A Pause
He pulled the car over to the curb. One hand on the wheel, one on the phone, waiting for a response, staring at his last message. His heartbeat became overwhelming. Sudden claustrophobia struck. He shook his arms out and tried to engage the muscles in his legs. A traffic cop pulled up behind him. Looking in the mirror, he cursed under his breath, then pulled back into traffic to search for another place to wait.
No. 171
Last Lighting
He found the listing the day it was posted and toured it the next. He signed the lease on Monday and had two weeks to pack his life. He stayed up late into the night, scrolling through the listing just to see the photographs and envision where he would place the couch, which windows would house the plants, and how the light would come through the Juliet balcony in the evenings, leaving striated shadows from the setting sun.
Once he moved in, he took a glass of wine, stood against the balcony, and felt a sense of calm that returned to him as an old, familiar friend. Then, falling asleep that first night, he noticed the street light outside his window was colored deep purple, and illuminated the street in a disorienting violet hue. The shade came through the slats of the window, and Jason found it impossible to fall asleep.
No. 170
Reset
Shoulders down and back, arms extended to the ground. Tense the muscles in the chest, shoulders, and upper back. Brace the core. Trace the journey of the breath: nostril to trachea to lungs to alveoli to blood, then back. Relax the muscles and exhale. Count backwards from ten.
No. 169
Saturday, 4am
Someone folded a newspaper clipping and placed it under his wiper while he was away. The Drifter came back, fresh from an outdoor shower at the beach, holding his dripping flip flops in his right hand. He paused in his tracks upon seeing the car, then leaned in: the clipping from the want ads listed several business addresses. He twisted his head to read them, then reached out with his left hand to pull it closer. One of them had been circled in black ink. When he lifted up the flap, he saw scrawled across the newspaper a date and time.
No. 168
Dirt
The new owners wanted to update the landscaping. They took out the overgrown bush, laid new mulch, bought bags of stone to line the garden beds. The last step was to replace the walkway from the street to the building. Landscapers dug up dirt and left piles on the sidewalk.
The new walkway covered the smoothed out dirt, finishing the project. But the dirt piles sat, awaiting pickup. One week, two, a month. The owners bought caution tape and looped it around the piles, tying it to trees and hand rails.
No. 167
Pool
Between planks of wood I caught a glimpse of the surface of the neighbor’s pool shimmering in the sunlight. A cowboy hat, partially darkened from water, floated across, rotating in the current. A pair of snakeskin boots lay toppled by the side of the water. Outside the fence line, a trail of fresh footprints pressed into the mud.
No. 166
A Birth
Between two palm trees I watched the Earth eclipse the moon. Its shadow slid slowly, carefully, partially across, leaving a crescent sliver at the top. As it passed, the moon’s fullness again was revealed. Neighbors gathered on the sidewalk to watch the ceremony. I would learn later a friend’s son was born at that exact moment, 2,700 miles away. I imagined the child’s first view, through the hospital window, of the moon slowly escaping the shadow, and my friend missing it entirely.
No. 165
Saint Alphonsus
They erected statues to the saint in the church parking lot. Around these, the church had placed pallets, trash cans, shovels, toppled ladders, and abandoned planks of wood. The stone statues teetered on the edge of parking blocks, his arms outstretched to the passersby on the sidewalk. Through a chain link fence I pressed my finger as far as it could go.
No. 164
Parting
“I love you so much,” the man said, pulling the other in close. A pair of suitcases sat beside them. They kissed for a moment, then two. They pulled apart, and he ran his fingers through the other’s hair, looked in his eyes, sighed with the breeze in the pines. “You stay. Just stay here.” In the distance the ferry crawled to the docks.
No. 163
Shadowboxer
The sea crashed against the shore, rough after last night’s storm. In the early morning the thundering rain passed and the first blue sky for days emerged. I stood in the sand, then, as the waves landed and pulled me in, the ground shifting beneath my feet, toes plunging inches. A few yards down the shore, the only other man stood atop a dune, lunging forward and hopping back, keeping his arms blocking his face in defense. He danced with the ocean.
No. 162
Sanderlings
With three toes they scurry up the sand to avoid the coming wave. They follow in stride as the water recedes, scampering after it, plunging their deep, black beaks under the sand. In the intertidal zone sand crabs hide just beneath the surface, prizes waiting to be found.
No. 152
contact
Ahead of me on the highway the sedan began losing its tire. The rubber wore away from use and the metal rim scraped against the asphalt. Orange and yellow sparks erupted from the contact. I pressed on the gas and moved around the car, wondering if they’d make the destination before they lost it.
No. 160
Punctuality
I gave the host my boss’s name and sat at a table with five place settings, feeling rare to be the first to arrive, and right on time. The diner had few customers, and the two waiters ambled from one to another, refilling coffee mugs, taking payments on the mobile receiver. Ten minutes pass, then fifteen, and I ordered a meal, checking my email, my Slack—no messages. The waiter came over with the plate of food, saying he sees the reservation was dated for tomorrow.
No. 159
Answer
Half the stores in the mall were empty. Lone workers stood behind the counters, using their personal devices. The other stalls sat empty, abandoned, closed. Voices echoed from the food court on the bottom floor. Down a hallway, a forgotten payphone, never decommissioned, began to ring.
No. 157
Garden
Outside the elementary school the class of 2023 planted a garden. The plaque commemorating this noted the students’ fundraising to purchase southwest flora, plants that were built to survive the climate.
Walking past it now, the flower beds are dusty and brown, the plants within them withered and parched. One succulent has grown large, and the rest look ready to blow away in the next gust of wind.
No. 156
Crash
The truck stopped at a diagonal in the intersection, skid marks still steaming behind it. The engine gave a gasp, then fell silent. The rear bike wheel had become separated from the frame and lay dented beneath a front tire. The rider sprawled across the concrete. One car drove past the truck, then another, then another. The owner of the gas station on the corner stepped outside and then turned and went back in.
No. 155
Recollection
One in the morning. Up with a drink. Stuck late working, blank template staring back. The event the event. To have lived it then dissect it. The ditch the pipe the collapse the body the legs the screaming the call the race the lever the ropes the hand the lift the water the drag the tourniquet the relief. Another sip and it’ll come back, it’ll come together.
No. 154
Thermal Misalignment
Extreme heat threatens the 10-year-old tracks. Steel expands and bulges out, damages the surrounding concrete, misaligns the rails. A water truck runs along either track, spraying gallons of water to cool the hot metal. As transit riders wait in the shade and watch the road transition from dark to light as the water evaporates.
No. 153
Control
The man sitting across from me had just gotten back from North Carolina, and already he needed to go again. He never flew, instead choosing to drive cross-country, spend the time. He held his backpack tight against his body, and his legs shifted beneath him seeking a comfortable position. The driver departed the bus to use the bathroom. The man looked around and asked if this was how it always went.
No. 152