Chicken salad with dill, almonds and cranberries on sliced country white. Red onion and a whole pickle. Jalapeno potato chips. Ginger ale. The cashier bagged it all up, stuffed it with smallish napkins whose size he more than made up for with volume.
Ron thought about the slivered almonds and considered how nuts, fruit and poultry could work together, through mayo, to present a balanced summer meal - perfect for the office. There was a good chance that it was all a mistake with a story. A chef in some hotel dropped his dried fruit and nut mix into a bowl of leftover chicken scraps. Too tired from a full day in the kitchen to pick through it, he decided instead to bring it together and make something of it. Mayo.
Chicken salad wouldn't stink up the cubes beside him like tuna could. It wasn't ethnic - not like the halal lamb or chinese tofu - which he might've got had he turned left when stepping out for lunch, instead of right. The sandwich was thick with contents, teaming within its wax paper wrapping. Some of it might fall to the side, off the bread's bounds. With onions in the picture, it was best not to use his fingers to pick it up. Not when eating at his desk. He wouldn't touch his keyboard while eating with his hands. He decided these among other things. Anything, really, to keep his mind off home.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Walk Don't Ride
The clear, plastic garment bag from the dry cleaner's made complete sense. The laptop went in the briefcase along with the files, work blackberry and sales collateral so that wouldn't work. It would crush them, anyway. A Safeway bag for the Ferragamos wouldn't be right. And all that shoe polish just to scrape against the rough-nap of the cheap canvas company tote? No. The clear plastic garment bag knew how to sit against precious materials. Shoes would be a bigger assignment, but in its range so clearly, the garment bag made sense.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Wolf
Ralph tried to just sit and listen to Seth, but knowing the truth made that impossible. In their weekly meetings, Ralph made a point of taking the more comfortable of the two chairs facing Seth's desk because he knew fidgeting and any unnecessary movement wasn't taken well in corporate settings.
He would clear his head of distracting thoughts five minutes before their scheduled meeting time as if to make mental space for whatever kernel of wisdom might emerge from their talk. He reminded himself that these meetings were no less of an interview than the ones he endured when applying for the position months ago.
He always had food in his stomach so to avoid any audible belly grumblings and he always checked his teeth and hair before stepping into Seth's office. He had his polite laugh calibrated to a plausible degree. He would cross his legs only after Seth did.
But driving home late last night and witnessing Seth leave a gay bar with a low slung baseball cap left Ralph in a persistent state of shock that today's meeting worsened. Seth's words did not register as any logical stream in Ralph's mind. He just fixed his eyes on the picture of Seth's wife and children hoping that Seth wouldn't catch on.
"Ralph, is everything ok?"
He would clear his head of distracting thoughts five minutes before their scheduled meeting time as if to make mental space for whatever kernel of wisdom might emerge from their talk. He reminded himself that these meetings were no less of an interview than the ones he endured when applying for the position months ago.
He always had food in his stomach so to avoid any audible belly grumblings and he always checked his teeth and hair before stepping into Seth's office. He had his polite laugh calibrated to a plausible degree. He would cross his legs only after Seth did.
But driving home late last night and witnessing Seth leave a gay bar with a low slung baseball cap left Ralph in a persistent state of shock that today's meeting worsened. Seth's words did not register as any logical stream in Ralph's mind. He just fixed his eyes on the picture of Seth's wife and children hoping that Seth wouldn't catch on.
"Ralph, is everything ok?"
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Hard Fall
He lumbered down the aisle, loosely grasping the handrails. He barely had a free hand between his cane and his shopping bag, making any effort at balancing himself a tortured exchange. As the bus kicked up and lurched uphill, he was thrown back, launching him into the direction he was going except he was facing the other way.
He fell hard on his back, his head smacking the bus's hard, black rubber floor. His grubby Vietnam Veteran cap landed on an old white woman with a tidy look. Everyone knew he would fall.
HE lay there for a second, prostrate but lucid. He didn't reach out first.
He fell hard on his back, his head smacking the bus's hard, black rubber floor. His grubby Vietnam Veteran cap landed on an old white woman with a tidy look. Everyone knew he would fall.
HE lay there for a second, prostrate but lucid. He didn't reach out first.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Fat Happy
It was always the second bite for Roger. The second bite was his sweet reminder that there is more to the meal and that there will be more just like that. Roger never ate anything that ended after two bites. So he took the second chomp out of his fourth pork Bahn Mi with his eyes on the third bite.
He considered seeing a doctor about his weight but thought the better of it after giving himself an honest assessment between bites. The doctor would just tell him that he needed to lose weight immediately. That he was morbidly obese or just near it. He would put Roger on an exercise regiment, recommend he see a nutritionist and maybe prescribe an appetite suppressor. Roger could do all this himself and save the co-pay.
But Roger knew that the difference between himself and other fat guys was that he didn't want to lose weight. He didn't want to stop eating his favorites to get healthy all so he can buy a whole new wardrobe and open himself to a new league of women. Roger preferred to stay fat, fuck ugly women and die sooner. An honest, satisfying, shorter - but not short - life. Roger was 55, after all. Anything beyond this was bonus.
So Roger came down hard on the last of his forth Bahn Mi and considered a fifth. He had it in him, but decided against. Instead the view from the window showed a McDonald's promotion; Big Mac. 2 for $4.00. Roger thought about it.
He considered seeing a doctor about his weight but thought the better of it after giving himself an honest assessment between bites. The doctor would just tell him that he needed to lose weight immediately. That he was morbidly obese or just near it. He would put Roger on an exercise regiment, recommend he see a nutritionist and maybe prescribe an appetite suppressor. Roger could do all this himself and save the co-pay.
But Roger knew that the difference between himself and other fat guys was that he didn't want to lose weight. He didn't want to stop eating his favorites to get healthy all so he can buy a whole new wardrobe and open himself to a new league of women. Roger preferred to stay fat, fuck ugly women and die sooner. An honest, satisfying, shorter - but not short - life. Roger was 55, after all. Anything beyond this was bonus.
So Roger came down hard on the last of his forth Bahn Mi and considered a fifth. He had it in him, but decided against. Instead the view from the window showed a McDonald's promotion; Big Mac. 2 for $4.00. Roger thought about it.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
It Takes Two Tries
I didn't really need the volume at eight. It was only me in the room. But the song came on and as I turned the dial I saw a blue flash snap to my left. The light bent across the walls and my eyes fixed on it and I followed it until it disappeared as quickly as it came, on another wall in my room. My hand turned the dial to eight and it was too much at first. I brought it down to seven, then six. I couldn't deny how much worse it got with each decrease.
I raised it to eight and heard hidden voices and thumps coming from the same song. There was more to it at eight and I had no reason to be polite about it.
I raised it to eight and heard hidden voices and thumps coming from the same song. There was more to it at eight and I had no reason to be polite about it.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Soft No
She seemed off, somehow, like she didn't belong. She jabbed at her muffin, fiddling with the larger fruity chunks and crumbs, separating them from the sugar-topped nuggets, which she must've been avoiding for some dietary restriction or saving for later. Ethan gave her credit for choosing cranberry over blueberry. For him, that alone would've been enough. But it didn't hurt that she was the most beautiful girl he ever saw.
Despite her looks, she seemed humble, almost hiding her attributes. By Ethan's count, four men of varied ages stole a look, whether entering or exiting the cafe. She wore dark glasses and her hair covered much of her face, but somehow her posture gave her away. Her neck bent in a way that signaled elegance - an undeniable spectacle in this blunted collection of grungy, caffeinated students.
He had been sitting there for hours with his papers, but since she came in his ass filled with blood as if he was on foot and running. From the moment she entered, he couldn't balance a single equation - a function that came easily. He couldn't look anywhere but somewhere about her. What she wore, her exposed ankle. She was oblivious and yet in complete control of his focus.
Before he could explain, he was up and approaching her. His friends at the lab would never understand and, frankly, he didn't either. Somehow, approaching a woman with them watching demanded a greater courage. But these conditions seemed enough for what he was carrying that day. He never had a girlfriend and never hit on anyone, so he wasn't sure where this was coming from.
"Hi, I'm Ethan," he offered.
She didn't turn around. He considered repeating himself but louder, then she noticed him standing right in front of her, with his slightly hunch back, as if to impart deference. She removed her headphones.
"Hello. Hi," she said, giving a tight wave.
"Sorry, I'm Ethan...I was just wondering...wondering if you went to school here."
"I'm Ruth. I'm in the grad program." She pointed to the business school's main building.
"Oh, cool. Me too. But for a Biochem PhD."
"That's a pretty tough program."
"It can be, but I've been studying this stuff my whole life it seems, so I feel pretty comfortable with it. I guess it's fun for me."
"That's good to hear. There's nothing more depressing than paying thousands a year in a program you hate just to hide out from the real world."
"Yea. I know."
She smiled in agreement, nodding.
"Well, enjoy your muffin. It looks good."
"Thanks. It is, actually. You should get one."
"I think I will." Ethan pointed back to his table and waved bye as he shuffled back.
He logged back into his computer and re-arranged his papers thinking, "Is that what you're doing?" "Is that what you're doing?" He should has responded, "Is that what you're doing?" when she gave that line about hiding out from the real world. That question alone would've led to a life story, another five minutes of learning about Ruth. He could always learn the lesson immediately after his mistake. That trait always helped him as a student. He thought about where they could've gone had he asked the right question. In his world, they were sharing the muffin and trading sips from each other's hot drinks. They each had their headphones, listening to very different music. That night he held her breasts and licked them both, his saliva painting his cheeks. Months later they were on a beach. Alone. He could barely imagine himself intentionally shirtless before someone else, much less doing so to tan.
"Bye."
Ethan looked up to catch a gentle wave meant just for him. She said it softly, but loud enough for him to hear. She slung her bag over her shoulder, holding the coffee cup and she walked out.
"Ruth," he mouthed to himself. Still high from the exchange, his head went hot. She's not a Ruth, Ethan thought. The name was all wrong for him.
Despite her looks, she seemed humble, almost hiding her attributes. By Ethan's count, four men of varied ages stole a look, whether entering or exiting the cafe. She wore dark glasses and her hair covered much of her face, but somehow her posture gave her away. Her neck bent in a way that signaled elegance - an undeniable spectacle in this blunted collection of grungy, caffeinated students.
He had been sitting there for hours with his papers, but since she came in his ass filled with blood as if he was on foot and running. From the moment she entered, he couldn't balance a single equation - a function that came easily. He couldn't look anywhere but somewhere about her. What she wore, her exposed ankle. She was oblivious and yet in complete control of his focus.
Before he could explain, he was up and approaching her. His friends at the lab would never understand and, frankly, he didn't either. Somehow, approaching a woman with them watching demanded a greater courage. But these conditions seemed enough for what he was carrying that day. He never had a girlfriend and never hit on anyone, so he wasn't sure where this was coming from.
"Hi, I'm Ethan," he offered.
She didn't turn around. He considered repeating himself but louder, then she noticed him standing right in front of her, with his slightly hunch back, as if to impart deference. She removed her headphones.
"Hello. Hi," she said, giving a tight wave.
"Sorry, I'm Ethan...I was just wondering...wondering if you went to school here."
"I'm Ruth. I'm in the grad program." She pointed to the business school's main building.
"Oh, cool. Me too. But for a Biochem PhD."
"That's a pretty tough program."
"It can be, but I've been studying this stuff my whole life it seems, so I feel pretty comfortable with it. I guess it's fun for me."
"That's good to hear. There's nothing more depressing than paying thousands a year in a program you hate just to hide out from the real world."
"Yea. I know."
She smiled in agreement, nodding.
"Well, enjoy your muffin. It looks good."
"Thanks. It is, actually. You should get one."
"I think I will." Ethan pointed back to his table and waved bye as he shuffled back.
He logged back into his computer and re-arranged his papers thinking, "Is that what you're doing?" "Is that what you're doing?" He should has responded, "Is that what you're doing?" when she gave that line about hiding out from the real world. That question alone would've led to a life story, another five minutes of learning about Ruth. He could always learn the lesson immediately after his mistake. That trait always helped him as a student. He thought about where they could've gone had he asked the right question. In his world, they were sharing the muffin and trading sips from each other's hot drinks. They each had their headphones, listening to very different music. That night he held her breasts and licked them both, his saliva painting his cheeks. Months later they were on a beach. Alone. He could barely imagine himself intentionally shirtless before someone else, much less doing so to tan.
"Bye."
Ethan looked up to catch a gentle wave meant just for him. She said it softly, but loud enough for him to hear. She slung her bag over her shoulder, holding the coffee cup and she walked out.
"Ruth," he mouthed to himself. Still high from the exchange, his head went hot. She's not a Ruth, Ethan thought. The name was all wrong for him.
Monday, November 16, 2009
Smaller in Person
As if I could point power out and frame it, describing it in detail, as to paint the picture for latecomers. How do you size up your heroes? He was slovenly, frankly. Shorter than me and tired looking. With a hundred million dollars in the bank, easy, he spent nothing on his appearance.
I looked down, as if the ground was the most interesting thing in the elevator, which is what people do. You get in and the doors close and you set up you sights toward a barren target. Some would face corners, others the floor - but all with fixed, unshaken stares dead on no one.
But here I was, gaze cast downward standing next to the legend. Maury Steeple produced the highest grossing comedy and a black and white subtitled drama that won Best Picture - and not in the foreign film category - all in the same year. This year. As opposed to last year where he won the Palm d'Or at Cannes and executive produced an Emmy-award winning documentary on paraplegic prostitute Christians. And we were on a long ride down to the lobby from way up top. Here I have the most valuable thirty seconds I've ever encountered and my polished screenplay is in my messenger bag. Maury was the kind of producer that didn't need to worry about anything but the concept. He could get the star, the money, the distribution. All he needed was the idea and the will to make it and it was done. It could work.
"Bong!"
Thirty floors left till the lobby. He shifts lazily, crossing his arms and exhaling. He looks disappointed somehow. If I approached him honestly, I imagined he would appreciate my candor. I expected this wasn't a novel situation for him. Everyone in the building has a script. But I wasn't everyone and I'm never in this part of town. He could tear up my script and dance on it all the way to the lobby. But as the elevator doors glided open and he shuffled across the floor and out the front doors to meet someone who was juggling calls on two cell phones, big black sunglasses and a packed tote, my fantasies of how I'd approach him went from how I will to how I would. To how I should have.
I looked down, as if the ground was the most interesting thing in the elevator, which is what people do. You get in and the doors close and you set up you sights toward a barren target. Some would face corners, others the floor - but all with fixed, unshaken stares dead on no one.
But here I was, gaze cast downward standing next to the legend. Maury Steeple produced the highest grossing comedy and a black and white subtitled drama that won Best Picture - and not in the foreign film category - all in the same year. This year. As opposed to last year where he won the Palm d'Or at Cannes and executive produced an Emmy-award winning documentary on paraplegic prostitute Christians. And we were on a long ride down to the lobby from way up top. Here I have the most valuable thirty seconds I've ever encountered and my polished screenplay is in my messenger bag. Maury was the kind of producer that didn't need to worry about anything but the concept. He could get the star, the money, the distribution. All he needed was the idea and the will to make it and it was done. It could work.
"Bong!"
Thirty floors left till the lobby. He shifts lazily, crossing his arms and exhaling. He looks disappointed somehow. If I approached him honestly, I imagined he would appreciate my candor. I expected this wasn't a novel situation for him. Everyone in the building has a script. But I wasn't everyone and I'm never in this part of town. He could tear up my script and dance on it all the way to the lobby. But as the elevator doors glided open and he shuffled across the floor and out the front doors to meet someone who was juggling calls on two cell phones, big black sunglasses and a packed tote, my fantasies of how I'd approach him went from how I will to how I would. To how I should have.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Nothing to Say
"...but whatever," he kept on saying. Something, something, something bookended by a casual, "but whatever."
If he was going to say something, say it, I kept thinking. Say it and tell everyone to fuck themselves. I couldn't have been the only one noticing how this unkempt 20-something, this artist, kept talking without putting a period after anything, without making a statement. By saying that over and again, did he mean that if anyone disagreed with what he just said that their thoughts were equally valid? That would've been an honorable but gutless position. And yet that goes without saying, so again, meaningless.
It was dangerous to have these thoughts, containing them while sitting so close to friends and neighbors at dinner parties like those. With enough wine and imported beer, someone was liable to crack open and actually say something.
If he was going to say something, say it, I kept thinking. Say it and tell everyone to fuck themselves. I couldn't have been the only one noticing how this unkempt 20-something, this artist, kept talking without putting a period after anything, without making a statement. By saying that over and again, did he mean that if anyone disagreed with what he just said that their thoughts were equally valid? That would've been an honorable but gutless position. And yet that goes without saying, so again, meaningless.
It was dangerous to have these thoughts, containing them while sitting so close to friends and neighbors at dinner parties like those. With enough wine and imported beer, someone was liable to crack open and actually say something.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
I'm Coming!
Apply generously, but evenly, then blot lips with dampened paper towel. Finish with lip brush, filling in where needed. Touch up with gloss then blot lips. Lick. Blot again.
They looked slippery, man-made, like nothing that could ever naturally appear on a human body. Like the wet side of a chewy, fruit candy. What else feels like this? Who wouldn't twist in ecstasy with these sucking on them?
-"Hurry up! They're here!"
-"One second!" Terrance said, giving his half-opened mouth one final hit of gloss before easing down the stairs.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Night Run
He walks decidedly straight, keeping a measured, unhurried pace, his face taking on a blank, smart look. At 11:30pm, through an immigrant patch of town by the train tracks, going for a walk demands extra considerations. Does he put the headphones on full blast or will that drown out any would-be mugger, encroaching from behind? How deep into the rougher parts does he commit to walking through? The idea is to enjoy himself in what should be a thoughtless, casual pursuit. One of the few old world acts that - in principle - should come easily, impromptu; a nighttime walk.
He heard about this place from friends, none of which had been there themselves. He crossed the street, taking notice of idling cars with tinted windows and faraway shouting. John lowered his volume and didn't rush across.
He heard about this place from friends, none of which had been there themselves. He crossed the street, taking notice of idling cars with tinted windows and faraway shouting. John lowered his volume and didn't rush across.
Saturday, October 24, 2009
Round and Round
Josh sat dumb before the email response. Less than a month in and he found himself standing in for his boss, the unexpectedly absent Tom Corliss, Manager of Sales. With deadline tomorrow he wondered how his Manager decides to take a day. He imagined every bullshit excuse and grizzly possibility but his email to Tom, asking what the final sponsor deliverables were, remained unanswered.
Where was that spreadsheet? He barely knew where to look for it in the labyrinthine sharedrive, much less begin to request sponsor logos, design and save the template into a printable draft, email it to the publishing facility for quick turnaround, edit the print, OK it for final publication and fire off a bill with a scanned, executed, very late contract. Could he even sign for Tom? What were the sizing specs, again? Tom should have done this weeks ago and yet there was so much Josh didn't know. There was so much he didn't know he didn't know.
So he sat there, knowing that in the next two minutes no cavalry of useful information would come. Josh didn't deny the shitty day ahead. He simply tried to enjoy the spare, early moments of the morning still untouched by the coming onslaught. He read it once again.
“Received Using: Desktop (Secure)
Folder: Inbox
Message Status: Opened
To: Joshua McPherson (GSVX)
From: Thomas Corliss (GSVX)
Out of Office AutoReply:
Sponsor Logo Question
Oct 20, 2009 9:03AM
I will be out of the office on October 20, 2009 with no access to email. Your messages will be forwarded to Joshua McPherson, Sales Coordinator. He will address any questions you may have.
Thanks,
Tom"
Josh's phone rings, listing an unfamiliar area code. Definitely not an internal line, nor anyone from the satellite offices. He lets it go to voicemail. The phone rings again immediately after. Same number. He picks up.
"Hello. This is Josh. No, he's not in today, but I can answer any questions you might have for him."
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