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
Hunting
Opening the hall closet to look for something—scanning the shelves top to bottom—towels and dry mops and dry erasers and extra detergent, baskets with expired medicines and bandaids, an extra bottle of sunscreen. Down below, a filing cabinet, some shoe boxes of photographs, and a collection of toothpaste tubes. A moment of pause while I attempt to remember what I needed, then I continue searching, hoping when I see it I will know.
No. 139
Swerve
His helmet skidded across the asphalt. The vintage jacket became scuffed as he rolled to a stop. Rocks along the sidewalk scratched the body of the bike, parallel marks running together. From his pockets landed his phone, a lighter, a pack of cigarettes, some spare coins, a pair of sunglasses (now cracked), a creased business card, and a lengthy receipt that floated away in the wind. Standing, he brushed desert dust off his jeans and pushed his finger through a new hole in the fabric, white threads marking the injury. Pulling it back, he saw a little blood on his finger, then put it in his mouth.
No. 137
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
Resale
The dresser looked bulky as the two men struggled to carry it. Younger than me, they still needed to learn from experience. One walked backward, holding one hand along the bottom while the other clutched shut the drawers on the front. The one in the back, sweat breaking out on his forehead, kept both palms on the bottom. He wore flip flops, and, as he passed me, the base of the footwear caught on the upturned sidewalk, creasing it in a diagonal across the base. He stepped down and, unable to maneuver himself with the dresser, crushed the flip flop beneath his foot. He lost his balance for a moment, cursed under his breath, and readjusted the dresser in his hands. He instructed his friend to stop, and, lifting his leg, attempted to flatten the flip flop out and slip the knot between his toes again. This was a struggle, and he found it prudent to kick the flip flops off into the grass, choosing to walk barefoot down the dusty sidewalk to a destination I could not discern.
No. 134
Abscond
Eyes on the road: asphalt races under me at ninety miles an hour. Empty lanes on either side rise and fall with the rolling hills. Beyond the mountains the indigo sky lightens; a yellow haze barely emanating announces the morning. Cool night air whistles past, and the wind buffets the truck as we go through the pass. Desert expands in either direction. The openness and the emptiness embolden me. I press the gas pedal a little harder.
No. 133
Aftermath
On weekend mornings he drove out to the beach. The marine layer always hung overhead, but he didn’t mind; it was easier on the dog. Parked on the street the meters weren’t active ‘til noon. He got warm on the walk to the sand. Just past the canals, he smelled oil and burning plastic, then felt the air slightly warm. Down an alley he saw the remnants of a truck: black smoke tendrils rising into the sky, roof scorched, glass blown out across the pavement, embers smoldering in the bed, tailgate long ago removed.
He paused, looking around for a witness, someone else who could call the authorities. Instead, his dog pulled him down the sidewalk, eager to run. When they hit the sand, he unlatched the dog’s harness. It took off, kicking clouds of sand behind its stride, headlong into the mist until all he could see was its silhouette.
No. 132
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