Recursive
Shipment gone missing: one box of seven had the label slip off, fall off, rip off, or the box imploded. On the phone with customer service; or, should I say, a robotic voice, struggling to connect me with a representative. “I don’t understand you.” Twenty minutes later, I’m told to fill out a missing package form online. Log in, head to the website, read the status: “1 of 7 in transit”, the other six register as delivered. Select the missing package form, receive the headline: “Package has been delivered.” The page refreshes to show me the tracker, the circle halfway down the line highlighted.
No. 131
Freshen Up
He took the same booth as always, in the sunroom of the Wendy’s, still not remodeled over the years. It took him back to grandmother trips: French fries that tasted like salted waffles when dipped in chocolate soft serve.
His eyes monitored the bathroom, flicking up from his laptop plugged into the wall, loaded job listings to scroll through that he ignored.
The lock clicked and a man that looked familiar exited. He closed the laptop, packed his things, and ran for the door. Inside, a quick rinse: washcloth under the arms, electric razor on the neck, dabs of face wash rationed for weeks, a brush of the teeth. Afterward he felt human, looking job-ready; the self-pity ran down the drain with the soap.
The familiar man had taken his booth. He found another outlet and began to job hunt again. The cashier behind the register stared at him, but did not move to say anything or confront him.
No. 130
Companion
The riverbank sloped down to the water. I stood barefoot in the grass, morning dew caressing my feet. Lifting the rod above my head, I loosen my grip and cast the line into the water, sending ripples outward to either bank. A moment of calm—I hold my breath and listen: the cry of a bird, the croak of a frog, the lapping of the water against the bank. A cloud above moves, and the sun illuminates the opposite bank. Across the river, I see them: a pair of yellow eyes in a skull of scaly skin. I leave the line in the water and hold my breath again.
No. 129
Coffee
Jacqueline’s morning coffee tasted bitter—too little cream. She had been told to cut back, to try taking it black, to lower her sugar intake. You can handle it, she told herself. Out the window, she watched her neighbor try and fail to start his motorcycle, the engine sputtering before a cough of black smoke filled the air.
He came back to her mind; how pitiful he was in her eyes. It had been rude to ignore him, to step back. The look in his eyes at dinner—desperate, pupils dilating at the plates of food—combined with the ravenous way he swallowed the plate diminished his virtues. A gnawing grew in her stomach, the bitter coffee unsettling her. She picked up her phone and began to compose a message of remorse.
No. 128
Time Under Tension
A tight coil, pressing, pressing, growing tight under pressure.
Steam enters my lungs. Muscles contracted, tensing, held till shaking. A cough in the steam. Heat burns my skin. Feels like skin sloughing off–wish it would slough off. I cross my arms—tenser, tenser. A choked breath out, then more steam in.
Extending the amount of time your muscles spend under stress—slowing movement, pausing—can stimulate muscle growth in resistance exercises.
No. 127
Family Store
Half the lights in the store remained off in the middle of the day. A few patrons stalked the aisles for remnants of ingredients. The freezers sat along the far wall, dark shelves sparsely filled with corrupted cardboard. Beside it sat the meats: discolored steaks, chicken, and seafood in a dimly lit case, no worker to help weigh your disease. The dried goods looked like a mad rush of people had stormed the shelves, but they didn’t; there was no crisis; it was the middle of July. The lone employee behind the register in a red, stained apron used a calculator for the total, punched it in the machine, and handed me a yellow receipt.
No. 126
Supper
The neon signs in the diner vibrated with a hum as he sat beneath them. His usual corner booth. Clock over the stove hung upside down and ran backwards. The waitress, same apron, sneakers, stale cigarette smell, and dove tattoo across her wrist came over. “What’ll it be?” He got a plate of fried chicken, biscuit on the side, local ale. She pocketed the paper menu and didn’t write anything down. It was the same order—She knew at the end of the meal he’d drop two twenties and tell her to keep the difference. He removed a cigarette and lit up, and he knew she wouldn’t complain.
No. 125
Cooling
After running it, make sure to use the fan setting to dry the unit out, building manager reminded everybody. First heat wave of the summer: ran the unit; it sputtered and coughed up dust. No cool air. The neighbor threw it onto the sidewalk, and the back cover fell off in two pieces revealing a skeleton of wires, pipes, fan blades, blower wheels, motors, pumps, and filters. Looking up: the new unit, shiny in the sunlight, already dripped water onto the sidewalk below. The puddle collected beneath the husk of the broken.
No. 124
Warm-Up
Carrying his board onto the beach, he hesitated a moment. The last few times he felt sore and sluggish; he needed twenty minutes to warm his muscles before he could paddle with ease. He placed the board on the sand and raised his knees, bent to his toes, swung his arms in windmills. High-stepping on the sand, he went down to the water line. Running on soft sand was easier on the knees, prevented him from pulling the muscle again.
As his foot pressed into the hot sand, the pain reminded him of his youth as a lifeguard, on sunny days with an empty beach no blankets meant the sand baked in the sun. Someone would struggle in the water, and he would feel intense pain along his soles until he reached the wet sand. Back then he could go into a sprint, tread water, drag someone ashore, and return to the lifeguard stand without struggle.
No. 123
Tarot
The neighborhood psychic set out her table, tent, display board, and cards. Middle of July, this was a surprising day for rain. She had posted paper signs around the neighborhood advertising her services from 11 to 3.
When I arrived, she explained that her grandmother had gifted her the cards. She had been a witch, you see, and had raised her mother to be a witch. But her mother, in the way children do, rejected the training. She set out to learn the ways of magic, and practicing on her neighbors seemed as good a bet as any.
The cards came up inconclusive for me. She said the power of decision was already there. Soft sprinkling raindrops echoed off the canopy of the tent.
No. 122
Cleaning
He took the Maserati to the hand car wash. Once the worker pulled the car out of the wash, he crossed the parking lot. “Just need to get something inside,” he said, rooting around in the glove compartment, searching for cash. No dice. He let out a sigh and headed back towards the store office. Inside on the right stood an ATM. Tapping his card against the reader, he answered the questions, $20 the minimum amount he could take out. Card error. He scanned the aisles for a snack and found a bag of beef jerky. At the register selected cash back. When he went to grab his keys, he slipped a five into the hand of the man who detailed it. “Gracias,” he said.
No. 121
Night Shift
Summertime mosquitoes bite the skin of my thigh, leaving itchy, red marks. A car with a single headlight out makes a u-turn in an intersection. A midcentury side table sits in the road. The houses on the corner lack drapes; their carefully curated living rooms are meant to be seen, not lived in. Two houses left their front gates unlatched, dangling into the street.
No. 120
Between State
The sprinklers next door activate after three in the morning. The rhythmic sound of water slapping against the stucco wall wakes me. I stumble into the hallway, and pause in slumbery stupor—a figure at the end of the hallway, shrouded in misty light. A reminder: “Wandering lakes have a shimmering surface—how deep the water goes? Throw a stone and find out.”
No. 119
Heads
She hesitated after hearing the question. It was always a gamble: to consult her husband, or make the decision herself? He never felt strongly either way, so she knew when to act.
“I was hoping for the red oak. Let’s see these options.—No.—No.—This canyon hickory looks nice. Yes, close to the color. How much per square foot?—Really?—No, no. That’s fine, I suppose that’s fine. Insurance is covering it anyway. That won’t eat into it too much, I don’t think.”
The contractor put in the order, said they would be able to install the floors next week. The plan that day was to place the new layer of concrete. After pulling up the molding carpets, they discovered the subfloor was uneven, and it needed to lay flat before the hardwood.
The renovation had gone like that—protracted. She grabbed her toddler’s necessities from the bedroom and bathroom: toiletries, stuffed animals, games, a change of clothes. They wouldn’t be able to enter for a day or two as the concrete hardened. She stood at the end of the hallway, watching the workers. In her mind’s eye, she pictured the finished area and smiled.
No. 118
Tails
He hesitated after hearing the question. It was always a gamble: to tell the truth, or exaggerate? The weight of reality overwhelmed him, and he needed to release it.
“My toddler flooded his first floor bathroom and bedroom a couple months ago. So we’ve been dealing with that.—Yeah, it’s been a nightmare.—My wife’s actually very excited to remodel the house. I guess it’s good to see the silver lining. But you don’t want to spend a holiday weekend remodeling.”
As he said it there remained in the back of his mind a suspicion that his wife had been hiding some fact from him. It’s true, he received the call from her when the flood happened. The water removal company came with their pumps and fans and tarps. He remembered the mildewy smell coming back from the hotel, and hearing the roar of the fans. It took days before the house felt fresh again.
And his wife had been so quick with the renovations. Types of wood floors and wainscoting developed for what seemed like pre-planned opulence.
It was ridiculous to suspect her, he thought. The renovations he could afford, and he, too, anticipated the renewal, despite the headache of turning the home into a worksite temporarily.
No. 117
Message
She ran her fingers along the fabric, touching cotton, wool, fleece. The thrift store had significant turnover about once a month, and she’d check the second Sunday. At the end of her size, a denim jacket hung on the rack. Vintage. She fit her arms into the thick denim, stretched it over her back, then walked over to a mirror. Looking over herself at odd angles, she pressed her hands into the pockets.
Her fingers caressed folded paper. Carefully, she pulled her hand out and unfolded a note. Scrawled across the top: “To Do” with a date twenty years before.
“Go to the grocery store. Tomatoes. Bread. Stop at the bank. Call Greg back—tell him Tuesday.”
No. 116
Dance
The man draped a blanket over his shoulders. It billowed over his frame as he gyrated on the median beneath the overpass. Swinging his arms around him, the fabric swam through the air, curving and flowing in spirals. He crouched down so the blanket fell over him. Then standing upright and twisting his body, it rose and filled with air, then rested again against the curve of his body as he continued the rhythmic movement.
No. 115
Planning
The city planted a sapling beside the sidewalk, so in its adulthood it would provide necessary shade. As it grew, the root network extended out, pressing against the pavement, turning it over. Between the cracks, flowering weeds sprouted among the roots. Now on a summer day, the cracks run green and pedestrians walk with care.
No. 114
Drifter’s Log
June 28: 8am, 64°. Marine layer settled in overnight. Ring of sunlight barely visible in the clouds.
June 29: 1pm, 73°. Nestled on the sand beneath a palm. No breeze. A bead of sweat ran down my temple.
June 30: 9pm, 67°. Draped the blanket around my shoulders. A shiver across my body. Moved the car again.
July 2: 2am, 60°. Awakened to the sound of rain. Looking out the rear window: the arc of a sprinkler’s daughter. This will leave streaks in the dirt, I thought.
No. 113
Inspection
Three men lowered the flag at the Iraqi consulate. One manned the ropes, pulling the flag slowly towards them. The second man held his arms outstretched to grab the dropping corner as it approached the ground. The third man observed from the side. Once they retrieved it, the third man turned the fabric over in his hands.
Then, the first man started pulling the ropes in the other way. The others raised it above their heads until the wind got hold and the fabric flew.
No. 112