short stories – Page 2 – Aremyfeetofftheground

Steel and glass

Just today, 55 years after the crash, Stuart’s face has appeared to me once more in a dream. I don’t know why I remember this, especially now, in my 69th year, but it feels as if God has spoken to me about one of his angels.

On December 27th, 1964, I was fourteen and my brother Mark was eleven. “Stewie” had been Mark’s only friend since he and his parents had moved into our apartment building, some four years before. Being probably the eldest kid in the building, I had been busy recruiting followers (all younger kids), setting trends with my Beatle Boots and Fabian haircut, and developing an interest in those strange creatures, the Gurlz. All of this, though, did not prevent me from feeling a streak of jealousy over the time Mark and Stuart spent together.

Sophie was Stuart’s mom, and they lived down the hall from us. I don’t have much of a memory of his dad, as he seemed to be away most of the time. Sophie worked as a part time secretary, I think, and Stuart would come to our place for a few hours while she was gone. With his round doe-like eyes and a lower lip that drooped into a perpetual pout, Stuart’s face was meant for a mother to love, and indeed he clung to Sophie whenever we saw them together. He may have been the shyest person I have ever met. Being a little younger than my brother, Stuart was a willing disciple when Mark began to school him in the basics of rebellion. Nothing serious came of it, but whenever trouble bubbled over, Mark was one of the suspects.

Stuart and his family had lived in our building going on five years when they had to move away because his father had gotten a new job. Mark was unhappy, of course, until Sophie started to bring Stuart for visits almost every weekend.

There was a new kid named Stanley. He and his family had moved into an apartment on the top floor of our building, and he always took the stairs when coming outside. Three flights, and he made a game out of running down them as fast as he could. At the bottom landing, there was a heavy glass door that you had to push open, then a few steps outside to the pavement. To the left of that door was a tall and narrow window made of frosted glass. I assume its purpose was to let in additional light, while improving the esthetics of the place.

This window had been broken by some kids playing ball, and all that was done was to remove the shards of glass from the frame so that no one would get hurt. Apparently, they couldn’t get it repaired right away because it was the weekend. Someone had put strips of tape over it to show there was no glass, but this didn’t last long. Once Stanley found out, his stair game became even more fun because now he could run right outside without stopping, making a beeline for the missing window.

On the following Monday, the repairmen were there first thing and put in the new one, this being of clear glass because they couldn’t get hold of the frosted stuff right away.
Mark and Stuart and I were having lunch on our second floor balcony when we heard the crash and Stanley’s screams. He had played his stair game one too many times, and had run clean through the plate glass window. My mother rushed out to see him laying in a pool of blood and went yelling down the hall for help. Women came out with towels to help bind him up. We went inside on mother’s instructions. Mark and I were stunned. Stuart just buckled, sat on the floor, and cried. Stanley wasn’t even his friend.

In the next week or two, while Stanley was still in the hospital, we didn’t see Stuart. Sophie had called to say that he was too upset to go anywhere, and so she stayed home with him. I felt that the accident was partly my fault for not telling anyone about Stanley and the stairs, but it took me a while to open up about it to my mother.

A couple of weeks before Christmas, after Stuart had spent a sleepover at our place, Sophie came to pick him up, saying they would see us between Christmas and New Years. And so they did, the day after Boxing Day. We had presents for Stuart, and they stayed most of the day with us. The next day, Mark and I were outside playing street hockey. When we came in to get warm, Mom was sitting by the kitchen telephone crying. She hung it up and motioned for us to come to her. Stuart and Sophie had been killed by a drunk driver after they left our place on the previous night. Mark started crying. I think I was silent. Stuart was a true friend, and the purest soul I had ever met.

As I write this, I think that young face was in my dream for a reason. I have gotten too far away from purity, if I ever had such a thing. Stuart wasn’t even family, but when I think of what the knives of the world did to him, and of how short his life was, I feel humbled and ashamed that more of us cannot hold onto some of that kind of innocence. So Stewie, know that you are remembered, and held in love.

Tommy, can you hear me?

It wasn’t that long ago that he turned fifteen. We sat on the cold concrete of his front porch, watching the iffy clouds discuss a storm. I always sat downwind from him ’cause he didn’t like my smoke. That day, a brisk and cool crosswind hinted at summer’s end, and the sailing cloudbank made me think of angry giants.

When I first met Tommy, he was about nine years old. He’d been a handful for his parents ’cause in those days there were no “programs” or government assistance for kids with “developmental challenges”. Tommy was okay physically, but seemed muffled from what we think of as the real world. His folks had advertised for a caregiver, to be “available once or twice a week” so that they could at least have a little respite from that daunting task. I don’t see them as bad or lazy people, and I too would have needed some time away if he were mine. Anyway, there must not have been very many responses. They took me on, even though my sole qualification was that I had spent a couple of summers as a camp counsellor.

It was not without emotion that Jan and Barry Morgan left their son in the care of someone else for the first time, and I am sure they had their misgivings. I had brought two baseball mitts with me in case Tommy didn’t have one, and we were playing catch when they made ready to go. He dropped his mitt and ran to them crying. I came over and put my arm around his waist, while Jan tried to explain to him that they were going into town and would be back by four o’clock. Still he clung, so I took off my wristwatch and strapped it onto his skinny arm. “Hey, Tommy. That means we have lots of time to play catch. See the short hand on the watch? When it gets all the way around to the 4, Mom and Dad will be back. And if you get tired of catch, we’ll fly your kite.” I give the kid credit, for he let them go without too much more of a fuss, and we spent a pretty good afternoon.

You know, it shames me to say this. Whenever I have come across a person who was known as a “deaf mute”, I’ve been afraid. Afraid of not knowing how to communicate with them, or even whether or not I should try. I felt them to be unreachable or, worse, unreasonably aggressive because they were different. Maybe I even thought that they knew something that no one else did. Maybe I even thought that they needed something that I couldn’t give.

And I did think that Tommy was all of these things, for he was uncommunicative, if not plain stubborn. And yes, he was aggressive at times, punching me with his small fists when I tried to shake him out of a funk. But, gradually, I began to learn the language of his world. He did make sounds, and could call his Mom and Dad. The most curious thing was that he did not call them Mom or Dad. He called them Jan and Barry.

As my time with him grew longer, his parents came to put trust in me, and they made me feel as if I were part of their family. And, you see where this is going. I came to love Tommy as a son. Although he did not, or could not, respond to being addressed in an everyday manner, he knew how to tell you what he wanted or needed. He could even play us off against one another in order to get it. Yes, there were the times when he scared me and showed me my inadequacies. Times of long silences and of unexplainable aggression. Times that I thought he was grieving for someone or something that I knew nothing of.

On that cold fall day, just after his 15th birthday, with the looming of those colossal clouds, and my behind getting cold from the concrete steps, I said “Well, Tommy, let’s go in and make some tea”. Expecting no response, I gently took his hand to get him up. He pulled back, wanting me to stay with him. “Mike”, he said, with a long “M”. The first time in those six years. He then pointed to the blackening clouds and brought his index fingers to his eyebrows. He looked at me full in the face and smiled. Once more he pointed to the clouds and then, unmistakably, he traced the initials “T.M.” in the air.
Smiling even more broadly, he touched his temples and tapped them several times.
Excitedly now, it was he that pulled me by the hand, urgently wanting me to follow him. Follow him to the big old maple tree on the edge of their property. There had long been a hive there, and it was active with the bees wintering down. He ran ahead, even against my call, and started to climb. Fearing the worst, I yelled after him..”Tom! Tom! Stop!”

He straddled the limb just below the buzzing nest, laughing and tapping his forehead. I felt as if he was “seeing” things for the first time, and I couldn’t help feeling happy and a little proud. I called for him to come down and hugged him tightly, as he said my name one last time.

Tonight, I tell you truly

A man walks to his usual crossroads, all right turns until he completes the simple square that brings him home. Tonight, he goes out late because of the hot sun, something to avoid with these new meds. As a trade off for the cool and pleasant breeze, someone has provided intermittent clouds of mosquitos. No matter. Without even breaking stride, he plucks up some hobbit courage and decides to take the long way home. All left turns. She’s sleeping anyway, won’t even notice. And besides, I have my phone and it’s still daylight. Hey Google, play The Beatles.

He wants to hear what’s going on around him as well, so he slips the phone into his back pocket and goes without the earbuds. The first thing that Spotify thinks of is “Yesterday”.
He knows that this route is exactly three times longer than the old one, and feels for a second that he has jumped in with both feet. There’s a moment of doubt. He stops and considers turning around, but stubborn pride spurs him on. After all, you’ll be 70 next year. Just easy…take it easy, you’ll get there. The numb knee still works, and it’s still numb, so that’s a bonus.

Ever since, as a kid, he had found the green edge of a twenty waving at him from the melting snow of spring, he had kept his nose to the ground whenever he could. No such luck tonight, of course. Just the expected litter of a sad society. His mind wandered stupidly, trying to picture what might be going on in people’s heads as they chucked things from car windows, smashed beer bottles in the ditch, crushed pop cans in a ritual showing of strength. What if, what if all of this could be gathered somehow, from every street in the neighbourhood? He would direct, yes he would, with his creative talent, a crew of say a hundred willing workers. He would design, and they would construct it, a massive sculpture of a muscular man, kneeling on one knee, shouldering the great sphere of Earth. All integrated, and all made of collected detritus. A name?
“Atlas, the Collossus of Roads”…..Well. Poof. That daydream had occupied his mind for a good kilometer. Now it was back to the slow scanning of sidewalk cracks.

And there, at the entrance to the church parking lot, a dirty spiral-bound notebook. It looked as if it had been run over one time too many. The metal binding was crushed, and the lined pages were splayed out like a bridge hand. What a find, he thought, as he picked it up and brushed the mud off it. Several of the drivers who were waiting at the stoplight got an eyeful, and one smiled and shook his head. Must have thought look at the old bum picking up whatever he comes across. The first page had stickers on it, saying such things as “Stay Rad!” and “You are capable of great things!” img_20190709_220649

Most other pages were blank. One appeared to be notes taken during a class on the abuse of pharmaceuticals. Their effects. Their routes of entry into the body. Memorize this. There will be a test. 00000img_00000_burst20190709220910838_cover

On the dark blue cover of the book, someone had written in fine black marker, barely visible, the names of drugs that were commonly sold on the street: Oxycodone, tranquilizers, amphetamines. Underneath that, in the same handwriting: “Hey Dylan! These are really cool. I can get you some.” Spotify said TURN OFF YOUR MIND. RELAX, AND FLOAT DOWNSTREAM. IT IS NOT DYING. IT IS NOT DYING.

One last page, in pencil, bore the legend “I am sure, Ace, it is best for Wags to stay home”

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Our man could see the stoplight of his destination, far off now, and uphill. His pace slowed. It was still pretty warm, and he took off his hat. Damn the mosquitos. Now, as three teenage girls approached him, the strains of A Hard Day’s Night were playing. They giggled, as teenage girls are prone to do, whispering asides to one another, hands covering painted lips. Just when the man thought they were having their sport at his expense, one of the girls did a fist pump and sang along with Lennon as he keened
“You know, I feel alright!”

Home. Finally. And none the worse for wear. He would sleep well tonight. In one hand was the notebook, and the other held a poor man’s bouquet of what he thought were wildflowers, but could have been partly weeds.

“For you”.

“Well, get that stuff outa here. It’s probably got bugs!”

Why

There must be some mistake,I think,
but it’s been days now.
These messages from you,
a thirty four year old stranger.
And I say,
and I say to myself
there are lots of crazies on the internet.
Lots of gold diggers.
People who will say anything
under cover of anonymity.
And so, you started with Hello,
um, how’s your day going?
And I, not used to DM’s,
responded just as awkwardly.
You told me how old you were.
Exactly half my age.
Sent me a picture (not a nudie).
I told you exactly how old I am,
and that I am married.
And I said what’s someone like you
want with someone like me?
(I can write a story well enough
to see where someone else’s is going)
And you said that you could not find anyone your age
to love you.
They are all jerks, you said.
Can we just talk?
You said.
I have been through a lot in my life,
you said.
Please, you said.

In my mind, I think cynically that you are after
a rich old man. A sugar daddy.
Or, you’re looking for me to tell you some
private things about my life,
or ask you for sex,
or praise you with compliments
so you can say that I harassed you or stalked you.
But, it’s going on a week now,
and I don’t see you approaching paydirt any time soon.
And, I haven’t said this to you yet,
but any improprieties of mine are already known to my family.
Today, I wished you all the best, but made it clear
that I would never meet you or seek you out.
You said “don’t you want to talk to me any more?”
And I said “sure I will, I just thought you would not
talk to me any more, once you knew how things were”.
And you said “I look forward to talking. Will you
text me later, or whenever you get a chance?”
I say yes, because I get this feeling, Cathy,
that you just might be someone in desperation.
That you want to tell me things I don’t want to know.
And I think, in the words of a sad and desperate song,*
“You can use my skin. To bury secrets in.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
* “I know….by Fiona Apple

Passings

It’s a slow down zone, and, in today’s tiny town, a little girl with scabby knees dawdles along the sidewalk. Her chin and part of her white T shirt are stained dark purple from the grape popsicle she’s licking. As she passes a picket fence, she puts out a pudgy hand as the slats go by. She likes the soft suggestive sounds and the roughness of the old wood. The rhythmic ta-TAT-ta-TAT-ta-TAT as her small fingers brush along the boards.

Soon, the fence gives way to the clipped green lawn of the local Legion. Celia had first seen the rusty army tank from the swaddling blankets of her stroller. Mommy had taken her for an outing on the prelude to a winter’s day, some eight years ago. Today, she wants to climb up and sit on the gun turret, even though there’s a sign that says
Keep Off, and even though Mommy has said “don’t let me catch you”. Up and down the street she looks, then reaches for one of the fenders to hoist herself up….but it’s no good. All at once, she’s reminded that she’s late, she’s late, for a very important date. The oversize wristwatch, strapped to her wrist by Mom, tells her she had better get going. They’re going to see Aunt Daphne, and she has to get cleaned up and dressed up.

In a few minutes, Celia is climbing the steps to her front porch. Mommy is sitting there with her arms crossed, a bad sign. “What on earth were you doing?” Celia, covered in dirt, has a purple face and a runny nose into the mix. Oddly, as her Mom stands up, Celia just hugs her waist and says “It’s alright. It’s alright.” Mom takes her by the hand into the house. “Girl, it’s bath time, and God knows how I’m going to get that purple off of you.” Celia sticks out her tongue, which is also purple.

This day, as they ease into November, the darkness is coming on sooner, so Mom wants to get the drive over with before nightfall. When by herself, she is prone to speeding a little, but tonight she has Celia in the back seat (where she has always made her sit for safety reasons). As they pass the last traffic light in town and head onto the open road, a Police car happens to pull in behind them. She keeps, of course, to the speed limit, and the Officer keeps a respectful distance back. “Celia, keep your eyes open. We’re coming to the big curve. You might see some deer up there.” As they’re about to enter the wide curve, Mom notices a huge tandem trailer of logs approaching them, just straightening out from the corner. She slows down a little, out of instinct. Sometimes these big rigs stray over the centre line by a foot or two. At that exact moment, a car pulls out from behind him and floors it, trying to pass. Mom slams on the brakes, steers too sharply, and hits the steel guardrail. Their car catapults and rolls down a slope towards the lake.

Officer Remy had steered in the opposite direction and had hit the rock cut on the left.
As luck would have it, he had grazed it sidewise, but at considerable speed. His cruiser was a write off, but his injuries amounted to a sore shoulder and neck together with some broken ribs. He was able to summon help.

Celia wakes up in hospital with her Aunt Daphne sitting at her bedside. Celia has a plaster cast on one arm and one leg. Her vision is blurred, but she can tell that her Aunt has very red eyes. When Daphne sees that her niece is conscious, all she does is hug her tightly and cry as she has never cried before. Their lives have changed, and the future has turned as cold and as grey as the bleak November sky.

Haraview Burgers and highway 11

I’ve been making trips to north central Ontario for nearly 50 years, almost all of them via highway 11. During that time, I have passed by a curious anomaly that remains to this day: A burger place that was in business for a short time in the early to mid seventies. It shut down after two to three years, I think, but was never demolished or replaced by another business. On the contrary, all of its signs still remain in good repair, and the building itself has not been allowed to deteriorate. Within the last couple of years, it’s been graced with a new paint job (true to original colours), and occasionally shows signs of occupation.

For the back story to this, and some pictures, visit https://secret-lifeof.com/2018/07/16/haraview-burgers/

I have stopped there a couple of times, but have not seen anyone about. I plan to try once more, and soon, as several readers have exhibited curiosity about it and one person in particular has offered his own excellent theory as to its history. He also requested that if I knew anything further, or could give him any kind of a back story relating to the area, he would appreciate it. And so, here goes:

In the early 70’s, a group consisting of myself and a few friends began camping on the weekends at a secluded resort by the name of Kahshe Motel and Trailer Park. It was just a few minutes up the highway from Haraview. On the highway between these two locations was a restaurant known as The Suomi. It was there that I met the girl who was to be my future wife. She was a waitress, and, unbeknownst to me, was staying in a cabin at Kahshe. I will spare you the details until another time, but will simply say that we were married within three months of meeting each other. She left her job there, and we made our first home in Mississauga. That was nearly 43 years ago.

In the first years of our marriage, we returned occasionally to Kahshe and camped there, for the park was still beautiful and well kept and we had some fond memories of it. Some years after that, The Suomi Restaurant changed hands, and became The Grand. Sadly, within a very short time, a gas leak caused the whole building to explode. It was completely demolished. No one was hurt, as it was closed at the time.

Many businesses have come and gone along the highway during those forty odd years. The Sundial restaurant was always a favourite. It was shuttered for many years, but has been rebuilt and opened up under new ownership. For a long time, highway 11 was not divided, and businesses were more prosperous, being as they got traffic from both directions. But, with increasing volume, the undivided highway became the site of many terrible crashes resulting from vehicles attempting to make left turns. And so, the barriers went up. I am sure that lives were saved, but sadly some of the highway businesses did not survive.

As to Haraview Burgers, my plan is to stop there once again, and, if no one is about, I will leave a prepared note to the owners, letting them know that I have written somewhat of a story about the place, and giving them my contact details in case they see fit to communicate.

Thanks for reading, and I will be sure to publish any updates as I receive them.

With this ring

This night, I am a sardine, riding the stuffed subway. The atmosphere is a mix of hot salami breath, boozy exhalations, overboard perfume, and the intrusiveness of freshly smoked weed. People pressing, gravelly coughs, wonky ringtones, shuffle shuffle shuffle. No place for the anxious or the introverted or the healthy. My brain buddy says to me, by way of consolation, There there. At least you aren’t in India. Or China, or London, or…. Yes, I have seen the photographs. People squished against glass doors, and professional train stuffers that won’t take no for an answer. In this, my lifelong town, we haven’t come to that pass yet.

Hey, if you pass out, at least you won’t fall.
We careen through tunnels of semi dark. On a curve, I am prodded by elbows and my foot is stepped upon by a hard heel. In the jostling, I can’t tell whose, and no one says sorry excuse me or anything of the like.

From my forced vantagepoint, I fix on a pair of female hands but I cannot see their owner. They rest upon her skirted lap, and, oddly, they don’t hold a phone. She moves them in peculiar ways for a young person, cupping one hand within the other and rubbing slowly back and forth as if in arthritic pain. Joining her hands, she then raises and lowers them in seeming prayer or supplication. Finally, she reaches into her pocket or purse, brings out a small circlet of paper, and slips it onto her ring finger. I see that it’s a cigar band and I chuckle to myself, having seen this sort of thing in the movies where the boyfriend asks the girl to marry him but can’t afford a ring.

She plays with it for a few seconds, turning it round and round, then takes it off, as if to put it away. She drops it on the floor, then quickly picks it up. I glimpse a head of long straight tawny hair, and her young face in profile. She sees me and I redden a bit, smiling sheepishly. Apparently conscious of an audience now, she stops fidgeting. One hand rests flat upon her knee, and the other is closed loosely in a fist.

With two more stops to go before I reach mine, I begin to sidle towards the doors, but stop for a moment as I draw close to her. She’s unaware, I think, because she has her head down and is toying with the ring again. Slips it back on once more, then looks straight ahead. She sees me, and gives a Mona Lisa smile. I feel like her decision’s been made, and I smile back.

The doors open and I push my way out onto the platform. I stop for a second, thinking.
Yeah, I knew it. I know it. This girl, who is now a woman, I have seen before. Her life of running away is no more, and I’m so happy. Yeah, I’m happy.

Furry ventriloquism

I never knew what cats were thinking, until my teenaged daughter started “rescuing” them, one by one, and bringing them home. In one case, it was a clandestine operation involving a smuggle under her jacket, and a fait accompli when we arrived.

Like many Dads, I found it hard to stay mad for very long, and actually was secretly amused by the lengths to which she would go to get these fleabags in the door.
Ahem, one of them actually was a fleabag. This was the smuggled one, and it came from her aunt’s place, who once (when asked how many cats she had) said “several”. Really, it was about 30, so this was classified as a rescue. Apparently, her Mom knew about it beforehand, and was in cahoots. When produced from inside her jacket, it was already scratching and had sores on its chin…..vet visit the very next day.

Once we had domesticated these things, it became my daughter’s habit to amuse everyone by devising clever things that she thought each cat would say in a given situation, then (with a straight face) speak the lines in a voice which was a dead ringer for the Gingerbread Man from Shrek.

It nearly made me pee myself, and, of course, this encouraged her. So, for the few more years that she lived at home, I got so used to it that I almost found myself wanting to have a conversation with the silly things.

When it finally came time for her to go on her own, she left them with us.
We were standing at the door to see her off, and my tears started to roll.
All I could think of to say was “Now, how am I going to know what the cats are thinking?”

Fingers and toes

Every day, I get on the subway at the beginning of its route. About 45 minutes later, I am right downtown, three stops from the end. With any luck, it’s about 7:30 in the morning, and I have lots of time to get a Starbuck’s. After my day in the cubicle, I’ll be back in my parking lot by 5:00.

On this miscellaneous morning, Google says it’s gonna be a hot one. Already, at 6:45, it’s 25 Celsius. There are plenty of people waiting with me for the silver doors to open. There’s the whoosh of wind, the strange vacuum sensation, and the expected climax of chimes in C minor. It’s not unusual for the subway cars to have a few seats already occupied at this, the end of the northbound line. People one stop down the line will get on, just to have somewhere to sit on the southbound journey.

We all get on, and everyone finds a seat. Most are occupied, either with their phone, or with one of those crappy cups of coffee from the station’s vending machine. Straight across from me, next to the doors, a young girl sits. It’s a row of three seats, and no one has sat beside her. Without being obvious, I fall to studying her aspect and mannerisms. She wears a pair of lime green gym shorts and a grey zip up hoodie. It obscures her features to a degree, and her downcast gaze and unwashed hair leave just a runny nose and pouty lips showing out. She’s about thirteen, I think.

There are some odd things about her that pique my curiosity. She wears white socks and no shoes, not even flip-flops. In a pigeon-toed manner, she keeps crossing and uncrossing her feet, bending (and cracking) her toes unconsciously. She has no phone, or so I assume, but it’s her hands I’m focused on. Her fingernails are bitten to the quick, but what I see her do fascinates me, as if I have run across some accidental art. With each hand, she touches, in sequence, the tips of each finger to its member thumb, and then repeats as if part of a game. Then, the tips of all digits from both hands are brought together and flexed as if in a bellows. Tiring of this, she inscribes, with a forefinger, letters upon the palm of the opposite hand. I felt sure that she was spelling something out, and would have given much to read the message. At the last, and just before my stop, she meshes her fingers together and begins to twiddle her thumbs. I have heard the expression before, but have never seen someone actually do it.

As I get up to leave, she looks up for a second, and I see keen blue eyes with lashes stuck together as from stale tears. I step off, trying to think about Starbucks.

This muggy afternoon, I catch my 4:15 to head home. But you have guessed already. Serendipity has shone upon the scene, and this girl sits a few seats down from me. Something tells me she will be there when I reach my destination. In my briefcase I have a pastry, wrapped in plastic, that I bought for the trip home. I stand up nonchalantly, as if getting off at the next stop, look at the subway map, then sit down beside her. She shrinks away a bit, perhaps thinking that I am that weirdo she has been told about.

“I saw you here this morning, and here you are again. Are you okay?” She says nothing, then moves her feet from the floor up to her seat, hugging her knees. “Where do you live?” I do not want to go home she says. I had expected something a little less formal, like “I don’t wanna go home”. “Here…are you hungry?” I offer the pastry to her and she takes it, quickly eating it with her head turned. They drink and they take drugs and they buy things, but not for me. They tell me to hide when someone knocks on the door.
“Look, take this money. Is there a place you can stay tonight?” My friend’s dad has a hotel. He makes her work at the desk sometimes. She could let me stay. He would not know.

I pencil my number on the back of a business card. “Call this number if you need help.
What is your name?”

Layla.

The next day, as I’m eating my substitute pastry, my phone rings. Unknown number.

What did you expect?

The arborite of tabletop is smooth and cool and even.
Reach now for the shining phone. Feel its warm monolith, tented over in your pocket. For extra reassurance, stroke the disagreeable cat. It is deep velvet, simmering skin, removable whiskers. Only you can elicit its purr, calm its condescending glare. Don’t you dare stop, or forget the filaments of the ear.

Push up, now, from your chair by the fire. Feel and hear the sharp crack of the ankle. The protesting knee, surely out of warranty. Shuffling’s horizon. Whiskers follow you to the kitchen. Treat time for the Terrible Two. Vet says four each. You say “What!? They will kill me in my sleep!” Aha. Four. Not fourteen for these crack addicts. Keep your bedroom door closed tonight, and wear earplugs.

Grip the smooth silver of the fridge door handle. Pull to open. You must be losing weight, ’cause inertia’s not enough now. There. Ahh. Hear the sucking door seal, note the frail flicker of the light. There’s a last bottle of Heineken. It is smooth and cool and even. Sit you down, father. Rest you. Take care not to cut yourself when that twist off cap doesn’t work.