When I considered putting this here for this post, I needed to look back to a previous Sparkle Ditch, as this new thing ties in to some old things. Turns out, the previous post was posted June 17, 2025—almost a year ago to the day.

So, a year ago, in Sparkle Ditch #11, I assembled some thematically related tiny stories (vignettes?), called “Patterns of Significance,” that had originally been placed throughout my first two books. There were four of them, I-IV, and I’ve since just written number V.

One reason I did the post with all four collected successively is that I wanted to see how they read together, unseparated by larger unrelated stories. So if you want you can go back and read the others along with this new one. If you want.

Either way, for the first time anywhere, here’s the thing.

Thank you,

ox—JO

PATTERNS OF SIGNIFICANCE (V)

Quietly shutting the front door behind her she suddenly wished she wasn’t home yet. Their small apartment was dark and quiet. Rich and the baby asleep. She was hungry and considered eggs, but it was late and she knew that banging around in the kitchen would be worse than her hunger. She stood in the living room for a while, doing nothing, shoes still on. She turned and went back out through the door. It was a warm June night and walking was fine. She could see a couple of blocks away the bar where she’d been sitting an hour ago. She’d ordered a Diet Coke. Then moments later asked for a red wine. The glasses next to each other, the wine eyed but never touched, the Coke slowly half-sipped before leaving. Ordering from the bartender had been her only conversation. The bar was now closed, lights off, gate shut. She walked to the highway, at the overpass where she often went to smoke. Lighting a cigarette she leaned against the fence, high above the road. Not far were two young women also leaned against the fence. They were far enough to be unaware she was watching, but not so far she couldn’t see that they were embraced, softly kissing in between words. She stared at the girls, forgot she was holding a cigarette. She glanced down at her hand and saw the long ash, the burning gone. Two women in love, she whispered to herself. She flicked the butt through the fence and sent it spinning into the lights racing past below.

The first story I wrote that set me off taking writing seriously was a long (for me) one (about 15,000 words), called A Life Without Seasons, which became the title track from my debut book. [“Don’t look for it, it’s not there anymore.”—Marty DiBergi] This is also the original Georgie story (see Sparkle Ditch #3, #15, #20). I wrote this thing and really liked it, but it was also sorta personal (of course) and I didn’t know if anyone else would like it. So I submitted it to some bs writing competition awards thing in New Orleans and it made it as a finalist. I know… just because someone doesn’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not good. But it was what I needed at the time. So I pressed on.

I’ve always liked the way “A Life Without Seasons” ends. To me, it’s very cinematic. I know zero about making movies, but I know I want a camera on a crane that zooms out and pulls back to the moon. Can we do that?

Anyway, I’ll set the scene. An unnamed narrator has taken a spontaneous road trip with Georgie—partner, best friend…? On this trip said narrator meets a girl named Brandy. Conflict! Decisions! Blackouts! Yes, it’s a thinly veiled identity crisis, but an entertaining one nonetheless. Brandy and the narrator end up on their own spontaneous trip within the trip.

We pick up here as the narrator is coming to following a car accident while on the road with Brandy. I’ll make it clear where we fast forward, and I’ve edited a line or two involving another character that will be out of context. I’ve also changed pork chops to sardines, but other than that we are running untouched. Oh, and Russell’s is a (fictitious) bar on Sunset Blvd. in Los Angeles.

I’d also like to point out that I wrote this before Kesha released her song “Gold Trans Am.” I love Kesha, but there is no intended allusion. (You’ll know when you get there.)

Speaking of, I caught myself the other day listening to a song I’d not heard in years. I didn’t love it when it was new and constantly on the radio, nor do I particularly like it now. But it reminded me of a great time in my life. And hearing the song brought back some great memories. So I played the song again. Louder.

And then I felt compelled to make a playlist of similar songs, all of which were on the same radio station at the same time. Also I don’t really love any of the songs that would make it on there. I have not yet done this, and it may not yield the anticipated results. But it could be kinda magical… y’know, overlook the wardrobe and revel in youth. What do you think of that?

So within this delightful fog of the past, I present to you a sliver of the end of “A Life Without Seasons.”

Thank you, as ever. ox—Jennifer

ps: I realize I do a fair amount of bringing early stories back into focus here, which of course is a big part of what Sparkle Ditch is, but trust me, I promise, there are brand new stories awaiting the proverbial laminator and I’m very excited about them… aaand there’s a novella right behind that’s shaping up nicely too.

A Life Without Seasons

***

I wobble through the sloppy grass to Brandy’s door. I fling it open and she remains motionless. With my right hand I push the hair out of her closed eyes and with my other I lift her chin to see her face. I kiss her lips. They are warm and she is breathing heavily. I shut the door and climb back into the driver’s seat. I start up the vehicle and hit the accelerator but the wheels just spin in the wet muddy ground. Fuck. Our truck is stuck. Without hesitation I open my door again and grab Brandy by the waist. Sliding her limp body over to the driver’s side I rest her heavy high-heeled shoe on the gas pedal. The weight of Brandy’s immobile leg forces the pedal all the way down. The wheels again begin to spit pieces of ground into the air as the engine revs full on. With the knowledge that I’m the only one able to make anything in our favor happen right now, I move to the back of the truck and start pushing. Rocking the little truck back and forth I can feel it about to break loose. With a mighty heave of absolute desperation, I thrust my entire gut into the bumper of that shitty pick-up. There it goes! I’m now faced with another dilemma. My half-dead new girlfriend is driving off in my only ride home. I scramble furiously after the recklessly moving truck as it slides around in almost a complete circle. Moments before it reaches the road I manage to hop in behind the wheel, hip-check Brandy back onto the other side, and reset our original course.

My keen Sacagawea sense of direction is proving useful. I know where I am now and remember the way back to Brandy’s mansion. Driving calmly, despite my cadaver of a companion, I roll the window down and finally relax a bit. There’s a pack of smokes on the floorboard. I try the radio but it doesn’t work. By the time I flip the cigarette butt out the window I can see Brandy’s big house and the dirty road leading to it. I make the left with a bit too much speed, throwing Brandy’s head against the window. She rubs her forehead and lets out a soft moan. Finally. Pulling up to the house, I get out and scoop Brandy into my arms and carry her through the front door. Knowing I’ll never make it upstairs with her, I prop her on the piano bench. With Brandy leaned up against the piano keys I finally get to look her in the eyes. “I need to go back for my friends,” I say. “Stay here and rest and I’ll be back as fast as I can.” She puts her left arm up around my neck. I bend forward and kiss her mouth. She whispers in my ear, “I’ve always loved you.” I’m overcome with the unfamiliar need to cry. I turn and walk out.

***

Turning onto Sunset Boulevard we can see the car wash where Georgie used to work. Parked in front, freshly washed and waxed, is Georgie’s Jeep. “Hey, let me get my wheels,” he says. I pull into the car wash and align the Trans Am with the blue Wrangler. Georgie hops out and says, “See you at Russell’s.”

I watch him pull out and drive off down Sunset. It occurs to me, alone with the car, that I can go anywhere I please. Maybe I should drive back down to Brandy after all. I could stay there and live with her forever. I could fix her sardines while she played the piano. I could mow her ferocious lawn while she read Dickens on the porch. We would laugh about the job I used to go to and laugh about how she used to live alone. We could never have kids. We would raise each other instead. We’d drink wine in the morning, make love on the hood of my pink Trans Am, and then play badminton naked in the back yard. We would be a living dream with a soundtrack that we’d create. One like no one has ever heard and one that no one else would ever hear. Songs as long and as short as life itself. Brandy’s warm plum eyes would be the last thing I saw every night before falling asleep. I imagined a love with seasons.

As the fantasies clamber in my brain, I remember my friends. Though I have little interest in playing badminton with Georgie, he has been the most important fixture in my life so far. I decide to go to Russell’s. Lodging the gears into reverse I back out of the car wash and turn down Sunset. I’m nearing the bar and my mind is still on the move. I envision a swarm of fire trucks and rescue vehicles surrounding Russell’s when I arrive. The place is fiercely ablaze, entirely consumed in flames, giving off mile-high smoke signals that tell me to drive on. Georgie’s Jeep is pulled off to the side of the road. He has his head in his hands sobbing.

Rounding the curve I see Russell’s standing just as it did last week. Telling the valet guy to take it easy with my baby, I let him get behind the wheel of the Trans Am and drive it away. Stepping into the bar for what seems like the first time in years, I move towards table 17 to join Georgie.

***

I tell Georgie that I left my cigarettes in the car. He makes no acknowledgement of this and I turn and walk away. I may not know what it is leading me, but I know that with discoveries come answers. I hand the attendant my ticket for the pink Trans Am. I light up a cigarette from my pocket and await the arrival of my car. Standing there alone in the starry dark of Saturday night I smile. Tomorrow is Sunday. From now on, every day will be like Sunday. I don’t care much for Morrissey but I like the sentiment. I have always said that my assessment of life—a summation, if you will—is that spiders can crawl all over your face while you sleep in your bed and you’d never know it. While this may be true, I suppose I can’t spend my entire life afraid of spiders and I know I certainly cannot stay awake forever.

Nobody asked me but I’ll share anyway. For pencils it will be the Blackwing 602—I have nerdy specifications re: editions and age, but that can be skipped—and for ink it must be the everyday reliable junior high bestie accept no imitations BIC Cristal—bonus points if you know the pinch trick with the cap. There are several notebooks I love, but my one and non-negotiable requirement is blank pages. I don’t fool with lines, and have no time for dots and grids.

All this snobbery aside, there are moments (like in bed in the middle of the night or on the subway) that I resort to the Notes app on my phone. It’s easy of course, and I can also dictate (but never on the subway).

This leads me to notes and fragments. There are a couple of books that come to mind here that I own. Notebook of Anton Chekhov and The Crack-Up, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, which contains his notebooks. Both books feature lines, ideas, false starts, sketches, and notes that present unused thoughts and random considerations. Some of these entries could be seen as ready to drop into an existing story, or perhaps primed to start a new one. Some even seem to exist on their own as stand alones.

So I was thinking. What lies within my Notes app? I often put stuff in there and never look back. While other times its a holding tank for items that I know already have a home. I could just as easily dive into piles of old notebooks here and find fragment upon fragment, but for the sake of having brought up the Notes app, and also out of blatant laziness, let’s go through my phone shall we?

[update: I’ve just gone in. Holy omfg there’s a lot of stuff in my Notes app. I am sparing us both and reviewing (speedily) items only from 2025 until now. And mirroring the app itself, we’ll work from the top down]

4/11/26

She grew up obsessed with things she was not allowed to have as a child. Music with bad words, alcohol, smoking, pictures of naked women.

We all know something becomes more desirable when you’re told you can’t have it. This happens with people too. We all know we most want the lovers who do not love us back.

And the more she can’t have the lovers she wants, the more she wants the alcohol and the dirty pictures.

4/3/26

She was drawn instantly to Julia. A long blonde strip on her black hair, she wore lots of mascara, used tampons that had no string..

3/30/26

The man who stands on the corner, intersection, meaninglessly directing traffic, waving his arms, like a full-body sign language interpreter making gibberish, nonsense with their hands.

-
She’s like a fine wine… you’ll feel like shit in the morning after a long night with her.

3/21/26

Still Life With Last Night

3/19/26

Honey, drinking for me was a lot like love. It was great while it was happening and it felt like nothing in the world could ever hurt you, but when it was over, holy crap did it hurt

2/10/26

Why do some olives in the jar float and some don’t?

I don’t know, Sheila, why?

It’s not a riddle! I want to know.

It’s density, Sheila.

What’s density?

It’s why some olives don’t float. Go back to sleep.

No, no density. What does density mean?

Listen, Sheila. Are we going to do this for the rest of our lives? Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives? I just want to sleep.

1/22/26

Our love, as old as dancing

12/27/25

In college she dated a guy who started a religion. Well not started so much as he was a religion. Unto himself. He died trapped under ice after “calling bullshit on Jesus” across the not-really-frozen lake near campus. He was high on angel dust. Sad yes, but fitting.

12/26/26

A crisis with my vices

9/6/25

I’m making a breakfast burger. What’s a breakfast burger? A burger in the morning.

9/2/25

Instead of look what the cat dragged in, she would say well well well look what the cat barfed up

-
Jane’s mom was always asleep with her bedroom door closed. Jane said her mom worked the graveyard shift at the hospital. Apparently that means you work all night and sleep all day. ButJulia had never heard that term before, and she thought “graveyard shift” at a hospital sounded like a pretty bad thing.

8/19/25

Lipstick stain on the breathalyzer tube

8/2/25

She’s a cosmopologist

7/6/25

This is a true story. Well, any story is true if you believe it. Whether it’s santa claus, god, or me driving on the wrong side of the road down Robertson in a Celica with a Dumpster hitched up to the back. If you believe it, it happened.

6/14/25

It was BYOB but I had no OB to B

5/30/25

She thought her name was so boring, so regular. All her friends had cool unique names like Taffy, Dolphin, Felony, and Bray

5/28/25

Why am I so reluctant to do anything normal? All I want to do is get in your Jeep and drive somewhere where there’s nothing to do but laugh, and the laughing always comes easy.

5/23/25

In the sunset of your love

5/17/25

Goodnight please

3/19/25

I made friends with a girl down the hall in college. Her name was Spirulina. We went swimming in the Cumberland River one day, and Spirulina decided she wanted to see how far down she could go. I had no idea why someone would ever want to do that.

The next day Spirulina was sure she had something stuck in her ear. Like some aquatic life form head tunneled in there and settled. Every time I saw her she was jabbing into her ear with a Q-tip. One day she pulled out a big chunk of something fleshy and bloody. I think it was a piece of the inside of her head.

2/26/25

My prescription drug label warns of “unusual urges”

1/17/25

I’d like to order a chicken sandwich, but could you turn off the pickles?

1/3/25

She trapped a raccoon in her backyard, then taught it to sing opera.

- Him: I am a person! With feelings and needs!

Her: Well I have a feeling you need to get the hell out of here!

There is a longer story in which Georgie and his, uh, partner, are driving from California to Massachusetts—well, they intend to get to Massachusetts. “Vote Your Future” centers on the two leaving behind a life in Los Angeles to go help Georgie’s sister with her clam shack/seafood place in Gloucester.

The majority of the story is set on the road, and is at times warming and reflective, though also irresponsible and ridiculous, much like the characters themselves.

I’ve chosen a small piece from the story to share—this portion in particular as it encompasses all four of the aforementioned descriptors.

Hope you enjoy the ride.

xo—JO

Vote Your Future [excerpt]

Most of America looks the same. Especially when you drive through most of it with the same person. Strip malls get longer, corn fields get wider. Hairs get longer, tempers get shorter. Roads thin then open up again. Conversations fade then glow again from boredom. There are a million burned down barns and millionaire mansions. Towns come and go, cities swell and shrink. It’s hot, it’s cold. It’s sunny, it’s dark. It’s silly and sad, and it’s all we have.

We killed some miles during an afternoon in Texas laughing about what we’d legally change each other’s names to. I settled on re-naming him Colostomy. Georgie chose to christen me Dorsal. Then we moved on to what we’d put on each other’s gravestones. I hope my suit is still in style. Dig me up and let’s see if I was poisoned. It smells weird in here. Whoa, that’s my bone. A joke’s a joke, but this has gone far enough. I’m freezing. Don’t fuck my wife. My clothes are too big. You could’ve given me some magazines. There was so much I didn’t want to do. I can’t see a thing. The worms are talking to me. Tell the guy next to me to stop whistling. My shoe is untied. Leave your money and go. Flossing was a waste of time. Jesus says Hi. We were silent for another few miles then Georgie, said, I want to be cremated anyway. Yeah, me too, I said.

We weren’t in any rush. We’d often pull off the highway into a town and sit for a bit at a coffee shop or have a beer at a bar. Just get a sense of where we were. What else there was. We liked to read the local paper and we met all kinds of people. We had a nice balance of keeping to ourselves and singling out folks who actually had something to say. Maybe it was a story about how they’d escaped death, or maybe just how they hated the mayor or peanut butter. Usually the stops were under an hour, but if there was a good jukebox going we could easily lose track of our mission.

I worried about us missing L.A. It was sure to happen. That city was a big part of us. A month or so before we left I remember Georgie had been asleep on the couch since the night before. It was a Sunday and well after noon. I said hey come on get up, it’s beautiful outside. With his face still buried in the cushion he said, this is Los Angeles, it’s always nice outside. I guess that said a lot about where we were. But also, hey, get the fuck up. It’s not always going to be nice outside. I’m sure whatever comes next for us will be a fun new world we make for ourselves where we subsist beneath the shit, but really who knows. I get comfort though from having lived what we consider to be life to the fullest in L.A. There’s no such thing as fuller. Something gets full then that’s it. There’s no room for anything else. I’ve always thought a good motto would be: do it until you don’t want to anymore. Besides, we could always go back. Los Angeles was going nowhere.

At a chicken place in Oklahoma Georgie and I talked about movies. What was the last movie we saw? Neither of us could remember because it had been so long. Funny to live in Hollywood and not see any movies. We talked about finding a movie theater there in Oklahoma but decided we didn’t want to waste two hours of road time on a shit film. I said to Georgie, isn’t the abbreviation for Oklahoma OK? Was the OK Corral in Oklahoma? Georgie replied by saying he hates western movies.

There were two women at the table next to us. One of them was talking about a summer camp she used to go to when she was little. She was talking about these berries that grew on vines and were only good during the camp time. When the girls arrived the berries were just maturing. Then by the end of camp the berries were perfect and ready to be picked. All the girls got to pick berries toward the last day of camp to take home and share with their families and make pies with and eat on the bus ride back. By the time the camp was cleared out, the berries that hadn’t been picked were already dying.

Then the woman that had been talking about the summer berries started painting her friend’s fingernails. The polish made her fingertips look like I imagined the berries, shiny soft and dark purple. But the stink was too much. When the waitress came over and asked if we needed anything else, Georgie said loud enough, could we just get a little bag for throw up? As we climbed back into the truck we decided one of the first things we’d do when we got to Gloucester was find a movie theater and go see something. I wondered if there was a movie ever made of Moby Dick? That would be a great movie to see up there with all the boats and clams and shit. Georgie said, I hope so because there’s no fucking way I’m ever gonna read it. We laughed and pulled out.

I recall this one being in a group of five or so stories that had accumulated to what felt like a significant gathering of work. I put “Pedderson’s Uncle” together during a collegiate writing program (no, I don’t have an MFA), and it was part of a final submission that required presenting.

This couldn’t be a more fictitious story, at least in terms of my own life—any persons living or dead…coincidence…etc.—yet reading it before a large crowd of people I was surprised when I got choked up speaking the last line.

I’m still not sure what brought it on (*call therapist*), but the emotional performance led many to assume that the story was based on something personal. I remember thinking, ooh that’s interesting, what a cool trick.

“Pedderson’s Uncle” was first published by Sakura Review—but that was a long time ago. So let’s bring these people back to life once more, wanna?

Thanks very much, love you,

xo—JO

PEDDERSON’S UNCLE

Pedderson’s uncle was an odd man but we liked going over to his house. His name was Myron Osgood and he was most often sitting at his table, dunking chocolate bars into a mug of tequila and reading a newspaper, sometimes talking to it. Pedderson’s mother didn’t care much for her only sibling, or for us going to his house. She was never too hard on us though and I think she liked the quiet time with us not around. Pedderson’s dad had died in Korea. Myron Osgood had also been in Korea. We figured that Pedderson’s mom would rather it have been her husband that came back alive.

I wasn’t technically a family member, but Pedderson and I’d been best friends since we were little. My mother was by herself and had no job. She got her money from the drunk driver that jumped the curb and ran over and killed my dad as he was mowing the next door neighbor’s lawn. The next door neighbors had been in Hawaii and my mom said it should’ve been Mr. Houseman that was hit by the car. The Houseman’s were lying on a beach in Oahu when my dad was squished to ground meat between an Oldsmobile and a Sears push-mower. My mom was different after that. She had no interest in anything but TV.

Pedderson and I were the same age and both without dads. That’s another reason we liked to go to his uncle’s house. We could ask him about stuff we didn’t want to ask our moms about and he’d tell it to us straight. He probably said things that weren’t true, but we listened anyway. Penny, Pedderson’s mother, was nothing like my mother. Penny was fun and she laughed and made jokes. She was very nice to us and would fix snacks whenever we wanted. We used to play a lot of pranks on Penny and if she ever did catch us the punishment was light. Pedderson would do the dishes and I would dry them and put them away. Stuff like that.

One time I pulled a job on Penny without Pedderson knowing. Late one afternoon we’d been at Uncle Myron’s house where he had let us both dip chocolate bars into his tequila. When we got home Penny smelled the booze on us and said we were forbidden to ever go back to Myron’s house. Pedderson didn’t seem too upset. I guess he thought she’d get over it in a few days and he could soon go back to his uncle’s. But I was mad. She wasn’t my mom and had no right to tell me what to do. Penny was upstairs. Pedderson was in the bathroom. I took his mother’s car keys and dumped them into my backpack. We watched TV for a while and then Penny made us nachos. We told her we were sorry for what we’d done and she said it was alright then gave us each a big hug. I said goodbye and went home.

Pedderson and I always walked to school together. The next morning he wasn’t on the corner waiting for me like usual. I stood there a few minutes then thought I’d better get going or I was going to be late. When I got to our classroom Pedderson wasn’t there. I stared at his empty desk wondering where he could be. I opened my backpack to get my notebook and I saw Penny’s car keys sitting at the bottom. I forgot I’d put them there. Stolen them. She probably needs her car keys to drive to work, I thought. She is probably yelling at Pedderson right now and making him turn the house upside down to help her find the missing keys. Our teacher never believed anything we kids said but I considered telling her the truth to see if she’d let me leave. Instead, I told her that I felt like throwing up and I needed to go see the nurse. She wrinkled up her mouth and said she didn’t believe me. I squeezed my stomach and asked if she’d rather I throw up on her floor. She sent me to the nurse’s office and didn’t ask why I was taking my backpack with me. I left school and walked straight to Pedderson’s house where of course Penny’s car was in the driveway. The front door was unlocked and I figured her house keys were in my backpack too. There was nobody there so I walked to Uncle Myron’s.

I had never seen his car move before, but Myron’s car was not in the driveway. I knocked on the front door and Uncle Myron opened it, wearing a pink bathrobe and holding a mug in his hand. He said good morning son and I asked him if Pedderson was inside. He told me no and said wasn’t this quite the day we were having. I asked him what he meant and he said that Pedderson and his mother had come over in a fuss, needing to borrow the car. Myron invited me inside and inside I went. He offered me coffee and I said that I didn’t drink coffee but what I did want was to know what had happened this morning. I sat on the couch and Myron came and sat next to me. He hitched up his robe to his knees and I saw that it wasn’t coffee he had in his mug. He told me that Penny had rushed over to his house yelling that she needed his car so she could get Pedderson to school and herself to work. They were both running very late. I asked him if everything worked out OK. He said he gave them the car and off they went. That was all he knew. I told Uncle Myron I felt sick and that I had a confession to make. I unzipped my backpack and held up the keys. I told him that I had taken Penny’s keys yesterday as a joke but then forgot about it until this morning. He stared at me with wide eyes and frowned. Then he jumped up and let out a big rolling laugh. His hairy chest peeked through the long V in his robe and he lifted the mug to his chapped lips. His laughter echoed inside the mug and I could hear him drinking between breaths. I felt so guilty about the problems I’d caused that I began to cry. Myron stopped his laughing and sat down again beside me. He put his arm around me and told me to have a drink from his mug. I took it in my hands with a sob and he smiled at me and nudged the mug with his hand from its bottom up to my mouth. As the drink was pushed to my face I didn’t like the smell but I closed my eyes and took a gulp. I felt even more guilt but Myron looked satisfied. He told me he wanted to show me something and pulled me up by my arm and escorted me into his den.

Uncle Myron set me in a big leather chair then disappeared briefly. He returned with two mugs, set them on a table next to the chair, then went to a bookshelf. I had never been in this room before and as I looked around I saw lots of photos in frames and books everywhere and vases with fresh flowers in them all around. In a picture frame next to the mugs I saw two men. One of them was obviously a young Myron and he had his arm around the other man. They were both smiling and were both wearing military outfits.

“Is this you in Korea?”

“It certainly is.”

He said the other man in the photo was Pedderson’s dad.

“That photo was taken just a few days before he was killed. He was my best friend.”

He said that they had been so close that Pedderson’s mom hated him for it. He said that’s what he wanted to show me as he sat down on the arm of the chair close to me and opened a battered photo album. He went through dozens of pictures of him and Pedderson’s dad and told me that he’d never loved a man more.

“I’ve never known a man more strong and handsome.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was shot in the head.”

He said that when Pedderson’s dad was brought back to their camp in a helicopter, he didn’t even recognize him when he saw him. He was dead when they brought him in.

“Seeing a man so beautiful blown open made me want to kill myself.”

“My father was killed, too.”

Not by a gun in Korea I told him, but by a man in a car on his way home from a tavern at three o’clock in the afternoon.

“I know, son. I bet you loved your dad.”

There was a section of a longer (*gasp* 13 pages!?) story I’d intended to use for this, but at the last minute felt like something short, sharp, and heavy (not so much heavy with emotion as with page-weight). This one, from a few years back, was quick to arrive. It was as I said unusual—an unintentional, different approach. I’ll never say experimental.

Nearly every sentence in this story, if pulled out and forced to live alone, could survive as a story by itself. I guess that’s what I meant by page-weight.

Like many writers I might write about places I’ve never been, and of course people I’ve never met. But in this case I did once genuinely take the boat from Buenos Aires to Colonia del Sacramento, Uruguay. The town was indeed nearly empty, and each footstep I took on the aged cobblestone roads felt like a story.

Does that make sense? Does anything really? Stray dogs, motorbikes, and me, with the night before’s club in Argentina on my mind. This is what I came away with. Dance with me. Just watch your step.

I love you.

xo—JO

FLAMENCO WITH A CANE

So how is it she winds up nearly dead in a city in Uruguay that’s nearly dead. Just off the Buquebus from Buenos Aires. She’s sober now. So there are the advantages—balance, wit, cognition, though wouldn’t say confidence. But she still barely makes it. She met a dog. It was a dog that did it. Yes a stray but a familiar one. You can tell in the eyes she’d have said. He followed her until she sat on a curb and looked in his eyes. Then she took him to a place for a chivito under a Norteña sign. They sat with more flies than people she’d ever met. There was a hot winter wind that she knew, that she’d once known. It wasn’t long before she became the stray. She began to follow the dog. She left herself be led around.

She’d once been married. There had been an engagement party and her drunk fiancé and his friends swatted a hornet’s nest and a dozen people got stung. Her mother included. They got married anyway and then the fancy old Rolls her dad had rented to drive them from the church to the reception broke down on Route 128. They rode to their own reception in the back of a van full of guests. She should’ve known. But you can’t ever really know, can you?

So it wasn’t so much the dog that did it but a motorcycle that hit her. She didn’t think it such a big deal but she was split wide open at the hip. But motorcycles don’t usually hit single women do they? Not even stray dogs so much right? And hit no less in a city nearly empty. Oh the odds of life. She’d not seen another person out walking freely much less a motorcycle—until this one two seconds before it struck her and put her back on the curb. Who would run her down. Perhaps the man with the cane she met at Lo de Roberto last night but he was gone. And now the motorcycle was gone and she was in bad shape. There were more dogs now. More would come. The hot winter wind blew in again. Get down you dogs, you best wait until it’s past.

So I read the whole story and it reminded me of something I brought up here recently (see SD #15). The idea of some stories serving as early versions of (or inspiration for) later ones—at least parts of them anyway. The story in question includes a fire, which I found to be reminiscent of an apartment fire described in a new story called, “Already the Sun” (see SD #2).

I’m still not sure where I land with this story overall, but clearly I like it enough to set it before you. I always enjoyed the idea of someone actually doing what happens at the end—I’d love to see it in a movie. What is it with guys who are dicks who no matter what tragedy still seem to come out on top…or at least just fine. The comments section is open lol.

Thank you, with all of it.

xo—JO

BLESSED ASSURANCE

Gills was having a pretty good week so far. He slept at Elle’s apartment last night after she bought him dinner and in the morning she reheated the chicken and he ate her pussy. He was walking home. The sun hurt his eyes. The city was bright orange and he had trouble seeing where he was going but didn’t want it to end. It was cold out, a nice sharp cold. As he turned onto his street the sunlight gave way to definite reds and whites. The street was blocked with vehicles and people. His apartment building was on fire. Gills looked up and saw his window framed in charcoal. He touched his pockets. All he had on him was all he had. In front of his building stood a four-foot white faux marble statue of the Virgin Mary. He noticed she was still clean and untouched. He walked the twelve blocks back to Elle’s apartment but she’d already left for work.

Gills went to a diner to take inventory. He had enough cash for eggs, toast, and coffee but nothing more. In his coat he had a pocketknife, a small notebook, a stubby pencil, a subway token, and Elle’s lipstick. He wanted a cigarette. He didn’t dwell on losing his apartment. He hated that apartment. And his landlord. He hadn’t paid rent for the last two months. He wasn’t sad over the stuff he’d lost. There were some books he’d liked, but the public library was just a few stops away. His bed and desk and chair had come with the apartment. He remembered a girl once saying he ought to burn his awful sheets and blankets. There were some photographs in the desk drawer he knew were now gone, but he’d looked at those enough times. Eating as slowly as he could, he stared out the window at the Fifth Avenue traffic and tried to remember where Elle worked.

Elle worked as a travel agent. This morning she was working on getting an older couple to Canada. They’d never been out of the United States and this trip was a big deal. The trouble Elle was having was, that for the couple, air travel was too expensive and ground transportation took too long. Elle wanted to yell at them, “Either you want to go or you don’t!” They were indecisive and seemingly uninterested in their own idea that was meant to be exciting, or different at the least. Elle wondered how the two had made it this far along in life, much less together. It was exhausting trying to get people places they said they wanted to go when they continuously resisted. Even if it was only to Montreal.

Elle took an early break for lunch. She bought a tuna salad sandwich with too much relish and sat on a park bench to eat. As she started for the second half of her sandwich a man sat on the bench next to her. She glanced over and saw sores on his hands. His hair was long and his beard didn’t much hide his dry sunburned skin. She looked down at her sandwich and then asked the man if he was hungry. He said no but thanked her. His clothes were thin and dirty. She knew he was cold. “Would you take my scarf?” she said. He lifted his head to evaluate her. She watched his eyes move to the thick red wool scarf. He said nothing. Elle took off her scarf and wrapped it around the man’s neck, nearly hugging him. “There,” she said with a smile, getting up to walk away, leaving the untouched other half of the sandwich wrapped on the bench. As she crossed the street she thought she heard the man say, “Bitch.”

Gills had been walking in the park then decided to go back to his apartment. The flames had died down but the commotion had not. People crowded the sidewalk and fire hoses lay across the pavement as water dripped from the building to mix with ash on the street. Gills asked a fireman if anyone was allowed in the building and the tired fireman said, “I’m afraid not son.” Gills pointed to the charred window frame and told the man that that was his apartment up on the third floor. The fireman said that he was sorry and that everything was gone. He put his hand on Gills’ shoulder and said, “Excuse me,” then stepped away, turning to say again that he was sorry.

Gills went over to the statue of the Virgin Mary. She was still shining, not a smear of ash on her. He found Elle’s lipstick in his pocket. He took it out and extended the gentle red part fully. He put the tip to the Virgin Mary’s white mouth and carefully rubbed the bright color onto her lips. He stepped back then moved in and pressed his lips to hers for a long time hard. Gills then walked away and didn’t look back. He licked his lower lip and thought about praying for snow.

Venus in February 1974, photographed by NASA’s Mariner 10—credit: NASA/JPL-Caltech

In my head this story takes place in the same area as “Rockets Over the Lake” [Truly Remotely; Sparkle Ditch #10]. The houses aren’t far apart, though this time it’s New Year’s and not July 4th. Fireworks are a big deal up here it seems. I’ve got a new story just nearly done called “Sunset In the Rearview” featuring a woman in another house I imagine situated along the same lake. I like this idea of stories that exist on their own, unrelated to the others, but come from houses all nearby—as if these characters could see each other out their windows. It happened by accident. Maybe I’ll write some more to fill up the neighborhood.

Warmly,

xo—RJO

VENUS SPINS THE OTHER WAY

Like wasps flying for their lives, that damn hum started up at 4 p.m. every day. The local boys circled the hills behind the houses, running their snowmobiles full blast around Ring Road. He remembers that December well. He was in Vermont with Barbara Suzanne. Jill was in Massachusetts loaded with cancer. Barbara Suzanne was nice enough. She insisted she be called by both her names at all times. He’d find himself having to say, Barbara Suzanne is coming up for New Year’s. Barbara Suzanne hates figs. Barbara Suzanne is being audited, and so on. She was only staying with him for New Year’s. He’d invited her up. The lake was frozen that winter. People would often fish on the lake in the warmer months.

Jill had been on his mind ever since he’d heard she was sick. He really only knew her as well as he knew Barbara Suzanne, but he felt close to Jill knowing she was suffering. He felt guilty being in Vermont with Barbara Suzanne while Jill was dying in a hospital. He remembers wishing that Jill could have been with him for the New Year instead of Barbara Suzanne. He wanted to get to know Jill more. Maybe only because he knew she’d soon be gone. Maybe she wanted someone to know her better before she left. He’d never known anyone that he’d fucked to die.

That New Year’s there was a snowstorm. On top of that, they ran out of propane. They were on a mountain north of town. The guys couldn’t get up the road because of the weather to refill the tank. So, they had no heat. The local boys were shooting off fireworks out over the lake. He and Barbara Suzanne watched some bursts through the window. Golden sparkles blossomed with a bang, warmed their eyes, then quickly faded and fell toward the dark ice. It was before midnight but they decided to get into bed because they were cold.

He began to fall asleep right away. Just before he did, Barbara Suzanne threw back the blankets and said she was going for a hot bath. She was still cold. The water heater was electric. The empty propane tank didn’t affect the hot water in the house. He turned over and was soon asleep. Later he woke, sweaty, the sheets wet. Jill had died. He knew it. Barbara Suzanne wasn’t in bed. He pushed off the covers and rolled onto his back. He tried to make out anything in the darkness. It was so dark he couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.

When he woke next it was sunny and he was wrapped up in the blankets. Barbara Suzanne was still gone, or gone again. He wanted to tell her that someone he knew had died. He wanted to call every hospital in Boston. He had to pee. When he opened the bathroom door he found the bathtub filled with water. He put his fingertips in and felt the water was cold.

He went downstairs and saw just how much snow they’d gotten. Through the window he could see Barbara Suzanne standing by the lake. Wind was blowing snow around her like a fog. She was looking down and it looked like she was smiling. He called the propane guys to find out when he could expect them. They said tomorrow. It was New Year’s Day after all, and a Sunday. He needed coffee. He filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove. He lit a match and turned on the burner. Nothing.

If anyone has ever read my story “Letting the Horses Go,” which was first published in the lit journal Lenticular, but later made an appearance here as a Sparkle Ditch post, you may recall it mentions The Misfits. But before that, a story called “Thelma Ritter and the Vikings” had been included in my book, Endlessly Small. This particular story also addresses The Misfits. It features an opening reminiscent of “Letting the Horses Go,” and also centers on two characters—an unnamed narrator, and a repeatedly-present-in-my-work character named Georgie. Actually these two are good in this one at hopping from one thought to the next. What’s their situation again?

A story can simply be movement from one thought to the next, even in seemingly random ways. And I guess in other ways a story can be a whole thought unto itself, only to move on to another story. With these I ended up discovering what felt like an earlier version of a later story. Perhaps like what a demo of a song is to a final version you hear on the radio. But if I spend any time thinking about it, these two stories live, for me, independent of one another, and co-exist happily, unrelated, birthed from separate origins.

Side note: if you’re unfamiliar with Thelma Ritter, she’s a dynamite actor who shines in everything, including her roles in Rear Window and Pickup on South Street. In All About Eve, more than a decade before the release of The Misfits in which they’d both feature, Ritter and Marilyn Monroe are scene-stealers.

So here’s “Thelma Ritter and the Vikings.” And if you’re interested, the more recent “Letting the Horses Go” can be found here.

To the moon and back,

xo—RJO

Thelma Ritter and the Vikings

It wasn’t so much a question of whether we really needed to or not, but Georgie and I were going to the hardware store. The one far away, over the hill in Burbank—that one was sure to have what we needed. It hadn’t occurred to us that the store—even if it did have metric Allen wrenches—might not be open at 7:10 a.m. Well, we’re already in Burbank, we might as well stop by the airport. Georgie said that flights to Las Vegas were dirt cheap and ran all the time, but a lady at the ticket counter said we didn’t have enough dirt to ride on any of them. And much like the hardware store, the airport cocktail lounge had yet to open. So Georgie and I drank coffee and watched the runway and talked about airplanes. It’s probably not even that different from driving a car, right? They probably only use like half their engine capacity for standard passenger flights, right? A lot of pilots are probably former Air Force flyers and get really bored lumbering around in a DC-10 and wish they could just do a barrel roll every once in a while for a little thrill, right?

On the drive home we talked about what we could make for breakfast. It turned out to be Denny’s. Georgie ordered a Scram Slam but asked the waitress if they could call it something else. I ordered a bowl of chili and a slice of blueberry pie. Yes at the same time please. Georgie said driving to Las Vegas shouldn’t be that bad. But we couldn’t use the AC in the car for most of the trip because it likely wouldn’t make it through the long stretches of desert. I said there was no way we could afford a motel and Georgie said it’s Vegas! nobody gets a place to sleep! you just stay up until you have to go home! That sounded about as fun as a four-hour car ride in the desert with the windows down.

Either way, we can’t go today because we have that training session at the call center soon for what could end up being a full-time job for one or both of us. We made it to the office building only a few minutes late. After a talk to the whole group by a guy in a tie we broke off with a trainer one-on-one at individual stations. I could see Georgie across the room with a sweaty-looking trainer. As my trainer was supplying me with useful phrases for calming an irate caller, I saw Georgie get up and walk away as his trainer gave an understanding nod. Georgie never returned. When I took the bus back home I found Georgie on the couch. What happened to you, where’d you go? I told the guy I had to go use the bathroom and then I came home—that place sucked. Yeah, it did, but, you, just left? Yeah. Well I finished the training and they offered me a job. That’s great, way to go! Well I’m not gonna take it of course—that place sucked! Yeah it did.

We went up to the Hollywood Galaxy and watched The Misfits. Marilyn Monroe stuck with Georgie. Marilyn Monroe sticks with everyone. Thelma Ritter stuck with me. After the movie we drove out to Malibu. Clark Gable must’ve also made an impression on Georgie because he said he wanted to get a cowboy hat. I told him I thought cowboy boots were cooler than cowboy hats. He pointed out that I thought Thelma Ritter was cooler than Marilyn Monroe. I stood by my thoughts.

We sat on the beach and talked about college. How stupid is college. Stupid people go to college because they think it will make them smart, Georgie said, but you only learn about things by being out in the world, not in a classroom—you only learn about life by getting out there and living it, Georgie said. Only stupid people pay money to learn things, Georgie said. You only learn about how to get along and how to keep going from the people you meet and live your life with, Georgie said, not from some professor in a classroom. Yeah, college is stupid, I said. We watched the seagulls for a while and Georgie said, did you know that owning a white falcon was the ultimate statement of power and glamour for the Vikings—and those birds could reach straight away speeds of 90 miles per hour. Where did you learn that? I said. TV, Georgie said. We sat on the beach a while longer and talked more about more things, then we drove home with the AC on max.

A subway poster for the show refers to Godot as a play about nothing. Is this in hopes of appealing to Seinfeld fans? Who cares. The play is certainly original, and one I like reading again and again.

Not long ago I posted a short, one-act play here I’d written. I think I’ve only written three. I mainly do short fiction. But standing on the platform waiting for the F, staring at Keanu Reeves, another play of mine came to mind. It’s kinda “out there,” but makes sense to me. And I enjoy writing that isn’t self-indulgent, but still experimental, leaving room for interpretation. I think I was reading a lot of Eugène Ionesco when I wrote this one.

I hope you like it. But if you don’t, I’ll no doubt be returning to my more familiar style next time, featuring a short story about something.

xo—RJO

SWISS ACCENT

EXT.

Street corner outside a small cafe. A lamppost. At sunset.

INT.

A few small tables, all filled. A little bar at the back with four stools. Opposite stools is a restroom door.

Cast:

THIM: mid-thirties, outgoing

HADI: mid-thirties, slightly flashy, overbearing

MIA: mid-thirties, unintentionally charming

SERVER: mid-thirties, reserved

EXT.

(THIM is waiting on the corner outside the cafe, leaning on the lamppost, looking stage left. HADI comes “around the corner” from stage right and addresses THIM.)

HADI: (louder than necessary, but playful, with a smile) Hey!

THIM: (turning) Hey, there you are! Wow, you have not changed a bit, have you?

HADI: Nope! Still selfish and vain. And you, my goodness, same as ever, right?

THIM: You know it! Vapid and shallow all the way!

HADI: Wow, like no time has passed.

THIM: Absolutely. Shall we go in and give it a shot?

HADI: Why not? It won’t kill us.

THIM: (with a fake laugh) You’ve obviously not read the reviews of this place!

HADI: (joins in fake laughter) Oh, you always could be such a rotten turd.

INT.

(THIM opens the door for HADI then follows into the cafe)

(The tables, all filled, have two guests at each, neither of them speaking. They are looking down at their empty plates the entire performance. THIM and HADI move straight through the tables to the small bar and sit at two stools. MIA is standing behind the bar, waiting to serve them.)

MIA: (perky, with a big smile) Good evening! How are we tonight?

HADI: (with pessimism) We’re giving it a shot.

MIA: Well ok, me too then. (turning her back, busy with something)

THIM: (stands up and removes coat, then drops it onto the floor purposefully before sitting back down) I cannot get over how little you’ve changed.

HADI: Same here! But you look good.

THIM: (holding arms out) Thanks! I’m a size 6.

HADI: (feigning disgust, but flirtatiously) Ugh, I can’t believe you. I’m a size 6!(stands up and removes coat and drops it to the floor)

THIM: I know! This is your shirt! Well, it used to be your shirt.

HADI: I thought so! Are those my pants too?

THIM: Nope, I’m wearing someone else’s pants tonight. Sorry!

HADI: (dramatically) Everyone’s a size 6, huh? (then, dryly) Order me a drink. I gotta pee. (exits through restroom door)

SERVER: (approaching the bar and setting a tray on it) I’m going to take my break now. (exits through the restroom door)

MIA: (turning back with a curious look, addresses THIM) So?

THIM: (gesturing toward the restroom door) Oh, just mad I’m a size 6.

MIA: Well, we all have a Swiss accent, right?

THIM: (pausing, then genuinely) What does that mean?

MIA: (flippantly, with a smile) I don’t know!

THIM: I mean, is that a saying? Does it come from somewhere? I’ve never heard that.

MIA: I know, right?

THIM: Did you just make it up?

MIA: I don’t think so? Yes!

THIM: Are you a scientist or do you just work here?

MIA: I work here but I also work on a boat.

THIM: Oh wow, what kind of boat? I’m sorry, I meant to order something to drink.

MIA: Oh, of course. What would you like?

THIM: Do you have root beer?

MIA: (leaning in and lowering voice) Yes, but it’s not organic. I’d stick to the root vegetables.

THIM: (also leaning in with voice lowered) Ah, thanks for the tip. (louder for all to hear, leaning back, winking) I’ll have one root beer please!

MIA: (produces a carrot and sets it in front of THIM) So, about this boat I work on.

THIM: So you do. How big is it?

MIA: It’s not so much big as it is tall. And there are a lot of us on it and some of us are very funny.

THIM: Are you funny?

MIA: Not like some of the others. But anyway, it’s tall and there’s our boss that stands at the top and says, hey can’t this thing go faster?

THIM: (enthusiastically) Can it?

MIA: Who knows? We just say we’re trying as best as we can and he says, (with a giggle) then we can’t do anything more I guess! I’m telling you, some of them are so funny.

THIM: That sounds incredible. So why are you here then? I mean, you obviously don’t need to be.

MIA: Yeah, the boat’s nice and all but sometimes it’s good to be at work and not throw up all the time, you know?

THIM: Oh believe me, I know. I used to throw up all the time when I worked uptown.

MIA: Oh, I don’t like it uptown. I like to sing too much.

THIM: Neither do I!

MIA: (trailing off and as if ending a laugh that never started, then singing) Neither do I...

THIM: Where do you live? Not uptown!

MIA: I live all the way downtown.

THIM: Oh no kidding! What building?

MIA: 15. You live downtown?

THIM: No, I live uptown. But number 15? Really.

MIA: Yep

THIM: Which apartment?

MIA: F.

THIM: Oh wow, cool! Is there like a buzzer to get in or something, or…?

MIA: No, you can just walk right in. There’s supposed to always be someone there at the front but I’ve never seen anyone. There was a woman that sat near the door for a while. She had a bird with a pet shadow. But I don’t think she worked for the building. Or maybe she did? But she never said anything to anyone. Except the bird. And the shadow.

THIM: So that’s the trick, huh?

MIA: Oh there’s no trick but, (singing, like it’s a jingle) everyone’s got to figure something out.

THIM: Well (beat) then I guess I’d better get started working on my Swiss accent!

MIA: Nah, it’s perfect as it is!

(SERVER returns through restroom door, retrieves the tray from the bar, and approaches the two-top center stage)

SERVER: (looking down at the empty plates and never the diners) What’s the gag?

(SERVER picks up the two empty plates as the diners continue to stare down at the table, puts the plates on the tray, walks it over and sets it on the floor by the coats, then exits stage left)

HADI: (returning through restroom door, picks up the carrot on the bar)
Root beer? Yuk. (setting the carrot back down) Thanks for nothing.

(HADI bends down and picks up coat then exits stage left)

THIM: Well, I think this was my last shot. What do I owe you?

MIA: Ah, just tell me you’ll try once more before we die.

THIM: This place is hard to get into. I can’t make any promises.

MIA: Hey, I’ve never made a promise.

THIM: Well (beat) at least we’re not throwing up, right?

MIA: Right! (beat) Not yet anyway.

(THIM and MIA share a big fake laugh as the lights come down. FADE TO BLACK)

END

There’s an opportunity here—rather a danger—to get carried away. Say too much and saturate the sensation.

So I’m now reaching into the distance, for an older story. One I’d not thought of in some time. Not until this current meditation on transformation transportation.

You’ll find some things in this older story that as a writer I’ve now (mostly) left behind, like drinking, quotation marks, and the first person narrative. But it’s still me that wrote it. And I still love it. As for my newer stories, that to me feel more evolved, coming from a more evolved writer, it’s still me. Just a better me.

With gratitude,

xo—RJO

DC-3

The Carlton Arms Hotel is under construction for some extensive renovations so I’ve been able to get an affordable room. Thankfully the hotel bar is still open. It’s nearly midnight. The bartender is a friendly fellow who’s been working here for decades. Collared shirt, vest, bowtie, looks to be in his 70s. He’s quizzing me on historical facts and telling me ghost stories about the hotel’s long past days of fame. It’s only the two of us in here and I sit quietly across from him, looking down at my book, reading the same sentence over and over as he continuously feeds a tour guide monologue into the top of my head. He carries on about politicians and peculiar guests who have stayed upstairs, famous people who sat right where I’m sitting, and all the unknown city secrets that hold infinitely more fascinating details than the grade school legacy everyone comes here to meditate upon. I’ve not gotten up and walked out yet because every time I empty my glass he automatically refills it without pausing between words. I’m briefly annoyed with myself for having come all this way just to sit at a bar. But it’s late. I suppose I came all this way just because I need a break from New York—and a girl that lives there. Besides, I haven’t been to Washington, DC since I was a kid.

“This next drink is on the house,” he offers, “if you can tell me who that lady in the painting on the back wall is.” I turn to see the one of four portraits in the room to which he refers.

“Dolley Madison,” I say. He fills my glass again.

“Which room are you in?”

“8,” I said.

“Good.”

He proceeded to let me know that the former head-vice-secretary of something or other jumped out of the bedroom window in room 19 and died with a messy splat like a rotten cantaloupe onto K Street. I continued reading as I finished the drink. After a slow paragraph my eyes got dry and the blurred words began to scatter and scurry off the page like cockroaches. I fell off my stool. The gentleman helped me to my feet and said, “I think you’d better get to your room. I have to close up here anyway.”

I woke the next day with the previous night’s train ride running through my aching head. The trip was uneventful apart from an acquaintance I made passing through Pennsylvania. I assumed she’d just boarded in Philadelphia as she approached me with exasperation, dragging a large duffle bag. There were plenty of vacant seats and I was solely occupying what was situated like a restaurant booth that could accommodate a party of four. I was hunched over a newspaper at the white tabletop when she dropped her bag down and collapsed next to it. She was directly across from me. “It feels good to sit down,” she said. About three minutes later she spoke again. Her name, she told me, was “Anna Whitman, Whitman like the chocolates.” I hesitated and then suggested, “Or like Walt.” She stared at me for a second, then said, “Or like that guy who shot all those people at that school in Texas.”

I pursed my lips and went back to the paper, though something about her kept me distracted. With my head still bowed I raised my eyes to see her face. As she gazed out the window I studied her profile and discovered she had a remarkable resemblance to me—the same complexion and an identical turned-up nose. We both had dark squinty eyes and short brown hair. She was wearing no make-up. I felt odd admiring her. I’d been examining her for a while when she turned to me and asked, out of a mouth like my own, “Have you been on here since New York?” I said, “Yes,” and she said, “Me too.” I said I thought she’d gotten on in Philadelphia. “Uh-uh,” she said, “I just haven’t been able to find anywhere I wanted to sit.” Then she turned and said to the window, “I guess it’s impossible to stay still on a moving train, huh?” Anna lit a cigarette and asked if I lived in DC. I replied with a polite, “No.” She took a long drag and said, “Well then, how about your name?” I lied and told her my name was James Madison. She smiled real wide and said, “Like the President!” I said, “Yes, I suppose so,” then told her I was going to sleep. As my eyes closed I saw Anna Whitman curiously looking me over.

I was awakened by her tapping me on the arm, whispering that we’d arrived. Anna followed me off the train and into the station. “Well, Mr. President,” she announced, “here we are.” She handed me a folded piece of paper, then walked away. I opened the note to find that it was, apart from a phone number written in ink, blank stationery from the Carlton Arms Hotel. By the time I looked up, she’d disappeared with her big bag. I hadn’t yet made arrangements for where I’d be staying, so I got a taxi to the Carlton Arms, checked into the smallest room, paid for the whole week in advance, and got drunk.

As I lay aching in the bed in room 8 I felt an urge to be upright. I knew I’d slept through the whole morning. I went downstairs, back into the bar. There was my friend from last night. “I hope you got some rest,” he said with judgmental concern. “You going to be staying here long?”

“That depends,” I said.

“On what?”

“On the service.”

Pouring me a hot coffee he said, “My name is Rudy, and when Rudy is on duty you’re all set.”

“Thank you, Rudy.”

After a sip I asked him what time it was. “Just past two,” he told me. I peered deep into the steaming black coffee. I could feel the heat opening the pores in my face. My headache was nearly defeated.

“Hey Rudy, is there a girl staying here?” I’d wanted to ask him last night but was reluctant to create the conversation.

“Not many guests here right now,” he said.

“I mean, is there a girl staying here alone, about my age?”

“Let’s see,” he said. “There was a young woman here for a while. Maybe last month. I believe she was in your room. Number 8.”

“Is that so? What did she look like?”

“Well, she was tall. And skinny. Pretty face. Short hair, like a boy’s.”

“Do you know her name?”

“Don’t believe so. What’s your name anyhow?”

I stuck with James Madison. No comment from Rudy. I showed him the piece of paper that Anna had given me.

“Do you recognize that phone number? Is it the number of this hotel?”

“Nope and nope,” he said.

Finishing my coffee I thought it was time I get outside.

It’s early April in DC and there are murmurs of cherry blossoms in the street. The weather is still cool as spring has yet to drag in. The air burns my nose and causes my cheeks to tighten. This town is one giant cemetery, one giant landmark, one great big memorial. From outside the Carlton Arms I can survey the white peaks of the marble tombstones that rise up and tower over Washington’s less important dead. I pull my coat collar tight under my chin.

After an hour of walking and an hour in Henry Knox Books, I make my way to the Smithsonian Air and Space Museum and go straight to the airplanes. I always liked them best. I never was too interested in the outer space stuff because it seemed so distant, so not a part of my life that it could ever be real. My favorite airplane is the Eastern Airlines DC-3. It’s enormous, with fat engines, and it’s all bright shining silver. Rounding the corner I see it hanging in the sky. I’ve never been on an airplane. The idea of being thousands of feet off the ground and landing in a far off city in a matter of hours causes my mind to wander. Staring up at the belly of the plane I try to imagine what it must feel like to pilot something of this size. Taking off with great speed and watching everything you’re leaving behind shrink and fade away. I explore the rest of the museum, eat a hamburger, and decide to walk back to the hotel. It’s getting dark.

Ascending the stairs inside the Carlton Arms I can see the door of my room slightly open with light peeking into the hallway. I remember closing it. When I reach the top of the steps I cautiously push the door and widen the crack enough to stick my head in. There I see Rudy leaned up comfortably on my bed, asleep, with a book in his lap.

“Rudy!” He jumped with a jolt of confusion.

“I’m sorry Jim, I must’ve fallen asleep!”

“What are you doing in here?”

“I came up to return your book and then you weren’t here and your door was open and I just started looking through the book and I guess I fell asleep.”

“What book are you talking about?”

Standing up he said, “The one you were reading, downstairs last night, you left it on the bar.”

“Oh. Why didn’t you give it to me this morning?”

“I forgot. But I also came up to tell you that that girl came this afternoon, the one that was staying here.”

“The girl I asked you about?”

“I guess so. She came into the bar and asked if somebody was here that looked like you. She knew your name, too.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her there was a young man here that fit the description. She said she’d come back later.”

“When later? Tonight?”

“I don’t know. It’s not really my business now is it?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“Aw, there ain’t nobody down there.”

I opened the door and made a waving gesture with my hand. He walked out, stopped and said, “You’ll come down later?”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be down,” I said, and shut the door.

I stretched out on the bed and rested a while. The phone number from Anna was on the nightstand. I opened the paper and studied it, excited that she’d come looking for me. There was a telephone at the end of the hall and I decided to utilize it. I dropped a coin in and dialed. After five rings a man’s voice answered. I could hear a noisy gathering in the background.

“Hello? Yes?”

“I’m calling for Anna.”

“Who’s calling?”

“I am. Is she there?”

“Anna’s not here.”

I heard forks striking plates and glasses clinking. He was talking loudly but I figured it wasn’t directed at me, he was just trying to speak over the commotion.

“Do you know when I can reach her?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Is this where she lives?”

“What is it that you want?”

“I want to speak with Anna.”

“She’s not here.”

“I understand that.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Just tell her the President called,” I said, and hung up.

I got my book from my room and went down to the bar.

“How are you, Mr. Madison?”

“I’m fine, Rudy.”

Setting a drink in front of me he said, “Do you know what they found in Lincoln’s pockets when he was shot?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Confederate money! Can you believe that?” he said with a crazy laugh, slapping the bar.

“Listen Rudy, what else did that girl say that came in this afternoon? Did she tell you her name?”

“No. She wasn’t here but a minute and she didn’t have much to say except asking about you.”

“Strange,” I said.

“What’s that book you’ve been reading? I saw my name in it. Is it about somebody named Rudy?”

“Actually, there is someone named Rudy in it.”

“Ha! I’m famous. What’s he like?”

“He’s not such a nice guy.”

Rudy looked disappointed as he told me he had to go to the basement to get more champagne. “Who’s drinking champagne?” I asked. “You never know who might come in,” he said as he left. The amber whiskey in my glass, backlit by a candle, was melted gold and it sparkled in my eyes and made me warm and lonely at the same time. I leaned onto the bar and opened my book.

A moment later someone sat on the stool next to me. Of course it was her. “I called you tonight,” I said, swiveling to face her. She looked just like she did on the train. Not that I expected her to look differently, but I guess I didn’t know what to expect at all. She smiled with half her mouth and said, “Anything for the First Lady?” I got up and went behind the bar and poured Anna a drink. I asked her who the man was that answered the phone when I called. “How should I know?” she said, raising her glass to me.

“Is that where you live, where I called?”

“Sort of.”

“Why were you staying here at the hotel last month?”

“Well I had to stay somewhere. Are these really the things you want to know about me? Where do you live? Why are you staying here?”

I told her that I live in New York and that I came to DC to kill some time. I said I was at the Carlton Arms because of her. “That’s funny,” she said, “I was on my way back from New York when I met you. I hadn’t been there since I was a kid.” She took a drink and as I was considering asking her for more information she started talking again. The phone number she gave me was indeed where she lived, at her house that she shared with a man. She told me she was leaving him. I thought perhaps she’d wanted me to call her house just to make the man jealous. As she stared into her glass I stared at her. It was uncanny how much we looked alike. I wondered if she’d noticed it too. How could she not? Either way, I’d decided to stay at the Carlton Arms for as long as my money would hold out.

“Will you go with me to the museum tomorrow?” I asked.

“Which one?”

“The one with the airplanes.”

She nodded yes and then leaned over and kissed me on the mouth.

“Where are you staying tonight? Do you have to go home?”

“No. There’s a party at my house and I hate everyone there.”

“Good.”

We stood up together. I followed Anna as she led the way up to room 8. When I let her into our room I realized that I’d left my book downstairs again. I went back down to the bar and picked up my book. On the way out I saw the portrait of Dolley Madison glaring at me. I walked over and got up real close to the painting. “Dolley, honey,” I said. “We’re going to be up all night. Tell Rudy to make sure he has the coffee ready first thing in the morning.”

When I got back up to the room, Anna was standing naked in front of the mirror. I removed all of my clothes and wrapped my arms around her from behind. Our bodies were exact. Our reflection showed just one person. Anna. I knew what she was seeing, and that’s when she saw it.

“We are the same.”

Anna put her arms behind her so that her hands met at the bottom of my spine. I tightened my grip around her and felt her pull me in with surprising strength. Our skin was hot. I could not tell her body from mine. As she held me harder I forced myself into her more. My muscles began to tremble and I felt faint. But quickly, everything became clear. I could now see us, only me, in the mirror.

I don’t write about drinking much, or rather drinking doesn’t feature in my stories much anymore. But I do still like being in bars sometimes, and I sometimes still like writing about what that can be like.

“Marconi Plays the Mamba” covers a lot of personal surface area, though I don’t consider it a story about drinking. It’s a story about people and their lives—their lives just happen to happen while they’re drinking.

With love and gratitude,

xo—RJO

MARCONI PLAYS THE MAMBA

The train wasn't crowded but she always chose to stand anyway. Everyone is crazy and you never know who’s going to do what so it’s best to be on your feet. After two stops the train hit the bridge and the sun blasted in. The neon river and the skyline. Seeing commuters as real humans for a minute or two. It never failed to bring her peace. She stared as a man swallowed some drink the wrong color from an orange juice bottle. He winced, swallowed some more, then slid the bottle into a backpack. Everything dimmed again and the train stopped. She rose from the Grand Street station. She was looking for some dumb bar where she was supposed to meet some dumb guy. A blind date. In the afternoon. What was she thinking. A blind-drunk date with herself sounded much nicer.

She either couldn’t find the bar or didn’t try very hard. It didn’t matter. She crunched a roach under her foot. It was accidental but she’d have done it on purpose if she’d seen it coming. She walked a few minutes out of Chinatown to a bar that she did know. Apart from two guys in sailor suits and a bartender she didn’t recognize it was empty. The chalkboard said the drink special was a Moscow Mule. The bartender sashayed her way. Hi. Moscow Mule, she said, what’s in that, rum and hooker tears? Yeah, he said, they’re fake tears though. He put two shot glasses on the bar and filled them with tequila. He bumped his glass into hers and lifted it. Whatever “cheers” is in Moscow, he said, dumping the shot in his throat. She did the same without talking. He said, happy Tuesday, then left to salute the sailors. Tuesday seems about right, she muttered putting too much money on the bar. She let the booze soak in as she looked at her face in the mirror behind the bar. Then she got up and yelled do svidaniya! walking out. She wanted to get back to Brooklyn. Her little brother was coming in from Chicago.

Her apartment was small but always big enough for family. Terry got in around nine. He didn’t think much of the contents of her fridge so they went down the block. The bar they went to was the one she referred to as Don’t Know, Don’t Care because no matter how many times she went there it was as if the bartender had never seen her before. She figured it was a safety precaution, treating everyone like a first-timer because you never know what’s bringing them in or who they’re coming in with. Perhaps they’re cheating on someone or maybe cheating on their sobriety. She found it equal parts admirable and irritating. Either way, it was just down the block.

How's Chicago, Terry? Chicago sucks, he said. Yeah it does, she said, I’m glad you came. New York sucks too, he said, I think I’m ready for one of the Dakotas—more sky, less asshole. There are assholes everywhere, Terry, there are assholes here—we’re assholes. He spun a nickel on the bar then gently set his finger on its edge to stop it spinning. Yeah, I guess, he said.

Remember my friend Heather, she said, from high school? Not especially, he said, you had a lot of friends in high school. This was true, but he remembered every one of them and he especially remembered Heather. He usually couldn’t get ten feet from his sister’s girlfriends, but there was this one time.

Their parents had gone out for the night. Terry was up late watching MTV when he heard his sister’s CRX pull into the garage with “Talk Dirty To Me” blaring. It was his tape. She and Heather fell into the room laughing. Heather flopped on the couch next to him while his sister got on the phone. Heather was close enough that he could smell her Obsession—his sister wore it too, all the girls did. You’re really into music, huh, Heather said. Yeah, I’m saving up to get an amp for my guitar, he told her. It was his dad’s guitar and it was an acoustic. The video for “We Built This City” came on. Terry didn’t like that song but he tried to impress Heather by talking about how Jefferson Airplane got to Starship. His sister put her hand over the phone and said, better back up Terry, she eats boys alive—have you ever even French kissed; Heather, why don’t you teach him how. Heather threw a pillow at his sister then jumped up and went into the kitchen. Terry sat stunned with his mouth dropped open for what felt like the next three years.

Well apparently she’s moved to the city and wants to get a drink. I mean Jesus I haven’t seen her in what, how many years? What could we possibly have to talk about? Algebra? Should I call her? I’ll tell her you’re in town. You have to come. I might need you!

The following night they were back at Don’t Know, Don’t Care and there she was, in walked Heather. She’d hardly changed. Terry thought he looked pretty good himself these days. They got some drinks and after the typical catching up Heather managed to work in a story she thought was funny about his sister blowing some guy in a car and accidentally learning to deep throat when they drove over railroad tracks. This made Terry feel odd because while he liked hearing Heather talk about a blowjob he did not care for the idea of his sister being anywhere near one. He decided he needed to go to the bathroom. There was one toilet and a long line. On his way back he stopped at the bar for a shot. When he turned toward the table he saw Heather and his sister giggling. He ordered another shot. Yep, Chicago sucks. So does New York. The Dakotas surely suck too. He wondered if anyone he knew from high school had moved to New York. There are assholes everywhere. Terry downed his shot then went to see if the jukebox had “We Built This City.”

In the some-things-never-change spirit, I’m interested in the idea of patterns. Why we do the things we do, often continuing to do them even if we wished we didn’t. I’m happy with the music I listen to. But maybe sometimes I listen to metal from the ‘80s because it brings back a particular time in my life. Nostalgia and whatnot. Or maybe it just rules.

Finding ourselves in the same types of relationships, or reliving certain situations, good or bad, is behaviorally fascinating to me.

In my first book I had some very short items called “Patterns of Significance.” There were three of them, spaced out in between stories toward the end. In my next book I had another one, “Patterns of Significance (IV),” that continued the trend.

I was curious how these would read when put all together—a stand-alone “Patterns” mini book. I like how they sit isolated, uninterrupted. It makes me want to do more of them; the characters different, or the same, expanding into unforeseen, or predictable, life cycles. You know?

Thanks for doing it here with me.

Love, always —xo RJO

Patterns of Significance

Lifting the blanket and slipping under the sheet as carefully as she could, she thought about who she'd least want to wake, Rich or the baby. Rich could be such an asshole when he woke up. Actually, so could the baby. The thought of her four-month-old being an asshole made her laugh out loud. She covered her mouth. She'd had a few drinks in front of the TV. Her body was still. Her eyes were open. Well here I am, she thought, just me and a couple of assholes. She snorted a laugh then covered her mouth again. Rich rolled over. Rhinestones of sweat on his naked back twinkled in the moonlight. She reached and touched the pipe along the wall next to the bed. Christ, why is the heat on?

Patterns of Significance (II)

“Have you ever wondered what it would be like to kiss me?” she said. He figured taking her to a bar for lunch wasn’t the greatest idea. She had two cocktails and a soup. But he'd wanted to show his appreciation. It was her last day. He’d imagined kissing her many times. Especially on the days she wore the orange lip gloss. And here she was leaning into him with her hand on his leg. He was much older. And her boss. At least for a few more hours. She didn’t know why she was doing it. “What's more boring than hearing someone talk about where they're from and what their life has been like?" she said. "We're here now and this is what's happening. At this place and everywhere in the world. Isn't that enough? Who has time for anything else?" He watched her stab at the ice in her glass with the stirrer. He paid the bill then told her to go ahead and get her things from the office and enjoy the rest of the day for herself.

Instead of taking the bus, she walked downtown and into her old neighborhood. Without really trying she was soon on her old block in front of her old building. It had been a long time. She'd lived alone there until she met Rich the asshole and moved in with him across the river. She looked up at her window. There were red curtains in there now. She walked over to her old favorite restaurant but it was now a different restaurant and it didn't look good. She walked a bit more then stopped in front of a hardware store. There was a TV in there. "Laverne & Shirley" was on. Were they lesbians? The day had worn off and it was dark. It got dark so early now. She looked down the street for the lights of any coming bus.

Patterns of Significance (III)

She slid out of bed, put on Rich’s sneakers and went onto their little terrace. She'd forgotten to turn off the multi-colored Christmas tree lights that were threaded through the iron railing. She took the lid off a cookie jar and got the pack of cigarettes she kept in there. Smoking in the clear night she heard the sad Greek music coming from her downstairs neighbor's radio. It was as loud as usual but it was never on this late. Her downstairs neighbor was ninety-three, nearly deaf, and lived alone. Her first thought was that maybe he'd died with the radio on. Maybe he'd died looking at pictures of him and his dead wife filled with a young love. Maybe he'd never loved her at all. Maybe there'd never been anyone. Maybe it was just him and that radio his whole life. She put out her cigarette in a plant and went back to bed, considering again who she might disturb.

Patterns of Significance (IV)

She couldn't sleep. “I feel like my teeth are getting closer together. Can that happen?” No answer. He was sleeping. “I can tell when I floss. Maybe I'll call Sheila tomorrow, her brother-in-law is a dentist.”

She got out of bed. Rich the asshole didn't move. She went to the kitchen sink and turned the knob. She forgot the whole neighborhood’s water was still shut off. She opened the refrigerator. The light showed crumbs on the counter and a cracked tile on the floor. There wasn't anything she wanted. She parted the curtains at the window over the sink. The moonlight did for the night sky what the fridge light did for the kitchen.

Two cats were getting close enough in the yard to be heard at the start of a mean exchange. There wasn't much yet but when she heard another uneasy moan she knew it could happen soon. She went back to the bedroom and stood in the doorway. The cats moved closer. She lay back down and Rich didn’t move. It was quiet. She closed her eyes. Then she heard the cats go for it. She hoped they wouldn’t wake the baby and prayed there wouldn’t be a dead cat when the sun came up.

I love this part of the year. I’m grateful that every summer I get to spend some time in Vermont. Up on a mountain, working truly remotely. I tend to get good ideas for stories there. Even now, home in Brooklyn, I’m in the middle of a new one inspired by Vermont summers that so far I’m really liking. Here’s a scene:

The pint of vanilla ice cream was the only item she was buying. The man at the counter rang her up, and when he handed over her change he said, do you need a spoon? She casually said no thank you, but as she left she thought what an odd thing to ask. Did something about her face say that she was going to eat the whole thing right now? Out front, in the parking lot? In her car, by herself, crying her eyes out?

Hopefully this story will be done before long and you can see it. In the meantime, thinking of Vermont and summer I can’t help but turn to “Rockets Over the Lake,” a story first published in the lit journal Local Knowledge, then later included in my book Endlessly Small.

Wishing you Popsicle flip-flop dreams. And as always, thank you for being here.

xo—RJO

ROCKETS OVER THE LAKE

It began earlier each year before July 4th. But always just as she’d fallen asleep. This year it was June 22nd. The rockets over the lake. She had to imagine it was a group of young boys. No sane adults would do this. They weren’t even legal. Someone was bringing these rotten things in from another state and exploding them over the lake behind her house, causing her to lose her mind for two weeks every summer. And you know these people don't live there. They come in from another state along with the bombs. Why weren’t they getting arrested? How was this fun? Torturing a whole community of peaceful residents and innocent dogs!

This was her house goddammit. Her grandmother built it. And these little shits with their cap guns and firecrackers were not going to ruin generations of summertime enjoyment. It was as if she forgot about it the other eleven months of the year though, until that first night. She’d drift off and then the whistle would race up into the dark and she’d jump at the pop with a pounding heart. This year, this June 22nd was it. She wasn’t going to make it to the 4th. The first scream across the sky and she was putting on her robe, cursing with every step. She went downstairs and looked out into the blackness. Not even one star. A few minutes of silence and then she saw the spray glitter up from behind the trees and heard the shriek and the crack of the rocket. That’s where the boys were. Laughing and proud. With their beer cans they stole and a radio surely blasting garbage. She forgot her slippers but out she went to put a stop to this once and for all. She’d gotten to the end of her backyard and was stepping into some bushes when she realized just how dark it was. It was all around her now. No living room lamp and no nightlight in the hall. An opossum waddled past and rattled in a shrub. It caught her by surprise but she was just mad enough to not get scared. She neared the bank of the lake and stopped. There hadn’t been any more bombs. Then here it came. Whoosh, glitter, pow! She was getting closer. She edged along the lake, careful not to lose her footing. She thought she should at least be able to hear the boys by now. She crouched down and tried to make out legs moving in the distance. She edged along a bit more and then stopped. Still nothing. Then. Whoosh, glitter, pow! That one came up nearly right over her head! Where the hell were they? She was getting more angry. She chose to stay put and let her eyes adjust. Rick had once told her it can take thirty minutes for your eyes to properly adjust in the dark. As she stared where she best guessed the launching point was, she caught an orange glow that would swell and fade. She squinted and watched it come and go a few times. One of the boys was smoking a cigarette. She stayed crouched and inched nearer the glow. She couldn’t have been more than twenty feet from them as she thought she smelled the cigarette smoke. She heard a twig snap and saw a match light, then the whoosh was louder than she’d imagined. And this time the glitter lit up the silhouette of someone. This person stepped to the rim of the lake as the firework burst. The moonlight on the water revealed a woman alone. She stared at the profile of the woman, who was now looking down at the tall grass on the bank. She moved closer to the shadowed figure as softly as she could. The person lit a match and held it up to their face. She saw a sharp nose and pursed lips. Wrinkles. Eyes that looked to have been open for years without rest. Hey! she called out. The figure turned and shuffled away. Hey! she called again. What the fuck? Who are you? Is anyone there? You’ve been driving me crazy for years up here every goddam 4th of July! Are you nuts? Where do you get these stupid fireworks? They’re illegal you know! I’m going to have you thrown in jail if you set off one more of those fucking things! Do you hear me? Do you? Hello! Goddam you!

It was then she realized she was in her bathrobe, barefoot in the mud, screaming into emptiness. She walked all the way back up to her house, went inside, turned on an extra lamp and picked up her little dog. She went upstairs and ran her feet under warm water in the bathtub then got into bed. She didn’t feel foolish. She was a champion. If the neighborhood knew what she’d done for them they’d never stop thanking her. Rick would’ve been impressed, that’s for sure. The dog laid down at the end of the bed. She pulled up the covers and closed her eyes. She let out a deep breath. Yes, if only they knew what she’d done for them. They’d never stop thanking her.

A while back I wrote a story called “The God Box” which was almost entirely dialogue. A year or so later I decided I wanted to try writing it as a play, and I wound up with One Nathan, Under God. That was so much fun that I eventually wrote a couple of other short plays, one of which was Mr. Targo.

Mr. Targo is likely the product of, among other influences, my growing up watching the Ropers on Three’s Company and reading lots of John Cheever. I enjoyed writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it.

Lead with love, xo—RJO

MR. TARGO

INT. Modest New York City apartment. Living room area at stage left. Small eat-in kitchen with table at stage right. Apartment front door that leads out into the building’s hallway is center stage in between the two rooms. A coat rack stands by the door. A window is far stage left at living room’s end.

MITCHELL RICHARDS: husband in his late-fifties, reserved, an air of defeat

MARY RICHARDS: wife in her late-fifties, boisterous, dramatic though self-assured

[Lights fade in as MITCHELL sits in recliner reading a newspaper. MARY soon enters through front door in coat carrying big brown grocery bag.]

MARY: [setting grocery bag on counter and removing coat] I saw Mrs. Beckstead on my way in. She told me that Mr. Targo upstairs has been gravely ill. [hangs coat on coat rack] That certainly explains why I’ve not seen him.

MITCHELL: [without looking up from newspaper] We haven’t seen that man in years.

MARY: She said he’s been sick in bed for months.

MITCHELL: Sick with what?

MARY: She didn’t say.

MITCHELL: You didn’t ask?

MARY: She was in a rush and I’ve been running behind all day.

MITCHELL: Yeah I can’t remember the last time I got home and you weren’t here.

MARY: [putting groceries away] We will eat in a minute.

MITCHELL: And what will be eating, Mary?

MARY: I brought a chicken. I’ll make us a salad. It's fast.

MITCHELL: You’ve got me on a fast.

MARY: It won’t be a minute. Have another beer and pipe down.

MITCHELL: [shaking the paper and mostly ignoring the comment, he pushes himself out of the chair and walks to the fridge for another beer] Suppose I’ll have another beer.

MARY: He lives alone up there, you know.

MITCHELL: Uh-huh.

MARY: I wonder who’s taking care of him.

MITCHELL: Maybe he’s dead.

MARY: Why would he be dead? Somebody must be taking care of him.

MITCHELL: [walking back to the recliner with the beer] Or at least putting a mirror under his nose every few days.

MARY: Mitchell Richards, really, how grim. [pausing] I wonder if he has any family.

MITCHELL: I wonder if he has any money.

MARY: The things you think of.

MITCHELL: Money is important.

MARY: So is family.

MITCHELL: We’re a family with no money.

MARY: Oh stop it. [They are both quiet for a moment as MITCHELL continues looking the paper over as MARY gets dinner underway. She stops and turns to address MITCHELL] Didn’t he have a dog?

MITCHELL: At some point.

MARY: And what a temper. I heard he kicked a hole in the wall.

MITCHELL: Think he kicked a hole in the dog too.

MARY: [she turns to fixing the salad] I used to hear his TV sometimes at night. Remember when he played the violin for a while?

MITCHELL: Sounded like he was wearing boxing gloves.

MARY: I can’t remember the last time I heard anything up there.

MITCHELL: It’s smells you should be worried about coming from his place, not noises.

MARY: He’s not dead.

MITCHELL: You don’t know tha—[he is interrupted by MARY who screams when her knife slips as she slices a tomato, nearly chopping her thumb off]

MARY: Gah! This blasted knife is so dull! All our knives are so dull!

MITCHELL: [unfazed] Everything OK in there?

MARY: [holding the knife, waving it, gesturing with it, but having again stopped working on dinner] How many times have I asked you to get these things sharpened?! I’m sick and tired of risking my life every time I cook a meal.

MITCHELL: And what do you expect me to sharpen knives with?

MARY: How should I know. We used to have that metal rod thing. I still have no idea where it went. [pointing the knife toward the window] Go to the truck. Find the truck. It still comes around. [carefully returns to slicing tomato] I’ve heard it.

MITCHELL: What truck? I haven’t seen any truck.

MARY: You’ve heard it. The man. That drives around in the little truck. Ringing a bell like an ice cream truck. But he sharpens knives. In the truck. I know you’ve heard him.

MITCHELL: I’ve heard the ice cream truck.

MARY: He sharpens knives!

MITCHELL: You want me to pay to have our knives sharpened?

MARY: I don’t see how else it’s going to get done.

MITCHELL: I’ll get a big flat rock. That’s all you need.

MARY: [to herself] I could use a big flat rock. [full voice, to MITCHELL] Where will you get your rock? From the lake out back?

MITCHELL: Yeah, get me my swim trunks. I won’t be a minute.

MARY: If I cut myself, I’m sharpening this knife on your big head.

MITCHELL: Shh, I’m listening for the truck. [to himself] Maybe I’ll get a treat for dessert. I wonder if he sells Creamsicles.

MARY: [pausing, though ignoring her husband’s remark] Maybe I should take some of this up to Mr. Targo. I’m sure he could use it.

MITCHELL: You’re not giving any of my dinner to that man upstairs!

MARY: I’m not giving any of your dinner to anyone. We have plenty and I’m sure he could use it.

MITCHELL: He could use it. I’m starving down here. [as if examining an item in the newspaper] They’re called leftovers and tomorrow we’ll eat what’s left over. We’re not running a meal service for the deceased.

MARY: [putting two plates of chicken and salad on the table] That’s enough.

MITCHELL: I don’t see why you’re so concerned about Mr. Targo all of a sudden.

MARY: There’s nothing all of a sudden.

MITCHELL: We’ve lived under that man for years and I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve heard you say his name.

MARY: Mrs. Beckstead told me something else too. She said that whatever it is he has it’s caused his thingy to grow. To swell up. To uh…an…unnatural size, she put it.

MITCHELL: What’s that again? His thingy?

MARY: [annoyed] Oh Mitchell yes! His thingy. His weiner. His throbbing member!

MITCHELL; [sounding nauseous] Oh god…

MARY: Yes Mitchell? Surely you recall.

MITCHELL: [meekly] What am I recalling?

MARY: Any kind of throbbing.

MITCHELL: I believe it’s called a penis.

MARY: I’d plum forgot. Your chicken is getting cold.

MITCHELL: [unaware his dinner had been served, he rises from the recliner] About time. [he sits at the table and looks up at MARY] How big is it?

MARY: [happy to be engaged on the subject, standing table-side like a server] Well I don’t know really.

MITCHELL: Like it no longer fits in his pants? Or it’s…up all the time?

MARY: I’ve no idea. But it must be big. Mrs. Beckstead’s face was beet-red when she told me.

MITCHELL: You think she’s seen it?

MARY: I think a number of women in the building have seen it.

MITCHELL: [waving towards her dinner plate] Won’t you be joining me?

MARY: I’m not hungry yet. You eat. I’ll go see Mrs. Beckstead.

MITCHELL: I thought she was rushing out.

MARY: Surely she’s back by now. I’ll just go see.

MITCHELL: Why don’t you call?

MARY: [turning the knob and opening the apartment door] Surely she’s back by now. I won’t be a minute.

MITCHELL: Oh Mary? [she stops on her way out and turns] While you ladies are coming up with a way to bother poor Mr. Targo, why don’t you just go up and ask him if he’s got a knife sharpener we can borrow?

[MARY exits with a look of disapproval as MITCHELL grins with amusement. Lights fade to black as MITCHELL begins to eat his dinner]

END

Years ago I had a lovely, memorable trip to Portugal. I want to go back. I’d been doing a lot of travel at that time, getting to play cities in Europe with the band I was in with three other girls—speaking of lovely, memorable times. I was remembering a week in Lisbon when I wrote this story, “Barcelona, Sonia.” Yes, I’d recently been to Barcelona too.

Other than inspirational locale, the story is pure fiction. I’ve always liked this one. It’s dreamy—dreamlike. As I write this I’m getting visions of Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak in Vertigo.

Maybe it’s the notion of duality. Or obsession. Feeling disoriented. Or maybe it’s completely unrelated and I just adore that film. Whatever it is, I‘ll leave it at that. Hopefully this reference won’t cloud any of your visions. Let me know where the story takes you?

And now in this spirit to channel TCM’s Ben Mankiewicz: First published by Alexandria Quarterly Press, written by Robbi Jennifer Overbey, from 2022, here is

Barcelona, Sonia

She was staying at a friend of a friend’s apartment in Lisbon. Sonia, the friend of a friend, was in Barcelona for work. She, Eve of Minnesota, had never been to Europe and was seeing a lot on her first trip. She should be nervous, a girl traveling alone overseas, but never felt that way. The people telling her she should be nervous had never traveled overseas, alone or otherwise. Her next stop was Barcelona where she hoped to meet Sonia.

One evening after hours of walking she had a dinner featuring lots of sardines and lots of wine, two things she’d discovered Portugal did supremely well—also two of the few things she knew how to order. Then it was to bed. With the window open and her book open, she fell asleep before midnight.

She was awakened at 2:07 a.m. by a woman outside yelling. Sonia’s apartment was on the third floor and the bedroom window faced an open courtyard that anyone from the street could access. This woman was pounding on the door to the building, seemingly interested in conversing with someone named Matias. With Eve’s limited Portuguese that was the most she gathered. She knew this woman wasn’t looking for the city center and wasn’t demanding sardines or wine. By 2:26 there was still no word from Matias, or anyone else. He must live in the building. Eve wondered if Sonia knew Matias. Maybe Sonia knew this woman. Eve had been watching from behind the curtain. The woman was still upset but didn’t seem to be getting more angry as the minutes went by. She was probably nearing thirty. Her long black hair was in a ponytail.

Maybe Eve was lonely or just bored—she didn’t know what she was after. But she was annoyed at not knowing when this woman would leave so she could go back to sleep, so for whichever reason, Eve went over to the door and hit the buzzer. She heard the slam of the door downstairs echo through the courtyard. By the time she got back to the window the woman was in. Then came the stomping up the stairs. She was on her floor. Now the woman was banging on the apartment door right next to Sonia’s. Maybe she thought Matias buzzed her in. The woman kicked the door a couple of times then could be heard slumping to the ground. Eve checked herself in the mirror, then cracked the door open. The woman was up against the wall with her knees tucked under her chin and her arms tight around her legs. She wasn’t crying. Eve looked at her for a minute. She looked up at Eve, who then stepped back and opened the door wide. The woman got up and walked towards Eve, stopping at the door. She asked about Matias, most likely if Eve knew him or knew where he was. Eve shook her head and asked if the woman spoke English. Yes, she said, some. Do you want to come in, Eve said. Who are you, the woman said. I’m staying here for just a few nights, Eve said. The woman looked at Eve as though considering if she believed her. She chewed the inside of her cheek a bit then stepped into Sonia’s apartment and closed the door behind her.

Are you OK, Eve said. I’m OK, the woman said, moving around the room examining items on the dresser and bookcase. It’s late, the woman said, why are you awake. I heard a noise, Eve said. The woman picked up one of Sonia’s rings and put it on her pinky. She looked younger up close. Do you want some tea, Eve said. No, she said. Eve sat on the couch and said what’s your name. Ines, she said, what’s your name. Eve. Oh, like the bible. No, like my grandmother. You’re American. Yes, I’m from Minnesota. I don’t know where that is. It’s not as nice as here, Eve said. Ines snorted and took off Sonia’s ring.

Do you have somewhere to go, Eve said. Yes, home, she said. Where do you live. Not far. Can you take the subway home. Not now it’s closed, I will walk. I like the subway here, Eve said. Have you seen the blind man that rides the metro, he has a cane with bells on it, Ines said. Yes, he bangs it on the ground when he walks and hits the metal pole with a fork like he’s drumming—and he’s got that little box he wears around his neck for money and I always want to put something in there but I'm scared, Eve said. He has no eyes, Ines said. I know, Eve said, that scares me. Why would you be scared of an old weak blind man, Ines said. I know, Eve said, I think it’s being in a strange place. You don’t have people like that in America? Not in my town—we have crazy people but it’s not the same. He’s not crazy, Ines said, would you think he was crazy if you saw him in your town. Probably, Eve said, why are you asking me about him. I thought if you had taken the metro you had seen him, he’s there every day—I always wonder where he goes when it’s closed, like now, Ines said. You can stay if you want, Eve said. You’re not scared of me, Ines said. No, Eve said. I think you choose funny things to be scared of, Ines said. What do you mean. Would you have opened your door for the blind man. No. An old man with no eyes, he would drink your tea, he couldn’t hurt you.

Ines walked over to Eve on the couch and touched her head. She slid her hand down the side of Eve's face and squeezed her earlobe hard. Then she turned and opened the door and walked out. Eve laid on the couch and stared at the ceiling for a while. She picked up the ring off the dresser that Ines had on and slipped it onto her pinky. She looked out the window at the empty courtyard. A breeze danced in and she wondered if the sardines were as good in Barcelona.

The first thing that comes to mind is the just-passed valentines and whatever love is. Frequently endful. Plus it has started snowing where I am, and I can’t shake the feeling of some emotional, spiritual snow coming down too—cold and gray, soft and continuous, piling up on me, thickening as the hours go by. Not to be grim. Maybe it’s just a recent cloud of uncertainty looming over us. Whatever it is, it has me thinking of hot weather, summer, sun, fun love, freedom—the good stuff. And all this leads me to think back on an early story called “Don’t Forget the Dill.”

Always, thanks. —xo RJO

DON'T FORGET THE DILL

One of the jobs I hated most at that place was peeling the hard-boiled eggs for egg salad sandwiches. I’d have to do like thirty or forty at a time and I’d just rip those things to bits. The manager said that peeling them under running water would help. It did not. Sometimes though I’d get one that would peel like a dream. The shell would slide right off in one whole piece, like slipping a sock off. It was magical. That was rare though and it was mostly me tapping each egg all over with my knuckle, breaking the shell in a thousand tiny cracks, then growing more frustrated with each one. I’d eventually just be grabbing at fragments of shell, dragging along chunks of tender profitable egg white, throwing it all down into the sink. The egg salad was pretty good though. Celery, grated red onion (so you get the juice), a little Dijon mustard, paprika, salt, loads of black pepper, a ton of mayo.

I’d finished my first year of college and felt a little dumb working there with the high school girls. But they were sweet, and apart from the eggs I wasn’t terrible at my job. It was a family-run place and the daughter, the manager, was nice to me. Their name was Benedict. She was Jenny Benedict. She was my age and also in college. She had noticeably long legs. I called her Legs Benedict. One time she and one of the high school girls were going to see a movie after work and they invited me to come. When I went out to the parking lot Jenny was by herself smoking a cigarette in her car. She asked if I was ready and I asked where Morgan was. She said Morgan had to leave and it would just be us. During the movie we held hands, rubbed inseams, and kissed. I think her tongue was in my ear before the previews ended. From then on we’d make out in the walk-in fridge at work and find a way to touch one another whenever we passed by. We never went out again outside of the sandwich shop, we just became horny co-workers. I was OK with that.

Things kept on that way for nearly the rest of the summer until Jenny burned her hand pretty bad at the deep fryer and stopped coming to work for a bit. It only took two days before I was meeting Morgan in the walk-in fridge. The first day Jenny came back to work she found me and Morgan in the fridge with our shorts unzipped. Legs Benedict fired me on the spot.

Anyway, that’s what I think about sometimes whenever I boil an egg now.

Add to that a recent discussion with a friend regarding moon water and charging crystals with the light of a full moon—the story I’m sharing below came immediately to mind.

“A Few Last Small Things” was included in my most recent book, Endlessly Small. It feels extra appropriate in context here as it involves a woman who used to lived in Los Angeles but left for New York. I’ve been an NYC resident 25 years now but LA still feels like home. And particularly at this time, it’s agonizing not being there.

I felt like the title of the story couldn’t be topped by any other title for this post, so with that, I leave you “A Few Last Small Things.”

xo —RJO

A FEW LAST SMALL THINGS

Back when she lived in Los Angeles she’d been with a writer. He’d used her once, as the model for a character in a story, describing her as an Egyptian queen or something ridiculous. He went out of his way to include her larger-than-average nose. Now in New York, she looked at herself in the bathroom mirror of another apartment she was leaving for good. She thought of all the nights she sat on that bathroom floor leaned up against the tub reading. She could never sleep in his apartment and it was so tiny that there was nowhere else to have a light on to read in the middle of the night than in the bathroom. She eventually began storing a bottle of Rittenhouse Rye under the sink behind the seldom-used cleaning products. Sometimes when she was smoking she’d hear him cough and roll over in bed as the smoke slipped out from under the bathroom door. She thought of all the books she read on that floor. Franny and Zooey, Orlando, the Bell Jar, Anais Nin’s diaries, the Wapshots, the Great Gagsby… countless books with countless descriptions of other women, all with noses of their own.

When she broke up with the LA writer she did it at a diner. People don’t change?, sure they do, he said. She tapped at an ice cube in her Diet Coke like trying to see if it was still alive. As he kept on talking she remembered sitting with some classmates at the school lunch table. One of the girls was talking about having put her hands down Cory Snyderman’s pants. I felt things down there I didn’t know were down there! the girl’d said. Nearly everyone in the school went camping over Memorial Day weekend, and it was then, in somebody’s tent, that she herself felt what was down there, jerking off Timothy Worley into an empty Snapple bottle. Om Namo Narayani.

As they parted ways outside the diner she walked down Sunset, glad to be free of the writer. Her mind reviewed all the times when they were together it was clear he was wrong for her. There was one time though when she felt truly close to him. They were driving, listening to classical music. They never listened to classical music at home, only in the car. It was dusk and there was a utility vehicle in front of them. It wasn’t moving unreasonably slow, but still they were annoyed to be stuck behind it. They sat without talking as Shostakovich played. They were entranced by the flashing lights on the back of the truck, red, orange, yellow. Then, seamlessly, the lights began to pulse in sync with the music. Eighth note, quarter note, largo, allegro, andante—no matter the movement how subtle or drastic the lights kept on right in time. This lasted for what felt like much longer than 40 seconds. But it was undeniable it had happened. They both saw it and heard it. And they never talked about it. Not then in the car or ever at all. But that moment stayed with her. It had happened and it had happened to both of them, there together, and for them only. No one else witnessed it. One of those magical things that would never happen again, meant just for the right people. It made her feel that they were special. Maybe in actual love. Though while the magic of the music and the lights remained in her, the love for the writer did not. It was surely never there to begin with. But there would always be Shostakovich and the Cat®.

She flicked the bathroom switch off and got her duffle bag from the couch. A few last small things. She caught sight of his bookshelf. There sat some of the books she’d read with her back up against the tub, though the ones she’d liked most had come from the library. This guy’s books were mostly bad. So was his taste in music for that matter. And films. So she never knew the difference between Midnight Cowboy and Drugstore Cowboy. Who cares? He didn’t know the difference between Paul Verlaine and Tom Verlaine. Or Francis Bacon and Francis Bacon for that matter. When she thought about this guy, and the writer, and the others who left a stain on the last several years, she came back to her first ideas of what to expect from a man, which came from her divorced mom and her divorced mom’s Ted Nugent LPs. Not all bad. The door to the apartment closed behind her and locked. She stood for a moment in the hallway. Om Namo Narayani.

She took an uptown bus and went to Central Park. She walked a while and later found herself at the skating rink. There was a girl out on the ice. A figure skater. She heard someone say it was a famous figure skater practicing for the Olympics. She watched her, making the same moves and the same jumps over and over, never a perfect landing. But there were wide beautiful glides in between with her delicate arms graceful like the breeze. And she would spin. Spin so fast that for a moment it seemed she wasn’t moving at all. Spinning for so long that it felt like she would never stop. When the skater took a break she kept on walking. There was a woman in a folding chair selling used books on tables set up along Fifth Avenue. There was a gold minivan at the curb with the back door swung up and a few piles of books in milk crates at the edge of the bumper. She looked over the titles spread out on the tables, noting the urge to buy books she’d already bought once before. Among the books was a VHS-sized pack of well-worn tarot cards. She picked up the deck. It’s a full moon tonight honey, the woman said, a blood moon—and there’s a lunar eclipse too—big night. As she turned the deck over in her hands she noticed the license plate on the van. NARAYAN1. The Divine feminine spirit of the universe drives a gold Dodge Caravan. Do you know how to make moon water? the woman asked—you put out a jar of clean cool water tonight dear, under the moon, and let it sit undisturbed until the morning—then you save that water dear—it’ll be special, use it for special things. She set the tarot cards back on the table, though she felt she should be buying them. Not for mystic purposes but to give the woman some money. Walking away she thought about the moon water thing. She wouldn’t save it, dosing it out in droplets for precious little wants and worries. No, she would drink the glowing moon water. All of it. Gulped at once, right at the first sign of dawn. After that, it would all be up to her.

Bad With Money, Great With Fun got me thinking about stories I’d written. While not a direct vein to the sentiment, one of the first fully-realized stories I wrote came quickly to mind. Severance.

I’ve created characters who are worse with money and more concerned with having fun, but Shepherd, the lead in Severance, has a particular lostness about him that makes me curious just what it is he’s concerned with at all.

Though it’s a bit different style-wise to what my writing has evolved so far, I’m happy to see it revived here, in the digital world. Severance was first published in print by Alexandria Quarterly Press in 2016.

With that, I hope you enjoy reading. Wishes of happiness and health to you all, see you in 2025. xo —RJO

SEVERANCE

My god, it’s like some country and western song, Shepherd said to himself. Staring at the letter on his kitchen table he began to sing, I got laid off and my woman’s gone, I’m on my own and the rain’s comin’ down. He laughed out loud and it felt good. He read over the words on the paper again. The separation date was April 9 and if he could continue to perform his duties in a satisfactory manner, Shepherd would be paid a lump sum severance of one thousand dollars. April 9 was just a month away. That was easy enough. As he slouched in the hard chair Shepherd thought about how he’d spent most of his life trying to make other people happy. Alone in the kitchen, trying to focus on the coming weeks, his mind drifted to when he was 14 and his father left his mother. When his father left, he left Shep with a mother who had no time for anything but going to work. A lot of people were getting laid off. Not enough money to pay the workers or whatever else the bosses could think of. He liked where he worked. Well, as much as anyone can like where they work, but that’s the way life is. You try and find something you can stand just enough to keep doing year after year without going crazy.

He saw no reason he wouldn’t get the $1,000 so he considered himself to be someone in possession of a lot of money. And he intended to make the money last. It seemed that many things in Shep’s life went fast. His girlfriend left him weeks ago. He’d tried to make her happy but realized too late that he wasn’t doing it. He thought about calling her and telling her he’d come into some money but he knew he’d best not. Shep clicked on the radio. The setting sun was cutting through the rain and the fading light from the window seemed to swell and dim with the violins. Shep leaned back and decided not to think about anything. Tomorrow after all was just another day at work.

One month later a few guys from the plant took Shep out for some burgers after his last shift. He’d heard that a lot of people were losing their jobs but it felt like he was the only one he knew of. Shep’s old friend Troy was there. Troy had grown up with him and they’d gotten into a fair amount of mischief as boys but ended up nothing more than co-workers as they got older and got sucked into their separate lives. Shep couldn’t help but wonder why Troy got to keep his job. He didn’t see any difference in the work they both did. He felt like Troy had somehow cheated him. He could have raised a fuss at the foreman but what good would that do? He would’ve just made himself look foolish. He had the $1,000 check in his pocket and he tried to think about better things.

Early the next morning, Saturday, April 10, Shep woke up, went into his bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face over the sink. The pink wallpaper and the pink porcelain fixtures looked gray. On the bathroom window sill Shep saw a crusty dead bumblebee the size of his thumb, wings up, ready for take-off. The big bee was rolling back and forth against the screen from the breeze blowing in and out. He remembered his father taking him as a child to see a magician in town that could bring back flies from the dead. The magician had a paper cup full of dead flies and one by one he would revive them with a wave of his hand and they’d fly out of the cup and off back into life.

It was a clear day and appeared it might be a hot one later. Before going to the bank, Shep stopped into Louise’s Diner for coffee. Louise was behind the counter and tended to Shep like he was family. Louise had heard about his job and gave him a piece of pie on the house. He wanted to bury his face into her greasy apron and cry himself back to sleep. The pie was better than he thought it’d be and he ate it too fast. Louise got a napkin and wiped the blueberry from the corner of his mouth. Shep thanked Louise, paid for his coffee leaving an extra big tip, and walked to the Wells Fargo bank down the street. The bank was empty and Shep went straight up to the teller. Well hi, Shepherd, what can we do for you? The bank teller was Tommy Grables. This was a small town and everyone grew up together. Shep said, I got this check here from work, Tommy. Alright, fine, Tommy said, who’d no doubt heard about Shep’s job too. Do you want to open an account? No, Shep said, better just give it to me in cash. OK, but don’t you go spending this all in one place, Tommy said with a laugh. Shep didn’t smile and Tommy quickly ended his chuckle. Counting out the bills Tommy concentrated looking down. Shep stared at him and remembered that they were never friends in school. Tommy had pushed Shep to the ground at the homecoming game, right in front of a girl he liked. This was the Tommy that Shep thought of right now. As Tommy slid the cash forward Shep wanted to pull him over the counter and shove the money into his mouth. Here you go, a thousand bucks on the nose, Tommy said. Thanks, Shep said, and turned and left.

It's a special feeling to have a pocket full of money and nowhere to go. Shep tried to enjoy having no real responsibilities but he was nervous about his new future. His mother was dead and he had no clue where his father was so he was spared feeling guilty for not giving his parents any money. He didn’t have any brothers or sisters. If he did, he figured they’d probably have more money than him anyway. Maybe he should go find an old motorcycle to buy and just ride straight on for as long as he wanted until he felt like stopping.

After walking a while he came across a shop he’d never noticed before. A sign in the window announced: The Finest Imported Articles From Europe. Shep went inside. He snooped around the store, looking at the many attractive items for sale. There were silk scarves, gold-plated brooches, jewelry boxes, leather shoes, belts, and fancy shirts and dresses. He’d passed by a green velvet suit three times before he surprised himself by asking to try it on. The soft, dark material seemed to glow and it was comforting just to look at. The suit fit. Shep felt his muscles relax and his skin get warm. He asked the woman behind the counter what it cost. Nine fifty, she said. Nine hundred and fifty dollars? Shep said. Try the hat, the woman said, pointing to a matching fedora. Came in just yesterday, she said, Italian. Shep looked at himself in a mirror. You can have the whole deal for a thousand, the woman said. OK, Shep said. He gave the woman his money and said he’d wear the suit out. Shep told her she could keep his old clothes saying, maybe it’s worth something to somebody.

Shep took a bus out to Troy’s house. There were five other people on the bus and he felt them admiring him in his suit, maybe thinking he was on his way out of town for some big business. When he got to the house he leaned against a truck parked on the street and smoked a cigarette. It didn’t look like Troy was home but he’d already made up his mind not to step onto the porch and knock on the door. He decided he had nothing to say to Troy. Shep walked all the way back into town. It was hot in the suit but he refused to take off the jacket or the hat. He approached Louise’s Diner though didn’t go inside. He wasn’t hungry and he knew that Louise wouldn't approve of him buying the suit. He thought again about calling his girlfriend.

Shep just went on home. He went into his bathroom and used the pink toilet. He saw the lifeless bumblebee in the window. He gently picked it up by the wing, put it in his palm and carried it into the kitchen. Setting the bee on the table he took a glass from the cupboard and filled it full of cold milk. He dropped the dead insect into the glass. The milk seemed to bubble slightly around the fat bee. Shep took a sip. The milk was getting warm and it sent a signal of aliveness into his bones. He took a big gulp, the bee now floating in an inch of milk. The last gulp sent the bee swimming into Shep’s mouth. He swirled the giant bug around. He began to feel his whole body buzzing—his brain, his veins. He opened his mouth and the bumblebee shot out and then hovered in front of his face. Shep lifted up and tipped his new green velvet fedora to the bee as it flew off into the other room and out through the still open front door.

“So Lifelike” was originally published by Alexandria Quarterly Press back in 2016. I’ve cleaned up a couple of lines, but it stands much in the same state as it did. When I wrote “So Lifelike” I had children on my mind—having them, not having them; having trouble having them, people not having trouble having them.

As always, thanks for being here—xo RJO

SO LIFELIKE

He’d come in from mowing the lawn when we started going at it fast. He was on top of me. His hand was pushed into the bed, near my face, as he supported himself pounding me. His hand smelled like gasoline. I imagined I was being forced by a mechanic in a garage. I came right then.

He got in the shower. I rolled over. I listened to the running water and wondered if this was just all there would ever be. At least he was still turned on by me, I thought. Lots of married couples probably didn't have sex at all. And here it was three o'clock on a Sunday and I'd just cum. Even if other wives were having sex with their husbands they surely weren’t having orgasms, I thought. I have no right to complain, I thought. But I can’t help it.

I got dressed and walked out to the porch. In front of the house across the street the Hawkins kids played in the yard. Miniature swimsuits, tiny inflatable pool, the hose, the sprinkler, the whole thing. I stood and watched the little Hawkinses scream and run in circles. Their laughter blew a breeze across our porch. A moment later the boy pushed the girl face down into the pool. She began to cry. Mrs. Hawkins appeared at the door. She picked up the wet girl and scolded the boy. She carried the girl inside and the boy followed.

I went back inside. The shower had stopped. I went into the kitchen and poured some vodka into a glass of ice. I opened the refrigerator to get the orange juice when I heard the front door close. I looked out the window in time to see him pull out. As I began to turn away I noticed something. At the end of our driveway, off to the side, there was a lump on the ground. I could see it was the doll the Hawkins girl carried around. I walked down to the curb, bent over, and picked up the doll. I looked over at the Hawkins house. The house was silent.

Back in my kitchen I held the worn doll. It was made of cloth and had a brown skirt with white lace trim. I lifted the skirt and saw where its crotch was stitched. I straightened its tiny green sweater, brushed its yarn hair back, and ran my thumb over its flat, faded face. I stepped on the pedal that lifts the lid, threw the doll into the trash, and got the orange juice out of the fridge.