Ramblin' Man

It took 20 minutes of sitting in an abandoned store to decide to come to this crummy town.  The only remarkable thing about this place is that people still live here.  Nothing but dollar stores and cookie cutter sprawl.  I turned down a road that is a labyrinth of identical houses on cul-de-sacs.  The only way to reach your destination is to remember to take the second street on the left and count four houses on the right.  A real residential “House of Mirrors.”  I pulled into a driveway and eventually knocked on the plastic door.  A disheveled, thin, old man answered the door in a tattered baby blue bathrobe.  He’s sickly and held onto everything for balance.  I tried to appear positive and failed when I said, “Hey Gran’pa.”

He’s alone.  Grandma been dead for quite a while.  A child of the Depression, he grinded himself into the ground at the factory to put his children through college.  It was that hard labor that exposed him to the carcinogens that gave him the kidney cancer he was diagnosed with two months ago.  He raised me and always seemed to know what he was doing.  It’s why I’m here.  It’s why it’s so difficult to realize there is no cure.

“How ya doin,’ pa?”  He stubbornly pushed me away when I tried to help him to his recliner. 

“Not bad.  Just threw up.  You?”  And, he honestly meant that he was doing alright.  “Find any work yet?”

“Eh.  I’ve had some leads, but nothin’ that’s panned out yet.”

“Ya need ta pound the pavement ‘nd knock on some doors.”

“It doesn’t work that way.  Ya hafta submit yer resume online ‘nd hope that yers gets selected instead of da hundreds of other chumps that apply.  ‘Nd, ya gotta hope that no one gets special treatment ‘cause they’re da bosses’ kid or friend too.”

“That’s why ya gotta get in their face.  Make ‘em tellya ‘no’ in person.”

“Alright.  Anyway, how are yer treatments?”  I changed the subject since he hasn’t applied for a job in over a half century.

“All dem goddamn pills make me sicker than a dog.  Can’t hold nothin’ down.  Not even soup.”  I looked over at the coffee table and it’s been transformed into a pharmacy. 

“Anythin’ I can help ya with?”

“Na.  Just havin’ company is good.  How’s that girl of yers doin?”

“Ah…  Alright, I guess.”  His head tilted forward with an inquisitive stare.

“Alright?  It’s never good when ya say it’s ‘alright.’”

“It’s fine.  Nothin’ ta bother ya with.”

“Bother?  What da hell else am I doin’?  What, ya got inta a fight?  Do somethin’ dumb?”

“Uh…  Yeah…  We kinda just broke up.”  Grandpa’s head leaned back in the chair.

“Sorry ‘bout that.  Sure ya don’t wanta go inta details.”  He always gets the same look in his eyes when something doesn’t work out for me.  It’s sympathy; not disappointment (which may be worse).  “So, where ya livin’ then?”

“I can probably stay on a friends couch ‘til I get a place.  Call in some favors.”

“So, ya don’t have anywhere ta go?  Where’s yer stuff?  Take one of my extra rooms.”

“Oh, I can’t do that?”

“Why not?  I ain’t usin’ ‘em.  ‘Nd it’s not gonna be pleasant with me fumblin’ ‘round the place.”

“Are ya sure?  How much doya want fer rent?”

“Be quiet.  I’m no landlord.”

“Well, I’ll do all da chores ‘nd all then.”

“No worries.  I gotta nurse fer that.”

“Then she can focus on taking care of ya instead of doin’ da dishes.”

“Ah…”  He dismissively waves his right hand at me.  “So, where’s yer junk?”

“In da car.”

“Go get it ‘nd bring it in while I go take my medicine.”  He got up, again refused assistance, and headed to the kitchen with pockets full of drugs.

In-and-out of the house.  Box after box stacked into the spare room until it looked like a storage unit.  I took a seat on the twin bed with its old plaid comforter.  It’s been a while since I’ve stayed in this room.  The dresser top is still full of knickknacks that span several decades.  The desk is dusty with a few reference books neatly aligned in the right corner.  There’s nothing on the crème colored walls.  The room would look like a set of an old movie if it weren’t for all my crap.

As I glanced out the window, a doe and two fawn emerged from the bushes.  The doe chewed on some flowers while the spotted fawn chased each other around.  I blankly stared at them darting around.  Where do they live?  There aren’t any woods or anything else natural for miles.  Ostracized by speeding traffic, barking dogs, and high fences.  How do they survive in this hostile environment?  They don’t belong here, but where else can they go?  And, as quickly as they appeared, they vanished.

Anyway, everything was unloaded and I was finished daydreaming.  I had to drop off the car.  As I passed the living room, I saw my grandpa sleeping in his chair.  I left him a note that said, “Thanks for letting me stay.  Dropping off the car.  Back in a while.  –Luke.”

Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

Please follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com

History of Walnut House

By all appearances, John was a success.  As we know, appearances are more important than facts.  He looked the part of an American businessman standing in the muddy road waiting for his family to arrive.  John dressed, acted, and delegated as expected of an executive.  But, today, he will live like one.

In this Protestant community, it was insisted that homes have a simple design.  The exterior of 443 Walnut Street appeared to be a plain farmhouse painted sage with gold, purple, and blue accent colors.  Opening the heavy walnut door and walking through the vestibule was an impressive stairhall.  A grand and ornately carved staircase welcomed visitors.  Wasteful ornamentation showed others that he’d “made it.”  Having walnut wood shaped continued John’s dynastic wealth and this house was its temple.  Carpenters from his furniture factory were hired to elegantly design doors, wainscoting, and window trim.  The gem of the house was the back parlor that featured a large fireplace and mantle made up of figures of Greek gods, like Atlas with the weight of the world on their shoulders.  The parlor had a side door and could be locked from the inside for secret society meetings.

For the next 32 years, John saw lots of changes.  In 1893, a duplex was constructed immediately to the north for the families of two of his oldest children.  In 1896, another duplex was erected to the east for his other two offspring.  Piece-by-piece, he sold his old farm property for new homes.  It was a wise investment as the population boomed from 16,000 when he bought the land to 87,000 when he sold the last parcel a couple of years before his death in 1901.  John’s wife passed in 1904, but the home remained in the family until 1930 when it was sold to Gordon.

Gordon’s parents immigrated from the Netherlands to join a Calvinist community.  They had plenty of Guilders when they arrived and started an inn with its famously exclusive club.  The business grew into a property management company that Gordon eventually inherited.  If he learned anything from his parents, it was how to get something for nothing.  With the acquisition of Walnut House, his staff was immediately instructed to divide the single-family home into four apartments.

In the 35 years Gordon owned the home, he only visited it three times.  Gordon squeezed every cent he could from the property putting as little as he could toward upkeep.  As the quality of the home declined he’d exploit his tenants more.  Rents would unexpectedly jump 30% or more (especially during the World Wars).  He charged extra for every child resident.  He’d bill for improvements never made.  By 1965, Walnut House was so neglected that Gordon gladly accepted an offer from St. John’s Hospital to bulldoze it for a parking lot. 

Developers, institutions, banks, and their politicians planned to raze 960 acres of the neighborhood for a couple new high-rise apartments and fields of asphalt.  As wrecking balls arrived, so did the protesters.  Neighbors bought neighbor’s homes with cash as banks refused all loans in the area.  After many lawsuits and threats, the area was designated a historic district and protected. 

As the hospital could no longer demolish Walnut House for car storage, it decided to sell the property to Dan, a recent college graduate, in 1969.  Walnut House was in rough shape four years earlier.  Allowed to disintegrate further by the hospital, it seemed a lost cause.  The roof, which probably needed to be replaced in the 1940s, was little more than rotted wood and tar.  A large portion of the north side collapsed allowing the elements inside.  Rain would cascade from the attic gently down the stairs and walls, and pool in the basement undermining the foundation.  A small fire destroyed the original kitchen and much of the exterior siding was rotten.  Dan moved his few possessions into the back parlor, which was the only habitable room.

Dan started his life at Walnut House.  Repairs made to the roof were paid from his new low-level finance job with an auto parts manufacturer.  The exterior was rehabbed with help from his recent bride.  The landscaping and new windows were installed at the time of the birth of their first daughter.  The family moved about the house as walls were removed and plaster repaired.  The kitchen was gutted and replaced with the birth of their second daughter.  Important milestones in their lives were tracked by the painting of a room or refurbishing a historic detail.  With the house restored to its original grandeur, it was difficult for Dan to move to the suburbs in 1986.  But, he refused to sell the house.  He rented Walnut House with the intention to return once his daughters left for college.

I had just been accepted to grad school when I was looking for an apartment.  Like most college towns, anything decent and close to the school was out of my budget.  That was until I saw Walnut House with 3-4 bedrooms, 2 baths, modern kitchen, in a walkable neighborhood for slightly more than a studio apartment in the “student ghetto.”  While skeptical, I made an appointment.  After a long meeting with Dan, he let me rent the home.  He was willing to sacrifice rent money for someone with good credit and would not destroy the house.  Plus, a hefty deposit for insurance. 

The cast of roommates changed as often as a soap opera.  The only constant was my conducting research or writing papers at my salvaged banker’s desk.  That and ordering pepperoni pizza from Tommy’s down the street where I befriended the entire staff.  My girlfriend moved in when her lease was up and organized all sorts of parties with various themes or activities.  Random happy moments with my roommate and her boyfriend trying to assemble a sound machine for an engineering class.  The walk home from Dusty’s Saloon when our designated driver was insulted and ditched us (misunderstanding).  It felt like “home” and I thought about giving Dan an offer for Walnut House.

Like John in 1869, I stood in front of this beautiful Victorian home.  By all appearances, I was a failure.  Playing the part of the fool, I stood in the graveled street wondering what I could have done differently.  The last of my possessions crammed into a hatchback I borrowed from a friend.  Whatever didn’t fit in the vehicle was tossed to the curb.  Every so often, my ex-girlfriend would look out the window to see if I was gone yet.  I made one last round to make sure all my stuff was out, put my key on the front table, and drove away not sure what to do.

Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

Please follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com

Hot Wheels

This damn car.  An ugly, purple, piece of shit family sedan.  Smoke billowing out of the engine and dragged along a guardrail.  I can see the flickers of a fire underneath as pieces fall to the asphalt.  The tires melt at a surprisingly slow rate.  I just sit on the side of 57 watching this damn car turn to ash.

This is the best I could find for under $4,000: a 2007 model with over 90,000 miles.  There were quite a few scratches and rust spots.  The rear passenger side hubcap was missing.  The interior was well worn with extensive cigarette burns on the driver’s right hand side.  Most of the features didn’t work: a couple electric windows didn’t roll down, radio didn’t turn on, heating and cooling were busted.  But, the engine was recently rebuilt with the invoice to prove it.  Brought it to my mechanic and he gave me the thumbs up.  All-in-all, it was in my price range.

I’ve been biking and mooching rides to work since the car accident.  That old diesel hatchback had 150,000+ miles and could have gone another 150,000 if it weren’t for the crash.  The insurance company totaled the car because of its age; not condition.  No rust and only minor wear and tear issues.  A great 17 year old car with quality German engineering.  My aunt sold it to me cheap five years ago when she wanted a newer model of the same car.

What a difference from the purple sedan.  But, it did get me from point A to point B.  If it was hot, I’d roll down one of the working windows.  If it was cold, I had an extra pair of gloves and a hat ready.  I had to correct a few mechanical issues for safety reasons: replaced a tire, fixed taillight, and plugging up a power steering leak.  It wasn’t pretty.  It wasn’t quiet.  And, it certainly wasn’t smooth.

I ran a few errands on Court Street before getting on 57 toward Clifton.  I had a job lined up because of some previous work.  Good money too.  As I’m driving, I noticed a funny smell, which isn’t too strange in this part of the country.  It was like a tire fire.  Didn’t see anything burning in the vast expanse of flat farmlands.  Traffic was pretty heavy with cars racing south in the left lane and semis to the right with me.  Thought it was a vehicle ahead of me until I heard “fa-WUMP!” and saw a plume of dark grey smoke shoot out of my grill.  Before I could think “what the hell,” the interior filled with a noxious fog.  I rolled down the working windows.  I see in my side view mirror semis switching lanes behind me.  My flashers are on.  I start to pull off to the shoulder and tap my brakes.

Brakes.  BRAKES!  WHERE THE HELL ARE MY BRAKES!  I can’t stop the car.  I press the gas, to keep pace with traffic, and it doesn’t work either.  There’s an off ramp ahead.  I pull over and hope gravity slows me down.  I de-accelerate from 70mph.  If there’s no cross traffic, I’ll run the stop sign and coast into the diner parking lot.  Things look good.  I’m slowing down and the road looks clear.  I check to the left again and there’s a semi barreling toward the intersection.  Time for plan B.  At 25-30mph, I purposely plow the side of my car into a guardrail to bring it to a stop.  I pop the hood and take a seat on the side of the interstate to watch it burn. 

“Excuse me, sir.  Have ya bin drinkin’?”  I turn around.  I’ve been there for about 20 minutes when the officer arrived.  I reply, “It’s 10am.”

“Have ya bin drinkin’?” he re-asks knowing the time and how many people drink and drive here no matter what time of day.

“Na, my car caught fire ‘n I had ta crash it ‘cause my brakes stopped workin’.”

“Ah…  These cars are known fer that.”

“Known fer what, specifically?”

“Lose their controls when they have engine problems.”  That’s terrifying.  Does Ralph Nader know?  Won’t buy that brand again. 

We banter watching my car burn into a 3,700 pound piece of charcoal.  The fire department came and let it self-destruct in a controlled manner.  After an hour of blocking the intersection and all the rubbernecks slowing traffic on the freeway, they dragged the carcass onto a flatbed tow truck.  It ended up at a junkyard near my intended destination.  So, it made it to point B without me.  I walked the other direction, taking the old country roads, for my long journey home.     

Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

Please follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com

Blind Date: And Wishing I Lost My Other Senses

By Amanda Schoen

I met Ben on a blind date.  He’s a little older than me, never been married, has a baby face with the early stages of male pattern baldness.  I’ve always been a “romantic,” but have had a hard time finding a decent guy.  Now that I’m 35, it seems I have more of a chance getting hit by a bus than getting married.  Sometimes I feel desperate.  It’s why I let my friends, family, and co-workers try to set me up on top of all the matchmaking sites.  Ben was highly recommended by my colleague Anne.  It was very chivalrous of Ben to pick me up in his truck for dinner, drinks, and a stroll along the river.

Walking back to his car, he started to act a little strange.  His sauntering became an awkward speed walk.  His questions ceased and his answers were suddenly distant: as if something else was on his mind.  I became quiet and disheartened.  Was he already bored with me?  A few more silent moments passed before he said, “Ah, a bathroom.  Just a moment.”  And, he ran to the park’s public restroom.  I mean, a full speed sprint.

I stood in a city park, by myself, for over a half hour.  It was cold and dark and I didn’t feel safe there at night.  Another man entered and left the bathroom.  I stopped him, “Excuse me, was there someone else in there with you?”

“Um.  Yeah.”  He chuckled, “But, I don’t think he’s coming out of there for a while.”

“Why not?”

“I’m not going to say.  A man’s business in his business.”  And he left.  What does that mean?  WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!  What could he possibly be doing in there?  I pounded on the door.  I knocked more.  I yelled, “BEN!  ARE YOU OKAY!  BEN!”  Finally, he cracked the door open.  Half of his face was hidden.  It was sullen and green.  He said, “I’m sorry.  Is there any way you can get a ride home from someone else?”

“What?” It was late, “Not really.  What’s wrong?”

“I’m not feeling good.  You should call a friend or a cab or something.  I’ll pay.”   Ben avoided eye contact and this went on for a while.  People get sick and I wanted to comfort him.  If I wanted to be his girlfriend (maybe a wife someday), I needed to show him that I care and will be there for him.  I talked him out of that restroom like a professional hostage negotiator.  That’s when I realized he shit his pants.

I’m not going to lie.  It was disgusting.  His entire backside was covered.  Using only water and paper towel didn’t clean his khakis.  Of all days to run out of soap in a public restroom.  The shame he had trying to get to his car.  Almost running, but never ahead of me.  Always facing the people we passed.

We climbed into his truck.  He found an old sweatshirt and sat on it.  I heard every rattle of the engine since we did not speak.  The smell was awful.  Like someone ate Thai food for a month and died.  I sat there in a near panic.  I wanted to roll down the window because I could hardly breathe.  But I didn’t want to embarrass him more.  I sat stoically.  It’s only a ten minute ride.  But, it was a long ten minutes.  As soon as I stepped out of his truck, Ben took off with an abrupt “bye.”  Who could blame him?

I thought about our terrible date.  I had a good time until he soiled himself.  We had a nice dinner and he’s easy to talk with.  Ben and I have quite a bit in common.  Wandering around the river was pleasant.  Who hasn’t had diarrhea?  Seriously, if we were in a “relationship” I wouldn’t leave him because he got sick.  It’s unfortunate it was on our first date.  Not a romantic story to share with the rest of the girls.  But, you have to take the opportunities life hands you.

A few days later, I called Ben.  Actually, I ended up leaving him a voicemail because he never answered.  I said, “I’m happy to have met you and was hoping to see you again sometime.”  A couple of days later, he returned my calls and “was surprised you called after that experience.”  We chatted about a few other things before we set up our second date. 

Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

Please follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com

New Normal

Today was like the last few thousand todays: wasted.  Each second, I’m a little bit older and (a)pathetic.  I hate my job.  So, don’t ask me about it.  I’ve applied to hundreds of other dead end jobs, but I’m always over/under educated, experienced, or paid (never overpaid though).  There’s a million other candidates and they always choose some inept “connected” kid.  So, I grind away making a ton of money for someone else and get insulted in the process.  With no more cash in my pocket, I end up sitting on my secondhand couch watching TV.  Zoning out and not knowing what the hell I’m going to do.

I have a couple of degrees.  Minimally qualified to work in the fields I now loathe.  So, theres a couple of dead dreams.  Not a chance in hell I’d buy another worthless sheepskin.  The only thing I learned was how to launder money from banks to the university gaining personal debt in the process.  So, what can I do that isn’t already automated or outsourced?  The choices seem to be either food service or a doctor.  Everything in between has been destroyed in the race to the bottom.

I’m tired of the same ol’ shit.  And I know the ideals of merit and hard work are bullshit.  Promotions given based on who laughs the loudest at the boss’ lame jokes; not results.  Imbecile enthusiasm! I’m the one that must sacrifice.  It’s my pay that must be slashed so they can get a raise.  It’s my budget that has to be cut to the broken bone for the benefit of those who delegate.  In the meantime, the cost of food, clothes, rent, and transit are always rising in spite of diminishing quality.

At 3am, I walk the quiet streets.  What the hell am I going to do?  I barely make ends meet on my income.  How can I build a foundation for my life on this quicksand?  I imagined that I’d be doing something at this point in my life and I’m not.  And, the frustration of doing everything right at still getting screwed in unbearable.  The backstabbing and evils one considers just to pay survive.  But, right now, all I can do is mass submit my resume and accept the things I can’t change…     



Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

Please follow us on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com

Dusty's Saloon

I can’t sleep.  I’ve counted sheep.  Did some reading.  Popped a few pills.  Still staring at a black ceiling.  Not even tired.  So, I throw on an old shirt and dirty jeans.  Head down the street to Dusty’s Saloon to get a drink.

As you can imagine, it’s pretty dead on a Wednesday night.  A couple of guys in yellowed country band t-shirts shooting pool and a lady in a cheap uniform that looks like her shift just ended or is about to begin.  Classic rock is always on the radio.  I take a stool at the end of the bar.

The TV's on, but never with volume.  Nothing but garbage sandwiched between ads.  Pushing prescription drugs.  Selling some redesigned car.  Another couple of minutes of an unfunny sitcom.  Please stop running this baby diaper ad repeatedly.  It’s been rough lately.  I order a whiskey and take in the scenery.  Hopefully, the combination will make me drowsy.

Two girls whisper to each other as they walk into the bar.  Probably about how disappointed they are with how empty it is in here.  Or, how it’s such a dive.  Both in their twenties.  One wasn’t attractive and the other was average.  But, they are all dolled up.  So, you know they aren't from around here.  Probably came down from Chicago for work or a funeral or something.  I’m surprised they take a table instead of looking for a better place (not that there is one in this town).  I order another round.  I take what’s in the well because I’m looking to get drunk; not flavor.  “That’ll be two dolla,” the bartender says, “Ya need ten ifya wanna put it onna card.”

Guy’s new.  Doesn’t know I’m a regular and good for it.  “I’ll put it on da tab,” and show him a wad of cash in my wallet.  He seems satisfied.

“Want some pretzels or somethin’?”

“Nah,” I drop the stir stick into the trash behind the bar, “Just keep ‘em comin.'  I’ll tellya when I’m done fer da night.”

“No prob.”  He went on some kind of rant about the game that night and all.  Seems like an alright guy.  Maybe I’ll get to know him if he decides to stick around.

The two city girls finally order drinks at the bar.  Took them a while to figure out there isn’t any table service.  They keep whispering and giggling.  Probably laughing at me since I catch them looking in my direction a couple of times.  I look like I just got out of bed because I did just get out of bed.  A wreck for sure.  I should just ignore them.  But, I'm bored.  When the bartender comes back with their drinks I say, “Hey, put ‘em on my tab.”  I don't give them “the eyes” or anything.  Just thought it’d be nice to talk with someone that isn’t from here.  But, it just makes them giggle and whisper some more.  After a couple of minutes, I write them off.  Not even a “thank you” or anything.  My attention turns back to watching Demolition Man.

“Umm…  Wouldja like ta sit with us?” asks the average girl.  They have to be more bored with this place than I am.  I came in with lower expectations.  The other girl seems nervous and I can’t blame her.  But, when you come to a place like this in this town, you don’t always get to choose your company.

It's good though.  The unattractive one is quiet, but nice.  The average girl is a bit of a snob.  Sometimes it can be difficult to tell if someone is a snob or just shy.  I mean, you really don’t know until you interact with someone for a while.  A shy person will talk, but will play coy until they’re comfortable with you.  But, a snob will eventually curl their lip and judge your every action.  Some are princesses and I can’t stand them.  You know, they dress up in white pants, laugh like hyenas, and pretend to fart rainbows.  We all know how much of a pill-popping lunatic bitch they really are.  But, these girls were alright.  Even the snob.  At least they didn’t stare blankly at their smartphones texting pointless messages the entire time.

“I knew ya two weren’t from here,” I say to the average girl, “Look ‘round.  Getting’ dressed up ta go bar hoppin’ means puttin’ on yer cleanest t-shirt.  That’s not an insult either.  Just an observation.”

“Really?” she replies.  There was a glance at my grubby shirt and a look of disgust at the other patrons when she realizes I'm right.

“Really.  I use ta live in a skyscraper fulla assholes.  Designer clothes.  Interior decorated apartments.  Luxury cars.  Convinced they're important.  Use ta getting’ what they want, when they want, how they want.  Not people in this town.  They take what they can git 'n ‘preciative ‘bout it too.  Some have da courage ta leave n’ chase their dreams.  Go ta Chicago, New York, or L.A.  None of them really find it 'n end up comin’ back.  But, at least we tried.”

“Hmm…  That’s depressin.’”

“It is what it is.  So, what are ya in town fer?  I know we’re no tourist destination, but I can point ya in the right direction ifya lookin’ fer somethin.’”

She doesn't care.  Says something about a wedding.  So, we kind of just sit here at the table quietly.  I could of just stayed at the bar and not talked.  Fortunate Son by CCR is playing on the radio.  If we're not going to talk, we might as well have good music.  I order us another round even though our glasses are still half full.  Need something to do.  “Haveya seen Da Great Gatsby?”  Leonardo was won-der-ful.  It was amazin.’”

“Yeah, I saw it.”  It was a flash in the pan with the substance gutted out like a fish.  There’s no examination or thought of the concept of the American Dream.  Just a lame love triangle with indulgent special effects.  And bad music.

“Wasn’t it great?  I just loved it.  I woulda loved goin’ ta those parties.”

“So, ya like da movies?” trying to steer the conversation elsewhere so I don’t become offensive, “What’s some of yer favorites?”

“I just think Baz Luhrmann’s great.  All those pretty dresses 'n beautiful homes.  So romantic.”  I just focus on my drink.  Everyone can say their opinion, but they never wants to hear mine.  After a bit, she finally stops talking about The Great Gatsby.

“I didn’t git yer names.  I’m Luke.”

“I’m Jenny and this is Andrea.”  I try to find a topic all of us can participate in.  Nothing seems to work.  I ask where they are from and work.  I make up a fake problem just so I can ask for their advice.  But, they seem underwhelmed with everything.  Well, they are originally from nowheresville, Iowa, but now live in New York City working at a clothing store.  I ask if they like their jobs.  No, but the discount is decent. 

Andrea, the unattractive one, actually starts to talk.  She’s actually pretty funny and interesting once she’s had a couple of drinks.  She has a good story about all these suburban teenage girls that come into their store.  They come in as a group and scatter toward the merchandise they like.  Then, one of them pukes on purpose.  Just vomits in the middle of the shop.  When Andrea or whoever is distracted getting the cleaning supplies, all the rest start shoplifting like crazy.  Then, they’d all make a break for it.  Now, if someone gets sick they have to just stand there watching everyone and wait for security.  You can’t make this shit up.  I order us another round. 

“Why ya orderin’ us all these drinks?”  Andrea is not asking a question so much as making an accusation.  “What doya want in exchange fer these daiquiris?”

“Nothin’ at all,” I say, “Just ta hang out with ya until I git tired ‘n can go home ‘n git ta sleep, which will be pretty soon.”  The bartender is already putting up the stools for the night.

“Nothin’?  C’mon, two pretty girls walk inta a bar ‘n ya ‘spect nothin’ when ya buy ‘em drinks?”

“Nope.  Howya know I don’t have a girlfriend or wife at home or something’?  Anyway, won’t ask fer yer number or anything.’”

“Why not?” Andrea says raising her voice.

“Yer not mad ‘cause I’m not tryin’ ta pick ya up now, are ya?”  That makes me laugh.  A real damned if you do; damned if you don’t moment.  Andrea blushes and Jenny pretends she’s not interested in the conversation.  She hears every word, but still pretends.

The new bartender makes last call and I pick up a round.  Grab popcorn for the table to absorb the alcohol.  Cash out.  The table is covered with little napkins, stir sticks, and toothpicks.  Sticky with spilled dried out beverages.  The lights come up to full brightness so the bartender can sweep the floor.  All of us squint our eyes.  Probably because our eyes dilate, but maybe because we can see what each other really looks like now.  Didn’t expect to stay until close.  Maybe I should just stay up instead of going to bed tonight.  Got to be at the worksite by seven.

I toss back the last of the whiskey and ask them if they know how to get back to their place.  Say they do.  Mention that they have a bunch of stuff to do for their college friend’s wedding this weekend: flowers, dresses, dinners, and all that nonsense.  I put them in Joe’s taxi.  I know Joe.  Long story.  But, he sits at Dusty’s Saloon every night since he can rely on their loyal customers. 

Poor girls.  Drove all the way here from NYC.  Had to get a hotel, rent a car, bridesmaid gowns, gas, and probably a million other things.  All on their part-time retail wages.  So much for degrees.  After thinking about it, I’m glad I bought them their drinks.  It’s sad that no one ever comes here because they want to.  The Visitor Center’s motto should be, “Welcome: we’re glad you’re obligated to be here!”

I head up 5^th and turn down Williams Street.  Drag my shoes down the unlit sidewalks.  The only light faintly shines from the front porches of various homes.  A few TVs flicker behind curtained windows.  Leaves crinkle in the cool summer breeze.  Sunrise will be in a few hours.  Probably just wonder around until then.  Get some breakfast and head to work.  

Please follow on Google+, Twitter, Facebook, and Pinterest.

Thank you for reading and your support.  This would not be possible without you!

If you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or anything else, please feel free to contact me at: LukeArchaism@gmail.com