Dead Man’s Hill
What appeared to be a man, hovered over a smoldering fire smoking a cigarette. His bony purple fingers tightly gripping a rectangular bottle.
Jingle Bell
The bell jingled over the door. Frankie looked up. His apron stained with dried blood. A cleaver in his right hand and the limp leg of a of a recently slaughtered lamb in his other.
Without Honors
It’d been 5 days since the assembly fuck-up. The house was like a morgue. Nobody’d talked to nobody. I worked as much overtime as they threw at me just to stay away.
Blink
He blinked again. His cheek no longer soothed by the wooden floor beneath it. A wisp of intrusive dust drifted towards him, settling on his lashes. A laborious blink, his only remedy, then another, the particle unmoving.
Rats
His mother worked two jobs. One was good, and one was bad. The good one, she said, was good because people left her alone.
The Ballerino
“Change the goddamn ballet recital just for you?” Her voice rose. She thrust her hip sideways and firmly planted a hand on it. “Johnny, that’s how you operate! Change it for me.” Melinda turned and walked out of the room. “Jesus Christ.” The door slammed behind her.
The Clincher
At first the team was just a bunch of burnt-out baseball guys looking for a reason to get out of the house. Then it got serious. The trophies, the fights, the bets. Sixteen-inch no-mitt softball became an obsession. Nothing got in the way. That’s how it went when guys had too much of what they didn’t want in life.
Loony
He awoke in a panic with a piss boner bursting through his boxers. He sprung from his bed, legs crossed, praying to God to help him make it in time.
The Cittadino
“My father, he’s from the old country. He can be a pain in the ass, but he’s harmless. He doesn’t know…” Roberto shook his head. “He doesn’t know what…” he choked on his words. “My mother, she died, and now he’s alone. He tries, but,” Roberto glanced back at his father, now sitting stoically on the seat, puffing his cigar. “I’m sorry Officer.”
Smooth
Eddie played short. He had what the scouts called the quick twitch. It made him a natural. He could pick anything behind the bag, go deep in the hole, jump turn and throw mid-air to first, in a freakin’ blur. On a pop fly, he’d go out hard, back to the infield, make the grab over the shoulder–no problem.
Half Pant Final
He was 7 feet tall, wearing yellow flowered shorts that stopped an inch above his deeply scarred right knee. Muscular calves supported long legs that ended in crooked toes sprouting from lime green sandals. The image of a blues man wailing on his Stratocaster was silk-screened in silver on his black tee shirt. “Buddy Guy” in script identified the artist.
People Gotta Eat
“I bought a store.”
His father stopped mid-scoop, spaghetti and neck bone dripping with sauce dangling only a few inches from his bristly chin. “A what?” Sounding as if the neck bone of the pig slaughtered for the family was now lodged deep in his throat.
Sixty Bucks a Week
The phone on the wall rang. The long, knotted cord dragged on the floor as she listened carefully to the distant voice. He had collapsed. She stared out the window where he’d usually park, the space empty. It was 95°, but it wasn’t the heat. Not a heart attack, a stroke, or a seizure.
He Served
The guy had a silver chain that dangled from his left front pocket to his right, perfectly outlining his brief-less testicles. He looked at The Buff, smiled, and yanked out a pocket watch the size of a hockey puck from his faded Levis and said, “ten… p.m., fat boy.” His droopy white walrus mustache did a lousy job of concealing his shit-eating grin.
Primo
“I’m gonna do the dago hop on my 80th birthday. I’ll be good by then.” Primo struggled to slide off Dr. Anthony Choy’s exam table.
“The Dago hop?” Dr. Choy asked.
“It’s an Italian folk dance.” Romolo, Primo’s son, answered.
The Sax
Lewis and Fredo
I got it. It was now my move. Should I succumb to his demand? It was a dark, wind whipped subzero ominous god-forsaken Chicago blizzard.
Wet Rat
I couldn’t walk away. But most important, I had my pride. I tried to act like I could give a shit, but getting canned would fuck with my ego.
Termination
Eriksen liked to stand out in red short-sleeve scrubs and extra-long gloves, blasting ZZ Top as he sawed, hammered and sewed on the orthopedically damaged suburbanites hoping to improve their less than stellar golf or tennis games. On occasion, especially in summer, I’d catch him in shorts. “Bjorn,” I’d scold him like a recalcitrant kindergartner, “put your pants on, Infection Control.”
What Happened to Danny?
Across the alley I see her, lathering, sudsy soap rolling down her back. A joint, a Diet Pepsi and the hopes for a hard on from a woman who knew he spied on her and didn’t pull the shade down.
Anxiety is the thing that’s ripped our country apart. It has divided us, caused us to fear and hate those who think and live differently than us, and even caused us to hate those who only slightly disagree with us. It has led to panic and overreaction. And I worry that American Anxiety is only going to exacerbate the social and political divide in this country to the point that there is no coming back.