Waiting

When you're staring at your hand for so long that you see the cracks, the callouses, the scar from when you cut yourself while helping chop tomatoes. You see that you have hair on your hand, have you always had hair on your hand, you wonder to yourself, then you assure yourself that you've always had hairy knuckles. You rub one hand over the other, maybe pass over a wedding ring or maybe not, depending on how flirtatious you feel today. You feel yourself breathe, then suddenly you're aware of your tongue moving in your mouth and you can't find the comfortable position for it to rest and give up, until you can forget about it. You move your toes in your sneakers, maybe even curl them. Eventually you decide enough time has passed and you look at the clock, but in a way that's secretive, you look around the waiting room, at the painting of a flower vase, at the tropical fish tank, and finally at the clock.

“Five minutes.” You grumbled to yourself. Five minutes since you found the piece of lint in your pocket, ten minutes since you got up and drank some fountain water. If your knuckles hadn't already been cracked you would crack them again, arthritis be damned. Everyone in the room shifts uncomfortably. Children are playing with the toy that has wires and wooden blocks, knocking wood together loudly. The carpet suddenly becomes interesting, dark brown with scribbles, you try to make out what the main pattern is, but your eyes just grow tired.

Your name gets called and you awkwardly stand. The Doctor is someone you knew from elementary school who occasionally tries to be your friend outside of their job. You always turn down the offer, after all someone who knows what STDs you might potentially have is someone you don't want to have drinks with on Friday nights.

“So what is it this time?” The Doctor asks, smiling friendly. The asshole.

“Now I know this might sound a little... well off.” Your voice is low. “But I think I was visited by aliens.”

Your Doctor looks at you, eyes wide. “What makes you say that?” Humoring you.

“Well I...” You don't want to say it. “I think I was probed.” You whisper.

Silence. “I don't think I'm... qualified to treat that.” Was it a joke or was he serious? You try reading his face but it's a mystery.

Everyone in the waiting room looks up at you, being escorted by two men. You proudly smile, maybe even wink at a soccer mom. The Doctor whispers something to the secretary. This is the last time you'll see this Doctor professionally and you've never been happier to have been visited by aliens. You wave with your little fingers moving individually to the Doctor, who pretends not to see you and calls the next patient. The two men shove you along to the elevator. You would shout that the aliens were real, but you don't care if anyone believes you or not. The elevator doors close on you and time slows down as you descend to the bottom floor. 

Night Cap

Setting: Living room of an apartment, hooks hang on the wall, empty, a sofa with a few colorful pillows, dining room table near the couch, and a dead body center of stage, lying face down, there is a kitchenette in the corner of the stage with glasses set up and a wine bottle.

Characters:
Afia
 Dan Joseph (DJ)

[Enter: Afia and DJ, laughing. DJ takes his shoes off and pulls off his coat and puts on the hook, he's mid-conversation. Afia stopped at the doorway.]

DJ: And then my boss has the nerve to tell me, “Go back through the files and highlight everything that references this case file. [sweeps hand in a crossing motion] Instead of that case file.” [Bursts out laughing] I just finished busting ass, highlighting this goddamn case file and he drops a different coloured highlighter in my desk and says to go through and find some other case file, and I'm already goddamn high on highlighter marker ink. [Crosses the living room stepping over the dead body and walks to the couch and looks at Afia] Do you need to be invited in or something? Come. [Pats his hand on the couch] I won't bite.

Afia: Are you seriously pretending you don’t see the dead body?

DJ: [Incredulous] What dead body?  [Looks around]

Afia: That one! [Walks to the center of the stage pointing] This dead body right here.

[Beat]

DJ: Is that a dead body?

Afia: I don't want to touch it, but I'm sure it's a dead body. [Pause] We have to call the cops.

DJ: Maybe it’s just a passed out homeless person who took refuge in my apartment, you don’t know their life story. [Crosses his leg and leans his arm on the back of the chair]

Afia: In that case we should call the cops anyway! This is a breaking and entering! Clearly!

DJ: [Looks around] Come Afia, let him rest, I bet he’s purty tired.

Afia: He's dead, he can't afford to be tired. [Gets on her knees] Ugh, he smells.

DJ: Of course he smells, now can we drop the dead body subject. And get me a glass of chardonnay, if you would be so kind.

Afia: [Stands back up] Are you being serious right now? Is the fact that your – no our apartment – is a crime scene even going to phase you?

DJ: Our apartment? [Stands up] Look, Afia, half a dresser of your clothes and a toothbrush does not constitute dropping an ‘our’ apartment. This is my apartment.

Afia: Oh it’s our apartment when you want a blowjob, but it’s your apartment when there’s a dead body on the floor. [Walks to the kitchenette and looks back at him] You didn’t even chill your wine. DJ. A dead body and unchilled wine. If you're trying to unimpress me you're doing a spectacular job.

DJ: [Shrugs] It's been cool lately, I didn't think I needed to chill it.

Afia: You're a fucking piece of work you know that? It's room temperature and it's not even that cold in the room. [Pours two glasses of wine and immediately chugs hers down, pouring another one] Disgusting, room temperature.

[There is a long pause as Afia stares into the glass and DJ is watching her.]

DJ: Haven’t you had enough to drink tonight?

Afia: [Head shakes a little] I think you confused me for the sluts in the tube tops drinking shots. [DJ scoffs] Yeah I saw you looking, you not even going to try and deny it, are you?

DJ: They were being rowdy! [Walks to the kitchenette and grabs his glass, swiveling it.]  You know I only have eyes for you, sweetpea.

[Afia leans against the kitchenette, sipping her glass, facing the dead body. DJ has his back facing away from the dead body.]

DJ: You know night cap’s usually end on a happier note. [Scoffs] You haven’t even taken your heels off, all the dirt is going to get in my carpet.  [Chugs his glass]

Afia: Please, your carpet is probably soaking in all the blood and odors of decomposition and you’re worried about a little dirt on my shoes mucking up your carpet. [Finishes off her glass and pours another one.] I prefer my heels on, thank you.

[There is another long pause, both are silent]

DJ: This is nice, don’t you think? [He slides his foot up her leg.]

Afia: The dead body isn’t going to go away, Dan. I'm not having sex in an apartment with a dead body.

DJ: [Mocking] I'm Afia, I'm up for anything if you're up for it. Isn't that what you said?

Afia: [Sets the glass down] I'm sorry if a dead body is a little too weird for me. I'm going to leave you two.

DJ: No, Affy, please don't go. I was kidding.

Afia: I’ll call a cab. I’ll pay for it even, you don’t have to do a single thing.

DJ: Haven’t I been good to you? Hasn’t this nice just been lovely? You've been so beautiful and so happy, and now you're mad. Please, baby. We should end on a good note.

Afia:  If you're asking for sex, you might as well just have it with the dead body. [Mocks DJ’s laugh. She walks to the door, lingering a little.] I wonder if the stairway will be far enough where it won't be weird.

DJ: What won’t? [There is a pause and Afia leaves.] You never said what! Crazy... bitch. [DJ pours himself another glass.] You aren’t much for talking are you? [Raises his glass toward the dead body.] Whatever.

John Doe

“When I was a young boy, I used to sit on the roof of my mom's house. I used to sit and pretend like I was somewhere else, that the person that sat underneath the roof wasn't my mother, that the moment I climbed down from the roof I would have a different family, all smiles and shit.” He let out a chuckle. “Oh, shit, am I allowed to cuss?” His head tilted as he stared, laying in a hospital bed. He had a few days worth of stubble growing on his face. I sat on the visitor's chair with a notebook open, scribbling. I scratched out the last bit – asking if he was allowed to cuss and looked up.

“I'm sure my teacher's heard the words before.” I answered, smiling, side-eying the clock. “Please, don't distract yourself too much.” He looked at the fluorescent lights. “Was your family that bad? I mean, sitting on rooftops... it's a little extreme.” I tried getting back on topic, I clicked the pen a few times.

He shrugged, “My parents were divorced, my Dad worked full time and my Mom had me twice a week and every other weekend. It was an ongoing battle for the right of their son.” He explained, scratching his stubble. “But the roof isn't the point, and neither is my mom or my dad, see.” He paused, “The point is, you're hooked, right?” I nodded, for his sake. “You're curious about how fucked up everything was. How worse can his life be? I'll be sitting in my fucking car, the woman of the night would stare at me, like seriously, did he just admit that? I mean I did, I did admit that my mom used to call me retarded in front of my teachers, like I was her problem...” He winced and continued, playing with his tongue. “I used to ask her, if she hated me so much why did she bother fighting for custody? You know what she said?” I shook my head, I mean how would I know? “She told me, get this, she told me...” His finger in the air, holding the words. “She told me I was her punishment, that... twenty eight years ago she thought about getting an abortion, me, and God told her if she went through with it he'd smite her. I was her problem. He never told her, 'Oh by the way treat your son nicely, make sure he has a good life' he just said she had to be in my life.” He snorted and rubbed the bottom of his nose. The room was a pale blue, apparently supposed to calm the patients. He was chewing his lip something fierce, mulling over what to say next. “Finally, I was able to leave. I hid it so far inside, I would go 'what childhood?' But, a few years later it trickled out, leaked, it had to, you don't walk away from that without some baggage. I started paying women, hookers – I mean, to listen to me.” He looked at me, his lips went from smiling to frowning. “Is that pathetic or what? But I truly believed... I still believe, rather, that these women are the only ones who know what true tragedy is like. So I talked to them.”

I look at him, I'm a junior in high school with a bull essay about an important person in my life, six pages, double spaced, he could tell me he's a hotshot at some company, instead he goes for the more truthful, soppy shit. My essay is now on the man in the hospital bed – he's practically dead, and his final testament to the world is his confession about confessing to hookers. Already a question popped in my head: “Why not therapy?”

He smiled – obviously he's thought about this for awhile, “I found out a therapist is 50 bucks, per session, 50 bucks just to listen to you and tell you you're secretly in love with your mother or some shit and drop pills in your lap. I wasn't gonna deal with that, I mean fuck those pretentious assholes sitting behind their desk listening to these sob stories day in and day out. Instead, 50 bucks for a girl whose seen every cock up and down 18^th street? She's not going to judge, how can she? She'd fucking blow me if I asked her because I have 50 bucks in my hand.” I think he realized he was rambling and he stopped, smiling. “Anyway there's a sort of pathetic...” He paused, tonguing his cheek.”...Joy in giving a stranger your life's story, I always feel better afterward, it's addicting.” He chuckled and started picking at his robe. “Shit, I can't even tell you how long I've been doing it for, and it's never the same story or the same girl twice.”

I watched him, curious, no doubt the hookers weren't just for talking to. Deciding to prod a bit more, sitting at the edge of my seat, “Why not just find a girl to have a one night stand with? After you're all done just tell her how you're life sucks.” Seemed reasonable.

He responded, laughing at first, his eyes cast downward. “You think some... one night stand girl wants to hear how my mom overdosed on her couch listening to Disco? How she cried wolf for years and years in my teens about committing suicide, and I changed my number time and time again and still, I get voicemail messages. I just stopped checking my box after awhile. Then, I get this call from a family friend, 'Please you have to come to her funeral, she has nobody else.' I deleted my voicemail, all of it, I had the message, I know I did, I didn't even listen to her last words.” He looked up at me, a little confused. “What was the question? Oh yes, one night stands. I think the problem with one night stands is some of those girls, bless their hearts, they want to fix you, the sex isn't as good when you know the girl is just doing it out of pity. And after telling them a story like that, you know it's out of pity.” I didn't want to know how you know, I'll take his word for it.

I looked at the time, I would inevitably have to come back Thursday – waiting for my sister to get off her shift in the hospital. “Final question for today, how did you end up here?” I smiled, “Simply saying John Doe from the room 324 in Saint Mercy Hospital isn't very... I mean, you're still young and in the death floor.” I felt a pit in my stomach, maybe he didn't know it was the death floor, maybe he did.

He touched his chin, “How do you know this it the death floor?” He asked. His eyes looked toward the cart at his feet, an unopened pudding cup.

“My sister works here, not, this floor, but this building.” I explained, “I'm actually waiting for her to get off her shift.” I press my lips together, don't ask my name, don't ask her name – I pray to God.

Instead he looks longingly out the window. “That must be quiet the age gap.” He commented.

“She is a little over thirteen years older than me.” I explained, “My mom died when I was younger.” I clicked my pen, impatient. This isn't about me, this is about you.

He looked at me with the same pathetic puppy dog eyes the same kind everyone gives me, “Oh I'm sorry.” He whispered, forcing some kind of sick sympathy. And all I can think is 'Oh fuck off, who are you to tell me you're sorry, you spend your life telling hookers your sad ass stories and you think your sympathy means shit to me? I bet you're sorry, sorry you never had a loving sister who took care of you, sorry you ended up here in this hospital.' I sucked my cheeks in, trying not to glare, trying not to murder him with the pen in my hand. He watched me closely, “I don't want to keep your sister waiting, can you hand me the pudding cup?” He asked, looking at it. I stood up, still sucking my cheeks in, still keeping the urge to grab the pudding spoon and scoop his eyes out, I hand it to him, not making eye contact. “Something on your mind?” He asked.

Yeah you bet there's something on my mind you piece of shit. I coughed, “What happened to land you hear?” Smooth.

He rubbed his thumb against his fingers, “I never did answer that, did I? Well, short answer is I was shot by a pimp.” He smiled, oddly enough. “Not even a pimp for the hookers I frequent. This was blocks away, farther away than I'd ever go for some girl. I was just out walking, and then this asshole shoots me, said something like I 'looked like another John who was choking his bitches.' Imagine that, some bitch ass chokes hookers and I get the bullet.” He laughed and held his chest, looking in pain. “Fuck that, the fucking prick shot me in the chest and the hooker is screaming, I'm blacking out and this chick goes, 'No Boss you got the wrong guy!' By the by, I was also robbed before the ambulance came, can you imagine? Some good Samaritan took my wallet and I'm not about to give these hospital assholes my name. Fucking, next thing I know I wake up here and some white coat is telling me how lucky I am for surviving. You know why I'm lucky? I get to live an extra four days because someone called the ambulance. The bullet shattered and there's still a piece near my heart, and they're too scared to pull it out. My heart is pumping and this shard is moving constantly.” His heart monitor was rapidly beeping as he ranted. “This shard can pierce my heart any second and kill me, and the nurses and doctors don't want to touch it.” More beeping and I could hear nurses running to the room. They came in and looked at me with bugged out eyes. I could hear screaming from the other room, and he dropped his pudding cup. His face was paler, but he smiled.

“You should go.” The nurses ordered.

I took a peek at his medical chart, John Doe, born April 1^st, 1984 looked at me, “Hope you get an A on the paper.” He croaked.

“I hope so too.” I replied, leaving. What else was I gonna say?

As I walked away I heard him tell the nurse, “Are the angels as pretty as you are? Maybe it won't be so bad.”

I met my sister at the front of the hospital, she always changed out of her scrubs and into pedestrian clothes. “Did something happen today at school?” She asked. “You look a little down.” Always the noisy one.

“I watched a documentary.” I replied. A sad documentary on the life of John Doe, computer analyst, practiced therapy in the form of hookers, and probably, most definitely someone my sister would have a heart attack if she knew I met. He looked peaceful afterward though, or maybe that's wishful thinking on my part. I like to think giving his life story to a stranger wasn't a form of joy, but relief, catharsis. He let hookers into parts of his life that probably no one else saw, vulnerable and a little child-ish. In that way they probably saw parts of themselves, they got to do some self-reflecting too. I might also be romanticizing him a bit, for all I know telling stories of his screwed up childhood was the only way he got hard. It's not some form of therapy but some weird kink he discovered one night. Maybe, but that's kind of gross and too jaded of an outlook for a man I barely met. John Doe of 324 just wanted people to listen, so he got his wish. I got my wish too, in a way. “A really, really sad documentary.” I repeat. My sister wrapped her arms around me, making puppy dog sounds, rubbing my shoulder and back. At the end of the day, at least, I have her. For once I don't feel like bitching at her for making me go to a school near her, just so that she can pick me up after work easy. I just want to stay in her arms and thank her for being there. For once, I feel happy to be alive.

Lola

Her eyes were fixed on the soda dispenser, Coke, Diet, Fanta, she rolled a dollar coin between her thumb and forefinger. Ice, cold, refreshing, she licked her lips thinking about the cool taste with warm rice and lumpia. From two doors down, she heard furniture crashing, but her eyes stayed fixed on the soda machine.

“Can you fucking believe the nerve of that asshole?!” A woman shrieked from her apartment, “With some hussy at work no less!” More crashing.

Viola closed her eyes. Kept her breath steady. She repeated to herself, “Coke, Diet, Fanta.” She heard the door open, she didn't even twitch; her finger hovered over the buttons, faded with age. Coke, Diet, Fanta.

“No, you know I am done with him and this goddamn hole! All his bullshit furniture, place was a piece of crap!” She continued shrieking down the stairway. Viola heard her voice fade and she pushed herself away from the soda machine with her finger. She stepped, facing the now empty apartment and looked around. Casually, her hand reached to her beanie and she pulled hairpin out. She traced the outline of the lock before inserting it, and started picking the lock.

“Come on, you're the same door as Lola's, don't give me trouble.” She whispered to it. She felt the pins push in and she opened the door. Clothes were strewn on the floor, mostly his. She turned her head, the flat screen – probably his – had 'you cheating pig' scrawled in lipstick. Her eyes traced down, the pink lipstick case – Limecrime Lipstick. Sixteen dollar lipstick, used to write an angry message. Viola shook her head and continued walking, stepping over the wreckage.

In the bedroom, Viola went to the dresser first, using her sleeve she opened it, rifting through underwear. “Jackpot.” She whispered, pulling out a wad of bills hidden underneath the boxers. She looked at the top of the dresser, picking the necklaces with rubies dangling from them, the matching earrings. Lastly, she scanned the floor, her eyes opened wide and she stumbled to the floor, picking up a diamond engagement ring. She looked around, then at the ceiling, mouthing 'thank you.'

At first Viola didn't notice the smell, but as she breathed in, she started choking. Whether it was the broken cologne bottles mixed with her perfume, or the smell of sweet, sickly revenge, she wasn't sure. All she knew was it was suffocating, and she had to get out. The smell was so strong, she tasted it deep in her throat. She coughed and stumbled as she walked two flights down to the second floor.

“Lola.” She called out. “I changed my mind about the soda.” There was a laughter coming from the room. The door open wide.

“Good, because lumpia and rice isn't good to eat with soda.” She said. Lola, was about eighty – or Viola decided she was eighty, her wrinkles and short stature, Viola wasn't sure of her name, but she told Viola specifically she would be referred to as Lola – Tagalog for Grandmother.

“Lola, can I smoke in here?” Viola asked. Lola moved to the kitchen, the rice was ready to be served, the lumpia was stacked on a plate.

It was one of those triggers, Lola would look with piercing black eyes, scowling so her entire face contorted. “You trying to kill your Lola with second-hand smoke?” She asked, talking quickly. “Cigarettes are bad for your health. They make your teeth rot and your lungs dirty, you won't get a man with your breath so foul.” Lola lectured.

Viola waited,

Coke, Diet, Fanta.

She exhaled.

Lola moved the lumpia and picked it up with her tongs. “Cigarette is like tax on the addicted.” Her final words on the subject. She smiled, looking at Viola with her tongs. “Are you hungry?” Her voice became sweet again. Viola looked over at Lola, her eyes trailed over the knick-knacks, jade Buddhas: skinny, fat, Buddhas with money fans in their hands.

Viola exhaled invisible smoke, “I feel a little nauseous.” She admitted.

Lola spooned the rice on her plate with the lumpia, and shuffled to the kitchen table. “You leaving?”

Viola nodded standing up, “Maybe next week.” She apologized.

Lola shook her head, “No, it's okay, you're a grown woman.” She set the plate down and walked over to Viola, “Maybe later this week.” She said, holding her arm for a hug. Viola leaned in, hugging Lola tightly, a faint smell of perfume and Viola felt like puking.

Viola stepped out of the building and pulled out her cigarette pack, a tax on the addicted. She patted her pockets for her lighter. Frustrated growl, she went through her purse. Through her teeth, Viola grunted, “Lola.” She set the unlit cigarette behind her ear and started walking.

Viola laid on her floor mattress, staring at the calendar on her wall. Daytime Tuesdays meant Lola, then evening she would walk to the Bingo Building and wait for Meredith to get out. It was always a coin toss whether or not to eat dinner, because sometimes ol' Meredith would insist on treating Viola and either she ate two dinners and felt like exploding or she told Meredith no and Meredith gave the silent treatment the entire walk home. Being an old woman and angry was like being a child and angry, they seethed for a short while and it pierced through your entire being. But like children, by the next time they saw you, it was like it never happened.

She stood up and paced around, there was no harm in hanging around the Bingo arena a little early, only sometimes Johns would slow their car and ask where her pimp was. She often answered with a swift middle finger. She looked around, aside from her dresser, alarm clock, and bed, the room was empty, she was always ready to leave at a moment's notice. In the living room she had a floor pillow, a desk (that doubled as her dining room table), a chair, and a telephone. On her desk she had a bowl where all the jewelry she took sat, waiting to be pawned. The closet was the most crowded part of the apartment, exploding with knit caps, scarves, and a few sweaters. Some of the old ladies gave her ceramics and trinkets, which she in boxes and kept in the corner of the closet, next to her rain boots.

Finally, the time had come for Viola to begin walking to the Bingo Building. She grabbed her purse and walked out of the apartment, in other apartments the chairs scrapped the floor as people sat down to eat, a tv blared a different channel at every door. The walls were paper thin, it wasn't something you realized unless you lived in silence, on one side you could hear a couple fucking and on the other a couple fighting, Viola never slept much to begin with, but she liked being able to tell people a definitive reason why she looked so tired.

She walked the streets, alert to the cars passing by. She saw the fogged window and a man laying back in her chair, she was almost ready to knock on the window and tell him to take it to an alleyway. It wasn't even that late and he was already getting his fill. She stopped thinking about him and his acquaintance the moment she hit the next street, the woman she saw struck her. Leaning against the street pole, she looked like an old pro, but when she got closer, Viola saw it was an old woman, wrinkled, harmless, smoking a cigarette. The old woman wore a heavy jacket and bright Christmas pajama pants, running up the legs was HoHoHo written, Viola's eyes were bug-eyed as she looked at her. The woman took a long drag of her cigarette. As Viola passed her, she turned her head. The problem, Viola realized, with tending to old ladies, is you're always wondering if you were her fake granddaughter for a week or six months, the sudden fear that a random old woman on the street knows you're just as lonely and desperate as they are. The old woman never turned her head, Viola decided she was too cool to put out an Ad.

Viola reached the Bingo Center and waited outside the doorway, watching her breath condense. Oftentimes Meredith would tug Viola around, telling the other old ladies and men about her wonderful granddaughter: that Viola worked at a bakery or she's getting married and a soon-to-be mother. Viola often looked at the floor, embarrassed. Viola watched the empty lot, her mental clock ticking. Soon, the exodus of people started, some side-eyed Viola, others laughed together, like they've been friends since they started wearing diapers the first time around. She waited until the last person left, andwith Meredith nowhere in sight Viola stopped breathing easy. She stepped into the building.

“Hello?” She called out.

There were a few young people cleaning up the chips on the floor. Mercy Church Bingo Night banners hung behind them. One of the males got a chair and pulled it down.

“Hello?” Viola called out again. All of them looked at her.

“Are you looking for someone?” The oldest in the group said.

Viola smiled, “Meredith... ah...” She trailed off, not knowing a last name.

They stared at one another, “Meredith... Polinzinki?” The older asked.

Viola shrugged, “Kind of old, faded red hair.” She described.

“Meredith... passed away over the weekend. Weren't you there for the service?” A girl asked. She was stacking chairs.

“Did anyone even go to her service?” Someone asked. A few people murmured.

“Valued member, she'll be missed in the church and bingo nights.” Someone else cut in, loudly. That was the downside of not really knowing your pseudo-grandparents, Viola thought, outside of the people they introduce to you, you aren't really in their life, you don't get to know the important stuff, like their funeral dates. She took a deep breath.

“Thanks, then.” She swiftly walked out the room before anyone could ask her for her name. After Viola escorted Meredith home, she would always thank Viola for making sure she made it home safely, she would admit, laughing a little, she was afraid of of being robbed and Viola made her feel secure. She often laughed and said, nonchalantly, if it wasn't for Viola making sure she got home ok, she might end up dead on the streets. Viola shivered and quickened her pace home.

When Viola opened her apartment door and unlocked it, she instantly headed to her phone and dialed Lola's number.

“Hello, Lola speaking.” The familiar voice.

“Hi... Lola.” Viola hesitated, “Sorry for calling so late.”

“It's okay, I was watching old movies.” Viola could indeed hear voices in the background.

Viola searched for the words she was trying to say, it would have been easier if she had waited to call Lola with the words already figured out, but impulses seldom worked like that. Finally she took a deep breath, “Thank you for choosing me.” She finally exhaled. They shared silence. It was one of those things you never pointed out, that this was an Ad, that I answered it, this isn't real. You were just suddenly a mother or grandmother for a child.

Lola chuckled on the other line, “Come by tomorrow and I'll make you lumpia?” Lola suggested. Something funny happened in the movie because Viola could hear the background sound

“I'd like that.” Viola agreed. “I'll come by after work.” She hung the phone up and collapsed on her bed, smiling.

Carnival

“Wait up, Revel!” Timothy cried out, running through the dirt and weed field. He was kicking up dust, dirtying up his black dress shoes and the bottom of his Dickies. He stopped for a moment, watching his sandy blond friend increase the distance between them. He started running again, “Revel, please! I don't want to get in trouble with the Sunday school teacher!” He shrieked.

Revel slowed and turned toward Timothy, “You're not worried about the Sunday school teacher you're worried about your Mom!” He teasingly called out. Unlike Timothy, Revel wore tennis shoes and casual clothes. “Now come on, before they notice we're gone! I want to know you something, or should I ask your Maamee for permission!” He taunted, waving his arms wildly.

Timothy let out a howl and ran after Revel, who bolted again. “Take that back!” Timothy howled, chasing Revel. He ran reckless, his head down and his arms flailing. When Timothy stepped and slipped, he felt himself fall through the air. He laid dazed, clouds drifted through the sky, lazily. The edges of Timothy's mouth stretched to a smile. He rolled onto his stomach and stood up, dusting himself off. “Revel?” He called out. He hesitated running, instead jogged where Revel wanted them to go. He saw the carousel from a distance, from as far away as he was Timothy could see pieces of the carousel were missing completely. The horse was missing one of his legs, the carousel was a rusted color and the paint faded beyond recognition, the mirrors were broken in spiderweb, patterns, the trees that used to surround the area were cut down to stubs, the place had a smell of filth. There was a lake a little while from there, Timothy thought, that's probably where all the smell is coming from. His eyes grew wide and he looked around wildly.

“Where's Revel?” He murmured to himself. “It isn't like him to be so quiet for so long.” He began to walk around the carousel, nearly tripping on Revel laying on the ground. Timothy let out a shriek and began shaking Revel, his breathing was quiet. Timothy let out a howling cry, “Revel wake up!” He shouted. He tried picking up Revel and he nearly fell over, between sobs Timothy called out Revel's name. He looked at Revel again and sniffed. “I'll be back Revel, ok? I'll bring help.” He wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve and ran toward the Sunday school.

Revel felt a sharp pain in his head when he woke up and he let out a groan. He looked up and saw the carousel, white and pink trim. He took a deep breath, “Where am I?” He asked, sitting up and holding his head. His eyes traced the carousel, then the green grass, and a wired fence with trees surrounding him. He let out a whimper. “Timothy?” He weakly cried out. There was silence, then he heard footsteps.

“Cinna!” A girl's voice called out. “Nevermind, let's just climb the fence and ditch this place.” Revel watched the girl, no older than his Sunday School Teacher grab onto the fence, oblivious to the witness.

“Hello?” Revel asked. She jumped and her head snapped, looking at Revel. Her hair was done in pigtails buns and they were puffed out, her make-up was thick and raccoon-esque, and her clothes had every color and several layers, an out-of-order rainbow. She let go of the fence and crossed her arms. “What are you doing here?” She asked.

“Did yous find her?” A voice called out, deep and manly.

“I found someone else.” She said plainly, her eyes fixed on Revel.

“Whaddya mean you found someone else?” He asked, with a note of astonishment.

“Come here and see, Bepo.” She ordered, never looking away. Revel felt his voice backed up in his throat. The man named Bepo came quickly and stood tall, Revel wasn't sure he met someone as tall as Bepo was.

“What's wit de kid?” He questioned, crossing his arms. Both stared at Revel now.

“Oh, my turn.” He murmured. “I...” He blushed, “I wanted to show Timmy the broken carousel.” He explained quickly.

“Broken?!” Bepo demanded. “The carousel shouldn't be broken it just got built.” He looked at Revel sternly, “Don't lie you little punk, I eat kids like you for breakfa-” The girl punched him in the arm.

“Now, now, what do you mean? Who's Timmy? And where did you hear the carousel is broken from?” She asked.

Revel felt warm, “Timmy is my best friend! He's suppose to be following me through the field.” He gradually whispered. As he spoke. Then he looked stern, “The carousel has always been broken, no one comes here and does anything to make sure it works.” He affirmed.

Bepo and the girl looked at one another, then back at Revel. “This carousel was just built and you's telling me's it's broken?” Bepo responded.

“The carousel was not just built!” Revel's face puffed up, “It's been around since before I was born, my Papa even wrote he loved my Mom in marker!”

“Listen kid, you's a baby but you's ain't tat young.” Bepo grunted, slapping the back of his fingers in his palm, “This carousel was brought here a little over a year ago, don't go telling me anything to the contrary.” He looked at Revel sternly as he spoke; then smiled little and pressed his finger into his forehead. “I don't mean ta scare you or anything.” He apologized, looking at Revel who stared at his shoes, head hung low.

“You have to treat kids nicer, Bepo. He's not one of your friends from the bar, he's sensitive, he's probably not even old enough to go to a movie by himself.” The girl scolded. Bepo looked at her, scratching the back of his head. Revel raised his head and watched them.

“Yes ma'am.” Bepo whispered, his head hung low.

The girl smiled, triumphantly, and looked at Revel, rubbing her nose with her finger. “We should talk to the Bossman about the kid, yeah? I mean, kids just don't wander back here, especially with the circus tent up and all of us standing about.” She looked around. “Hell, the cops would probably lock him up for the night until they find where his home is.” She muttered.

Revel's eyes grew, “I bet everyone at Sunday school knows I'm gone by now.” He whined.

“Why would you be at Sunday school?” The girl asked, her head tilted.

Revel looked confused, “Because today is Sunday?” His voice was high-pitched as he answered. Bepo and the girl looked at each other, both frowning.

“I thought today was Wednesday.” The girl whispered.

“It is.” Bepo affirmed. Their heads turned and they stared at Revel, synchronized in motion. She made a high pitched humming sound. Revel puffed out his cheeks. “Let's go to the Bossman.” Bepo suggested. “He's nice, you'll like him.” Bepo winced as if saying that sentence hurt him. Revel looked around once again, before agreeing.

“You found him near the carousel?” The Bossman repeated, staring at Bepo and the girl. He was about half the size of Bepo, even if he stood on tables he was still much shorter. Revel could hear them clearly from outside the trailer.

“He was, he didn't look like he knew where he was, lost as a drunkard in his first AA meeting.” Bepo noted. The girl turned her head and looked at Bepo, a smile twitched from her mouth.

“Duly noted.” The Bossman said, his mouth puckered and he looked deep in thought. “ It won't be good for us if the cops come around with a Missing Persons on the kid.” The girl let out high-pitched hum and shook her head.

The girl crossed her arms, “We should let him spend the night here, and in the morning go to the cops. By then someone will have reported him.” She looked out the window, “At least I hope someone reported him.”.
“No, no cops.” The Bossman ordered, “The kid is old enough to know where he lives, you can walk him there tomorrow. But absolutely no cops.” He scowled, “Where's the little brat gonna stay anyway?” He asked.

“With the girls, of course, he doesn't need to be with the Lion tamer and Bepo in their trailer. Or the tattooed man, or any of the other guys who work here.” The girl quickly answered.

Bepo let out a quiet chuckle, “I'm sure you didn't mean offense.”

“Oh, I meant offense.” The girl replied, grinning widely.

The Bossman's mouth twitched into a frown and he looked as if he suddenly solved a puzzle, “Why were you two out in the forest for anyway?” His voice had a accusatory tone to it.

“What do ya think wes were doing?” Bepo snapped. “We was looking for Cinna, since no one else seems to give a damn!” His voice shook the trailer, and Revel tensed up.

The Bossman's face became deep red, “I told you not to waste your time on her cause; she dug herself a hole she gotta get herself out of that hole!” He screamed.

“Cinna wouldn't even look at us and then suddenly she books like that! It's rotten eggs and I gots the suspicion yous the bad hen!” Bepo's voice strained as he screamed. The girl tugged on Bepo's arm, trying to quiet his voice.

“Are you accusing me of something, Bepo?” The Bossman challenged, his fingers tapped at his chest, “If you're accusing me of something you better goddamn be prepared for consequences!” Both the girl and Bepo stared at the Bossman.

Revel shook, trying to hold back tears, 'stop, stop yelling' he thought to himself. A cool breeze touched his cheek and a soft glow came from between the trailers. “Why are you crying?” Whispered the phantom woman.

Revel looked up at her, vaguely she resembled the girl who was helping him. He let out a whine and shook his head. From the trailer, the girl was still sobbing and Bepo and the Bossman were silent. Bepo's eyes piercing and his fist clenched.

“Well?” The woman asked.

Revel wiped his eyes, “I wanna go home.” He whined.

The woman knelt beside Revel, she was translucent, Revel could see the trailer through her. “If you go home now, you won't be able to tell anyone where I am.” She whispered.

“Where you are?” Revel stammered.

The woman looked at herself, the longer Revel stared, the more detailed she became, her face was boated, she looked sickly. “Water.” She struggled for breath and started to shake wildly. Inside the trailer, Revel could hear Bepo screaming profanities. The woman gasped and looked at Revel, her eyes wide, “Tell them, you want to join the circus. You'll do anything.” Her body twitched and gasped. “Don't trust the Bossman – I'll come to see you again!”

The door opened to the trailer, Bepo stood with his fist clenched. “Now who's accusing who's of something now?!” He screamed.

The girl followed Bepo out, her eyes red and puffed. Revel turned to the ghost, but she had disappeared. He couldn't bring himself to speak, if he tried, he might drown.

“Come on.” The girl said, holding her hand out. Revel reached out and stood up. The Bossman watched from the doorway as the three walked away.

Revel laid on the army cot in the bedroom, the door was open a crack and he could hear the women talk amongst each other.

"Do you really think Cinna is gone forever?” One of the voices asked, causing a clamor among the rest of the ladies.

“You shouldn't listen on their conversations.” The ghostly woman criticized.

Revel looked out the door, “I don't know what's going on.” He whispered and looked at the ghost woman. “Your name is Cinna... right?” He winced a little. “I mean, you could be anyone else, but you're... probably Cinna.”

The ghost woman tilted her head, “Yes. And no.” She answered.

“Yes and no.” Revel repeated, frowning.

Cinna laughed a little, “Nevermind.” Her arms crossed. “I need to ask you a favor.”

Revel looked blankly. “Sure, considering you brought me here... I think.” He tilted his head.
Cinna nodded, “I did.” She answered, then came close to Revel, “I brought you here for a reason, I've spent my undead life trying for peace, but I need help.”

Revel looked down, “Tell me what I can do.” He answered.

“Are you talking to yourself?” The girl opened the door, looking at Revel.

The ghost disappeared. Revel turned to the girl and smiled, “I suppose I am.” He replied.

She tilted her head and giggled. closing the door. He heard her muffled voice, then muffled laughter.

Revel wrapped the blanket around him and stared at the wall. “What is my reason?” He asked, hoping Cinna would answer.

**

“Are you sure this is where you live?” The girl asked as they walked along the sidewalks.

Revel nodded as he walked, “We walk this way everyday from school, this is the main street and we turn... at Pinecrest.” He looked up and turned, staring blankly. The street was gated off and piles of dirt layered the street. Revel whined. “It's here, I know it's here.”

The girl frowned, “It's okay kid, if you don't remember.” She held his shoulder, “You can stay with us still, maybe you'll remember later.” They stared in the mounds of dirt, listening to the sound of trucks driving through.

They started walking back toward the carnival, Revel looked around, “My church should be around here.” He suggested.

“Maybe someone will recognize you.” The girl replied and she followed Revel.

They came upon the church, closed off for construction. The girl let out a humming sound. “I am so sorry, kiddo.” The girl whispered.

Revel felt tears well up and a knot in his chest. “Can we... go home now.” He asked, looking at the girl with a lowered head.

When they reached the carnival Bepo was sitting with the tattooed man, he was busy sketching in a paper. They sat in lawn chairs, and Bipo's feet were kicked up on the wine cooler. Revel stared at the tattooed man, he couldn't see a bare part of his skin anywhere.

“I thought the whole point of taking the kid to his parents was he wasn't gonna come back.” Bepo said.

The girl rolled her eyes, “We walked around his neighborhood but...” She shrugged. “Bossman said no cops and if the kid can't find his house it's not our fault.”

“Then drop him off and run away.” The tattooed man said, looking at his knuckles. Revel could see Free written on each knuckle of one hand. He chuckled a little.

The girl whined, “I don't think he lives around here.”

Revel continued, entranced by the Tattooed man. He could see Bepo and Cinna hidden within the tattoos, he tilted his head. “Is your name on there?” He asked looking up at the girl.

Bepo and the Tattooed Man let out an uproarious laugh. The Tattooed man held out his right forearm, Princess was written in a heart.

“Your name is Princess?” Revel asked.

Bepo laughed and leaned back, “No, she never told us what her name was, Cinna had her name, Princess just kept silent. She's always the Heroine or the Princess anyway, she has no need for a real name.” He stated matter-of-factly.

The girl had her arms crossed, “In so many words, yes.” She winked at Revel. “Names tie us down, you know, if I wanted I could use a different name every town, but I prefer to always be Nameless.” She explained.

“Isn't that poetic?” The Tattooed man teased. Bepo and the Tattooed man laughed again.

The girl scoffed, “You guys are having too much fun, once we get our horses and lions you'll be shoveling poop and cleaning trash and won't have time for laughing.”

“I laugh when I clean poop, don't you?” Bepo asked, tapping the Tattooed man on the arm. They laughed again.

Revel thought deeply. “What happens when you want a tattoo but you have no more skin?” He asked.

The laughter stopped and the Tattooed man smiled, “The same thing Picasso did when he painted, I'll cover something with what I want.” He rubbed his chin. “Even if you cover something, does it negate what was there before?” He asked.

Revel looked deep in thought before his head tilted, “What?”

Bepo's laugh became hoarse, “It's okay Kiddo, yous too young to know whats up.” He explained. The Tattooed man stared in the dirt, the very meaning the world was in his gaze.

“Who's Cinna?” Revel finally broke out.

All three looked at Revel with intensity. “Cinna is the sister of Princess.” The Tattooed man told.

“She was the North Star of this circus.” Bepo spoke as if she was a myth.

The girl looked at Revel, “She disappeared a day before you came here.” She informed, “First we thought she was just play hiding, but now we aren't so sure.”

“We are actually pretty sure she isn't playing.” Tattooed man corrected.

Bepo looked annoyed, his breathing changed and he tensed up, “We want to look before the circus starts up to the public but...” He trailed off.

The Tattooed man cleared his throat and the sound of footsteps could be heard. “Hello, my children,” The Bossman proclaimed. “I hope what I smell isn't something parents and cops alike will get mad over.” He scolded lightly, then laughed.

Revel blinked and looked at the girl who shook her head. The Tattooed man twisted his mouth into a smile, “Do you smell anything Bepo?” His eyes shifted. “Princess? Kiddo?”

The Bossman looked over at Revel. “I thought he was going home.” His voice lost any cheerfulness.

“I don't think Revel has a home, I rather take him in as a child, instead of looking for something that doesn't exist.” The girl explained.

The Bossman frowned, “What can this little kid do?” He asked.

“Well so far he's been great moral support.” The Tattoo man said, grinning. “And I bet he can shovel poop and pick up trash, and even sell popcorn, since we'll be on stage when the hungry people are in the stands.”

Revel looked at the Tattoo man in amazement. “I-I can?” He asked.

The girl nudged him. “Please Bossman! All the ladies think he's just the sweetest thing, he's making us happy by being around.” She wrapped an arm around his neck and hugged him, laughing.

The Bossman's mouth twitched, though rather he was smiling or not was up for debate. “Fine.” He caved in, “But I don't want to hear any whining.” He sternly commanded, then smiled.

Revel nodded and grinned, “Yes sir!” He bellowed.

**

“Bepo?” Revel called out. He had a shovel that was nearly as tall as he was and he hefted a pile of poop and dumped it in the wheelbarrow.

“Yes little guy?” Bepo answered. He was on the other side with a bigger shovel.

“Do you believe in ghosts?” Revel slammed the shovel into the dirt and leaned against it. He was so sure he didn't belong here, and yet here he was, on his third shoveling duty. He started to question if Timothy was real, if he really had a Mom and a Dad and if the Sunday School was where he came from, because he just didn't know.

Bepo looked at Revel, he scraped up another load and dumped it in the wheelbarrow. “No, but I do's believe in little kids whos drop from the sky ands help me shovel dung.” He joked.

Revel frowned and grabbed his shovel, scrapping more poo. He looked up to see Cinna walking through the trailers. he looked at Bepo, whose face was intense as he continued shoveling.
"I'll be right back." Revel called, hopping over the fence.
"Where yous going, kid?" Bepo screamed.
Revel followed Cinna as she walked through the forest, her steps slow, deliberate. He followed, avoiding every stick and fallen leaf. She came to a lake clearing, the Bossman stood at the edge of the lake. Cinna disappeared the moment her feet touched the lake. Revel let out a squeak and the Bossman turned, facing him. "You looking for trouble, kid?" He asked, walking over.
Paralyzed, Revel looked at the Bossman, shaking and tears streaming down his cheek. The Bossman grabbed his arm and Revel let out a blood-curling scream.

The scream lasted as Revel opened his eyes, his mom, Timothy, and the Sunday School nurse stared at him in confused panic.

“Revel!” She shrieked and hugged him.

Timothy let out a howl and the Sunday School nurse thanked the lord for this blessing. Revel's eyes darted around the room, it was the church's nurse's building. He let out rapid, gasping breaths of air.

“The lake!” Revel cried out. “The lake is were Cinna is! Someone has to save her!” He bawled, his breathing heavy. All eyes stared in confusion, his mom cupped his face in her hand.

“It's okay Revel, it was just a dream.” She whispered, brushing the tears off his cheek.

Revel had pained looks on his face, “Cinna came to me... she needs to be saved... she's been trapped in the lake.” He said every word after long gasping breaths of air, “Please someone.” He whispered.

Revel's mom hugged him tightly, “Shhh....” She comforted, “It's all right now.”

Surrounded by tree stumps, the lake was now putrid green, tires, empty beer bottles, and chemical waste. The land abused and forgotten, Cinna stands in the center of the lake. She waits patiently for another person to come, to tell them she still exists, she's been covered up, but she still exists.

[Untitled]

Erase a line, then write another one
The completely white page
minatory to the
writer's conscious.

You type anything,
to get that obnoxious blinking cursor
moving.

Your mood shifts from irritable
to tempestuous.
Ready to obliterate the piece of technology
impulsively dump the now cold coffee
on the unused keyboard
to be able to finish anything
before your body decays and turns brittle
would be paradise
to the
literary
soul.

Bus Ride

I stepped on the bus steps, pulling my pass out from my wallet and flashed it to the driver, my bus pass was in front of my photo ID so I could have quicker access. The driver nodded his head and I walked toward the middle of the bus, it was a three car bus, and not many people were riding this time of day. My favorite seats were the ones in the middle, so you directly faced the windows. The bus started to roll. One, two, three blocks. People got on, people got off.  I stared at my reflection to pass the time, the window was slightly curved inward so my reflection was warped, I continued to stare, the reflection became more and more warped, worsening the longer I stared at it.
The bus jerked to a stop, I heard a teenager in the second car curse the bus driver. The doors opened, people got on, people got off. A Hispanic older man and his daughter, I guess, sat across from me. The man was speaking Spanish to someone a few seats away from me, and they laughed together. The girl next to him had an annoyed countenance. I stared at my hands, I knicked my finger cutting a tomato and the blood soaked through the bandage. The bus drove for a few blocks and stopped, the second man got off and the father talked to his daughter. She looked worse than before, she picked at her nails and looked like she was trying to ignore what her dad was saying. I moved my head and looked at the second car, there was a couple with their tongues so down each other's throat it could legally be called cannibalism.
Another stop.
I looked in the second car again, a woman was sitting in one of the chairs by herself, her hair looked like a beehive, her eyes were sunken in, her wrinkles deep set. I pulled on the stop cord of the bus and stared at the beehive woman. She looked ready to stand up herself, but a girl intervened. "Not this stop, this isn't your stop." she repeated.
I looked at the other people on the bus, they all looked like they were dying in their seat, decomposing on the red plastic. The beehive woman sat back, then looked up at the ceiling. She looked at everyone, the lost souls on the ride to who knows where. All I knew was the next stop jerked, and I stood up and walked out the door. I stood on the sidewalk and watched the bus.
Before I could turn around, a city truck, the kind with the cement mixer, rammed into the bus, toppling it over. I heard screams around me and the shrieking halt of the cars from the intersection. I took a deep breath and held my chest.
Not much of a stop, I thought.