrot flavor was not her husband or some long-haired rabbit she owned. She is still staring down at the slimy glass fragments, seemingly waiting for some of it to magically reassemble into jar form.
As I am standing, and those two are still playing carrot catastrophe, my eyes scan the place and I catch Wick Carmien, the only other customer in the store, make a beeline to the register and steal two cans of beans. I say that like he was being smooth. Like he was some sort of crafty rascal. Like if you weren’t looking straight at him in that moment, you would have missed it. What I really saw, though, was an ancient shaky twig hook his walking cane over the top of the register, and for a moment look like he was gonna take one of those old man tumbles, catch himself, slowly select two cans, actually checking them for dents like he was buying a used car, attempt to stuff one into the left pocket of his red Gore-tex windbreaker, realize it was too small, and then actually try the same thing with the matching right pocket and be sincerely surprised by the no-go of it. Actually it was freaking hysterical. Guess Wick thought he had all the time in the world for the lentil heist of the century. He finally gives up, and then, get this, takes a fucking shopping bag, fumbles with the plastic opening for what seems like half my life, drops the cans inside it, procures his cane, and leaves the store, dreamcatcher bells happily announcing his daring escape.
I barely turn my head to check back on double-feature carrot tragedy still in progress on the floor, and hear the bells once more. Tommy and Ponytail hear the second set of bells as well and stand up. The three of us are now staring in awe at what seems to be five kids (or midgets, yes, yes, Beth, little people) standing in a perfect chorus line across the inside of the front entrance to the deli. They are all holding kitchen carving knives in their little digits. How cute. They are donned in white plastic ponchos, hoods up, and they each have the same mask on. Okay, I shouldn’t even call them masks, ‘cause this seemed way worse. They had copy paper print-outs of the Gidgidoo’s face over their own, attached with purple produce rubber bands over their ears. Eye holes roughly cut out of the face prints, undoubtedly with t
he very same carving knives they were holding. Two of them have got Wick, now cane-less, by the arms, and he’s probably moments away from a coronary, as communicated by his eyeball popping oh Christ, this is going down look on his face.
“Get the hell out of my store, you little crappers!” Tommy shouts, and I can’t but help short a giggle at the word “crappers.” Really, Tommy? I know you were caught off guard and all that, but you spun the intimidating store owner wheel and that was the best you could do? Little crappers? Anyway, the Gidgi posse does not seem to budge, and Tommy’s already stomping down the aisle to get at the gun before they spot it.
So Tommy gets to the front first and attempts some sort of wacko Schwarzenegger dive behind the register while grabbing for the gun. He does get the gun, but doesn’t make it over the counter, slamming his head and body into the brown metal box. One of the kids (and yeah, I know they’re kids now ‘cause they are shouting stuff and sound like they all own little red Flyer wagons) grabs the barrel of the gun. Tommy, still on top of the counter, punches him dead in the face. I hear something crunch and the kid goes down, hard, and is out for the count. By this time my fight or flight has kicked in and I am sprinting down aisle three, chrome metal shelving parallel to the counter, and right behind two of the Gidgi-toddlas. They turn, see me, and desperately try to jab their knives through the potato chip and dog food bags now between us. But it is far too late. I push the entire shelving unit down over them, and they get pinned beneath it. All the while, I can hear Ponytail in the back, screaming. Nice of you to help us by screaming like that, Ponytail. Are you sure that is what Bobby would have wanted?
Without hesitation or mercy, I stomp on their little hands and swiftly collect the cutlery. I wheel around (in what I say was some damn impressive choreography—see people, you only caught the “Whoa” show on the street…I do my best moves inside) and turn my new knife set on the two kids still holding onto Wick’s arms, like they have got some sort of weighty collateral. I slash one kid across the face, cutting both his mask and left cheek in half, while driving the other knife (my mind registers it’s a bread knife) into the other kid’s upper arm. At this point, the kids realize they have other more pressing goals outside of hostage-taking, and practically throw Wick into a pyramid of rigatoni boxes, and bolt out of the store. As an afterthought, I pick up the unconscious trick-or-treater from hell that Tommy clobbered, holding him up with my left arm and balancing his dead weight on my hip, open the front door again, walk down the front steps and pitch the brat into the street.
As I turn to re-enter the deli, the two I pinned, who must have wriggled out of their metal shelf crab trap, run past me into the darkness. Feeling kinda proud, I enter the store, spin around in a move only the original Temptations could’ve appreciated, secure the door and stand there, hands on hips, protectively facing the street. I wait for that warm, approving clap on my shoulder from Tommy. Nice job, son, how about some free lemon-lime soda? Or maybe a smattering of applause from Ponytail and Wick. But it doesn’t come. In fact, there is no sound at all from behind me, yet I know they are all staring. Then, of course, it happens. Cause Ponytail is yelling, “RED! He’s RED! RRRREEEEDDDDDDDD!”
And I must say, I think she was really being over the top about it. I mean it’s not like I am the only one out there. I just might be the first one she actually saw. I lift my hand to my face, but I already know what to expect. Must have happened in the scuffle. My fake skin flap is hanging, half-on half-off my forehead, revealing the blood red mark of a serial killer. But you know, it’s really not fair. I stopped doing all that when Beth and I had Biya. Way before the Gidgidoo showed up. Also, I haven’t been able to score any glycerin or gelatin powder in weeks, so I have had to reuse some of my old skin patches ‘til I could make some more.
But there’s no time to think now. Tommy’s already got the shotgun pointed straight at my back. I only know that because when he boarded up the store windows with the this side up panels, he did it from the outside. So I can see the whole show behind me, unfolding in the reflection. And there he is with the gun. And there she is, hunkered behind him, clutching his right arm for protection and continuing to point at me, like he could get me confused with somebody else in a store of four. And there’s Wick Carmien, staring at all of us, still recovering from his rigatoni tumble, and looking really confused. And there I am in the purple comforter coat, deciding the jinx is up as I smile and rip the skin flap off and toss it over my shoulder. Funny, I don’t feel as upset as I think I should be at this moment. I do not feel the shotgun blast either.
Grandfather's Room
Marvin Brown
“For God so loved the world that He swept
it clean from iniquity and barbarianism, setting right
what had been wrong for years upon years.”
Reformation 1:1
I unzip the door and step from the darkened void back into Grandfather’s room. It still smells of his aftershave and of Bengay, even though he’s been gone for more than a year. The attic room, usually hot and stuffy, is drafty this morning, as it has been all week. His room remains nearly untouched from the time when he hobbled around it, first heavy-footed and crouched over to avoid the sloped ceiling, later with his carved cane and a curved spine that made the crouching permanent.
A single semicircle window gives me a view of Brine Street covered in fallen leaves that haven’t yet dried up and lost their colors. Old books are stuffed onto rickety shelves my daddy built in one of the corners. In another corner is the coat rack still holding Grandfather’s flat cap and coat. His rocker is against the wall.
My room is one floor down, on the level with Mom and Dad’s bedroom and a bathroom and a linen closet. My room is mostly littered with clothes. I only wear dresses on my birthdays as a tribute to Grandfather, and I’ll never wear heels again. I gather up today’s clothes and head to the bathroom. It’s past due for a good cleaning. I used to be more vigilant at cleaning house, but it was easier with running water and consistent electricity. As time runs on in this new world, remnants of the past one dry up and crumble like the leaves each fall. I had clean water for months after the end, then it started smelling funny and looking dingy. I started boiling and bottling it. Later, I scavenged purified and distilled gallons from area grocery stores.
When the electricity finally stopped coming to our house, the thing I missed most wasn’t the TV or radio, but Wi-Fi. Until then, using the Web and social media still felt like I belonged to a world big and connected and alive, even though nothing was current or responsive. Facebook became a cyber ghost town of a billion profiles and histories. Final postings turned anecdotes and sped-up recipes into eulogies; emojis were epigraphs on the virtual gravestones of humanity.
The American Foursquare home I’ve lived in my whole life creaks as I move through it. My car keys hang on the hook at the end of the narrow hallway to the front door. Growing up, this hallway seemed bigger and longer than it is. I lock up the house, a habit I can’t shake even though I’ll never have a break-in.
Out front, parked on Brine Street, my street, is my dirty Pathfinder. Sitting inside with my iPhone, I text: A day is never as good the moment you realize there is still much of it left. I press SEND.
I drive the barren city blocks, window down, enjoying the breeze, passing Gramercy Park and the coffee shop I used to love. My destinations today are the shopping mall for clothes and batteries, my usual grocery stores for canned and dry goods and snacks, and the park on the way back. The great tree in Gramercy Park is losing the last of its leaves. There are other trees in the park, but none at its center, and none as large and beautiful as this Siberian Elm. I legit believe the tree is older than this park and this city. Maybe the world itself.
Sitting against the tree, my tree, I peel open a can of peaches and stare across the park. It’s overgrown now, the playground is frozen like it’s rusted, hiking paths are choked by unmanaged flora. But I’ll always love Gramercy Park. Mom and Dad brought me
here so often. Grandfather never liked it, but he knew what it meant to me. After I finish the peaches, I crack open canned pudding.
This park is like the Internet: its vast emptiness reminds me of how big things made by people can outlast those people. I realize I’m underdressed. The falling temperatures remind me I need to stay alert. Nothing stays the same, not even in this new world. Change always comes. The seasons, the loss of comforts as more and more infrastructure crumbles, fear of how far into my mind loneness will take me. And worse. Eventually there will be a time to worry, to eventually lock the doors with intent. But Grandfather warned me of such a time. And prepared me for its arrival.
* * *
Grandfather holds me in his lap as we rock in his wicker chair. He is a room himself, my head presses against the wall of his barrel chest. Each arm are walls, too, and the room closes in on me with a gentle squeeze. I’m laughing. Mom and Dad are having a date night. I’m wearing Grandfather’s favorite dress. It’s not the one I like most, and it’s getting kind of tight around my belly. I don’t mind.
“Change is coming, Mia,” he says. I hear his voice in his chest, tickling my cheek. He’s been telling me this since I was six years old. It used to scare me to hear him talk about the Change, but now that I’m nine, I don’t worry about it as much. “I may not live to see the Change, but you will, my darling.”
I don’t like when he talks about not being here. Yes, he’s old, and his right hand sometimes seizes up on him, but he’s a strong, big room and his eyes never look old. My silver-haired grandfather is the greatest man I know. I can’t think of a life without him. I’ve told him this. He says he’ll always be with me, even after he’s gone. I think this is something people tell you so you won’t miss them as much.