Little Taste of Grandpa's Cough Syrup

He places a couple of large glasses of whiskey on the table and lights a cigarette.  “Ya shouldn’t be smokin’.”

“Worried I might get cancer or somethin’?” Grandpa retorts with a laugh.”  Don’t worry.  I need some pleasure before da cancer, I do have, kills me.”  He takes his seat on the dark patio overlooking the backyards of several homes.  “So, have ya thought ‘bout what I said?  Ya know, ‘bout who ya are ‘nd whatcha gonna do with yerself?”

“Is that what da alcohol is fer?” I joke.  “Yeah, I’ve actually thought ‘bout it every day since I can remember.  Still don’t have an answer though.  Do ya have da answer?”

“Do I have da answer?  Ha!  I’d hafta be quite an asshole ta say that I did.  Do ya think I know what’s in yer heart ‘nd how ya should be livin’?”

“Probably better than anyone else would.”

“Well, I’m no fool ‘nd I’m tellin’ ya I can’t answer those questions fer ya.  But, ya gotta find a purpose fer livin’.  Ya either live fer yer purpose or ya float ‘round doin’ nothin’.”  He swirls his glass and the ice races around the amber liquor.

“So…”  I look up at the stars and coyly ask, “How do I come up with a purpose ‘cause I don’t know what mine is.”

“Good question…  I s’pose before ya get a purpose ya hafta know who ya are.  No sense tryin’ ta become President if ya hate politics.”  He smashes his cigarette butt into a pile of ashes and lights another.  “From my view, ya become who ya are ‘cause of a hodge-podge of experiences ‘nd yer reactions to ‘em.  Makes ya grow by seeing things dif’rently.”

“Reactions ta my experiences, eh?  Hmm…” I think I better top off our glasses.  “So, my reaction is bein’ tired nd’ watchin’ TV ‘cause my experience is workin’ two shifts atta terrible job.  What’s that mean?”

“I dunno.  We gotta find da meanin’ of life out tagether, I guess.”

“This is getting’ too deep fer me,” I tease.  The smell of the neighbor’s burning leaves act like meditating incense for the evening.  “Think we’ll figure out da meanin’ of life tanight?”

“A smartass like ya’s purpose should be comedy.  A real Johnny Carson.  Do ya take anythin’ seriously?”  I get a stern look.

“Nah.  That’s da secret ta a ‘good’ life.  Anyway, what do ya think I should do?  Go back ta college ‘nd earn another degree ‘nd debt?  I’ve been applyin’ fer jobs every day with little-ta-no response.  I’m barely livin’ off of side work.  So, I’m not sure what else ta do.”

“Ferget ‘bout a career ‘nd money.  That’s da way da Devil gets ya.  We hafta focus on what’s important.  We have ta be ourselves.  Luke, ya hafta matter.”

“Okay…” It’s difficult not to roll my eyes.  “Great.  How can I be ‘myself’ ‘nd ‘matter’?”

“What do ya want outta life?  If ya could do anythin’, what would ya do?”

“Umm…  I dunno.  I’d be a rock star or somethin’.  Ya know, something fun ‘nd creative.”

“Good!  Yer a ‘musician’.  I like it.  Now, how can we improve yer skills with singin’ ‘nd da guitar?  Buy ya some lessons?  Fix up yer equipment in the attic ‘nd start practicin’.  Ya need music in yer life.  Ya may not become rich ‘nd famous, but at least ya’ll do somethin’ ya enjoy.  Takin’ yer life ‘nd turnin’ it inta songs is who ya could be.”

“Sounds nice.  I’ll be da most talented bum livin’ under da bridge.  I can’t afford my lifestyle now.  How could I bein’ all artsy-fartsy?”

“Luke, listen ta me.”  He leans over and stares with an intensity I’ve never seen before.  “Ya gotta decide what ya wanna do or someone’s gonna do it fer ya.  Either ya choose ta pursue music or ya become a slave fer that restaurant, bar, landscaper, or whatever crap ya’ve been doin’.  But, if yer not happy, ya gotta make a change.  Once ya know how ya wanna live, then ya can worry ‘bout payin’ da bills.  Yer at a point in yer life where ya can walk ‘way from everythin’ ‘nd start clean.”

“What ‘bout you?”

“Me?  I’m atta dif’rent part of life.  Soon, ya won’t hafta worry ‘bout me either.  But, as I said before, I’d be a fool ta tell ya ta be a musician or anythin’ else.  That’s somethin’ ya hafta tell yerself.  But, life’s too short ta be doin’ somethin’ ya hate.”  

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Warehouse

I know that warehouse.  It’s where that crazy party was a few years back.  The one where Anabelle was smacked in the face with a box of mac and cheese thrown from the roof like a grenade.  I lean on a rickety lamppost in a busted up parking lot along Schuyler Street.  It’s a good spot to rest and scan the flat landscape.  I met Monica at this warehouse.

I never understood Monica.  We’d see each other frequently.  All summer we went to pubs, shows, and other events.  The Fallen Angel bar was our hangout and we may or may not end up elsewhere.  Sometimes, we’d plan to meet and she’d never show up.  Never apologize.  Never mention it or even fake an excuse.  It would of drove me crazy if I didn’t think it was a temporary relationship.

Anyway, at that party, I was at the bar/receptionist desk when this girl put her arm around my waist and head against my chest.  I wasn’t complaining when I said, “Yer pretty friendly” thinking it was a case of mistaken identity. 

“Can ya pretend ta be my boyfriend?  Hey Anabelle.” she said under her breath.  I hate getting into the middle of drama, especially at parties.  “These two guys won’t leave me ‘lone ‘nd I told ‘em I was with ya ‘cause I saw ya with Anabelle.”  They looked like ‘roided out creeps with preppy appearances and unblinking stares.  There’s nothing wrong with having a girl on your arm, so I agreed.  “Thank you so much.  I’m Monica, by the way.”

She really wasn’t my type.  Too much of a girly-girl.  Took forever getting ready.  Always worried about her hair, makeup, or whatever.  All dolled up even though we were only going to a dive bar.  How can one person own so many damn shoes?  Her roommates and I became good friends as I took up space on their couch waiting around.  We’d be at least an hour late to everything.  It got to the point that if we were going to something I’d lie and say it started an hour earlier than it really did.  Many times, we’d still be late and it drove me nuts.

Beyond the superficial crap, she was an interesting person.  I have no idea where she’d get this stuff either.  I’d mention I liked some band and she’d give me a bunch of music from all sorts of unknown groups.  She’d loan me books by authors I’ve never heard of or thoughtful movies from strange places.  I’m no artist, but she found some of my junk fascinating.  I still don’t know why.  Monica took a bunch of my doodles and gave them to others. 

One time, we went to a lousy bar because they had some lame promotion.  Of course, there was a line halfway down the block in spite of five better pubs within eyeshot, all with available seating and cheaper, stronger drinks.  Anyway, here we were standing on the sidewalk like idiots when some girl came out of the lounge to talk on the phone and have a cigarette.  No big deal.  So, the girl tries to go back in and Monica pushes her.  Starts mouthing off about cutting in line and all sorts of nonsense.  Obviously, Monica didn’t know she had already been in the bar.  Well, I bear hug Monica and apologize to the girl, allowing her to go back inside.

As I started to explain the situation to Monica, she started hitting me and spouting off about embarrassing her in front of everyone.  Now I’m embarrassed about the both of us.  I hate that bar, I hate fighting, and I hated the whole situation.  So, I just went back to her car and sat until everyone was done and we could go home.  I was a designated driver by default.  Monica loves picking fights.  Would pick a fight with a grizzly if she perceived it wronged her somehow.  No idea what went through her head when she got like that.

Monica’s not crazy, at least not more than the average person.  There were just some topics I learned to avoid.  Hell, I don’t bring up some topics with anyone anymore after her reactions.  She could be extremely sweet too.  Like the time I was sick and she brought me spicy soup I like from the Thai place.  Or when she cleaned my grandpa’s house for him when I had to put in all that overtime.  But, she either ran “hot” or “cold.”  There was nothing in between.

That was two years ago.  It’s funny the things I remember and the stuff I forget.  Thinking about all that’s changed and how everything is the same.  How random it can all be.  All because I hitched a ride with Anabelle and she decided to bring me to this warehouse instead of going home.

It was uneventful when Monica moved to L.A. to be an actress/waitress.  She just told me “I’m goin’ ta Los Angeles ta fulfill a dream” and that was the last time I saw her.  As I said, it was a temporary relationship and I went back to Milwaukee a few weeks later.

Maybe I’ll go to the Fallen Angel for a drink before closing time.  It’s not that much out of the way.  On Station Street, I seem to be the only person around.  It’s eerily quiet as the orange lights obscure the midwestern sky.  I wonder if the bartender is still there; the aspiring singer.  Gave us lots of free drinks while singing along to the jukebox.  Not bad either.  I hope it hasn’t turned into a hipster bar or anything.  Then again, there’s something depressing when nothing’s changed.

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Tattered

I rub my eyes and hardly notice kicking a slipper in the hallway.  The linoleum floor is surprisingly chilly.  A faint light seeps onto it from under the bathroom door.  It holds my attention in the darkness.  Again, I hear a haunting whisper just under the rumble of a running toilet.  I knock on the door and there’s no response.  “Are ya awright in there?”  I crack the door open and peek inside.  “GRANPA!  OH SHIT!  Ya okay?”   His right hand grasps the toilet handle as his body is wrapped around the bowl.  He growls weakly as I untangle him and carry him to bed.

I race into the living room to find painkillers and something for nausea.  Tablets tumble onto the coffee table.  I reference a spreadsheet of times, dates, symptoms, and remedies.  A nurse should be doing this, not an inexperienced, stressed-out, scared family member.  I throw nearly a dozen pills into my pocket, grab a pot from the kitchen, and a sports drink.  I head back to the bedroom and see Grandpa hunched over on the edge of his bed.  He’s shrouded in a tattered blue robe and wearing one slipper.  “Granpa, ya gotta rest.”  I put the spaghetti pot on the floor.  “But, take these first.  Should make ya feel better.”

“Get that shit ‘way from me.  All da goddamn pills are what’s killin’ me.”  I got nothing else.  So, I just stare for a moment before I dump all the pills on the nightstand.  “Sorry…  I don’t mean ta snap at ya.  Just feel awful, that’s all.”

“No worries.”  I sit next to him.  Heat radiates from the down comforter, flannel sheets, and electric blanket in the summer night.  “Anythin’ I can do ta help ya sleep?”  His shaky hand lightly clutches my knee.

“Imma gonna miss ya, Luke.”  I nearly go blind as my eyes instantly tear up.  “Ya’ve always been good ta me.”

“Granpa, it’s too soon fer that.  Yer just havin’ a rough night with da medicine ‘nd all.  Let’s just get ya ta bed, okay?”

“Nah, nah, nah.  I’m dyin’ ‘nd I got some things I gotta tell ya before I can’t.”  I grab his shabby red plaid slipper from the hall and put it on his foot.  Then I wrap him up in an extra blanket as he’s covered in goosebumps.  “Okay, sit down now.  Ya know, I always wanted da best fer ya, right?”

“’Course I do.”

“Well, I don’t know what I’d do without ya.  Yer granma died, then yer mom moved ‘way, ‘nd I was forced ta retire.  Didn’t know what ta do with myself.  Those were some rough times, lonely times.  It wasn’t right she suffered like that.  I sat in this house, by myself, just thinkin’ ‘bout it.  Just years of bein’ torn up inside ‘til yer mom brought ya over.”

            “’Member goin’ ta lunch in da ol’ brown car?  Just packin’ sandwiches ‘nd talkin’ by da river.  Yeah, I liked those.  I’d ask ya ‘bout da stuff ya’d be doin’.  Had a hard time when ya had all that trouble with da school.  It wasn’t right.  Wish I’d done somethin’ dif’rent ‘bout that.”

            “’Nd yer dif’rent.  Ya always have been.  Don’t know why.  Can’t put my finger on it.  Fer some reason, ya’ve always been a target ‘nd I’ve tried ta protect ya.  Maybe too much.  Ya always had a freedom.  Yer not interested in da same things others think are important.  Just yer existence seems to undermine their point-of-view.  Ya challenge people’s beliefs ‘nd opinions without knowin’ it.  It makes ‘em attack ya outta fear.  “Nd maybe that’s it.

            “But, I failed ya, Luke.  I let ya out inta da world without ya even knowin’ who ya are.  Whatcha gonna do with yerself?  Do ya know?”

“Uh…” I’m just thinking how late it is and that I have to work in the morning.  “I dunno…  Everythin’s up in da air right now.  But, I’ll find a good job.  Don’t worry ‘bout that.”

“Job?  I ain’t worried ‘bout no job.  I’m worried ‘bout you.  Do ya know who ya are?”  I yawn and see the clock reads 3am.

“I guess so.”  I fold my hands together and play with my thumbs.

“Ya guess so.”  He scratches his stubble and has a disheartening chuckle.  “Well Luke, I can’t tell ya who ya are either.  I can make some observations ‘nd try ta help ya find a path.  But, that’s all.  Yer lost right now.  All ya seem ta do is work terrible jobs ‘nd watch TV.”  His back becomes arched as he coughs uncontrollably.  There’s an awful phlegm gargle right before he spits into the pot.  “Ya need ta figure out what yer livin’ fer.  If ya got nothin’ ta live fer, yer awready dead.”  What am I going to say to that?  I’m not going to debate the meaning of life with an old man dying of cancer. 

I take a few pills off the nightstand and hand it to him.  I’ll need really strong coffee before I head to work in a few hours.  After a swig of the sports drink he says, “I’m ‘fraid I failed ya.  Not leavin’ ya much when I’m gone.  Nothin’s left really.  But, most of all, I never helped ya find out who ya are.  There’s always been somethin’ dif’rent ‘bout ya.  Yer not fer this world.  Maybe ‘cause of that I wasn’t da right person ta teach ya.  I’m sorry.”

“Okay Granpa, nothin’ ta apologize fer.”  I gently push his shoulders toward the pillow and get him ready to sleep.  “Don’t worry.  I’ll be fine.”

“I sure hope so.”    

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Gazed In Wide Wonder

There’s a break in the cornfields off highway 57 that is filled with pre-fab apartments, car dealerships, and run down strip malls.  Five lanes of traffic chaotically battle in a race with no finish line.  Potholed streets lined with weeds lead to a myriad of driveways where cars anchor in a sea of asphalt.  Just shy of a half-mile from the freeway is the grandest of these driveways flowing into a vast, grey landscape in front of a low-slung cinderblock mall.  There are countless flower pots scattered near the main entrance, which is a large white stucco structure with a sizeable Frank Lloyd Wright inspired decoration above the doors.  As you enter, there is a jewelry store and a candy shop.  Continue to the right until you find the electronic store where I’m standing in the window.

I’m reorganizing the cell phone display, again, per instructions from headquarters.  The store is a cluttered cavern of diodes, adapters, and transistors in stark contrast to the other sleek, white retailers.  The store manager watches porn on his tablet as he runs reports and gets his marching orders from corporate; the same faceless entity that tells me to rearrange the shelves.  Rows and rows, columns and columns of cheap products with high margins.  Low-quality plastic molded into every shape and color.  A variety of brands all manufactured at the same sweatshop.

On the other side of the window is a young woman.  Her face is pressed against the glass and she’s dressed in black.  She waves at me excitedly.  It’s Anabelle and she runs in to give me a hug.  I feign a smile as I stand surrounded by merchandise waiting to be shelved.  I’m silent as she babbles about everything at once.  She always looks up and to her left, avoiding eye contact, when she talks. My hands are in the pockets of my boring uniform khakis and I glance toward the ground.  I’m engulfed in plastic goods destined for the landfill in the near future.

“Whatcha doin’ workin’ here?  I’d think ya’d hate bein’ inna place like this,” Anabelle states while looking around like she’s hoping to find an answer somewhere.

“Well, I gotta pay da bills somehow, right?”  Anabelle just stares at me as I lightly tap a charger with my foot.

“Yer not payin’ any bills with this job.  Do ya even make eight an hour?  Hmm?  Didn’t think so.  Yer comin’ with me ta get lunch: my treat.  ‘Nd leave that ugly shirt here.”  She skips to the food court as I toss the polo shirt onto the pile of junk and follow her.  We grab a couple slices from a stand - a red neon bordello of grease.  Spoiled fat kids gluttonously cram pizza into their sauce-covered mouths.

“Where da hell are we?” Anabelle asks.  Strange question since I followed her here.

“Uh…  Da mall.” I reply sounding a bit confused.

“I know that.  I mean, is there anythin’ here that’s unique ‘nd tells ya what city we’re in?  Or that we’re even in da Midwest?”  It just seems like a normal mall to me.

“Umm…  Whatcha lookin’ fer?”  I’m still trying to figure out the question.

“This looks like every damn mall I’ve ever been ta.  It could be New York or Mississippi.  Or it could be Georgia or California.  If ya were blindfolded ‘nd brought only ta malls ‘cross ‘merica, I bet ya never be able ta tell where ya were.  Do ya see anythin’ ya’d only find in this miserable town?”  I see chain stores in beige boxes.  There are elderly people slowly passing fake plants.  The same teenagers you see everywhere stand around a kiosk pimping sunglasses.  But, I can’t find anything to indicate my specific location on mother earth. 

“Hmm…” I think for a bit, “I never noticed that before.  We really could be anywhere right now.”

“Or nowhere,” she retorts as she dumps a tray of garbage.  We wonder down the sterile corridors passing shops tended by bored adolescents on smartphones.  Every square inch of sales floor is intensely lit.  A group from a nursing home speed by on power scooters.  There’s an occasional uncomfortable bench in the middle of the hallway.  We are stuck behind people walking so slowly that we barely move.  We are impatient to get around them even though we have no place to go.

Anabelle grabs my arm suddenly and stops.  I look to see what’s wrong.  Staring intently toward the atrium, she blurts out, “Oh.  My.  God!  We gotta see what’s goin’ on over there!”  In front of the boxy fountain that looks like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, are two middle-aged men in Hawaiian shirts.  The skinny guy is jamming on his acoustic as if he is Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock.  The large gentleman pounds on his keyboard and emotionally serenades a Kenny Loggin’s song or something.  Everyone walks by as if we are the only people who can see them.

Anabelle starts dancing when they play Elvis’ Jailhouse Rock.  She’s probably the first person to gyrate her hips in this uptight suburb.  Unsuccessfully, Anabelle invites me to dance with her.  She dances as if everybody is looking at her and they are.  The song ends and Anabelle runs up to the smiling musicians.  There’s some discussion, flirting, and somehow she ends up with their microphone.

“I’M DA SEXY SPIRIT OF DA CLEARANCE RACK!” Anabelle bellows followed by laughter and a bluesy beat on bass.  The collar on her worn leather coat is flipped and her black jeans look like they commute regularly to hell and back.  I watch the shoppers as they gather at the developing spectacle.  What is she thinking?  Proving she doesn’t care what anyone thinks, her raspy little voice begins to wale:

“On da day I was born

Da nurses gathered 'round

‘Nd they gazed in wide wonder

At da joy they had found

Da head nurse spoke up

Said ‘leave this one ‘lone’

She could tell right ‘way

That I was bad ta da bone”

Anabelle fell to her knees and was gradually working into a rage.  Her voice becoming louder and more graveled.  “’Nd when I walk da streets, kings ‘nd queens step aside!”  The mall’s complete attention is on Anabelle as she crashes onto her back.  “B-B-B Bad!  Bad ta da bone!”  She winds-up motionless on the dingy white tile to a smattering of surprised applause.  George Thorogood’s soul was in that mall courtyard. 

Anabelle raises her hand and I walk over to pull her off the ground.  She gives the mic to the keyboardist, “Thanks guys.  That was a lotta fun.  See ya!”

“Nice singin’,” I tease.  “What made ya do that?”

“Aww, thanks.  Just thought one interestin’ thing had ta happen here today.  Let’s get outta here.”

“Didja do whatcha came out here fer?”  I never asked her why she was at the mall in the first place.  Anabelle usually makes all her purchases as garage sales, consignment shops, and thrift stores.

“Nah, but I did somethin’ better.”  I’ll accept that answer and head for the exit.

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For Mr. Spector

By Elizabeth Dunphey

You have the most gorgeous voice I have ever heard, this man told me once, as he was walking up the steps of his apartment, groceries in hand.

His name was Jason Kerrigan, music lawyer. 

It was 1978, and I was standing outside my stoop with three or four of my seventeen year old friends, humming a few chords from Neil Young’s  “Lotta Love.”   It was an atypical choice.  My stunning raven haired Spanish friends all liked disco.

 But to hear this smooth and easy pop 1970’s number off my bee stung lips shocked Jason.  I was his girl. 

I often played a Motown song in my room, and fervently dreamed of meeting Phil Spector on a big break.  Phil Spector liked classy types.

The first girl was Ronnie, and the second girl was Lana.  The two poles of light and dark.  Lana Clarkson was the blonde.  That came later, in the 90’s though. That vibrant, posh looking, honey hair, the bright blue eyes and perfect teeth.  Miss America, basically.   

As for Ronnie Spector?  She was pure East Coast: just listen to “Be My Baby.”  She wore this thick jet mascara and her dark hair, Cherokee in origin, rippled down her back.   I loved her coolness. 

Ron loved Phil.  Her boy genius, with his glasses and studio.  And Phil loved her, deeply, maybe because of her voice, or her beauty, but he did, in a way that only pain could express at the end.

Back to 1978, Harlem.

Jason Kerrigan was half besotted when he asked my name.

“Bianca, huh?”  He wiped his eyeglasses. I noticed his eyes at once. Brown eyes.  I liked them.  “Like Bianca Jagger?”

“I wish!” I cooed.  “I’m just plain old Bianca Marcella, from Spanish Harlem.”

“You’re prettier.  How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Then I turned on my booted heels and ran away.  I just ran.  I fled from the feelings I could feel at once for him.  Despite his paunch, the glasses, the hair a touch salt n’ pepper.  I felt something.  And that mattered.

Maybe I’ll give you a contract!  Jason cried cheerfully to my receding figure.  The spring light glowed amber over the skyscrapers.

Right. I’ve got community dance tomorrow!  I shouted calmly back, running to my home, next door.

So, this community dance.  

This is how I got ready for the prom held in a hotel in midtown: hours.

I took a hot iron and flattened waves of my ebony hair to my hips.   It was silk.  Then I slipped on a green faux Halston, and under that Diane Ross style lingerie, straight out of Mahogany.  I hoped they played the Bee Gees that night.  And SOS Band.  Andrea True Love.  And maybe even a few folky choices, like Todd Rundgren.  I doubted that though.

As for the boy who took me, he was nobody and I felt nothing.  He was doing his duty.

Iago, I hissed.  We stood on the 6 train subway, and I leaned against his shoulder. He loved me a bit more, than I liked him.   In the car, I could see a reflection of us and our youthful Latin perfection.  Iago Lucio in a beige suit with a red bow tie.  And my slithery green dress with an orange yellow flower in my lush raven hair.
 
Later that night, after the dancing, the friends, the drinks, and the platonic kiss on the cheek, I raced home to her apartment to tell Jason.

Jason was waiting outside on the stoop. Waiting for me.  Waiting for us.

It was 11:00 pm at night.  I supposed he wanted to see my filmy beautiful prom dress.  He was dressed very 1970’S sleazy lawyer, in a silky disco button down blue shirt and amber cordoroys.  No eye glasses.

“Hey you” I crowed, spinning in a circle before him.  “Take a look!”

I was blushing.

“Say, Bianca, would you care to join me for a cocktail in Westchester.  I have a home there.  Well, Diane does.”

“Sure,” I gulped, not thinking, putting my house key back in my jean purse.

“Mind if I wear this dress?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Jason  brought me back to Westchester, to his wife's pad.  They were always, always  fighting.  She was like ice to me though, on the occasions I had seen her.  Be it stress or gene pool, she had matured.

The place was a mansion actually, and the scent of that frosty WASPiness permeated everywhere.  From pictures, the lady -- Diane Brett -- was a rich English woman, and quite good looking, in that cold way.

Drink bourbon, he sighed.  You must.  Do it!

He played some songs on his piano all throughout the balmy spring night.  I let the strap of my green gown slip.  My dusky olive skin exposed at the shoulder, and he clearly noticed. It was an arresting difference in skin tone and I felt hot with the love Ronnie Spector had for Phil.  This moment was mine.

Halston, he said.  I recognize that from Diane’s closet.

And I smiled, saucy:

It's a fake Halston.

Oh, for you, my darling, only the best.  Perhaps, more to drink?

Stop plying me! I winced.

Sorry. He shrugged and said: I hate to seem so creepy older man.

We kissed in the light of a dim song by the Stones, and I rested my black maned head in his lap. I felt his love for me.  And I felt so in love with the moment I could die.  On his wooden wall was a poster of a model, with wavy blonde hair. 

Who’s that?

My first wife, Ali.  She was a model.  Midwestern girl.  Making a name for herself now.

It was nearly the 80's, when that look would rule and end the regime of Son of Sam stalked brunettes on the street.  The ethnic De Niro movies would die.  The street would simply fade.  It would end, all like this sultry warm night in June.

Goodbye, honey, he said to me, reaching to push back my damp hair.  I guess I’d like to take you home -- but I’m a bit drunk.

I tried not to look sad.
I can do it, I told him.  

I boarded the train from Westchester.  It was mostly isolated with a homeless lush on board.  I stood up firmly, when the spot hit the right destination.  Nobody was gonna mess with me.  My mascara was running.  I would have something to tell the girls.  I, the prettiest girl in the hood, had scored.

And yet I had to keep mute.

Walking against the blaze of skyscraper lights, I hummed the last tunes to Neil Young, and knew this was part of some electrifying memory, in the constellation of my life, one night at a time, somehow forever.

Elizabeth has modeled, written stories forever, and loves winter.  Read more of her in the Eunioa Review and Milk.

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