Block Party
They strung lights from a balcony on the north side of the street to the fenceline running along the sidewalk of the south side. Someone knew someone who provided L.A. county barricades, placed at either end of the street. A rental van brought fold-up tables and chairs, placed them in the road, plastic table cloths secured with clips covering them. Then they arrived: his playhouse has their first show open in a month; her class’s comedy class wrapped last week; he arrived late and left early to finish sound mixing a feature; she teared up, thinking of her father figure who recently passed and would’ve enjoyed the party. They brought crockpots and sternos and aluminum trays full of pasta. Someone drew an extension cord and ran an air fryer for fresh garlic bread. A man in the balcony above brought his soundbar and played music. As the sun set and the stars appeared in the evening sky, the group lit up the street with lamps and the sound of chatter and music, which any stranger could notice from blocks away and come see the commotion.
No. 136
Vacation
Head to Florida: 24 hours. Mom and her sisters scheduled Grandpa’s funeral a month out. Booked a redeye. Flight delays at noon; again at three; wait long as I can bear. Get on a bus, then get told to take another bus. Go up the wrong escalator. TSA pulls twelve bags in front of me. Conveyor belt backs up, no room to move my bag through the X-ray. Head to the terminal. Stop for a water bottle—$7.99. Read a book. Flight delays. Flight delays again—now the connection is ruined. Won’t make the funeral. Cancel the flight. Wait to talk to the airline rep. Fill out a refund form. Return trip on the bus: a family gets on at the international terminal. They stand in the aisle. Bus rocks and sways, starts and stops. Feel regret for missing the flight. Bus u-turns at economy parking. Family’s son bends his neck, projectile vomits all over a stranger’s luggage. Rush past them and back to my truck, careful to step over the thick liquid.
No. 135
Consolation
How sad, Spencer thought. Alone at the dive bar, quarter to midnight on a Tuesday. The lone bartender stood behind the counter, organizing the bottles, closing up for the night. Spencer needed a drink—his boss had died suddenly. The otherwise solid foundation of Spencer’s career began to crack like the ice atop a pond as Spring neared.
The bartender’s phone began to ring. Spencer ignored it and nursed his drink, and the bartender kept cleaning behind the bar. Only the dull echo of the abandoned ring accompanied them.
No. 072