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worlds

1082 words. 5 min read.

Old-town Playa Hill smelled like one of those travel plazas you’d find down by the interstate; the stink of burning gas, hot rubber and melting tarmac. It had never been a particularly pleasant smelling part of town, but this was a new low. The smell, combined with the continuous thumping noise of a couple hundred gas-guzzling generators, gave Alec a debilitating headache.

There had been brief outages all summer, but nothing like this. The whole plateau had been without power for nearly seventy-two hours now. This kind of heat, with no respite, it had a way of nestling itself deep into your spinal cord. Everything felt heavy. Dirty. Thick.

“We have to get out of the sun,” Alec moaned from the backseat of the multicolored Toyota.
”You’re not in the sun,” responded Curtis, before he spit another sunflower-seed shell into a blue, off-brand, Solo cup.
“You know what I mean.” Alec said. “At least turn the AC on for a little bit. I’m roasting back here.”
“If I turn the AC on, I have to turn the engine on. If I turn the engine on, I am wasting gas. If I am wasting gas, I won’t have enough to get you back up the Hill. If I don’t get you home, mom is going to kill me. If mom kills me, I won’t be able to teach you about the way of the world.”
I wish Curtis would not talk down to me so much, Alec thought. But then again, all his other teachers had done so too, and most of them would whoop him as well. Curtis never did, so maybe his brother was a better teacher than he gave him credit for. Sandra handed Alec a little battery powered fan from her perch in the passenger seat.
“Here, you can use this for a while.” she said, softly.

Oh, sweet, sweet Sandra. If it wasn’t for her, Alec probably wouldn’t have even come along on this “mission”, as Curtis liked to call them. Alec didn’t really understand what this particular one was meant to accomplish. “We need to run an errant for mom,” was all Curtis had said, and Alec hadn’t felt like leaving the house, but at least now he got to be close to Sandra for a while. From the back seat he could just see the beads of sweat disappearing into her tank top and her cut off jean shorts. How he wished he could be one of those drops sliding down her soft, perfect skin.

He had gotten lost in that explicit fantasy when he realized she was looking straight at him.
“Give it back if you’re not gonna use it,” she snapped as she snatched the fan out of his hands. How long had she been looking at him? Hopefully not long enough to notice the bulge in his basketball shorts.

They had been sitting down the street from a strip mall and Curtis hadn’t taken his eyes off the dentist’s office on the far end. By staring at the symbols next to the cartoon molar above the door, Alec had deduced it was a Korean dentist. Or a Thai one maybe? He had enough trouble with English, so these strange symbols were like hieroglyphics to him. It wasn’t until after they held him back for the third year in a row, in 12th grade, that they made him see a doctor. They had told him he was dyslexic, and he had gotten a note to show all his teachers. After that, most of them were much nicer to him.

At the airfield, his boss, mister Sanderson, had made sure to put all the supplies he needed to clean the bathrooms in bright, differently colored bottles. That way he wouldn’t accidentally mix the ammonia with the bleach and knock himself out. This had only happened once, but he was pretty sure that this was the result of a prank that Stevie and Juan had pulled on him. He was dyslexic, not colorblind.

“Son of a bitch,” Curtis yelled. He reached for the binoculars in the middle console, tipping the contents of the Solo cup into Sandra’s lap.
“Eeeeew, Curtiiiis” she moaned, flicking the chewed up shells off her bare legs, only to have them land on her naked toes. She shivered and tried to sink even further into the car’s bucket seat.
“There is definitely someone in there,” Curtis said as he peered through the binoculars. “How the hell did they get past us?”
“Maybe they used the rear entrance?” Alec responded.
“What do you mean? What rear entrance?” Curtis bellowed, now focussed solely on his little brother in the back seat.
“They have a little lot for employees in the back. Missus Li always let mom park there when there were no spaces left in the front,” Alec explained.
“Who the hell is missus Li?” Curtis said.
“That’s her shop, in the corner. She was the lady who did mom’s nails, every Thursday, when she was still leaving the house. She would take me along, so I wouldn’t get square eyes from watching TV all day,” Alec rambled. He did that, when he was nervous. Curtis was definitely making him nervous.
“Come here you dumb mother-” Curtis yelled as he swung at the young man in the back seat. Alec realized that he had given his brother too much credit a moment ago when he had told himself he never hit him. This wasn’t the first of Curtis’ outbursts, although it was something that had happened more frequently in the last few years. After dad had left, and mom had stopped leaving the house. Come to think of it, this had happened a lot and for a long time.

“Babe, leave him alone,” Sandra intervened.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” Curtis said as he settled back into his seat.
“You never asked me,” Alec responded.
Curtis closed his eyes for a moment, and when he looked up, his and Alec’s eyes met in the rearview mirror.
“You’re right. I should’ve asked you,” he sighed.

The Toyota crawled into the alleyway behind the strip mall giving Curtis a good view of the employee parking lot. A silver, older model Mercedes, which must be the dentist’s own car, was in the only spot reserved for the dental office. The rest of it was claimed by a blacked out SUV sticking out behind a beaten up We-Lug box truck.

March Maniacs

855 words. 4 min read.

Barefoot Jeff

“Settle in, fellars. Next stop is Morgan City, but it’ll take me a good forty or so minutes to get y’alls there,” croaks the driver.

“I am telling you it’s him,” says the roughneck, pointing at the old man piloting the bus. If his finger was a gun, the driver’d be dead. Mike’s scowl never misses.

“This is why you never got a promotion, Mike, cuz you’re always making shit up,” I respond.
His furious focus shifts to me, and I briefly feel twelve years old again, shrinking in my window seat just before the mighty Mike Fontenot beats the snot out of me for making some smart-ass comment. Why do I always do that?

Lucky for me, this time Mike relaxes into a grin.

“I thought it was because of my drinking,” he says. The guys explode into deep belly-laughs. We are all full grown adults now, most of us with wives and kids, yet still we gang together in the back of an empty bus like we have something to hide. Something to whisper and giggle about. And I guess when you put it like that, that is kinda what we do all day. We whisper and giggle and we wait for the next bus ride. When we’re on the rig, we wish we were heading home. When we’re home, we wish we were on this bus again. Just so we can have someone to talk to.

“I am not lying though, Scrawny. That’s the guy that stole my boots.” The intensity is back. You have to give it to him, he is nothing if not focused.
“That’s not how I remember it,” rumbles someone from the back corner. “He won ’em off ya, didn’t he?”
“Cheating ain’t winning, it’s stealing. And you weren’t even there,” Mike quips.
“You told this story so many times, it kinda feels like I was.”
Another burst of raucous laughter. Mike doesn’t join in. He gets up out of his seat, and if it wasn’t for Stephen getting in his way, he would’ve had the driver in a choke hold by now.
“Take it easy, Mike. We’re all just trying to get where we’re going.” Stephen has always had a calming presence on Mike. Even when he wasn’t six foot five yet.
“I was just gonna talk to him.”
“That’s what I tell my boyfriend every time he catches me coming out of the Snake-charmed Saloon with glitter all over my face.”
This makes Mike sit down, pull a flask out of his pocket and take a sip of something that reeks like motor oil and vanilla beans. He has always had strange tastes.

“Y’all never stand up for me,” he mumbles through gritted teeth.
Groans sound from all around me.
“I’m forty-eight years old, Mike,” snaps a voice in the back, “I don’t stand up for nothing anymore unless I absolutely have to."
"I’ll remind you of that next time that pool-cue-looking bouncer grabs your wife’s butt again.” The groaning subsides. “That’s right,” mumbles Mike, before he takes another sip.
“Same goes for you, Scrawny. Maybe I won’t pick up the phone, next time you need to talk to your landlord.”

I had forgotten about that. The guy that owns my building had quietly stolen my parking spot and pretended it was never mine. He parked a wheel-less Mustang there, waiting to be fixed up. It was Mike who suggested we tow the car and present him with the bill. “Be a backbone, not a wishbone,” he had said. It worked. The slumlord had only gently nodded to me ever since we towed his “beauty.” It wasn’t until six months later that Stephen told me him and Mike had gone to see “the beauty” and her owner at the tow-lot that same night. “Just to talk to him.” Sure.

Me and Mike never discussed it.

In complete silence we traverse the last twenty-odd miles to Morgan City. I am sure all of us remembering a moment when Mike was standing right behind us. So we stay quiet and we try to count the herons in the bushes racing by.

The squeal of the brakes wakes me up.

“Morgan City, final stop, six minutes early,” the bus driver yells over the hiss of the pneumatic doors, “but I gotta piss like a racehorse, so y’all have to see yourselves off.” He opens the little swing door and steps out into the aisle.

And there they are.

All eight of us see them at the exact same time: the faux-crocodile leather boots. Still shiny. Still ugly. And definitely still Mike’s - but on the feet of this Hare Lines bus driver. His shirt calls him Jeff. We make sure he does not make it to that lavatory before pissing his pants. I don’t think I saw Mike wear another pair of shoes after that day.

We rode this bus twice a week for the next twenty years but we only ever saw the driver again at the end of Mike’s stories where “Barefoot Jeff limps off into the swamps.”

505 words. 3 min read.

So far, so good

Ping…
I am watching the needle creep into the red part of the gauge. It is so quiet I think I can hear the dials crackle. But this is probably my splitting headache.

“I know it’s you,” Torpedoman Kupe hisses.
“Where did you put it, stew burner?”
His whisper turns into a low growl, mid-sentence.
I reach for the pocket in my dungarees.

The cook doesn’t respond with more than a shush.
“Be still now, Kupe. You don’t endeavor to get us all killed, do you, son?”
I can’t see the XO intervening, but I recognize him by his careful choice of words.
“I need it back, sir.”
“Hush now, sailor.”

“So far, so good,” Doc mutters.

Ping…
The needle climbs further and an orange warning light illuminates, reminding me of the road trips I took with my father. He would refuse to pay “sucker tax” and we usually ended up stranded off Illinois Route 150. Close enough to hear the Mississippi. Now and then, even close enough to see the anchor shimmer on the arm of the Popeye statue by Chester Bridge.

But sometimes we got lucky and we would be hopping the Missouri border on fumes, me, my dad and his puke green Studebaker limping into Mister Drake’s 24-hour service station.

Ping…
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” he would say as we pulled back onto the highway.
“Don’t wait for life to come your way, take what you need. Be strategic about these things and you don’t get lucky, you get what you deserve.”

“So far, so good,” Doc whispers again.

Ping…
He wasn’t just talking about getting cheap gas. My dad was always strategizing. And in doing so, he hardly ever got lucky. Although drinking a bottle of Ezra Brooks before stealing a boat is not much of a strategic decision. Pomme de Terre Lake gave him what he deserved.

Ping…
They’re coming faster now, the pings.
“Give it!”
“Restrain him. Quietly.”
Black spots appear before my eyes, but through the hatch I can just recognize the anchor tattooed on the cook’s arm closing around Kupe’s throat.

“So far, so good.” Doc’s voice cracks.

Ping…
Moviegoers think the pings you hear are coming from the submarine itself.

Ping…
When really, it is the sonar of the destroyer prowling the surface, ricocheting off our hull. “The quicker the ping, the closer the bang,” Chief Vance says.

Ping…
CO2 HIGH, the warning light blinks.
“So far… So good.”
He is losing faith.

Ping…
“You stole my lucky coin!”
Worthless, you mean. But I need it.

Ping…
Their fight is sloppy. And loud. The fog has reached their brains too.

Ping…
I reach into my pocket and try to hold up the piece of zinc-covered steel to calm the torpedoman’s nerves. Restore the necessary silence.
“So far… So…”

Ping…
The boat goes black. Nothing left but my headache.

Ping…
“Luck has nothing to do with it,” said my father.

Ping…
I drop Kupe’s coin on the metal floor.

a brother lost

But Father, he goaded me!

Goaded you? A Seraphic Guard?

His insults were unworthy of an immortal. Foul!

You act like a child.

Let us fight again and I will take his head.

He is your brother! He won.

You always take his side. For all eternity.

And thou shalt be on his. For all eternity.

After all my service, I will not bow to a whelp centuries my junior.

You will give him your counsel, your sword, and your power.

Power? I have more in my pinky.

Then you will give him that too.

Father…?

Jehudiel, get a chisel.