A Wait

The new bus stops had a staggered row of narrow seats. Still he felt awkward about using them, able-bodied and guilty for taking a moment of respite when he could otherwise stand. A woman with overflowing tote bags sat, bags at her feet, on the seat beside her, tumbling off of a rolling cart. He looked up at the arrival times. “Bus should be here,” he thought quickly, then pushed the thought aside. Across the street a man played on his phone while a dog finished off a fast food bag. Two teens on e-bikes rode in the street, yelling about the lack of space between cars. Behind him somebody overturned the trash can and dug through for empty bottles, filling their own sack with clinking glass. He turned the volume up on his headphones, then flicked his eyes back to the arrival chart. 

No. 141

Clatter

Stepping out of my truck I carried a water bottle, a thermos, my sunglasses, the keys, my phone, and swung my legs out onto the pavement. At that moment, the sound of falling items: keys crashing, water bottle striking the floor, vibrations thundering off the parking garage ceiling. And for a moment my heart stopped—looking down, I had dropped nothing. I stepped forward, and saw a man crouching behind my truck, clutching at his things that had fallen onto the newly painted pavement. A relief, then, that clumsiness comes to others and not only myself. 

No. 036

No Events

Two men in lawn chairs smoke cigars. I smelled them before I saw them.

An older man in his yard, drawing pad across his crossed knees, sketches a tree.

A young guy in sweats and a ribbed tank negotiates a contract on the phone: “15% of gross profits…”

A couple walks their dog in front of me, arguing: “Cassandra said you would text me a photo once you finished in the study.”

A working actor’s support group meets up outside an apartment building. A young woman shows off her new headshot. Another woman approaches the group: “Gracie! Hugs all around!”

A man smokes a cigarette, pacing on the sidewalk beside them.

A pregnant woman walks a dog and eyes me warily.

A man bounces a baby on his knee on the balcony above.

Another man, shrouded by trees, leans over the roof of his building and looks down at the street below.

A woman idling in her car backs up to make room for a sedan exiting a garage. The sedan waits as several vehicles drive past; the streetlight must’ve just changed.

A runner keeps pace and moves around a couple pushing a stroller.

My dog rolls around in the grass beneath a no trespassing sign: “No events may be held in yard without permission of property owner.”

No. 029

Routine

Nightly digestive walks at dusk: establishment of a routine. It’s good for them, dogs, to have things to anticipate. The regularity of it (timing, route) provides a sense of security. They are creatures of habit.

From the apartments and the houses, dining room light filters out into the indigo sky with echoes of voices, a clatter of plates, the laughter from a friend. In the evening, life erupts from the otherwise sleepy buildings.

On the route, we pass other dogs, eager to greet him, but mine in his haughtiness rejects signs of friendship.

No. 022

Space Heater

A businessman in his middle fifties crossed Washington in the rain. It came down steadily, and had done so for several days. The lack of umbrella in his hand was not from lack of foresight. The trek through the rain was curious; the streets in Los Angeles were prone to flooding, and, certainly, there had been standing water in the roads for days. As he approached the curb to return to the sidewalk from the road, he misjudged the distance, then stepped his loafer into one standing puddle along the side of the road. The rainwater cascaded over the edge of the shoe, into its fleshy interior, surely soaking his socks and insoles. The businessman—but, really, it was impossible to tell whether he was of the founder ilk or the middle-management caste—ascended the stairs along the side of the building, just a few feet from the road. He almost survived the walk. As his shoes squished beneath his weight on each step, he daydreamed of getting to his office, removing his socks and shoes, and placing his feet as close to his space heater as possible. Perhaps he would rest his socks along the machine, watch as they steamed and smoked. That way they would dry before he had to make the return trek home. He would have to brainstorm ways to dry out the shoes.

No. 020

Fortune teller

A joy of city living is getting a glimpse of what other people own. On nighttime walks with my dog, I love to peek through windows, momentary glances at furniture, artwork, and paint choices. On the weekends, neighbors leave unwanted items on the curb for anyone to rescue. On certain blocks of Beachwood, makeshift flea markets have begun to appear: racks of clothing, boxes of books, weathered lampshades. On a recent walk, I passed a collection of books that overstayed their welcome. Atop the pile sat a golden-trimmed copy of Fortune Telling. I flipped to my birthday, and read the following prediction:

“You are uncommunicative.”

I stopped there; I didn’t need to read anymore. Was it meant to be a fortune, or indicative of my present nature? Was the fortune in attempting to perform the opposite of that—am I better off communicating? I decided not to think too much about it; after all, it was just a random book, neither purchased by nor left for me.

No. 006