Leftovers
Richard Dinges Jr.
An open can of olives,
shelled shrimp in ziplock
bags, smoked salmon
that smells of yesterday,
my refrigerator casts
doubts on today,
with a cool waft of air
when I open the door,
a shock of bright light
on memories
that idle on shelves
after holidays pass
and gently decompose
into tomorrow.
Cracked Windshield
Jonathan B. Ferrini
My windshield resembles a picture screen depicting the future racing towards me.
The crack running down the center suggests two destinies distorted by the on-coming headlights blinding me as to which road I should choose.
The taillights resemble red sequin bulbs adorning a splintered Christmas tree within a dysfunctional home, and warn against taking the wrong turn.
The pale-yellow line I follow won’t prevent calamity.
The rubber wiper blades struggle to sway from side to side like exhausted people shredded by the broken glass living long-suffering lives.
The rearview mirror is small but clear depicting memories fading with each passing mile, ultimately lost forever.
Viewing my future through the windshield is like watching a movie in a drive-in theatre from a lawn chair left by my foster parents using the car like a motel room rented by the hour.
I strike a pot-hole lengthening the crack on the beaten-down windshield too tired to maintain its struggle as protector and disintegrates into shards like a broken life.
I push forward without protection from the wind, dust, and insects outside.
I’ve chosen the wrong exit and come upon the dingy convenience market in a forgotten small town relegated to obscurity by the freeway.
Seated beside me is my passenger known as “Revolver”.
I enter and hear the familiar lyrics,
“Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus Lane.”
The immigrant proprietors are a father, mother, and youngster celebrating Christmas in America dutifully staying open as a gift of convenience to neighbors in their adopted new home.
“Merry Christmas, Sir”
Ferrini/Windshield/2
I retreat to the frig of colored drinks reminding me of our empty refrigerator and twisted string of burnt-out tree lights back home.
I detest the image of myself in the security mirror above the doorway portraying a desperate man driven to robbery to provide food and gifts to his needy family.
The mirror reveals the approach of a disheveled, frightening, and determined skeleton of a man. His body odor is palpable as he passes. His oversize jacket conceals a shotgun.
As fortunate children are unwrapping their gifts, giggling, and laughing, I’m witness to the unwrapping of a weapon of death followed by screams, crying, and begging.
He’s taken them into the storeroom and I fear the worst.
“Open your present” echoing throughout town has become:
“Open the damn safe or I’ll blow you all away!”
I’m confronted by my “Ghost of Christmas Past”. Santa came to our house dressed as a homicide detective and my Christmas dinner was served within a juvenile custodial center.
This never fading memory in my rear-view mirror wasn’t gift wrapped but the card carried a message to prevent a redux of my “Christmas Past” for this family.
I placed “Revolver” to the back of the thief’s head who dropped the rifle. He fell to his knees pleading like I begged dad not to pull the trigger on mom.
“Please don’t kill me. I needed money for a fix!”
His “fix” was a precious Christmas gift of mercy from his victims.
“Let him go. It’s Christmas.”
He grabbed a pack of cigarettes and bottle of whiskey as he ran away.
To escape a bad dream, it’s best to get out of bed, and I headed for the door to end my nightmare. Before leaving, I hear,
“Stop!”
They likely triggered the alarm. It was ironic I failed to steal a day of celebration for my family but would end up in jail for concealing a weapon without a permit.
The family scurried about the store filling a shopping cart with the makings of a convenience market version of Christmas dinner and gifts.
I was pelted by the cold, dust, and insects but kept an eye on the rearview mirror providing me a memory of kindness, never fading with each mile passed or lost forever.
I followed the pale-yellow line home carefully while humming,
“Peace on earth will come to all if we just follow the light
So let’s give thanks to the Lord above, ’cause Santa Claus comes tonight.”
Katrina Brick
William Miller
I knew this woman, old New Orleans
in her light graceful manners,
slightly dark humor. Her family house on Laurel Street
had stood for over two-hundred years.
Sarah gently told stories of disasters—
a slave woman who burned her mistress to death,
set her dress on fire with a coal pulled from
the kitchen fire with a pair of iron tongs.
And one about her planter third great-grandfather
who hanged himself in the attic with a cord
from his Chinese dressing gown.
“No ghosts,” she said, laughing.” “No ghosts.”
But I wanted more, tourist-hungry and new
in town. They all had them: year-long flights
to California, dead bodies floating in the canals,
whole families stranded on rooftops.
She walked me through the wrought-iron gate
into the shade of a cypress tree, pointed to an odd brick,
new among the moss-covered old.
“Eight dollars,” she said. “That’s what Katrina
cost my family. “A single brick blown down the street.”
There was guilt in the lines of her face, a survivor’s mask
of stoic charm. And she was waiting for the next
African wind, a furry wheel in the gulf.
Once more, she’d risk a storm even if it meant
blown-out dormer windows, a caved-in mansard roof,
the death of an old family’s last daughter. “A brick,”
she said sadly. “The price of a single brick.”
Retirement
Richard Dinges Jr.
Just when I left the stupor
and stilted air of an office
chair buried in a room
with no shadows, lit
by sterile fluorescence
and dim monitor flicker,
just at that moment
the world shrank,
people retreated into
small home-bound rooms,
hid behind masks,
a world with no smiles,
only shrill shrieks of loss
and no protection from ghosts
that float in air to infect
our breath, and I still stare out
through dirty window panes
at freedom yet to be had.
Death of a Pirate
William Miller
For two hot weeks he had pinned tourists
to the walls of charming old houses,
threatened locals with his sword outside
their favorite bars, the Lucky Dog stand.
One nutty eye leered beneath
the pulled-down brim of his cockade hat.
He had no name, was just “the pirate”
or that “crazy pirate bastard”.
Harmless enough, even though he wore
in a black and gold scabbard
a real honed, cutting sword. On the hottest day
ever recorded in New Orleans,
he hectored the wrong homeless man
who stabbed him to death with three
quick thrusts of a prison shank.
Garbage men muttered, Japanese couples
snapped pics. A pirate in a town where pirates
prospered and kept alive with smuggled rum
slaves from banned countries, he kept some kind
of faith. Like all street performers, he gave
the crowd what they came to see,
traveled so far to post to their friends
back home. His blood was extra,
more than what they paid for.
Songs for a Mad Woman
William Miller
The police car pulled up and then I was
in hand cuffs, in disbelief, driven with two vagrants.
But I protested, cursed, screamed—“Don’t you know
who I am?” For those words, not all the ones
I published for thirty years, the books and magazines
that burned in the apartment fire, I was taken
to a place Kafka never dreamed worse. A psych ward,
a treatment center where you were kept
without a phone call, a release date.
A girl was raped in there, not by an inmate but two
attendants who took their pick from the gurney
they wheeled in daily, hourly. An Aryan with
a swastika tattooed across his back told me
to stay quiet, play the game, nod and smile.
In the dayroom, the damned colored in coloring books.
For an hour, we sat in the shade of a wall topped
with concertina wire. A woman with long silver hair
conjured birds with tiny wing-like hands—an old “traiteur”,
someone told me. There was another woman,
“Gwen,” lost in her own shadows, eyes like
burned-out fuses. I needed a purpose and spoke
to her, made faces, sang songs she might know.
Her eyes lit up at “Yesterday”. And then she said:
“I see many soldiers”. The light in her eyes
went out and never came back. I hoped she was
in a better place, soldiers all around, where someone
tried to sing to her, at least knew her name.
Once Upon a Time in the West
Jesse Sensibar
I’m leaned up against the old cigarette machine that hulks in the shadows to the right of the main entrance and exit door to the bar of the Monte Vista Lounge almost underground in the bottom of the old hotel. I’m up against the big machine because it’s about the only place left to stand in the crowded smoky bar.
The machine and me are the only two things not moving in the place. The music is hard and fast and the crowd moves pogo style with it.
I’ve got a lot of love for this cigarette machine. My grandfather was one of the first Marlboro Men.
An angry midget named Joe Munch driving a blue delivery van modified with hand controls comes every week with his beat-up step stool and cardboard cartons of cigarettes to fight and feed the beast, climbing around slamming and cussing it ‘till it gives up its box heavy with silver coins, then re-loading it with full stacks of fresh packs of tobacco. It jams every once and a while but it mostly works pretty flawlessly. It’s so old it is mechanical instead of being electronic.
You pick your brand of smoke from the pictures on the face of the machine and put your quarters in the slot. Below each picture is a small round chrome knob decorated and edged with tiny scallops.
You grab the knob and pull, the knob comes out towards you a full ten or twelve inches on a steel slide with a sound like working a long action on a 12-gauge pump shotgun, making the same resounding chunk when your pack of cigarettes falls out of the machine and into the tray below as a shotgun does when it chambers another shell.
Journey Home
John Ganshaw
Finally, I’m on my way home, somewhere between Seoul and Detroit, sitting comfortably in a Delta One Pod, gazing out the window. You can see for miles and all that is below me are pure puffs of white, the sun cascading off of them and gazing back at me, highlighting the tanned fingers that type on this keyboard. It is so hard to imagine that I am here above the clouds when I have been in the depths of hell for so long. This is different from sleeping on the floor in a Cambodian prison. I thought that being on the way home would bring a sense of freedom to my realm, yet I am wiping away the tears of pain, hurt, and everything else that came with these past 16 months. It wasn’t long ago that I thought my head would be resting on these clouds, using them as my pillow, but now all appears different.
I sat there gazing out the window, dreaming of all that was, all that was still ahead of me, thinking what now? Deep, lost in my thoughts when out of nowhere I heard a voice, “Would you like some more wine.” I was startled shitless and jumped a mile high bringing a whole new meaning to the mile-high club. The attendant was just as startled by my reaction, but we both got a laugh out of it. This will be my life now, being startled by the slightest noise, voice, or sighting. I slunk back into my seat, watching my fingers move across the keyboard, effortlessly recording the thoughts running through my brain. I did take a minute or two to notice that the attendant gave me a very healthy pour, and for that, I am more than grateful. On the journey back, not even sure what that means anymore, I am leaving my Cambodian home to find time to recover and right this old sea-worn ship. I had no sooner found myself and it is now in need of major repair and remodeling. At least I have a bag of bones that can be mended, unlike one or two people I know.
My friends are asking me how I feel now that I have started the journey back and I can best explain it like this. The physical journey will be an easy one; I got on this plane and will be back with family and friends in a matter of 20-plus hours. The mental and emotional journey will take a lot of time; time to adjust to the trauma, treatment, and time to come to terms with how the person you loved so much could betray you. So, this journey will not be a Sunday walk in the park but more like a mountaineering expedition. We have only so much control over life, if you want to live life to the fullest you must accept that there may be a shit storm now and again. I just happened to find the shit storm to end all shit storms.
Even now, as I begin my journey back, such positive experiences begin to happen, mostly the most mundane having such an impact on me. It began last evening, which in itself seems like an eternity ago. I was waiting for my taxi to pick me up from the hotel when I ran into the British Ambassador, a lovely lady. During my time in Cambodia, we became acquaintances. I dare say friends when a very dear friend of ours passed away. She was a guest in my hotel, the hotel where we had the wake. It was just the beginning of the Era of Covid and meeting her, at the wake, all brought a sense of life to such a dire situation, it was death, after all, that is probably the direst of situations ever to be encountered. Though we had only met that one time she has been there through my entire ordeal. Anyway, she knew that I was leaving and heading home, and she stated that she would like to keep in touch, genuinely. It wasn’t empty words coming from her lips but heartfelt sentiment. Christ this is a good pour of very good wine, I’m waiting for the fasten seatbelt sign to illuminate. The second impact happened when I was going through immigration and I knew it wouldn’t be easy. It took a few minutes and some phone calls, probably to make sure that my exit Visa was in order and that I truly was free from prison and able to leave the country. Each one of the agents at immigration treated me with the utmost respect and I knew they read the charges, Blackmail and Sex Trafficking. By their looks and demeanor, I could tell that they knew the charges were false and I was a victim of the common yet not-so-common scam. Those who partake in illegal activities are pretty cunning to have others who are innocent take the fall. It was when I was walking away that the one agent looked me in the eyes, saying “Good Luck to you.” Generally, I would just chalk this up to his being nice but the smile on his face and the look in his eyes were real, you could see the emotion in his eyes, the sense of caring, and the sense of knowing. These times have been so difficult for me, to be accused of a crime so hideous and disgusting is still so unbearable. To know through the actions above or messages I receive from friends, messages of encouragement, friends, family, and acquaintances, reassuring me that everyone knows the truth and who was behind this. This goes a long, long way. Perhaps the most touching happened this morning when I was chatting with my friend, legal advisor, and confidant, Jonathon. He said that the effect my situation has had on others is indescribable. He was telling me how it brought people together, to rally for me during this unbearable time of Covid. People not being able to interact or have contact with others, yet they were all coming together and, in the process, forming friendships that otherwise wouldn’t have been formed. Jonathon shared with me the feeling that I had. I had these same feelings when I was in prison. I met and am now friends with some great people that I wouldn’t have met if this incident hadn’t happened to me.
I am still looking out upon the sea of white, little mountains of cotton and though I am flying to a new place, I know I wouldn’t want to change anything that has happened to me. What I have learned these past many months I would never have learned if this hadn’t been done to me. How lucky am I? You have the worst possible accusation made about you, you spend time in a third-world prison, and you live through the most unimaginable living conditions, yet I have no remorse, no hate, maybe a little contempt and I despise a certain ex-pat, but after all I am human. Even now, I truly believe I am a better person than I was before. This experience has provided me with the opportunity to create a new dream, a new fight for justice, and a new life to live. The dreams and nightmares won’t go away overnight, the struggle will still be there but in time, maybe I can begin to live again.
WINTER FRAGMENTS, 2022
by
John Ballantine
January 1
I choose a little madness to heal the dreamer warming my bed. The dervish dance puts food on the table. Crazy cool, I am here with aging heart, eyes, and ears that feel the wind in my face. I do not turn away—staring straight into the dance. We are here, we feel the hurts and hold the love. I see the broken promises, letting go the memory that holds me back.
“Who is that?” mocks the fool. “Where are you?”
Today I sit quietly, hear stories, and know that hearts pound fast, mothers die in fire, and tragedy is here. There is another dead body, etched in memory, surrounded by empty vessels, an occasional apparition. Each of us stumbles into such pits. Some never get out. The lucky few walk forward, chastened and more alive. I stand among the lucky.
The choir harmonizes an ancient tune.
I am a child, a crazed, aging man. The world spins, the sun rises, my heart beats. There is pain and love. I am awake.
January 6
Hard to believe, was it a delusion? Crazy people—tattooed, dressed in horns. Wearing army fatigues with guns in their belts—crashing through police barriers. Breaking democratic norms as they stormed the halls of power. This cannot be?
Hard to believe sitting in a quiet home with the TV filled with pictures of hate. Maybe another revolution is happening? Not the peasants rising but an insidious sickness. Are they serious? In 1968 the yippies, hippies, and protestors crashed the Democratic Convention, Mayor Daley’s police beat us back—while Russian tanks rolled into Prague. Back then the upending of that world was real.
Raised fists, riots, and dead proclaimed that the dream is not dead. They—police, troops, and our elders—struck back. For what? Today:
“Something is happening and you don’t know what it is, do you?”
Hard to believe as trees bend, hawks soar, and fires burn far away on flat screens. I cannot breathe, can that be true for so many? Some storm the halls of Congress, tear down what you built and learned. I cannot, will not, believe we live in such a place. Guns, pipe bombs, broken windows. This is happening on our screens over and over. We are not the enemy, but this country constructed/woven from the floss of dreams is coming apart.
It is hard to believe cruelty and hate is so close—that pillars of wisdom fall so fast. And that we, you and I, did nothing. No sword or gun as the mobs stormed our cities. It is hard to believe that we did not fight and die for the good life. For the love that surrounds and comforts.
Hard to believe that my world is falling apart, 161 years after the first shot fired on Fort Sumter. There is no god standing on the ramparts to protect, no poet to spin tales to comfort. The food line is long, the night cold, and there is only one blanket to keep us warm
January 9
It is happening here. It has happened. Civil War—innocent dead on both sides. Reconstruction, the bondage that held so many down. And the Gilded Age, where stealing and taking was sung in parlors where so few marched for liberty, equality, and fraternity. Barricades do not fall easily. Talk at tables stops—even in my well-mannered family. Some hate FDR and the New Deal, others say this is the way. Then there are the wars, blacklists, communists, queers, Black Panthers, George Wallace, the Weathermen, Proud Boys, KKK, and Trump, who incites beyond my imaginings.
Is this the back and forth of history? Despots here, not just in Russia or in other faraway lands. Money feeds. History faints and many look away. It cannot be happening here…only over there. I sip the wine, watch romances at night, and do not fall into dystopian traps.
But it is happening here—not just the 47 percent who do not vote like me, or the 300 or more who stormed the Capitol. Too many turning away from what I learned, what I thought we believed. Hard work, opportunities, laws, courts—even justice—and conversation. I make lists. Sexism, racism, inequality, resentment. My head is full of explanations, of words. I do not understand what is happening here, today.
“Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear,” whispers Mack the Knife.
Stones break windows, dead lie unclaimed, and fires burn. Russian tanks advance. No chicken in every pot. The rainmaker looks to the sky for promise of better days, but the deserts are dry and dreams die. It is happening and I don’t want to know why. The candle in the cave shows no shadows flickering on the wall.
Wolves howl at night, we hide in our apartments. The screens flicker. Some cough and die, others wear masks. The trucks pass back and forth in the dark of the night, and there is no metaphor, no light to take me out. No Beatrice or trials of Job that explain. No poet in robe pointing the way.
“Something is happening and you do not know why, do you, Mr. Jones.”
I sit in my basement, far away from the street cries. The snow muffles what we lost. The bully holds sway. I did not stand with the righteous, did not carry arms and say no. I let others die, disappear, and pretend at dinner it was all Okay.
And what did you do when democracy died? When the USA was united no more? When another country fell? What did you do to save our dreams?
January 16
The world is dark. I wake, touching the first sign of sun wrapped in the smile of romance. But there was no light. No sunrise. It happened just like that, no shots or storming of the barricades. The food on the shelves, the fires that warmed stopped. Just like that.
The resentment, the lies, and the guns have turned back the clock to 1917, 1968. I stand in Prague as tanks roll in. The out-of-wedlock, the bastard children, have no home. Those in the street—Black, White, and Brown—rich and poor—have risen like a mob disgorged from cyclops mouth screaming for more. For their fair share.
There is no god, no Ulysses or Athena to rescue us. All that stuff in my head, it is not real. Not even a dream can shield you and me from the slings and arrows of anger. They do not care; they have a long list of unreasonable demands. The reason I am here, that we sit together at the table, has evaporated as the walls of reason collapse.
It is hard to believe cruelty and hate was so close—that pillars of wisdom fell so fast. And that we, you and I, did nothing. No sword or gun as the mobs stormed our cities. It is hard to believe that we did not fight and die for the good life. For the love that surrounds and comforts.
The pendulum of time swings back if you fight. Better to have a headstone inscribed, “He believed and died for love.” No more stories, no pictures on the wall. Stand up.
January 26
It was a long time coming. The realization that I cannot change the world. How many days did I look at the sky, imagining soft, puffy clouds when the fist punched my gut? I did look away but hit back with a knee to the chin as I charged through the line. Violence begets violence.
Solzhenitsyn survived cancer in a Siberian gulag—and let his beard grow long in a Vermont hamlet as he pried open the Russian soul. There was so much hurt that ascetism dried the tears falling. A stoic spirit moves forward. Poets stand in food lines. The tundra is frozen deep, I dream again.
Why don’t I see the world as it is? Why can I not stare into the abyss and see the pale bodies floating in the river Styx? I play with the devil, the chameleon deceiving so many. Dulcet voices sweeten the fall. I believe in good, even as witches’ brews simmer with so much sinning. I see the frolicking cherubs, I wander through dark caves with etching scratched on the walls, and I read of Rome’s fall.
No, that is not the world I know. The never-ending troubles, the storm clouds knocking down homes, and the dead bodies piled high on funeral pyres. I see the terrible armies march, the devil’s beguilements, and all the bad that you report. But my wandering knight cannot let go of dreams. The boy who said I believe in Tinkerbell will not let go.
When I die they will say, “John never did get it, did he? Never saw the world as it is, did he?” No, lucky John, he wandered with his mad dreams.
February 15
Easy to forget, to eat the fresh fruit with vanilla ice cream, followed by pink finger bowls. I stared across the table, not knowing why building more bombs and missiles was the path to peace. Some said, “Do not talk with Ruskies” or they, too, will bury us as the cherubic leader in an ill-fitting suit pounds his shoe at the UN. Really, we have to wait until hell freezes over for those two to talk.
Seven Days in May passed, and we were not blown to smithereens. We learned to love the bomb and not see Peter Sellers when Kissinger explains why we were in Vietnam—dominoes balancing—and why oval tables were the beginning of peace talks with so many dead. Time turns and here we are again with tanks, broken windows, and women crying on the cold street, holding their dead.
I sit with the blue sky and snow—looking at the darkness. Dread rises over a land torn asunder by time while men on horses, tanks, planes strike down the courageous person standing tall. This country, this land with its centuries-long history, cannot escape its mistakes, and so we kill, burn, and maim again until someone says let’s try sitting at the round—or is it oval—table once again.
February 23
The grandmother stood straight, staring left and right with blue-gray shawl over her shoulders. Prostitute selling her 62-year-old body—not too soft—to put food on the table in Tbilisi. Wide-eyed, I am a year older and not as tough. I look at the potholed streets, the elevators that do not go up, and the crumbling concrete steps in each apartment that they own. No communal property for the free citizens.
The patriarch in black robe and white beard murmurs prayers. A giant statute of Stalin stands guard. Here in Georgia the wine is sweet and the market full of talk as we take the bus to Ossetia, a breakaway province Russia will soon invade, just because.
Why fight the bully? I ask Thea as we climb the goat path through deep, verdant valleys locked in centuries of dialects. Do they not understand war? Some try to break free, others hide. In churches standing above the valley, frescoes of St. George on curved ceilings sit high above seven hundred years of tribulations. A calm voice soothes the afternoon as the incense drifts in with the slanting light.
A lace curtain is drawn across each apse—a couple with white, virginal veil and black suit are married; another dark apse is quiet as the old are buried. Candles burn, heads bowed, even the unbelieving. The woven curtain, thick with history, stands like a sentinel at the entrance of the Byzantine chapel built by peasants for solace.
The Black Sea and Odessa are distant—my only connection to this world of peasants, stone, wine, and Kubdari. Natalie, one of my first loves, stood me on a pedestal I did not want. She the romantic refugee fleeing the purges of Stalin, and me some white knight full of naïve do-goodness. But Odessa is pushing back Russia’s assault, as Thea escaped Georgia. The bullies with bigger guns win the battles, and I am humbled by the war stories. Maybe the valiant will win.
The prostitute paces back and forth with the sun breaking through the clouds. St. George beats back dragons. Candles are lit in prayer. We pass through the curtain of time. The dream is resurrected.
St. George sits serenely on his mare; a rainbow of light fills the church. The choir is quiet.
Return, Revenge, Redemption, Randy Johnson
Alex Dermody
Harold’s feathered chest swelled with hatred. His beak twitched. Did his perfect eyes deceive him? No. The monster. The murderer. He was back at the scene of the crime. The beast warmed up his lifetaker on the bright green field below, launching missiles at another player. Harold had dreamed about this moment for a whole year, since professional baseball pitcher Randy Johnson killed his father with a hundred mile per hour fastball. Day and night, Harold waited for this exact moment. But now that it was finally here, Harold felt paralyzed. His claws gripped the rim of his family’s nest, his brain was basically scrambled eggs.
Harold’s wife spoke with a quiet urgency: “Please, ignore him,” Maureen said. “He can’t hurt us up here.” She was referring to their nest—the best in the ballpark—right atop the first base side lights, offering a panoramic view of scenic Tucson.
Harold didn’t hear his beautiful wife. His stare narrowed, slowly zooming in on the coward Randy Johnson. The news. SportsCenter. They all reported his father’s murder as if it were a joke. “Bird Hit By Pitch Explodes Into A Million Feathers” was the worst headline. His father’s entire existence, reduced to hyperbole.
“Harold!” Maureen said. She motioned with her beak at the three chicks under her wings. “Think about the kids.”
Harold was a good husband. And even though it was new to him, Harold was a good father. For these reasons, his tone remained emotionless. “The kids are all I think about,” he said. “Everything I do, it’s for the betterment of this family and birds everywhere. Why do you think I started Dove Tactical Force? Why do you think I made peace with the eagles and the falcons? Doves don’t normally nest in the sky, but we needed safety, so I made it happen.”
“I’m not talking about Dove Tactical or our magnificent fortress,” Maureen said. “It’s just that, oh. Is revenge really the answer? Why not leave Randy Johnson alone?”
“When that villain killed Father, he didn’t just make an enemy out of me. He made an enemy out of all birds. Don’t you see? This is war, Maureen, a horrible war. And he’s here to strike again.” A bizarre sensation overcame Harold, almost like explaining things gave him confidence. “I don’t want to do this. I have to do this.”
Maureen fell silent for a moment. She patted the chicks with her wings, smiling at them. When she next spoke, her voice was barely a whisper: “The balls on this Randy Johnson,” she said, voice quivering. “Coming back here, he obviously fears nothing.”
Harold had to side with his wife. The reaper Randy Johnson seemed like the kind of emotionless evil only found in movies.
From across the field, a Dove Tactical commando named Ramirez waved a green flag. The eagle above the press box released a piercing caw. The hawk in right field screeched in agreement. Every bird in the ballpark knew who was pitching today. They were ready.
“Do you trust me?” Harold asked his wife.
“Harold, I hardly think—”
“Maureen. Do you trust me?”
Maureen couldn’t meet her husband’s eyes. “Of course I trust you,” she said.
“Good,” Harold said. “Because the demon Randy Johnson robbed me of a father. And no bird deserves to suffer like that ever again.”
Harold faced the endless blue sky. He sucked in air and cooed like he’d never cooed before. He looked warmly at Maureen, smiling that smart smile she fell in love with last mating season. And then Harold let go of the nest, dive-bombing to the earth below. He corkscrewed and opened his wings, soaring above the bloodthirsty fans, gliding towards the pitcher’s mound. This was it. Harold waited. Waited. Then, at the last second, he pushed hard and felt a clean release. He looked back through his legs and saw a direct hit—a white splat right atop Randy Johnson’s hat. Harold flew up, up, up, surveying the scene below. He watched the hawks swoop in and drop their loads. Followed by the eagles. Then the egrets. The pigeons. The falcons. The wrens. The cardinals. The sparrows. And finally: Dove Tactical Force. The D.T.F. commandos swooped low, delivering a large and precise sheet of white over the target, painting Randy Johnson with a finished coat of shiny shit. Humiliation in front of his beloved fans, that’s what gutless Randy Johnson deserved.
Harold made a victory lap around the stadium, the air ringing with different birdsongs, all celebrating the successful bombing. He landed back in the nest like a fighter jet on an aircraft carrier, Maureen and the chicks tugging at him with happy hugs. Father would be proud, Harold thought.
But the cheerful moment was short-lived. Harold peered over the edge of the nest, and what he saw sent him spinning. The baseball game was paused, and a dripping Randy Johnson stared up at Harold. Directly at him. And on the man’s face was a crooked smile, Randy Johnson nodding like he understood why all this happened. Nodding like he would’ve done the same thing. Randy Johnson extended his left hand—the hand that turned Harold’s father into Thanksgiving dinner—and stuck out a thumb. He mouthed the words “I’m sorry.”
Harold held eyes with Randy Johnson, sizing up the sincerity of the gesture. And the next thing he knew, Harold’s wings felt lighter. The tension in his chest melted away. The ballpark once again exploded with birdsongs. The war, it was over. Just like that. Besting Randy Johnson didn’t bring Harold’s father back. But it brought closure. Relief. Freedom. As if adding an exclamation point, Harold hung his tail off the side of the nest and pushed hard a final time, letting everything go.
“You know,” Maureen said, “Randy Johnson sort of looks like a bird.”
Harold wrapped a wing around his lovely wife. “You know, he sort of does. Doesn’t he?”
PAPA’S iPAD
by
Pamela Domonkos
“Someone has to take the iPad,” my mom said. “I’ll never use it, you know.” I am certain my eighty-year-old mom will never dabble with technology. She still calls the internet the “world-wide-web.” It’s such a shame, I think. If she just tried, a computer would really open up her small world but I know it’s futile. She seems relatively content (at least accepting) that it’s now herself, old movies on TV, and her dog for daily companionship.
I’ve learned it’s often easier just to do something you really don’t want than to say no or explain why you don’t want or need your dead father’s iPad. Taking it will make my mom feel better and allow her to check this one off her list. And to know that one of her children has it, that makes her feel good too. It really has nothing to do with pleasing me specifically, just one less responsibility my dad has left behind that she has to address.
I bring the iPad back to my apartment. Along with the iPad, my dad kept the charger and the stylus pen in a separate plastic zip-lock storage bag, properly marked “iPad accessories.” Unlike most men, his handwriting was unique and beautiful, and I skim my finger over the words, trying to feel my dad. He’s been gone six months now, and my brain has finally processed (and convinced my heart) that he truly is no longer walking on the planet. The sorrow has settled in my heart, like a boiling cup of tea that has cooled just enough to sip and elicit comfort. I can think of him now without the raw, burning pain that immediately follows death. I sip him in daily.
Reflections of my father are warring factions in my brain. Sometimes I have to remember the bad stuff: the alcoholism, the way he disappointed my mom, us kids. The Friday nights he’d walk in from a week of travel for work, not knowing if his eyes would be sharp or glazed. My mom would have the table set for seven, the kitchen capturing the warmth and smells of her careful work over the afternoon preparing dinner for her family, all together. She, too, looked right into his eyes and knew instantly, and whatever she saw reflected would set the mood for days. When I heard his car pull into the driveway, listened as the car door shut behind him, I could feel the anxiety build for that unknowing minute that passed while he approached the house, watching the knob turn as he entered. I always prayed for the sharp eyes that would bring in a man who kissed his wife, embraced and smiled at his children, so happy to be home. I knew the glazed eyes brought a dazed, sad, denying man who infuriated my mom.
But mostly during his last six months of life when a little piece of him slipped away every day never to be seen again, I thought about the good stuff. His warmth and gentleness, his intelligence and kind spirit. I think about the father who would round up his five kids on Saturday to tackle the chores assigned by my mom. They’d sit at the table, sipping their coffee, my dad with a pen and paper, jotting down the list in his scripted handwriting as my mom recited the needs of the weekend: cold cuts, the newspapers, a bottle of gin. The list didn’t change much week to week, but he enjoyed this assignment, not just to spend time with his kids but to give his wife a few hours of peace and quiet. He’d leave with a kiss good-bye to my mom (be careful, she always said), the list in his pocket along with $40 in cash—his allowance, they joked.
During those Saturday morning adventures, he showed us that the best bologna one could buy was from a German butcher located a town away. He brought us to LaSala’s, an old-fashioned corner store that had a long, linoleum countertop and a row of swivel stools, their round, cushioned tops shiny and slippery. There we were introduced to cherry or vanilla Cokes right from the fountain. And he’d buy us each a scratch-off lottery ticket. It was as if he needed to seek out any semblance to his New York City childhood in our suburban environment. He wanted to share that piece of himself with us. The shopkeepers genuinely enjoyed talking to my dad, who always made conversation with them lighthearted but personal. He had the gift for gab, always engaging others and genuinely interested in them. He had a way of making others know he saw them.
* * *
How many times are we asked when we’re young, what do you want to do? What makes you special? What do you love? What are your talents? Questions I naively tackled before choosing a major in college, a career path. What a joke, being asked to direct your life as an eighteen-year-old. What a disservice we do to our youth. I’m good with numbers, my seventeen-year-old self deduced. I got an A in calculus last year! I will be an accountant. Oh my God, why didn’t someone speak up, stop me? Didn’t anyone know me and think to say, “That might be a pragmatic decision, Pam, but you’re a people-person. The two don’t really mesh.”
It took me fifty years and my dead father’s iPad to figure out what I am good at, what makes me “me.”
My apartment is coming together after separating from my husband six months ago. I’m getting acquainted with this new way of living on my own. No longer defined by the constant demands of a husband and three children, I feel surprised by choice…choice of what to do with each found moment that I have declared my own. What do I want for dinner, or better yet, do I want dinner at all? Read or write? Red or white? Choice feels both powerful and foreign, like winning the lottery after living paycheck to paycheck. Choice isn’t natural yet; I feel unsteady.
Although the apartment may be coming together, I’m a mixed bag of emotions—excitement for this new chapter in my life, guilt for disappointing my family, anger at my husband for not taking care of me, acceptance that my children are becoming adults, sadness that my dad is gone. My daughter tells me that her father is not coping well, the house is dusty, unopened mail is piled up, and the fridge is bare. Did I detect a small hitch in my son’s voice when we talked last week? Does he resent the forced change I have brought with my desire for a new life? What would I have felt if my mom had left the man whose eyes were glazed more than sharp?
Like a chisel on an ice block, I feel the guilt chipping at my resolve to be unmarried. I am personally responsible for redefining my family, moving ahead with no one’s permission but leaving a trail behind me of hurt and disillusionment. There is a cost to choice.
I need a talk with my therapist, Joanna, who was more of a partner to me through some of life’s most difficult moments than my husband. She’s helped me through so many crises. But Joanna moved; her husband retired and is now in Vermont. I send her an S-O-S text. We talked about Facetime therapy sessions before she left. I’m not too keen on this idea; it feels a bit stilted, emoting to a camera lens on the computer over the “world-wide-web.” But I really need to talk.
So good to hear from you, she texts back. Should we give Facetime a try? How about Monday at 6 p.m.?
Sounds good. Thanks, Joanna.
Where did I put that iPad? My phone will be too small for Facetime therapy. I’m pretty sure I can Facetime on the iPad. I may be good with numbers, but I’m really limited with technology: routers, IP addresses, service providers, domain names—it’s all Greek to me. Certainly not on the “Things I’m Good At” list.
I find the iPad and plug it in. It’s completely dead, like Dad. Wonder when he used it last? I figure about a year ago, before he got so confused and incapable. I let myself feel sad for a second, remembering the very intelligent man, always trying to stay relevant even when his abilities started to fail him. That was the most difficult part to witness, watching him fail. Okay, today’s “sip o’ Dad” burns too much, back to the iPad.
The screen eventually comes to life, the battery symbol registering a red 3 percent. I let the iPad recharge, and when I look a few hours later, the full screen is relit. The usual apps appear—he has Facetime. Funny, he never used it, and I’m mad at myself that I never showed him how. Damn it! And then I laugh to myself because I’m sure he would have used it a lot and maybe not at a level appreciated by his children and grandchildren.
And then I see his e-mail icon. Do I dare? It seems unethical, looking through a dead person’s e-mail. But it’s Dad. I click on it. I can’t help myself. My palms are sweaty—I don’t expect to find anything outrageous in his e-mail, but I feel like he’s right there with me.
It’s as I would have predicted: e-mails to his children relating something he’s read in The New York Times or heard on NPR and a few to his old friend from childhood, nostalgic reflections on their childhood in Astoria. I read through a few. He writes to his sons, remembering fishing trips they took out of Rock Harbor, questioning an arcane golf rule that has come into question at this year’s Masters, the trials and tribulations of being a New York Mets fan. I realize I’m not breathing. It’s not the content that has me frozen. I’m reading his words and I can actually hear him, his voice, the unique way he talks, the cadence of his speech. He writes his e-mails like he speaks—there’s nothing formal in them or composed. It’s him. A tear runs down my cheek. DAD!!!
I only read through a little of his “Sent” folder. I feel overwhelmed with the emotion of his presence and my intrusion into communications that don’t belong to me. I do make note that the last e-mail he ever wrote was to my sister Julie—I will tell her that, it will make her feel sad but good. I turn my attention to his “In” box. I’m not reading content anymore, just scrolling, mostly.
And then I see a note I had written to him just before he got so sick.
I had forgotten I had written it. It was a thank-you note. I had come home after a very long day of work, exhausted footsteps to my front door, where I discovered two bottles of wine wrapped in that silver, shiny skin. Chardonnay, what I like the most. It was a busy and stressful time in my life, working six days a week, enrolled in a master’s program that demanded one day a week of internship—all on top of the jobs of a mother and wife. My life had turned upside down. I was stretched so thin and wound so tightly, like a piano string ready to snap if any additional pressure was applied. The little unexpected doorway gift lifted me instantly, and I knew who left it.
Wine Bandit!
July 29, 2015 at 4:52 p.m.
Dear Dad,
I am presuming you are the very thoughtful soul who surprised me with not one, but two (!) bottles of wine in my mailbox! Put a big smile on my face. Many thanks!!!
You should know that as I look back on my life and reflect on parenthood, I know how much love and support you have shown me through the years. You are always there with great pride and encouragement and a real interest in my life. Everyone seems to think I am this great big, strong woman, but this path I am on now is very overwhelming some days, and those bottles of wine and words of love and encouragement mean the world to me. They keep me going. Thank you.
Love,
Pam
I’m crying; the tears are running uncontrollably down my face, saturating my cheeks, washing me. I can picture him walking to my door, hunched over and frail with the full load of his own problems but set on helping me through mine. He couldn’t physically do much at that point, but he knew how to say, “I see you, I love you.” The power of that raw love washes over me, whisks me back to my childhood, the kind man who touched so many people’s lives because he took the time to see them: the pork store owner, the waitress at LaSala’s.
And there it is. When I reread my words to my dad, I realize what I do best. It was my dad who showed me how to take the time and really see others—discover, acknowledge, support, and celebrate their unique selves. He showed me how, with a few words or a small token of love, you can deeply touch another human spirit. It’s the secret of being an exceptional parent, a genuine person.
You’ll never find that on a personal inventory list, but it’s what makes me “me,” and it’s a gift from my dad.
THE END
Tomorrow Is Wednesday
by
David Halliday
Tomorrow is Wednesday. That’s a certainty. I stared at my alarm clock. The alarm clock stared back. I put it to my ear. It wasn’t running. I shook it. No success. Perhaps the battery had run out, I thought to myself. All this time the cat was looking at me with a strange sense of wonder. Or disdain. I threw my shoe at him. He didn’t move. I missed. I got up and retreated into the kitchen to check my calendar. I had an itch. And there it was written on July 2, Tuesday. Dentist. I had to get my false teeth tightened. They kept falling into my soup.
As you get older you no longer appreciate people who are peppy. They are exhausting to be around. And that was Amy, the receptionist in Dr. Quinn’s office. Bouncing around like a French Bulldog trying to lick your nose. Someone shook me. I’d fallen asleep. I opened my eyes and there was the cheerful face of Amy.
“Mr. Martin, The doctor will see you now.”
“Something is wrong with your clock,” I said.
Dr. Quinn
Dr. Quinn was an odd sort of bloke. He had bangs and coke bottle glasses. And he spoke with a broken German accent.
“Now, lets see those choppers,” he said.
I took my teeth out and placed them in his hand. He was wearing plastic gloves.
“These are antiques,” he said. “Have you ever considered dental implants, Mr. Martin? We’re having a sale on them this month so your timing couldn’t be better.”
“I’ll stick with the antiques.”
The doctor took a set of small tools out and began working on the teeth.
“I never asked you how you lost all your teeth.”
“That’s correct.”
“Its very unusual for your generation to have lost all their teeth. The war generation on the other hand was another story.”
I nodded. He put my teeth back in my hand. I put them back in my mouth. They fit beautifully. I thanked him and was on my way.
Brewer’s Cafe
I sat outside at Brewer’s Cafe enjoying a coffee. Across the street a city crew was working on the clock in the Peace Tower. The Peace Tower celebrated all those who had lost their lives in war. Those in our town. I did serve in Korea, a wretched excuse for a war. One of the workers came over to the cafe to pick up coffee for his mates. I asked him what the problem with the Peace Tower might be.
“I don’t want to get too technical,” he said. “But it appears to be broken.”
I looked at my pocket watch and it was working perfectly. And then I wound it.
A handsome woman sat down at the table next to me. She must have been in her forties or fifties. Her hair was bundled on top of her head. The waiter arrived and placed a cup, a pot of tea, and a biscuit in front of her. There was sugar and cream on the table but apparently she took her tea black.
“You’re very nosy, aren’t you,” she said without looking at me.
“I’m interested in how the world works.” I responded.
“I don’t work well when I’m being watched,” she replied.
I turned away.
“Don’t pout,” she said. “My name is Gabriella Artibello and I am the local spinster slash librarian.”
And so we talked for some time. And then a younger man showed up and sat down at the table with her. They pecked at each others cheeks. I was introduced.
The young man apologized for being late. His alarm clock didn’t go off.
“Perhaps you need new batteries,” Ms. Artibello said. “I have that problem occasionally.” We all laughed though I admit not knowing the source of our amusement.
I parted company with my new companions and made my way down the street to Genova’s Fruit Market. Mr. Genova was the lead singer of the church choir. The store was closed for renovations. I could hear yelling and screaming inside. I moved on. I had a meeting with Dominic Guzman. When I first met Dominic he looked a decade older than me. He now looked decades younger. He told me he was preserved in alcohol. We were going to an AA meeting. When I saw him he was leaning on the wall of the LCBO, the liquor store.
“I thought we were going to a meeting,” I said.
“What’s the point?” Dominic responded.
“I thought you wanted to reform.”
“No time.”
“You got some kind of terminal illness?”
Dominic grinned.
“You don’t know?”
“No.”
Dominic continued to grin, like he was waiting for some great truth to seep into my concrete brain.
“I’ll know, Dominic, when you tell me.”
“A lot of clocks have been stopping. The one at the bank ceased moving at 3 a.m. My stove at 4.30 a.m. My wrist watch is running slow. I went by Wendel’s Appliance store and the picture on all the televisions are frozen. We’re running out of time.”
I stared at Dominic. “What does that mean.”
“Existence only has so much time and we\re running out of it. The gas tank is empty. I figure we’re operating mostly on fumes. It’s over buddy.”
I walked away from Dominic, turned, and walked back at him, waving my finger at him.
“This is crazy. Where did you come up with this inspirational insight?”
“At the pool hall”
I nodded.
“Crazy Eddie told me everything. In great detail. Its sobering isn’t it? Which is another reason I bought this bottle of gin. And you know how much I hate gin.”
“Crazy Eddie is crazy. That’s why they call him Crazy Eddie.”
Revelry Pool Hall
I made my way up the stairs to Revelry Pool Hall. A couple of times my knees gave out on me. I stopped and wrote ‘turmeric’ on my hand. Crazy Eddie and Sloppy Jo were sitting in the corner of the pool hall having a cigarette. The place was mostly empty except for some high school kids from the local collegiate. The Revelry was one of the few public spaces where you could still smoke.
“I got the cancer,” Sloppy Jo said to me when I pulled up a chair to sit with them.
“What’s the prognosis?” I asked.
“Death,” Sloppy Jo said then shrugged his shoulders. “It’s been coming on for some time.”
I turned to Crazy Eddie.
“What the hell are you thinking filling up Dominic with those crazy ideas about time running out? You know how vulnerable he is to any… idea. He started drinking again.”
Crazy Eddie laughed, shook his head, then coughed out a lung full of smoke.
“Ya, but its so much fun. The guy still believes in Santa Claus. I had him eating out of my hand.”
“That’s cruel Crazy,” I said. “That’s not how we treat our friends.”
“Ah,” Crazy said then pompously waved me off with his hand.
“I’m bringing Dominic down here tomorrow and you’re going to tell him that you were just pulling his chain.”
“And why should I do that,” Crazy Eddie said.
I looked Crazy straight in the eye.
“Do I have to remind you?”
So evening comes. There was a little rain. Not heavy. Just enough to clean the dog shit off the sidewalks. And then the soft sound of rain dripping off the trees. I looked out the window at the yellow moon squeezing its head through the pillow like clouds. The cat jumped up on the sill, curious to know what I was looking at. I turned away. I felt like going out for a pint.
The Headless Chicken
The Headless Chicken was a local pub. There was a good crowd. Taking a seat at the bar, I ordered a Martins Pale Ale. There was a fight on the television, two middle weights, and the chatter and laughter of folks having a good time. Nobody seemed interested in the fight. Sloppy Jo joined me.
“I got the cancer,” he said to me.
I nodded. “You told me that this afternoon.”
“Well I’ve still got it.” He ordered a beer then added. “You hear that Crazy Eddie is getting married again.”
“How many is that?”
“Who knows. Marrying a girl from down East. Fredericton. Don’t know why anyone would marry a Maritimer when we got plenty of hens here in good ole Ontario. Did you ever hear about the headless chicken that lived for 18 months? They named this pub after him. Think his name was Mike. I guess they should have named the pub Mike.”
Sloppy continued to tell me about Mike. I went into a kind of fog. And then I saw her. Across the room. Sitting with a couple of girlfriends, staring at me. I picked up my beer and made my way across the room and introduced myself. The girl stood up and grabbed my hand and guided me over to an empty table. We sat down.
“Tell me about yourself,” she said.
I began to tell her about the universe running out of time. And she listened.
Somehow we ended up in my apartment. I told her I was out of practice with this sort of thing.
“Don’t worry about that honey. I’ll handle everything.”
I looked at her. I wouldn’t say she was pretty but she was a woman. I won’t got into the details of our coupling but I think I did rather well. As she was getting dressed she gave me the bill. I didn’t think a thing like that would cost so much. Luckily I had cashed my Old Age Pension cheque earlier that week. And just like that she was gone. The cat had watched the whole thing from the window sill. He put his paw behind his head and started scratching. I fell asleep.
The next morning I woke up with high expectation. I hadn’t felt so great in years. I had an extra jump in my step. I remembered that I had to get some cat food. And coffee. And I could use some cream as well. The air was so fresh when I stepped out into the morning. There were kids playing with hoola hoops across the street. I thought they had gone extinct in my youth. The hoops, not the kids. I picked up a newspaper as I entered Genova’s Fruit and Vegetable. The place looked brand new. New floors, new shelves, new everything. And Mr. Genova, a younger looking Mr. Genova, he still had his hair, was behind the counter helping a lady in a poke-a-dot dress and puffy sleeves. I looked at my newspaper. It was Wednesday. But the year. The year!
“Your wife was in here earlier,” Mr. Genova said. “She says you’ve wandered off again. If you don’t show up for dinner she’s reporting you missing to the police.”
I looked up.
“Is she pretty?”
Mr. Genova winked at me.
“Prettiest girl in the choir.”
THE END
JONAH magazine 