ten minute story:

As I enter the Greyhound bus station, I make a note of it’s averageness, pretty standard, not dirtier or cleaner than any other bus station in California; though I haven’t been in many. The lower levels smell thick of urine and must. Walking through rows of benches filled with transients covered by blankets; the air is warm and damp, as if I had walked past a steam vent. I try to hold my breath as long as I can to avoid inhaling the caustic fumes in my path. Ahead, I see a swarm of tiny flies, I let out my held breath to refill so as not to refill in the middle of the swarm. I have a weak upper respiratory system, which doesn’t allow me to keep air in for long before my lungs begin to burn. I let the breath out as I surface to the terminal level by way of wet, concrete stairs. Unsure if it’s water, pee or beer, I continue up cautiously, so as not to slip.

There it is, gate 3.

A glance at the clock reveals 12:30pm. Future passengers are lined up in front of gate 3, like race horses waiting for the gun. I don’t see why they’re so worried about where they sit, the whole bus is surely going to be smelly, hot, and uncomfortable. Even still, I get in the line, this way I’ll have some say in where I’m sitting. I don’t want to be sitting next to the guy who no one wants to sit next to; he smells, he snores, he takes up two seats; whatever it is I don’t want to sit next to that guy. I wait in line.

In the very front of the line is a young couple who can’t keep their hands off each other. They sit on top of their bags. Waiting. Cuddling. I make a note of their “sex hair” and wonder how long ago it happened. 12:40, I haven’t seen or heard one word come out of either of their mouths and I’ve been watching them for a ten minutes. They’re in love, they don’t have to speak to communicate, only press their faces hard into the other’s. I look at the clock again, 12:45.

I follow the line to see who else is here: a girl with orange and pink hair sits on her bag behind the lovely couple, she keeps her head turned from them unamused by the overwhelming affection, behind her an older man of about 60 wears a combover, glasses, and button up plaid shirt with a pocket in the front; his bus ticket hangs out of his pocket. I want a pocket in the front for my ticket. Instead, I have to keep my ticket in my purse where I keep checking every five minutes to make sure it’s still there, even though my purse has remained zipped since I put the ticket in there 30 minutes ago. What if it fell out last time I checked to see if it was still there, I think, I better check again.

Unzip. Still there. Zip.

As I look up I see a man handing out little orange pieces of paper, he silently approaches me handing me an orange slip and continues on. I turn the orange paper over to read the front, “Happy Holidays, Hello. I am a deaf person. I am selling this deaf education system card to make my living. Will you buy one? Pay any price you wish! Thank You.” The inside of the card has the signs for the alphabet, and several words: good, bad, perfect, chance, friend, OK, I love you & I like you (which are the same), girl, boy, thanks, and sweetheart. The printing quality isn’t very good, but it’s a fine idea. As I look around for the deaf man, I catch the clock again, 1:05.

The man comes back around, to collect I presume. I hand him a dollar which he takes with a smile and signs, “Thank you.” I nod and sign back, “Thank you.” Since the card did not contain the sign for, “You’re welcome.” I put the card in my pocket and continue to wait, watching the deaf man as he makes his way back to the front of the line. He’s scolding other passengers who must not have read the card and didn’t know he was going to come back around for money. Some look frightened and puzzled, handing the card over as he does his best to yell at them for trying to keep the card without paying. He digs through one woman’s plastic bag for the card; he could see the orange slip through the transparent bag, once retrieved he waves his hand at her, and says, “NO KEEP!”

“Last boarding call for bus 6874” an announcement came from the speakers above us, at least that’s what it sounded like it said. The announcer needs to take his/her mouth away from the mic a little bit, so the words have the chance to separate. I look around at the other passengers, wondering if they were able to make sense of the message. Similarly they all look puzzled. Down at the ticket counter, the staff is lounging around, chatting and sipping water, another announcement, “Wah wah wah an hour to and hour and a half delay.” I wonder if that was about our bus. A concerned passenger runs to the ticket counter, and stands in front of a sign that reads: Please wait here for the next available ticket counter. I know this because I stood before that very sign as I waited and waited to purchase a bus ticket. The staff behind the desk all acted as if they had something wrong with their computers, clicking and scanning the screens, typing in words and saying things like, “Hmm. Nope. That didn’t work.” “Let me try this one thing,” and, “Now, what is going on with this machine? Jeff!” calling to someone far off, “My machine is broken!” Then asking me to, “go ahead and step back into line and someone will be with you shortly.” Mr. Concerned over there seems to be having the same experience. After a few minutes he comes back and climbs onto a bench in the middle of the terminal, “Excuse me… Excuse me” he raises his voice louder the second time. Everyone looks at him, “Our bus is delayed about an hour to an hour and a half… So it looks like we won’t be taking off until about 3:30 this afternoon.” He says it apologetically, as if it was his fault. “Oh god.” “Come on!” “Shit” exclamations come from the group around me. "Of course, this is fucking bull shit!” One angry passenger storms away mumbling profanities to himself, which makes me laugh. After a moment the line disassembles, everyone pulling out their cell phones and it seems that time and space has shifted, one minute I was in a quiet bus station and the next I’m on a wall street trading floor, “3:30!” “12:30!” “90minutes!” “Help me out here!” Then, just as quickly as it had started it was over, I stand confused as I look around me at the empty terminal. I cue a gust of wind in my mind and it blows garbage around like tumble weeds. I look up at the clock 1:15.

I make my way back down stairs to the street level, several people are standing outside, empty buses fill the sidewalk, a patch of sun falls on a bench by the street, it’s crisp out this morning and the sun spot looks like a warm sweater. I make my way to the bench setting my things down first and then myself, pulling my knees in close to my body as I lean against the back of the bench. I pull out a cigarette and light it, closing my eyes to enjoy the heat on my face.

“I like your boots.” I open my eyes to see a girl standing over me, “Thanks.” The girl continues, “Are they boots or are they just covers for your shoes?” She asks. Unsure of what “shoe covers” are I reply, “No they’re boots they just fold down.” “Cool…cool…” She stands awkwardly for a moment, then I offer her a cigarette because it seems like the appropriate thing to do “Thanks. I’m trying to quit.” She says as she pulls a lighter from her jacket pocket. “Yeah, me too.” I say as I take drag, we share a knowing smile and sit in silence, inhaling our transgression. When she’s done she flicks the cigarette into the road. “I like to flick em’…” I nod and glance past at the ash tray directly behind her. “It’s more fun than just putting it out in an ash tray.” I nod again but get a queasy feeling seeing her stub still smoking on the pavement. When I finish, I walk past her and put mine out in the ash tray and hope that she doesn’t take it as an offense.  

I gather my things and start for the station, the woman follows and we make our way upstairs to the terminal. “Where are you headed?’ she asks, “Hollywood” I say and immediately regret, not because I don’t want her to know where I’m going but because no one says, Hollywood, “Cool. You live there?” My chance to redeem myself, “Yeah. In L.A.” “Awesome.” “Where are you headed?” I ask, feeling her desire to share. “VEGAS!” she squeals. “Awesome, for how long?” “Probably like a week..” “You might stay longer?” “Yeah, who knows!” she lets out this laugh that is a mix between a hyena and a crying baby. I let out a small laugh to cover up my discomfort, “Well you have a long trip ahead of you.” Her face loses it’s enthusiasm, “Yeah I’m not sure how long it is. My friend has our tickets… He’s right over there.” She points to a man by the concession stand and continues, “I thought I had the tickets in my purse but I was just looking for them and I don’t have them, but that’s my friend right there and he has them.” I have the sudden urge to check my purse for my ticket, what if it had fallen out when I got the dollar for the man out, I unzip my purse a tiny bit and stick my finger in, feeling the serrated edge of the ticket, relief, and return my focus to the conversation.  After a few minutes of conversation I begin to feel as if she’s hiding something. Speaking fast and in circles, like people do when there’s something they don’t want you to know, going on and on concerning things you you really don’t care about, in an attempt to cover up the real thing, which is the thing they don't want you to know. This woman is strange and interesting and hiding something… I have nothing better to do so I stick around.

I was racking my brain for questions to ask but before I could even get the first out, she piped in, seeming to be finishing a conversation that had begun in her head, “Yeah I love riding the bus, this is my first time on the bus, but my friend, he rides the bus a lot. I’m loving seeing all the characters, you know?” You have no idea, I think.  She continues, “Last time my friend rode the bus he said he sat next to this crazy lady who was thinking someone was trying to kill her and one of her tits was hanging completely out of her shirt the whole time, and this lady was tellin’ him all of that.” “What? That’s crazy!” I reply with complete sincerity. “Yeah” she says, "I didn’t catch your name,” “Penny” I say. “Penny. Cool, that’s like a unique name.” “Thanks, what’s your name?” "I’m Katie, it’s not so unique.” She says instantly. “So is that your boyfriend?” I ask, she gives me a look as if to say, HELL NO. “Just your friend then?” She gives me the same look again and confused I ask “Not friends either huh?” “We have a weird relationship.” She says. the  subject seeming convoluted, I switch topics, “So what are you going to Vegas for? Do you know people there?” “No just for fun, and maybe some business while I’m there” she says confidently,“I’m a massage therapist. I don’t have my table with me but I’m sure there are places where I can rent a table. My friend says there are.” I have no clue about anything related to massage therapy but I agree anyway, “Yeah I’m sure.” I want to believe what she’s saying about being a massage therapist and about the weird relationship with the strange man by the concession stand but my head spins into darker scenarios: Is she a prostitute? Is she just a young girl being taken to Vegas by some guy? Is she a fugitive, fleeing to Vegas for it’s anonymity?

Her friend comes over with their bags, one is falling apart completely, held together by bungee cords, and smells heavily of pot. “Hey.” He says. “Hey.” I say back. “We just got these bags at a thrift store yesterday, they were real nice when we got em’ and when we took it home and put our stuff in it, it just fell to shit!” She laughs again, crying hyena babies. “I’m gonna get new bags when I get to Vegas. Maybe some designer bags. My friend told me he’d get them for me when we got there.” We sit in silence.

One minute and forty-seven seconds left until I can enjoy the comforting sounds of “Garden Rain” the mix I made at work, while I was supposed to be cleaning out the fridge in the break room and am now uploading onto So What Fabio, my Ipod shuffle. Garden Rain has the ambient noises of rain... and other garden noises. Sure to soothe your soul and leave you feeling 5-4-3-2-1, calm. First Light appropriately comes on first, it sounds like rain, or a trickling creek flowing over a small rocky water fall and landing on a blue plastic tarp. It’s really relaxing. Probably not something that I would naturally find in Woodland Hills, and if there was a trickling creek in Woodland hills, would there be any water to trickle? I think that I'm having a sleep-dep moment. 2:15 in the morning, it's a definite possibility.  I want to go to bed. All I want is to get some rest, but I feel anxious, my heart is beating fast, and I'm sweaty, but why? What do I have to be anxious about? Feeling like I’m on a come down that never ends. Scared, like at any second I might die. Just die. Like that. No warning, except for my extreme anxiety. Maybe that’s what this anxiety is telling me, that I’m going to die, maybe it’s trying to warn me. "You have to get your mind on something else, something calming,” I think as the song changes to, Window's Reflection. “At any moment, you will fall asleep” I try to hypnotize myself. Droplets fall in concession against what I can only guess is a pop up trailer, covered by a blue plastic tarp, taking me back to the long ago days when it use to rain, the days of water pooling in concrete impressions, wooden stoops swollen by moisture, wet socks, and makeup running in streams off my face. Eyes closed, I’m there, my jacket hood covering what it can of my head, the front whisps of my bangs clinging to my face with a fierceness, fastened tighter with each drop. Those were the days, I think, and as I breathe deep through my nose, attempting to revisit a sense memory of a more innocent time, my nostrils are only filled with hot; hot, dry, desert air. My eyes open and I’m no longer in a garden but a closet that I’ve attempted to turn into a bedroom, the darkness I thought, would help me sleep. Why can’t I sleep? Think about something else, I tell myself.

What would happen if I never slept again? My tired brain begins to wander.  I bet I'd get a lot more done, if I stayed up all night, every night. The possibilities seem endless from the comfort of my comforter. Maybe I'd take the bus all around, to every stop and when I came full loop, I'd walk to a different bus stop and start over. I'd be like a bum, accept not. Maybe I'd frequent 24 hour diners. Get on first name basis with the whole staff. "Hey Violet... Cold night tonight huh?" The waitress would ask me. "Oh yeah Dorris, it’s the big freeze out there" I'd reply as sit at my usual booth. Doris would carry out a large pot of coffee to me. "That better be decaf," I'd say "I don't wanna be up all night.” Doris and I would laugh, this would be our little joke... Maybe. Maybe I'd watch every movie I’d ever wanted to watch. I bought 4 at Hollywood video tonight, they were having a sale. They're all in different languages, one in French, one in Spanish, one in Arabic, and one in English. Maybe I'd learn a different language, fluently...it's possible. Maybe I'd walk around to stores that were open 24 hrs. I walk down the aisles, fluorescent bulbs lighting the whole place so bright you wouldn't even be able to tell that it wasn't daytime. I would straighten everything on the shelves into perfect order, with all the same colors together. Like Robin Williams in One Hour Photo. I'd wander around thinking of nonsensical things. What if there was a guy named Santa? I’d think. What if I wrote him letters asking him for things? What would I ask Santa for from the toy aisle? What would I ask him for on the housewares aisle?  What about the beauty aisle? What if he wrote me a letter asking me to stop asking him for things, that only his name was Santa but he himself was more like, Fred or Sam. I'd think of what kind of card would I get my mom for mothers day. I'd think up sayings for hallmark cards, "I was going to get you a puppy for your birthday, but you're allergic, so I got you this card instead: Happy Birthday" and on the front there would be a picture of a turtle or a goldfish. I always wanted to see a card like that and I also always thought that So What Fabio (my Ipod shuffle), would hold enough songs for whatever I was doing, but thinking about it now, I don't think 250 songs is enough if I were to stay up all night, every night.

My soothing rain music is kind of making me feel like I have to go to the bathroom. I'm listening to, “Remember Me”and wondering if was supposed to be, “Remember Me?” Like the other tracks it sounds like rain too, steadily dripping out of a gutter, onto a blue tarp... with a synthesizer? That feels like an odd choice but regardless of believability, I’m committed to feeling like I’m in a rain filled garden. The garden sounds will infiltrate my anxious mind and I will fall into the deepest sleep I’ve ever experienced, I continue to persuade myself. These sounds remind me of Cirque du Soleil, I love Cirque du Soleil. I picture the way the performance would look to these sounds. I could do the whole show in my head. Everyone would be in some shade of green, and the set would look like you were really small inside a humungous garden, with giant leaves and stems and beginnings of flowers. There would be an overwhelming amount of aerialists, especially the ones who spin down from the cloth strips that they wrap around themselves (I should find out what they call that). There are no vocals on this Garden Rain mix though, problematic for a Cirque show, there is always a gorgeous woman with a beautiful voice, singing in a foreign language. I guess that could be arranged. I'd just find a woman with a beautiful voice and tell her to improvise, "just go with it" I'd say to her and she'd probably look at me with a blank stare, or maybe even a nervous stare, but then she'd walk gracefully out on stage looking at all the garden creatures until she hit her mark, and then she’d be all, “OhhhhhLaaaaaaOhhhh” she would be wonderful, I know it. There would be a softening in the music at the end as our beautiful singer was raised up in a flower and taken all the way to the top of the tent, as if the flower was now growing taller than the weeds. Everyone would love the show. The audience would be in awe, some would cry others would cheer and clap wildly as the performers came out to do their final bows...

In a movie, a woman was told that she was melancholy, her response was, “In the past, people who were melancholic were considered visionaries.” This was a translation from Norwegian but that’s what the subtitle said, that those who were melancholic were considered visionaries.

A different woman works in a psychiatric ward as a nurse and often wonders if the people around her, who are considered the creme de la creme of crazy, are in fact seeing the world for what it really is. “Visionaries” she thinks. The nurse is a young mother, who has a daughter aged five years that she brings to work with her. There’s a daycare at the hospital and several others bring their children as well, so she never feels neglect in the long hours she needs to put in. The nurse’s daughter doesn’t feel the time either, she is independent and curious, about everything and everyone, content in spending time exploring the vast reaches of her imagination.  

On certain days, when the floor has been quiet and there have been no “incidents” the little girl is allowed to traverse the halls on her own to meet her mother at the nurse’s station. There is a call on one end letting the other end know that she’s en route, they know how long it should take her, with a few minutes of observation time, and if it takes any longer they send someone to fetch her. The little girl knows this because she wandered off her track a while back, drawn in by the sounds of the TV room, where she was quickly scooped and scolded, and told she would not be allowed to walk by herself for quite some time, if she ever wandered off track again.

As she leaves through the heavy metal daycare door, a waft of warm, sterile, saline air hits her face. While most associate this smell with negativity and sickness, the little girl smells freedom and adventure. Today had been a particularly bad day and she couldn’t wait to get out. Lunch, which would’ve otherwise been delicious chicken nuggets and tater tots, was ruined by the necessity to eat all the canned beets and green beans on her plate before she could go play. Canned beets are the worst, she thought as she turned the first corner on her journey. She touched the red purple stain on her shirt from the forkful she dropped on herself and thought about how she might pretend that she had been bleeding, as if the beets had somehow made her bleed from the inside out, and therefore should never be eaten again, she was certain her mother would agree.

Weaving from wall to wall through the wide, beige hallway, the little girl was in her own world. Found pockets of forceful chilled air coming from the ceiling, were ice caves or waterfalls. A stray wheelchair was a seat on a bus or a space ship, both of which never moved due to the considerable trouble she would get in if she was caught “playing” in one. The little girl also knew this to be true from experience, she had been caught face down on the wheel chair, hands on the floor dragging the chair through the halls. She had seen a dog who had wheels for back legs one time and wanted to see what it was like, she explained to the nurse who found her. That nurse and her own nurse mother didn’t seem to care about the reason she had done it, only that she had, and only kept asking was she was sure she hadn’t put her hands in her mouth at any point. Her mother scrubbed her hands raw that night, saying words like, “staphylococcus,” “necrotizing fasciitis,” “MRSA,” and “do you understand?” the little girl did not understand but was able to conclude that all of those things, which were terrible, she would at some point in her life have and that MRSA (which seemed to be the worst of them all) would eventually lead to her demise. So, not wanting to contract staphyllo-whatever today, the little explorer only sat on the “bus” for a moment, hands softly folded on her lap before continuing.  

The soles of her shoes squeaked against the shiny floor, as she approached her favorite spot on the walk, the windows. The windows, were where she got to look out over the city, see the tops of buildings, some with numbers painted on the roof, she always wondered about building 555, she liked saying that number because saying the letter “F” repeatedly made her mouth tickle, she also wondered about it because it was completely made of metallic reflective glass so while looking at building 555, She could see the building she was in and would pretend that she could even see herself, waving to herself as if it was a bizarro version in an alternate world. Today as she approached the windows, a man was standing and staring out. There had never been a man standing and staring out before, she thought, and she had the next thought that, he probably wasn’t supposed to be there. The man wore clothes the little girl associated with the patients, pale yellow pants that looked simultaneously soft and scratchy, a white t-shirt that was slightly tinted yellow, from what she wasn’t sure, a long robe with a faint blue and white pattern, and socks, her favorite kind, fluffy with rubber on the bottom. Her mother had given her a pair to wear around their house, she loved them because when you wanted not to slip you would wear them properly, but if you flipped them fluffy side down, you could slide around the house as if the floors were made of ice. She looked at the man’s feet and noticed he was wearing the socks sticky side down and must not want to slide through the halls. She watched the man for a minute from a few feet away, and after, slowly made her way beside him to look out at her buildings. They stood in silence for a minute before he spoke, “They ruined everything,” He said. The little girl turned her head to the man, whose voice was lower than any voice she’d ever heard, “It was beautiful and now it’s gone. It’s all gone. Ruined.” The girl looked back out the window at the gray skyline and thought about what he might mean. What was ruined? What was all gone? She had looked out these windows multiple times and it always looked the same, how long had he must have been there to see something change, she wondered, and what had changed?

After spending all day feeling sorry for herself and crying, 29 days into a breakup, Rose decided to do the most depressing thing ever. Go out to a Chinese restaurant, alone.

Pulling into Hunan Tasty, several cars scattered the lot; a jetta, hyundai, Escalade, etc. Making Rose hopeful, per chance, there were other young single people eating alone. After all, this was L.A. and Miracle Mile to boot, the mecca of studio apartments and young professionals, strike that, up and coming professionals (mostly assistants).  

She sat in her car watching the front door while she mustered courage, this was the first time she was going out to eat alone in 3 ½ years, because for the last 3 ½ years she had been in a relationship and rarely alone, when she was alone, she had an out. Her boyfriend was at home, or working, or out with his friends, but now alone was alone, with no one waiting for her at home. Except her dog. Which somehow made it worse.

Upon entering Hunan Tasty, Rose was greeted by a slightly overweight Chinese woman sitting at the bar. “Just one” Rose said before the hostess could ask how many. “Just one?” the hostess asked back, slightly defeated by having to repeat it, the young woman answered again, “Yep, just one.”  The hostess set down one of the two menus she was holding and walked Rose into a sea foam green dining room, showing her a burgundy chair tucked into a table. Four of them actually. It was a slow night at Hunan Tasty so Rose was given a big table, but one could gather that most nights at Hunan Tasty were slow.

The decor was reminiscent of Nagel prints from the 80’s, stylized women with white skin and jet black hair cut short, the kind of art that used to hang in all the hip salons, or that still hangs in all the not so hip salons. Sea foam green table cloths, neon lights in the windows, white vertical blinds, and mirrors, everywhere. There was a mirror directly behind the table, forcing Rose to sit in the corner, so as to avoid watching herself eat alone. Of course, there were mirrors on all the walls so she could still see herself in a mirror across the room, she took her glasses off and blurred herself.

Sitting there in the corner Rose began to imagine she was guarding the entrance to her very own palace. Guarding the palace from what, she thought, she began to scan the room. Sitting in the corner to the left was a couple, they were either studio executives or frequent focus group participants; the woman was saying something about Barry Levinson and a movie involving Jason Bateman and Zach Efron, facts the couple had many opinions about. In the corner to the right was another couple, an older married couple who obviously hated each other, or he hated her and all she wanted to do was talk. Seeing this made Rose feel like maybe breaking up wasn’t such a bad thing. After all, at least now she didn’t have to worry about trying to come up with witty dinner conversation or boring dinner conversation, she could just sit and eat, alone, in peace.

A young Chinese waiter came over to take her order.  “Hot Tea and ice water?” he asked, “Yes please” she replied “And?” he asked “and hot and sour soup please” “and?” he continued, “and… Which do you like better, almond chicken or kung pao shrimp” she asked. A smile came over his face, “Oh I like the kung pao shrim” he answered without a second thought, “Great. I’ll have the kung pao shrim” she said with a smile, having just taken advantage of two of her favorite past times: secretly mimicking people and also asking waiters which they like best between two menu items. The waiters almost always go with the more expensive of the two and Rose almost always knows which one she’s going to choose before she asks. She was going to order the shrimp anyway, she hadn’t eaten meat in almost 4 years but she was trying all kinds of new things these days, so if, in the off chance he actually suggested the chicken, she might’ve ordered that. Though the shrimp was $4 more, so the chances were slim.

After ordering Rose waited patiently, looking around the room for a moment before turning her sights through the vertical blinds to the street beyond the glass. Every few seconds a car would pass by and the young woman would watch it until she couldn’t see it anymore, she was trying not to be that asshole in the room who pulls out their cell phone due to complete insecurity. Only a minute went by before she couldn’t stand it anymore and pulled out the crutch. “I don’t care that I’m that guy in the room. Whatever, you all have someone to talk to, I’m just sitting here staring out the window at Olympic blvd trying to seem like I’m interested in something out there,” She thought to all the would be judgers.  Nothing of importance was happening on the phone, she just flipped back and forth through already read emails and texts, waiting for someone to engage her so that even if she was physically alone at the table, she would feel like someone was there in spirit. After a few minutes of no engagement, Rose thought about texting and engaging someone herself but all she could come up with was a message to her friend Teresa, in Canada that read, “I am doing the most depressing thing ever right now…” the message was never sent, she knew that Teresa was out to dinner with a friend, she had said she would call after but Rose knew it was a long shot. “It’s at least 10 there now, she’s not going to call, AND even if she did call, I wouldn’t answer…” she thought, “But that wasn’t the point!” she thought some more, “I need Teresa to sense telepathically that I’m sending out an SOS from a Los Angeles dive Chinese food restaurant. I need her to sense telepathically that I am not even at a dive BAR, I am at a dive CHINESE FOOD RESTAURANT… That I would most likely get food poisoning from because I ordered the seafood dish!” “Gah! What was I thinking?” She said out loud. Her realization came too late, the order was already cooking. Anxiety coming in waves, she engaged herself in eavesdropping on conversations. The old woman, of the old couple, continued to try to grip her husband in conversation, he just responding in an Eastwood-esk “I’m tired… I don’t know” while continuing to chew his food slowly and methodically. The old woman’s persistence was exhausting.

An older Chinese waiter came into the room, one Rose hadn’t seen before. He started making his rounds to the tables, to the old couple, “How you guys? Eberything ok? Good.” To the other couple, the studio execs, “How is eberything taste? Good? Can I get you another plate?” The young woman noticed herself already smiling, in anticipation of him coming over, the smile made her uncomfortable but she couldn’t stop now, she had committed to it. Then it happened, he turned from the left corner table toward her table, where she had been sitting for 10 minutes, and walked past her behind a wall… He didn’t even see her. Smile gone. A moment later he came back with a surprised look on his face, “I didn’t see you!” he said loudly, “I make up 20% of the people in this room” She wanted to say but before she could get a word out he kept on, “Ohhhh you look so lonely all by yourself” he made his mouth into an exaggerated frown, “Whaaaa? No… It just means I don’t have to share, I get all the food to myself.” She quipped back, while smiling uncomfortably and trying not to cry. They both had a laugh before he, once again disappeared behind a wall. It couldn’t have been worse, she thought, but soon realized, it was… There were only 3 tables in the room, 5 people, 2 couples on either side of her table, and Rose, in the center waiting for a full Chinese dinner to come, she was just walking the perimeter of her embarrassment. She could’ve owned her solitude and enjoyed her Chinese feast but she had made it worse but trying to be witty in an uncomfortable situation… and everyone had heard, and was looking at her, and feeling sorry for her. The old woman, of the old couple, gave a pity smile. A pity smile! “I should’ve been the one giving her the pity smile!” Rose thought, “Her husband doesn’t even want to talk to her, at all, that sucks! I should’ve looked at her 7 minutes ago when he was telling her how tired he was while shoveling food into his mouth so as not to have to continue whatever conversation she was trying to have, something about someone having custody of someone, or not getting custody of someone… Who knows?! The point is, I should’ve given her a pity smile then and then she would’ve been the one feeling bad.” While Rose was in her head, her food came and the were huge portions.  The young waiter had warned her that everything came for 2 people, but reassured her that she could take the rest home with her if she couldn’t eat: the platter full of kung pao shrimp, the mixing bowl full of hot and sour soup, and the tablespoon of rice (the only thing that came in single servings).

Dear Diary aka paper sounding board aka VAULT of all things personal and private,

First a warning to all readers, STAY OUT, a hex on those who don’t heed this warning! Sham Kala Zam - Puku ala hiti, may your children be born with an eleventh toe which cannot be removed because it would throw off their balance... I learned this from a Polynesian witch doctor when we were on Maui last year, so you know, it’s a real and legitimate curse. Consider yourself warned.

To all of those who kept reading, just know, that this secret and private diary is just an outlet for emotion, a place where I can be free form in my thoughts and let whatever dumb feelings I’m feeling at the moment come through me, out this pen and onto this paper so that I don’t think them so thoughtlessly anymore. What I’m trying to say is that, “Feelings aren’t facts” so, MOM, if you’re snooping and you find this... You should probably stop reading before you work yourself into a tizzy. OK?

This is me giving you time to stop reading........... Have you stopped?........ Check in with yourself Mom, ask yourself, “Why am I doing this? Why am I violating the trust between mother and daughter? The SACRED bond. The eleventh commandment that says, “Thou shalt not read the secret thoughts of one’s own child.” The 28th amendment, “No person in time of peace nor war shall infringe upon the rights of another to keep a ledger of personal and private thoughts.”

I cannot believe you’re still reading this. MOM! Stop. This is the only place where I get to just let every whacked out idea come out... Then I sort it out and realize that whatever is happening is not life or death, it’s just what’s going on at the moment and I have to just, let it pass... OK? So I don’t need you to sit me down and tell me that I’m beautiful or any of that garbage. Just stop reading... This is the end of my message to you, but seriously Mom, if you’re still reading this then there is something wrong with you, and you need to get your head checked and let me know if it’s genetic. That would be the right thing to do.

...........................................................................................................

OK Diary, it’s just you and me now, so I can tell you the truth. Feelings ARE facts! I’m so sad I could EXPLODE! Brad told me yesterday that he “liked” me and that he wanted to march with me at the climate change rally, but when we all took the train into the city I couldn’t find him anywhere! Then when I finally did find him, he was holding hands with Eve and they were yelling battle cries together and looking into each others eyes... HEART = BROKEN. They looked so beautiful, he was wearing a white t-shirt that showed off his tiny muscles and his old levi’s with holes in the knees and Eve was wearing a long flowy flower dress with a crown made of woven flowers and leaves... They looked like they were straight out of a photo book I have called, ‘Moments to Love: A History” (which I will never be able to look at again) and I, like a real loser was wearing a blue body suit (that I now realize shows EV-ER-Y-THING) and had my face painted to resemble the Earth, the actual Earth, in great detail. Kill me now.

On top of it all, I think the paint was toxic... Where the blue ocean once was, is now just patches of red rashy bumps. I am the worst environmentalist of all time. Maybe I should turn my passions to a new cause.

18 years old.

Seattle was gray and damp.

Shocking.

Pants were soaked up to my knees.

Shakespeare.

Opening night of the Tempest, I was Caliban. The monster. The wretch’d thing. The bearded lady in our dark circus.

I paced the sidewalk with long silver acrylic nails. Nails I was committed to every weekend for four weeks. Nails that were my choice, I was a true artist after all, dedicated my craft and those nails made the character, they were the piece de resistance, the glue that tied everything together, the claws on my eagle that would soar through that theatre mesmerizing our audience... I was sure of it. And when I put it like that, who could argue.

I was walking my nerves off... Smoking a cigarette... Trying not to poke mine eyes out. Pacing. Pacing. Pacing.

Thinking about...

My first line,  

“There’s wood enough within’”

Yeah... It was going to be perfect.

Pacing. Pacing. Pacing. Oooh, I don’t like that smell.

A witness to my anxiety was near. A man with one shoe. His armor an assemblance of layers. Cloth and plastic. His luggage, the same. The smell in his wake was astringent. Too sharp for my nose to smell, I turned my head askance, but just askance enough so as not to offend...

I listened to his beat as he traversed through my world... Step. Step. Chhhshhh. His cloak dragged as he walked.  Step. Step. Pause,

“GIRRRRRRLLL. YOU GOT BIRTHIN’ HIPS”

Wait, what? I turned to find him staring, directly, at me.

“YOU BOW LEGGED AS HELL!”

“Excuse me?!” I said, “Can’t you see that I’m about to perform! This is my moment, I am Caliban, this is opening night, I will be in front of 99 people, or less, why would you ever say something like that to ME? In this moment?!” I said ... in my mind...

“YOU BOW LEGGED AS HELL!”  

“Uhhh Excuse me?” I said ... for reals.

“Mmm!” He said and turned away from me.

Step Step. Chhhssshh. Step. Step. Round’ the corner he went. Smell lingering.

His words played o’er in my mind, “Birthin’ Hips?” I caught my reflection in the glass doors. “Bow legged as hell?”

Two things occurred to me in that moment.

1. That I was a woman. That one day I would most likely push a human out of my very own body... And if this street oracle was correct, if this smelly soothsayer hath foretold in truth, hopefully I would do it with ease...

Beth woke up in a bed full of quarters with a parched mouth and a head that felt both too large and small for her body. She grabbed a handful of the silver coins, examining them for a moment before giving up the puzzle. Though she had no responsibilities that day (Sunday) she still reached for her phone to check the time, the screen was shattered resembling a spider’s web but through the cracks she was able to read, 9:00am. Beth frowned, she had hoped she would sleep later and as she fell back onto her pillows, a quarter that was previously stuck to her forehead, fell to her chest. Picking up the quarter she again began to wonder about it, and all the others surrounding her in her place of slumber. Where did they come from and why did she have so many? Thinking made her head throb so she thought she’d better stop thinking things until she’d consumed at least one cup of coffee, two generic ibuprofen, and one of those croissant sandwiches from the cafe down the street ... and probably a glass of water, she should take the ibuprofen with the water, she thought.

As Beth pried herself out of the softness of her blankets to begin her mending, a quarter fell from between her legs. Knowing her tendency to get a little bit sweaty while she slept, she should’ve been prepared for the coin drop, but she wasn’t, and the surprise sound made her jump which caused another coin to fall, this time from her back. Walking into the bathroom, she felt around her backside for change before she sat down, a coin was pressed into her upper thigh. Beth peeled it off and held the warm coin in her palm thinking about how she needed to do laundry. I’ll do it after the croissant sandwich, she thought, and I shouldn’t get cheese on the croissant, she thought next, but the cheese holds the whole thing together, so I have to get it, she thought finally. As she left the bathroom Beth caught sight of herself in the mirror, she showed her teeth to herself and then quickly closed her lips. Her teeth were not the color of teeth but more the color of lipstick, maroon purple lipstick.

Wine, she thought as she brushed with whitening toothpaste. Memories began to come back. Beth had told her friends that she was going to have a “mellow night” at home. Work had her feeling a little run down, and she didn’t want to over exhaust herself, she remembered telling everyone. Making her way into the kitchen she checked her phone for messages, she only had one, a text message that read, “BATHSHEBA! You fukin’ rock” she didn’t recognize the number and noted that none of her friends would misspell “fuckin’” so she must not know this person and another thing stood out, her name was not Bathsheba.

Post coffee, ibuprofen, and water, Beth set out for the cafe; her head feeling only slightly better. The sidewalks seemed busier than usual, people walking their dogs, pushing strollers, drinking juices that looked like grass all smashed up. A young man walked toward her and yelled, “BATHSHEBA!” as he passed.  Beth stopped and watched him walk away saying nothing else. Maybe it was a coincidence she thought as she rounded the corner and entered the cafe, a bell jingled the door and the woman working the counter turned to greet her, “Can I he- BATHSHEBA!” she yelled before bursting into hysterics. Confused now more than ever, Beth laughed along with the woman, hoping the events of last night would come back after some sustenance.

Emily sat across from Lois who had a big smile on her face as she rocked a baby stroller and spoke in an almost whisper, “I mean I just couldn’t be happier, being a mother is the best feeling in the world.” Lois was a fairly new patient of Emily’s, she had seen her three or four times over the last couple of months and nothing ever stuck out about her, every time she came in for a session Emily had to review her chart to even remember which one she was, “Recent transplant from AZ, trust issues probably stemming from past relationships (parents divorced?) People pleasing tendencies, issues making new friends- no job- no hobbies, possible klepto (my stapler is missing) PT should come 1x week.” Notes from following sessions were as uneventful. “Textbook stuff” she thought when looking through the file. Emily was fairly new to the psycho analysis game, and she was eager to get a real nutter, however the clinic mostly referred her textbook cases: slight depression, slight mania, anxiety (people trying to get prescriptions for Xanax), inability to focus (people trying to get prescriptions for Adderal), inability to sleep (people trying to get prescriptions for Ambien) etc, she figured once she had proven herself with the boring ones things would change.

“How is everything? How are you adjusting?” Emily asked. “Oh yes...Adjustment” Lois laughed then took a deep breath and began to speak as if she had knocked back one of those energy drinks with a warning on the can about over consumption, “I was at this garage sale, or tag sale, or whatever you call it over here. For the record, where I’m from it’s always been called a garage sale OR yard sale, because well, it always takes place in someone’s yard or garage, or sometimes driveways... but anyhow it makes sense!” Lois laughed wildly and then began gently rocking the stroller again, and returned to speaking softly, “It makes sense to be called one of those things is all I’m trying to say... There were no tags on the items that were for sale at this sale, if sales are named based on description then this particular sale should’ve been called, slightly overweight hoarder tells you how much things cost sale... That’s all I’m saying. Let’s call things what they are. Not what they’re not. So that’s what I’m going to call it, Ok?” Emily watched Lois take a sip of water and thought to herself that perhaps there was a little more crazy to Lois than she had previously thought, but quickly followed that thought with a thought that this was probably a beginning to a totally normal story... She didn’t want to jinx it.

Lois continued, “So I was at this slightly overweight hoarder tells you how much things cost sale, when I saw this beautiful treasure. This little baby doll that was just the most precious thing, she reminded me of something I had as a girl. Propped on the edge of a folding table, little legs dangling over, wearing this beautiful handsewn bobbin lace dress...” Lois smiled big once again, “I looked into those little blue eyes and touched her smooth porcelain cheek and I knew I had to have her. There was something about the way she looked at me, it was as if we had know each other in a past life. I know this sounds crazy, but she was staring straight into my soul...” Lois looked at the stroller and then back to Emily and spoke in a hushed tone, “I should confess... I stole her. Which I know is terrible but the hoarder wanted $40 for her and I left my purse at home and leaving without her wasn’t an option... Abby and I couldn’t be happier.”

Bill sat in the boardroom listening to an overly wrinkled face with a sunglass tan talk about their “financial responsibility” as a company. He thought about the man’s teeth and how he’d like to punch him in the mouth because he was sure they were false. He’d watch the teeth fall to the ground then say to the wrinkled face, “Should’ve used Fixodent™” in his best, raspy Clint Eastwood voice.

Bill touched the breast pocket of his suit when the wrinkled face said, “Aggressive mediocrity” he didn’t know the context because he hadn’t been paying attention but he hated jargon more than anything. Managerial jargon was the reason that for the past week he’d been carrying a grenade in his pocket. It was easy for him to get it in the building, he was an executive with an established metal knee replacement who no one dared to question. Though he never thought he’d use it, touching the egg like weapon and knowing the damage it could cause, was a way of releasing the lid on the boiling pot. A talisman that brought him back to reality.

The grenade seemed like a natural choice of weapon for Bill, perhaps it was because he felt confident in his accuracy. As a boy, playing “war” with his friends Bill had always chosen to be the grenade launcher, it didn’t require running and he was excellent at it. He could throw grenades (dirt clods) across an entire yard hitting the enemy in the trenches on the other side every time.

While most of the other boys from the neighborhood were drafted or volunteered to join the war, Bill was an only child with asthma, a limp, and a college scholarship, going to war was not an option. The lack of wartime experience only bothered him when he met up with the boys from the neighborhood who were lucky enough to come home. They had seen things he could never imagine, lost friends, and been halfway around the world. To Bill they seemed to have aged fifty years in the two that they were away.  In those years, the only experiences Bill had were one pair of breasts sans bra, the loss of one dear friend to Columbia medical school, and the his only interaction with anything foreign was with the man that ran the bodega at the end of his block, though he was never really sure where that man was from and didn’t care enough to ask. Naturally this divide between the young men grew as they grew older and eventually Bill only ever heard from them when one of them was in financial trouble or dead. Carrying the grenade made Bill feel like a boy again. A boy with friends, friends who had seen how terrible the world could be. He smiled thinking about how their mothers would yell about the grass stains on their jeans and the dirt in their hair and teeth. He longed for their innocence in those days.

There’s a time and a place for everything, she thought as she wandered through the woods, walking away from the cabin she knew that now was the time.

A knapsack attached to her back, enough food and water for at least a couple days, she figured she could get her camp set up and deal with the other details later. The woods were dense with trees 50 times taller than she was and at least four times as wide. Making her own trail as she walked, she asked the trees to let her know if she made a wrong turn, they never stopped her which made her feel that she was also in, or heading to the right place.

After a few hours, she sat beside a big, giant oak tree to rest. “Can I lean against you while I eat my lunch?” she asked. The trees branches rustled with acceptance, and the old rough bark seemed to soften as her back touched it. Lunch consisted of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that had become smashed and soggy (just the way she liked it) from her travels and a thermos full of now just warm cocoa. Gazing up through the branches of the old tree, she began to wonder what it had seen. As she sat wondering about the life it’d lived the tree began to vibrate, the bark gave off a smell that reminded her of an old desk in her house, the one that had belonged to her mother’s Pappy. The girl couldn’t help but think that maybe that desk was made from a cousin of the tree she was leaning against, she tried to put it out of her mind. “What have you seen old tree?” She asked quietly. Creaks came from the wood behind her, the old tree seemed to take a breath, its bark expanding as it filled with air, when it let go the gust of air moved through it’s evergreen branches. This startled the girl and she turned quickly to face the oak.

Staring at the tree she began to make out a face, but not a face like a humans, it’s eyes were everywhere, stacked one on top of the other and went completely around the tree with no particular order. “Wow” she whispered inadvertently, “You must’ve seen more than anyone” as she said this one of the eyes facing her opened, a kind brown iris examined her just as she was examining it. Frozen, she stood in awe, “I’ve seen many many things little one” the tree whispered back. “Beautiful things?” the girl asked softly, the wind through the branches answered, “Yes. Many beautiful things.” The girl smiled and looked around her, faces appeared on the trees, kind faces with eyes all over, young faces on little branches, old wrinkled eyes on trees with thick bark, one of the wrinkled eyes opened to look at her, she couldn’t help herself, “Did you see the beginning of the world?” She asked him, “No” the old tree replied with a sigh, she hoped she hadn’t offended him and wasn’t sure she wanted to ask him more questions, he seemed like a grandfather tree and she knew how grandfathers could go on and on when asked questions.

Once, she had asked her own grandfather a question, “Gramp?” “Yes little bird?” He replied in his hoarse voice. “What is your favorite memory?” she said softly, he looked up from his book and stared into her big curious eyes, after a moment his head turned up toward the ceiling, this was his thinking face, she recognized it from the dinner table when he and her father would have “not an argument just a discussion” he did this for a while before answering, “Well little lark,” he always called her variations of bird names, “There’s a time and a place for everything in life... When I was about your age, I took an adventure on my own.” A man for details, he described the clothes he wore and the breakfast he ate before he left home that morning, “Two eggs soft boiled for four minutes and buttered wheat toast, cut up into strips for dipping into the yolk... I also had a short glass of orange juice, apple was my favorite but we were out of apple so I had orange, it was good too. Oh, and I stole a sip from my mothers coffee for energy,” he gave her a wink, “boys my age weren’t supposed to drink coffee, as it would stunt our growth.” It took him five whole minutes of story to leave the house of his memory but when he did, he told of an adventure that would rival any. “Fairies?” she asked excitedly, “Everywhere,” he told her “You just have to keep your eyes open for them and make sure not to hurt them when you see them, it can be quite startling to see a tiny flying thing out of nowhere.” He went on for  almost an hour about the fairies, he loved them so and confessed to his granddaughter that for years following his adventure he would hide in small spaces pretending he was a fairy. “Why did you go?” she asked, “On my adventure?” he asked back, she nodded shyly, “You can ask me that, you don’t need to be shy about it... Well see, I was a very curious child, like you, and I knew that there was much to see that my parents wouldn’t tell me about... Or perhaps couldn’t because they were very old fashioned and not interested in things that weren’t normal, does that make sense?” The girl nodded again, “You always wanted to know everything, like you do now.” She said certainly, her grandfather laughed at this, “I suppose I did, yes.” She remembered his smile, talking about his favorite memory had made him happy. Maybe no one had ever asked him about it before, she thought. 

It had been a rough year for Margaret and her goose, Quamé. In the first month, Margret’s husband Eugene, died suddenly in the garden while planting winter bulbs. Two months after Eugene passed, Quamé’s female companion a welsh harlequin named Anahit, died from a virus only affecting rare breeds. Even though Margaret brought Quamé to the vet every time she took Anahit, he was still shocked when she finally gave in to her sickness.

Margaret’s big, musty house had felt very empty since Eugene left for the garden, and knowing how painful losing a love can be, Margaret decided to let Quamé live in the house with her. Having Quamé in the house brought a warmth to the old place, they would watch jeopardy together, eat together, and on special occasions Margaret would fill the bathtub for Quamé to paddle around in. They brought each other much joy in those days, but their relationship also had the potential to become quite contentious. Margaret was as stubborn as a goose and Quamé, who was as stubborn as a goose (because he was one) also had a tendency to lose his temper. Going off in screaming fits, when Margaret put him to bed before he was ready or when she wasn’t quick enough with his breakfast was customary. “You’re just a rude asshole!” she would yell at him, “You’re ungrateful!” and with that she would storm out to the the garden to tell Eugene what had happened. Sometimes she would go days before accepting his apology but once she forgave him, they would quickly return to the love filled companionship.

Margaret had always been independent but in the early spring while deadheading the roses, she fell and became wheelchair bound with a broken hip. Due to her unfortunate situation she was forced to hire an aide to come and help around the house during the day. Having the young man around brought a new vigor to Margaret, she was having full conversations again, making “people food” for two, every morning she looked forward to her friend coming. Quamé on the other hand had begun to resent the man’s presence, it took the attention off of him, and by the end of the day, Margaret was so talked out she had barely anything left to say to him.

One morning, looking out the living room window Quamé saw the young man pull up to the end of the long driveway. He watched the young man walking toward him, the young man waved and Quamé snapped, he charged out of the open front door and straight at the man, “Get out! Get out! Get out!” he screamed running as quick as he could. The terrified man retreated down the driveway, unknowingly doing as he was told. Quamé stood guard at the gate until the young man drove away, then proudly strutted his way back to the house, only to find that the door was shut. “Stay outside and think about what you’ve done to my friend!” Margaret yelled through the glass window.

Quamé wandered around the yard for a while, thinking about what he’d done and basking in his own masculinity. As the day turned into night Quamé began to get lonely, he missed Margaret and he missed being inside, he found that he even missed the young man. The pond was nearly empty, as it had been an unseasonably warm spring with little rain, but he took a short swim anyway to clear his head.

Margaret watched him from the window with anger, pity, but also love for the gander.

The next morning the young aide returned, carrying a cage and a walking stick, Quamé let him enter, for Margaret, not because he was afraid of the stick. Still outside Quamé watched the two though the glass window. Some time later, Margaret opened the door to the house and called for Quamé, he ran quickly to the call. He loved inside. Margaret showed him the cage and said, “Get in.” Quamé stood staring, he knew this cage, this was for the car and the car went to the place where he was poked with things by a man he didn’t like. “Get in Quamé, I don’t want an argument, this is for your own good.” She said sternly, he did as he was told. Into the cage. Into the car.

The car bumped along, the latch on the cage rattled from the gravelly road. Some time later they stopped and the young aide helped Margaret into her chair, then went to the cage, he grabbed Quamé gently and placed him in a tote bag affixed to the back of Margaret’s wheelchair. Next to him in the bag he noticed, was a loaf of bread. The aide placed a coat over the bag, concealing the goose. They began to move, a confused Quamé popped his head out attempting to get a view of where they were going. He saw gates as they passed through them and flowers, trees, followed by a few people. The wheelchair bumped along just as the car had, but he was enjoying this more, the wind on his face, he enjoyed the smells, pine, dirt, and algae. Quamé knew that smell anywhere, a pond was near... A big one.

When they came to a stop, Quamé could barely stand to be in the bag, his wings were flapping wildly, and he kept quacking unintentionally out of excitement. What was this place? The coat obstructing his view was lifted and there it was, a giant pond, with ducks, dozens of them. Margaret reached for the loaf of bread and used it to lure the ducks closer, once on the bank Quamé ran to the group introducing himself, finding himself an instant friend in a welsh harlequin named Gus, Quamé wanted to believe that Gus was maybe a relative of his Anahit, a cousin or second cousin, but he didn’t ask out of fear that maybe he wasn’t.

Quamé left the pond at the end of the day with Margaret and the young man, but that night he had dreams of the pond, hoping to return soon. When he woke up, he went to the cage and climbed inside. When Margaret woke up she found Quamé “ready to go” this made her laugh. “Breakfast first...” She said and he did as he was told. When the young man arrived, they left for the pond. That day was even better than the previous. They continued this day after day, each day Quamé making new and becoming closer friends.

When Adam left his friends, they were lying on their backs on a slab of sheet rock, looking up at the sky deep in conversation. It was all getting too much for him, talking about cosmic happenings and contemplating “our place” in everything... Adam had been having trouble sleeping as it was, ever since he found out that astroid Perses, said to be the size of a state (Adam couldn’t remember which one), that was supposed to slingshot around Earth could actually change course and collide directly into the southwestern part of the United States, wiping it out completely. Adam lived in the southwestern part of the United States. In an instant his world could end and he didn’t want to be staring directly at the thing that ended it when it happened.

Adam had forgotten to put his shoes back on so as he walked, mud created by the waterfall nearby squished between his toes. He liked the way it felt, the weirdness of it, the way it molded around each toe so easily. He had a new appreciation for this mud, knowing that at any moment it could be gone. Bending down, he took a handful of the muck and formed it, passing it from hand to hand he watched it became more and less of a ball. As he held it, he had the thought that he’d like to put it on his face, and since today might be his last opportunity to do it, he did. The cool mud touched his skin and goosebumps appeared over his whole body, a smile came to his face. At once, it felt as if he had found a piece of himself that had been missing, as if this had been his skin the whole time.

Adam walked toward the waterfall, face covered in mud, feet becoming more wet from the pool that was forming at the base of the fall. He walked through the sheet of water pouring down, his entire body now wet, what a miracle this is, he thought. Looking back through the water he could make out where his friends were, the affect of the sun shining through the water made it seem as if tiny rainbows were coming out of each of them. While mesmerized by the beams of light emerging from his friends, he felt the wall behind him with his hands. It was soft and spongy, he turned to see the most vibrant green moss, almost too bright for him to look at. He pressed his face into the softness and it too felt like skin, but not his own. It felt as if he was lying on someone’s lap, an adult when he was a child, someone a little fat and comfortable. A moment passed and his face remained pressed into the mountain, Adam had the thought that he knew now what people meant when they said, “It’s all connected” he felt as much a part of this mountain as he had the water trickling over the fall, as he did the mud on his face, as he felt a human. Pressing harder now, Adam wanted to see if he could actually "become one” with this piece of earth, wanting that more than he had wanted anything.

As he pressed, the moss began to give way, he pressed harder, when it gave way completely Adam began to fall. Falling was a new sensation for him, while in the process Adam realized he had never done it before, he started to wonder what landing would be like. Beams of sunlight came every so often through the darkness as he travelled further down and down. Landing happened just as the falling had, a new sensation, a wonderful one. A pillowy moss den comforted his landing, it felt like a million bunnies caught his body in their paws. Adam laid in the softness and looked around, the walls, the floor, the ceiling all covered in shades of green moss, soft and spongy like the outside moss, cool to the touch but also warm.

If you knew anything about Mary, you knew that she was unlike most of the girls from her town. Which is why it was no surprise to anyone when she requested the job of groundskeeper at her Great Aunt’s estate in the middle of “Knowhere” a small town her Great Aunt had founded nearly a century earlier, “A place for the misfits” she called it. Everyone told her how isolating it was going to be, her young cousin even joked, “A writer isolated in a mansion all alone? What is this? The Shining?” He was an amateur stand up comedian and Mary knew that she would most likely be the bulk of his material at the next open mic night, ‘The Shining’ took place in a hotel not a mansion,  but she didn’t bother to tell him, she imagined his act, “So my spinster cousin Mary just moved to an isolated mansion...” at this point she imagined he would hold up his index finger finishing the joke with, “Mary’s not here right now Mrs. Torrance.” She hoped it would get a laugh.

No matter how many times she tried to explain that the house was full of life and that she would have people around her all the time, her family continued to disapprove and insist that Knowhere is not where “civilized people live.” She didn’t mind everyone’s disapproval, it seemed to make her more resolute in her decision, she had always prided herself as being the rebellious one, the black sheep of the family, “just like Aunt Liza” and wore it as a badge of honor. 

Like Mary, her family was also a bit strange, everyone was “well bred” a term that made her cringe every time she heard it and used quite often in her town, “Mary, are you sure you wouldn’t like to have an introduction to James Mont Eclaire? He’s extremely well bred.” Her mother would say. Cringe, “Yes mother, I’m sure I would not like to be introduced to someone whose last name is that of a pastry, and who’s reputation is getting young girls who work for him pregnant, paying for their abortions, and then firing them... but thank you.” Mary loved pushing her mother’s buttons like this. “Mary, you shut your mouth and don’t you ever utter a word about that again, you hear me! That is all hearsay and I won’t have any of it in my house!” Her mother was from the south and always spoke as if she was from a different time. She refused to let go of her debutante days and when in social situations, her mother always smiled and waved as if she was being driven through town on a float. 

When Mary was younger, her mother would carry her around in a wicker basket covered with a piece of silk fabric. She would keep her hidden and pull back the silk for a moment every now and then, revealing Mary as if she was something beautiful but stolen, and then would quickly hide her again. Mary couldn’t remember those days but heard about it from many women around town, how beautiful she was but how no one got more than a quick peek at her. This, Mary guessed was why she was such an outcast, she wasn’t properly socialized with her own townspeople. She said as much to her mother as she was explaining why she had chosen to go live in Knowere, her mother did not take it well, “You are perfectly socialized Mary! Young ladies should not be put out there for all the world to see. They are treasures and should only be shown to those who are deserving of their presence. I won’t have any of this criticism! Furthermore, I won’t be to blame for you becoming an eccentric like Aunt Liza. She was as looney as the tunes! You, my dear, are not. So stop trying to be!” Mary held in laughter, thought about the phrase, “As looney as the tunes” and wondered how her mother came up with it. They never had a T.V. and her mother certainly didn’t watch cartoons, ever. She felt, “Television is for delinquents who have no thought in their brains at all...” Mary figured her mother had heard of “Looney Tunes” but had no cultural reference, this amused her. She kissed her mother’s red hot cheek before leaving, she would miss these regular visits. 

She packed the car and started her drive to the estate. Aunt Liza had had “stage four” the family knew she meant cancer, but she refused to say the word or specify type, she just referred to it as “stage four.” Liza had refused to leave the house for many reasons throughout Mary’s life, most recently it was the refusal to leave for medical treatment, her doctors made house calls on a weekly basis, mainly a formality as she also refused to let them treat her with anything saying there was, “No need for that poison.” As she drove, Mary thought about the last time saw her Aunt, just over a month before. 

Mary had gone to visit one afternoon and as she entered the big house, the walls vibrated with the  sounds of wild big band music and laughter. Mary followed the music into the study where she found Aunt Liza’s doctor in stitches on the floor while Liza read her “vulgar poetry” to him and danced around the room. They had been drinking. When Mary walked in, the octogenarian doctor attempted to straighten himself out for a moment. Liza in her very eloquent voice spoke the name of the next poem, “Penile erection requires police detection. A poem in memory of Mason Du Bois.” The doctor fell to the ground again in a pile of laughter and kicked his legs as a child would. The two roared, Mary watched, smitten with their debauchery. Eventually pouring herself a drink and finding a couch to lounge on, she joined in. They danced and laughed, danced and laughed. Mary and the Doctor fell asleep in the study, likely long before Liza had gone to her room. In the morning, Mary boiled water for a much needed pot of coffee. The doctor had joined her in the kitchen, “You know, your Aunt has, as far back as I can remember and even now, been so full of life...” He began to cry, “It’s hard to imagine...” The emotion was too much but he didn’t need to finish. Mary knew that these were her Aunt’s last days. She gave him a long hug before sending him away. 

Mary made a tray with coffee and wandered down the long, high ceilinged hallway toward her Aunt’s room, knowing she would need it as much as they had. Even though the house was a monstrosity in it’s size, it was surprisingly warm and inviting, every room felt as if it had it’s own personality. The study was Liza at her best, intellectual, witty, gregarious and beautiful. The kitchen was Liza at her most maternal, even though she had no children of her own, she took care of every child who came in the house as if she had wished for them her whole life. She would play “cafe” and “malt shop” and “saloon,” a game only to be played when no “grouchy parents” were around, the children all loved her and called her “Aunty” even though almost none of them were related to her. The formal dining room had the feeling of someone showing up to dinner overdressed, it was a room rarely used for it’s purpose as Liza didn’t believe in formality, “Too leave-outy” she would say. Most often it was used as a spill off for the drunks after a party whom she couldn’t drag into a bedroom. Everyone still received the comfort of a cashmere blanket for the night and a hot cup of coffee in the morning. 

As Mary approached her Aunt’s bedroom door she noticed the little gold bell on the handle and  remembered it fondly. She gave it a little ring and put her ear to the door to listen for a response. A moment passed. She rang again and heard nothing in response. Mary rang the bell once more, with a little more oomph and placed her ear against the door. Faintly, over the sound of her own now pounding heart beat she heard a little bell return the call. Entering gently Mary placed the tray on the sideboard and approached the bed. As she pulled back the canopy she saw her Aunt lying in her long silk nightgown on top of the covers. Liza looked at her out of the corner of one eye, noticing Mary’s distress, “What? We were up late. I wanted to sleep a little more.” She gave a little smile and flicked her hand at her niece, Mary climbed into bed and snuggled into her Aunt’s familiar smell. They laid together like that almost all day. 

Tears came down Mary’s face remembering that day. Aunt Liza had been her home, her place of comfort, the only place she had ever wanted to be. Even though she had passed, living in the house was Liza’s spirit, her energy had peppered every room for over 90 years. Mary felt it was her duty and would be her pleasure to keep it alive and she knew she was the only person in her family who could do it. 

It had been a particularly uneventful day... Replaying a Manhattan montage in her mind, a young woman stood staring. The grocery store was packed, Whole Foods to be exact. Wandering near the salad bar, people swarmed like pigeons to birdseed around the freshly replaced shaved carrot bits. She superimposed the New York image over the reality in front of her, imagining pigeons eating carrot bits and humans eating street trash birdseed, she enjoyed herself for a moment before being snapped back into reality. Not of her choosing. 

An older woman- and by older meaning older than the young woman (who was 24), not OLD old so eyesight couldn’t be to blame- ran her giant cart into the back the young woman’s legs, her knees buckled, she stepped forward trying not to get a face full of baby spinach. The young woman looked back at her with an 'Oh. I'm sorry, was I in Your way?' tone of face. The older woman said nothing, there was barely a look, she was seeing orange. She reached past the young woman for the serving spoon and heaped carrot bits into her brown recycled paper salad bucket. The young woman saw the brown paper container and fantasized about grabbing it, turning it upside down and dumping all the precious carrots shavings onto the shiny floor. After all the contents were gone she’d spike the carton to the ground and raise her arms above her head in a touchdown dance manner saying,'How ya like me now...' Probably something she’d seen in a movie... Instead of living out her fantasy she opted for, ”AMAZING”, in her best passive aggressive tone. The other woman was unfazed, probably not even hearing her. The young woman had an inner monologue rant, but said nothing aloud. 

She just waited her turn for the shaved carrots. Waited her turn for the poached salmon, even though she often questioned it. Waited her turn in line to checkout, $16... Then of course, waited her turn to leave the parking lot. “Whole Foods, ha! Whole lotta trouble just for a salad.” She scoffed, entertaining herself as she attempted to pull out of the parking space. Deciding to take the back way home meant it would take longer to get to the other side of the parking lot, but once you were there, you were home free. She decided that was the best plan. 

Almost there. Amazing, she thought as she glanced in her rearview mirror, she had made it across the entire Whole Foods parking lot and halfway across the K-Mart parking lot in less than 10 minutes. She was making excellent time. 

Passing the entrance to K-mart she noticed a little old- and this time meaning ‘OLD’ old- lady attempting to cross the road to get to the para-transit in the other lane. “Aww” she was adorable. The young woman stopped, allowing the fragile grandma to have all the room and time she needed to cross, and she was moving slowly... While waiting she wondered who the first person to use the phrase ‘slower than molasses’ was and if there was an actual speed attached to the pace of which molasses moved. The young woman thought about the old woman, No one could blame her for moving slower than molasses, most likely her arthritic 80lb body could barely move as it was then some quack doctor prescribed her a 40lb stainless steel walker to 'help' her get around, and tennis balls? On this concrete?! The ground is way too bumpy for those to help in any way... She thought, It’s a miracle she’s forward moving at all, she was inspired by the little woman’s determination.