the fruits of fate

Louise stood in the quiet pale green of the half-lit hall in her apartment, the afternoon sunlight filtering weakly through the plate glass of the casement window. Zelda had remarked on her last visit that her windows are "flithy," but Louise didn't see the point of cleaning them. She quite liked to see the grunge, imperfect frames of the outside world.

At this time of day, if she stood very still... and if Marly, her Russian blue kitten wasn't wrestling with some string somewhere... she could hear the faint hum of the Prospect Expressway which divided her neighborhood from Park Slope. To say you lived "on the other side of the expressway" was like saying you lived "on the other side of the tracks." Brooklyn was dangerous, but her small neighborhood, hugged on two sides by the cemetery, was insular somehow, made up mostly of Polish and Italian immigrants, who took quiet strolls arm in arm after dark and let their children run free in the streets.

She felt safe here, standing in the narrow hall, staring at the photograph of her great grandmother - her mother's mother - which hung next to a small gilded-edge mirror. The only decoration on a long wall, they appeared awkward and alone, but keeping each other company. She remembered when she hung them just after she moved in two and a half years ago, the fresh paint smelling of new beginnings. The pained frustration at hanging them so they were straight, and the subsequent giving up, so that they hung on the wall slightly askew.

The mirror was a poor excuse for a mirror. She had picked it up from a cardboard box left outside a stately mansion on Garfield Place... some rich family's refuse. Most of the things in her apartment were acquired this way, on the street or in flea markets, an amalgam of the fruits of fate. The cast-iron skillet, the kitchen table, the Danish desk chair, were all like the mirror: half-functioning, half-pretty, their glory days a distant past. The chair was worn in the seat, and the table was wobbly, but they were dear to her and she liked the idea of giving them a second, third, or fourth chance at life, treating them as if new.

The mirror on the wall had lost some of its reflectivity. The coating had pulled away from the back like paint, having documented each passing year with another centimeter, so that now only the center surface remained. It was enough, though, that she could see her brown eyes eyes, strong nose, and small lips, barely lit by the waning sun. Standing, still, she glanced back at her great-grandmother's portrait. Suddenly, Louise saw the same brown eyes, strong nose, and small lips, and she realized she was probably now the same age as her great grandmother when the photo was taken: twenty-nine.

She had known this photo since her life's memory began, when it sat on her mothers dresser, until she went to college and asked to take it with her. As a child, she had always been captivated by the beautiful dress, old-fashioned hairdo, and the knowledge that, three years after the photo was taken, in 1922, she would be stricken with a fast-moving and vicious leukemia. Most captivating was her gaze: haunting, yet peaceful, as if she somehow knew what would befall her. It was the same look she saw reflected in her grandmother's eyes when she stood staring out at the bluegrass of her Kentucky lawn, and it was the look she saw in her own mother's eyes when she was lost in thought on a long car trip.

Louise turned her head to look in the mirror once more, staring, into nothing, and for that minute, in the half-light, the portraits of two distant generations of women hung on the wall, side by side, slightly askew, mirror images of each other.

blazing saddles

Everett sank into the cool velvet chaise in Chloe's living room. From where he sat, he could see the evening sun of Summer setting beyond the western edge of Tribeca, bathing the top halves of its buildings in a sherbet glow, calming the city as if it were singing it a lullaby. Car horns diminished in the distance, and work-a-day Chinese women scurried on the street below, picking up last minute ingredients from the vegetable vendors closing down their stalls.

He was tired, Chloe could see, no doubt from having spent the entire day on his bike riding all over the damn place. She figured he did this, regularly, mostly because he was broke, but also because he needed adventure and this was the only way to get it. Seemingly endless, drawn-out work weeks left Everett more morose and downtrodden than the average daily-grind worker. He just wasn't cut out for it, this sitting in an office chair, day after day. It killed him. These things he had explained to Chloe over and over, while strolling around Columbus Park or while taking tea at the Mah Jong Parlour on Pell Street. And now he was taking action... sort of.

"Man, it was such a fantastic day. I mean, 85 and sunny."

Everett had an admirable tolerance for extreme heat. Actually, it was beyond tolerance. He thoroughly enjoyed humid, hot, sunny days. While Chloe hated even the feeling of potential perspiration, Everett luxuriated in it.

Chloe retorted, "Ugh. The weather was horrendous. I could smell the fishmonger all the way from Canal Street today. Also, I attempted to ride my bike, but the saddle was so hot from the sun I promptly dismissed the idea entirely." (It goes without saying that Chloe complained about the weather rather excessively during the summer months.)

Wisely ignoring her, Everett continued. "Well, for some reason, today, people just seemed dazed by the sunshine. Pedestrians just kind of walked around like zombies everywhere I went, stepping into traffic, barely moving along sidewalks." (Ever since Everett started riding his bike, really riding his bike, he referred to people who were not on bikes as "pedestrians.")

"So, tell me what happened that's gotten you so riled up."

Everett had texted her an expletive-laden message earlier in the day, the content of which Chloe found impossible to decipher. In response, she invited him to "just come over whenever the hell he got back from wherever the hell he was. " And so, her bell rang about 6:30pm, just as she was putting some rose in the fridge to chill. Thank god he had showered before coming over.

Everett recounted:

So, this lethargy I was sensing wasn't limited to pedestrians. Even car drivers seemed to be a little... unconscious. To the point where just getting out of Manhattan over the bridge proved to be near-catastrophic, with cars just coasting through the red light at Canal Street. It's a good thing I'm a careful rider. But the worst was yet to come. As I was coming down off the bridge in DUMBO, I hit the light perfectly so as to be able to cross into that raised, center-median bike lane. And you know how that's just one huge downhill slope down to Sands Street? well, I was just blazing-saddles down that thing, made it through that one light at Gold Street. I must have been going like 40 miles per hour. And for some reason, I just did not notice this car that had driven up onto the bike lane median and whose driver had their door wide open, almost touching the concrete divider wall between bike lanes. So there was nowhere for me to go but into the traffic lane, which, most unfortunately, was taken at that very second by a car. So, I attempted to slam on my brakes, which, of course, didn't stop me in time. My front tire hit the inside of the driver's side door, sending me (with a helmet, thank, god,) straight into the window pane, shattering the glass. It's a good thing I wasn't going faster or I'd be a lot worse off.

"But where are your injuries? Your scratches?," Chloe interjected.

Everett pulled up him pant legs to reveal two equally-sized wounds on each of his knees.

Just these. But look, this isn't the worst of it. I'm getting up, trying to pull myself together, and this huge, fat woman is screaming at me. And I'm thinking, what the fuck, I should be screaming at her. She's still in her fucking car, saying 'Look what you just did to MAH CAR!! YouSONOFABITCH!!' And all the while her lazy, fat ass is still parked in that drivers seat.

I was incredulous. I couldn't believe this was happening. My gut reaction was to start getting myself together to keep riding, and as I picked up my bike, still shaking form the impact, she's saying to me 'That's right, KEEP MOVIN, KEEP MOVIN.' So I shot back, 'You're in the fucking bike lane, what did you expect you BITCH?!' Well, that finally got her moving out of her seat. I defensively scrambled up onto the concrete barrier and in front of her car, so that she was blocked by her open door. At that point, I don't remember what she said. Nothing of consequence, really. Apparently she had just parked her lazy ass there right on a bike lane, for no reason at all but to hinder cyclists.

While she was ranting, I determined that I wasn't seriously injured, and I decided that I would be proactive. As she kept yelling at me, I calmly mounted my bike and, once the traffic lane was clear, circled around her car. I took out my camera and snapped one photo of the scene. The back of her car and car door, clearly blocking a bike lane, with the window shattered and the most important piece, a clear shot of her license plate.

Once she saw me take the photo, she flipped her shit and went after me. I started to ride away but I wasn't fast enough. I guess I was too shaken from the fall. She knocked me off my bike and I was so angry that I promptly got up and hit her, and at that point it was just a full-on fight. Me and this huge, foul-mouthed woman. All I remember is that I just kept punching her, until she finally gave way and flew across the concrete barrier, rolling into the opposite bike lane, where she lay, motionless. Of course, before I had time to process what had just happened, a cop car rolls up with its lights on. He questioned me, I told him the story, and he sent me on my way, saying he'd take care of the situation. He didn't seem to care about the woman laying face down on the opposite bike lane. Once I started riding away, he finally strolled over to her, and as I looked over my shoulder, I saw her get up, yelling and pointing at me as I rode away. I figured, that's justice.

Chloe got up to retrieve the rose from the fridge. She hoped it was chilled.

ethics in mail delivery

Chloe had a questionable habit of borrowing her neighbor's magazines from the mailbox. Both girls shared a box with the other tenant on the floor, Mrs. Wong, who mostly only received type-written envelopes from obscure organizations such as The International Center for Psychic Research and The Knitters' Defense Fund. Bonnie Maloney, for her part, received a continuous subscription to all manner of fashion magazines, also, Newsweek. These were magazines which mildly interested Chloe, but not nearly enough to commit to a $19/year subscription. Besides, it was more exciting to borrow them.

Chloe was always the first to get to the mailbox in the late afternoons, right after Mr. Cho, the mailman, made his delivery. If there was a magazine in the box, she grabbed it along with her own mail. She was always sure to read the magazine that very evening, reading (or flipping) through its entirety, devouring its contents in an hour or two or three. The next afternoon, she carefully placed the magazine back into the mailbox, as if Mr. Cho had delivered it that afternoon. Each time, Chloe prided herself on the near-virginal appearance of the now-day-old magazine, betraying only the slightest hint of use. No harm done, Chloe figured, except maybe Bonnie's assessment of Mr. Cho, who she probably thought an unpunctual and careless mailman.

fresh snow

"Why are you wearing that? Didn't Ian give that to you?"

"Yeah, so?"

Eleanor gave her a look of death. They were sitting in a bar in the East Village, drinking red wine and watching the white snow slowly build up outside against the black of the night.

It wasn't as bad as she was making it out to be. Eleanor loved to be dramatic, and Chloe usually let slide most of any perceived antagonism associated with her overreactions.

"I don't mind it, you know..." Chloe went on. "It didn't end so terribly."

Eleanor sat up in her stool, her back straightening. Chloe could almost see her spine bristle. "What are you talking about?! It was awful!" Slumping down back into her position on the stool, with her arms folded, she added "Well, it was awful for me, at least."

This much was probably true, and she deserved to be overly dramatic about it. Chloe told Eleanor everything. It's possible she was so used to telling her things that she might tell her too much sometimes. When they spoke, it was as if her brain took control of her mouth, and any kind of filter that Chloe would use with any other person was rendered useless. It was the result of years of friendship, and there was nothing she could do about it.

"Really, I mean. Despite everything, I just really like this necklace," she explained to her friend.

The necklace in question was a golden, precious affair, with a fine chain and a small heart pendant with a hammered finish. Chloe didn't have any good reasons to back up why she liked it, like she could some other things she owned (i.e. "it was my grandmother's" or "it has a bird on it"). She didn't even like hearts, really. But there was something about it.

"Anyway" she went on, "I've purged it of all its negative meaning, in that way."

"Oh, and how have you managed to do that?," Eleanor shot back, dryly, skeptically.

God, Eleanor could really be a bitch sometimes.

"I created a kind of new life for it. Ever since Ian and I broke up, I've worn it every day. And every day I wear it, it acquires new meaning and becomes a part of new memories... such that its previous context, its old memory, gets farther and farther away."

"Have you been eating those street cart berries again?? I told you those things...."

Chloe had already zoned out, her attention stolen by some commotion between pedestrians. Eleanor was always getting on her for buying fruits from the street cart vendors in her neighborhood in Chinatown. There was nothing wrong with it, but Eleanor only bought her fruits from Whole Foods for twice as much, so what did she know?

She definitely didn't know that Chloe was rather fond of her new theory, which she called The Theory of Replaced Meaning. She could toss out the physical vestiges of past relationships which she didn't like, but the precious few ones she liked she found she could keep and make them her own. She applied this theory not only to objects but to places, too, reclaiming over the course of time the spaces they once shared. Over the past month since the breakup, Chloe had retraced all of the steps they took together. Up and down Elizabeth, Mott, and Mulberry Streets, and across Prince and Spring, Kenmare and Broome and Grand. She'd eaten at the same restaurants, drunk the same wine in the same bars, all in this new incarnation, with friends or without. It was a daunting undertaking, but once put in practice, it was downright enjoyable. She saw it all with fresh eyes, and it was even better than before. By now, she'd canvassed the whole of their relationship, from beginning to end, and this bar, unbeknownst to Eleanor, was the last stop. The place where it ended.

"Well, are you ready to go?" asked Eleanor, slurping down the last of her wine with clear impatience at Chloe's zone-out.

"Yes, let's go eat. Max's?," asked Chloe, putting on her coat and scarf.

"Isn't that where...?"

Chloe gave her a perplexed look. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

They stepped out together into the streets full of fresh snow, their boots leaving a double trail behind them.

the story of matilda jennings

It wasn't always to be believed, but the story was true just the same. Born in the same month of the same year as she, Matilda Jennings was Louise's closest confidante when they were schoolgirls. She resided in a massive white townhouse where the P.S. 10 now stands. It was a corner lot, the envy of all the neighbors. Her parents has passed before she turned three, which is when the neighbors stopped envying and instead shook their heads and said things like, "Poor little Matilda" and "Isn't it a pity." The housekeeper, Ms. Dean, who lived there and cared for Mr. and Mrs. Jennings during their last days, stayed on to raise her, the single child, as there were apparently no close or distant family members available or willing to step in.

It turned out that the housekeeper was a poor excuse for one, letting the house go to ruin inside and out. By the time Matilda and Louise were in grade school, the awnings had begun to tumble, the vines growing between brick and mortar, pulling apart the foundation. But Ms. Dean loved Matilda and treated her handsomely, never depriving her of the good fortune her father had wrought in the pantyhose business. In the afternoons when Matilda and Louise were young, Ms. Dean would plant them in the backseat of her rust-colored dinosaur of a towncar, where they sat silently together, staring straight ahead, their brunette and hay-colored heads swinging this way and that as she turned corners, the wind whipping their fine long hair around in circles.

When Matilda and Louise turned sixteen, Ms. Dean passed, and Matilda was deemed fit by the courts to take care of herself. This meant that the house would continue to deteriorate. Having had a loving yet ultimately free-thinking upbringing, fixing up or maintaining the house was not on her list of priorities. During those years, Louise took it upon herself to mop the kitchen floor and dust the furniture in the drawing room, as Matilda slept until noon. She also made sure Matilda took her meals, and frequently invited her to her family's house around the corner for dinner, or she brought her a minced meat pie, her mother's specialty. Otherwise, she knew, Matilda would not eat. Instead of breakfast, she would go out into the dense and wild backyard of her house and catch sparrows and other wild birds and keep them in her collection of cages in the greenhouse. When they died, which never took very long, Matilda would bury them out in the back corner of the yard, next to the high brick wall, each with their own stone marker. It was a never-ending succession of birds that came there to die, however unwillingly, and by the time Louise left for college, there must have been twenty or thirty stones out there, all lined up in rows.

Matilda never made it to college. Not every girl attended college in those days, however. Most of the neighbors just said, "I hope she finds a good man." Louise felt bad leaving her there, but Matilda insisted she would be fine, and said she would call her by phone regularly, which she didn't.

The late autumn of their twentieth year of life was cold, the air permeated with the scent of burning wood. One Sunday morning, while Louise was still at college, Matilda dressed herself in her mother's silk wedding dress that still hung in the closet, and topped it with the moth-eaten mink. She carefully curled her hair and applied rouge to her cheeks. She looked the most beautiful she ever had. Her feet were too big for her mother's satin heels, so, barefoot, she strode out of the front door, leaving it wide open for the wind and leaves to rush through the hall and up the banister. She marched steadily past the neighbors who looked on in bewilderment from their windows. Down the hill she walked, steadily, assuredly, past the warehouses, down to the heavily polluted Gowanus canal, where, without pause, as if propelled by the inertia of her stride, she stepped off the concrete ledge into the freezing sludge, where, if she didn't drown, she was certainly poisoned by the refuse of industry.

When they found her, out behind the lumber yard, her frail and lifeless body lay face-first, the fabric covered buttons of her white dress peeking out from under a bright green frozen block of ice, scores of sparrows circling overhead.

peking duck

It was dusk, and someone somewhere was blasting Beyonce from their car speakers. The bass thundered down her little street, and Chloe could see Mrs Huang across the way, watering her plants in her kitchen window. She smiled and waved. Chloe smiled and waved back. She must be paying like 200 a month in rent.

Not that Chloe's rent wasn't cheaper than a New York apartment of similar size. It was rent-stabilized, which meant that her landlord would raise her rent every year to the maximum allowable percentage, in the effort to finally reach the magical two grand mark, at which point rent stabilized apartments are allowed to go to market rate. But the percentage per year wasn't too high, and she hoped that by the time it got anywhere near two grand she would be long gone to the Carolinas or some other mild-weathered state.

It was 6 pm and Mildred was late, due to a shoe shopping trip gone awry. She really didn't want Mildred to come over, but invited her over out of habit, or boredom, she wasn't sure which. Mildred had become sort of scrappy lately, succumbing to the societal pressures to get married and have babies before she hit forty and taking it upon herself to make sure she didn't "fall behind the pack." She had started wearing high heels and going on dates with guys like "Aaron from the art gallery" and "Tim from the coffee shop." She used to be more unexpected. Now she did the boring things everyone else in New York did, like go to Sheep's Meadow on Saturday afternoons and the Meatpacking district at night. It made Chloe sick to her stomach, and she had almost had enough.

At 6:25, the small bell rang outside her bedroom window. She had rigged it up when, after moving in, she realized there was no buzzer in the 100-year-old tenement building. So she hung a brass ringer from the 99 cent store on the rail outside on her fire escape, and attached a long, inconspicuous string that blended in with the parasols sold by the vendor in the downstairs storefront.

She ambled down the two flights of stairs, tipsy having now drunk half of the bottle of wine that she and Mildred were supposed to share.

"Hiiiiiiiii Chloe! How are you?," shrieked Mildred, giving her a hug.
Poor Mildred. She was well-intentioned, but offensively girly. Chloe faked a smile.
"Come up. Would you like some wine?"
"Sure!," she said. Hiking back up the stairs, Chloe wondered how to tell her, how to break it off.

Inside the door, Mildred plopped down on the couch with a large sigh, while Chloe resumed her place on the chaise. "So, how did the date go?"

"Oh! It was so lovely! The whole time I was thinking, This might be the one!"

Chloe set down her wine glass and felt she might gag. But she attempted a feigned excitement. "Ohhh, that's wonderful, what happened?," she forced out of herself.

Couldn't she tell she was faking it? That she didn't give a shit about this guy who seemed hideously boring. That she thought Mildred herself was hideously boring.

"Well! So he took me to Central Park and he had a picnic basket! He even thought of the blanket. So we sat there, in sheep's meadow, having a lunch of lemon curd and toast. I do love lemon curd. Just as soon as he brought out that jar, I knew he was the one."

There was a pause, with which Chloe didn't know what to do. It was awkward. She could tell her feigning was fading. Certainly Mildred couldn't actually be this superficial.

Well, enough was enough. Plus, the wine bottle was empty. Chloe stood up and announced that she was so sorry, that she must leave to pick up her Peking Duck for tomorrow night's feast at the mah jong parlor.

They gave each other kisses on the cheek, and after closing the door, Chloe heaved a sigh of relief, purging Mildred's putrid words out of her system. She changed out of her clothes and slipped on her silk Chinese robe. There was no feast tomorrow, and there certainly was no Peking Duck.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peking_Duck

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mah_jong

pungent sights

On a perfectly brisk yet sunny October Saturday, Chloe was inside selling overpriced but good croissants and coffee at Ceci-Cela on Spring. She thought it might be a fun thing, like a hobby, working in what would be the closest thing to a real Parisian cafe. Plus, it was just a few blocks north of her apartment. She imagined herself blithely tying on a cute apron and joyfully serving smiling, happy customers delicious pastries, chatting with the locals in between. Instead, it was all drudgery and belittlement. The customers, both tourists and natives alike, were downright rude, and the smell of croissants was now sickening. She was about to tell the manager she would like to quit when in walked a familiar face.

One look at his trendy new boots and she knew he wasn't the same. It had been five years, of course, and one was certainly allowed to change. But not for the worse. Not while still in your twenties. He reeked of expensive cologne, and he produced an iPhone4 from his back pocket.
"Really? An iPhone?"
"Yeah, aren't they great?"
"I wouldn't know. I though you hated iPhones." Chloe cast a jaded glance out the window over her right shoulder, then turned to face him again.
"I did, in theory. But now I don't live in the theoretical world. I live in the practical one."
"I can see that."

She motioned to the rear of the cafe, if you could call it a cafe. It was more like a claustrophobic hallway. Not more than one person could stand between the wall and the glass case. She walked out from behind the counter and followed him to a pair of rickety chairs set around a table still strewn with the remnants of someone's breakfast.

There they chatted about the usual things one chats about with someone from the past. Jobs ["Are you still at...?"], haircuts ["Your hair seems longer..."], apartments ["You've moved five times?!"], and relationship status ["So, how's Tara? Oh, I'm sorry to hear that."]. By that time, he had finished his coffee and croissant, and Chloe saw him on his way, ["It was great to see you. I'll see you around."], never to be seen again, in all his pungent, high-tech glory.

http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/pungent

these were the days

Chloe secretly hoped that everything would turn out, but she secretly knew it wouldn't. These were the days of burnt toast and missed subway trains. Of sugared dreams and dashed hopes. The light at the end of the tunnel was dim, and the bats had taken over now. Gaining in number, they flew furiously through the long hallways of her mind, slapping against the walls, the rush of wings carrying her forth into nothing, something. She drifted in and out, here, standing in her kitchen without an oven. Staring out the window in night silence, she wondered when that goddamn tinnitus in her right ear would go away, or whether it would only get worse from here.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tinnitus

http://209.161.37.21/dictionary/batty

self help titles for the pessimist

"How to Lose Friends and Win Better Ones"

"What To Do When Your Dream Becomes Your Nightmare, and other impossible crises"

"Throwing in the Towel: Lessons in Giving Up"

forgettable things

The ad man for whom Chloe worked a few summers ago was a forgettable man with a forgettable face. The only thing she remembered about him was that he liked to dress in pleated khakis and that he thought that The Most Serene Republic was the greatest band ever.....a forgettable band not forgotten by Chloe because she could not forget that unforgettable aspect of an otherwise forgettable man.

twenty-five cent leeks

The bus doors clattered open, and Louise stepped out into the bright May sun, reflected tenfold from the sidewalk by her orange pumps. It was 5:08pm, and the day seemed still half-pregnant with the possibilities the morning had offered. She wanted to believe that, anyway, seeing as how all she had done today was sit at her desk at Ward Jenkins's Avian Pathology office where she answered four phone calls and filed ten papers.

Louise had not gotten off at her usual stop, which was still twenty blocks south, in order to complete a special errand: the procurement of fresh twenty-five cent leeks at E&H Local Market. She'd heard about the deal from her friend Olivia, who divulged the information on Sunday evening to her in response to Louise's complaint that she couldn't find fresh leeks anywhere in their "God forsaken neighborhood" on the north border of the cemetery, and that her cooking repertoire had suffered severely as a result (potato leek soup being, according to her friends, her best dish). "Oh yes!," Olivia had said. "Not only are they cheap, they are fresh and large and their leaves are the brightest green you've ever seen!"

Louise was still living on the high that this new and exciting information provided her, and visions of creamy potato leek soup danced in her head since she heard the news. The anticipation built as she neared E&H, now just half a block away. Holding her breath, Louise crossed the establishment's threshold which was marked by the sudden rush of air from a dusty industrial fan. Her eyes darted around, looking for that bright green bountiful pile of tender white bulbous roots.

It was then that she realized that E&H didn't sell fresh leeks. Not even old ones. Not even produce. It was then that she remembered the details of that conversation with Olivia, which had taken place in her sunlit kitchen, Louise drinking wine and leaning against the counter, and Olivia telling her about the leeks while holding her large, white, fluffy bunny rabbit which she didn't actually own, because had Louise had made it all up in her dream last night.

unsolicited correspondence

Dear Owen,

I heard all about the new girl. She sounds absolutely lovely, really. How did you manage to win that prize? And she and her dog already moved in, too? My, that was quick! It took you two full years to ask me. She really must be something! Especially if you still come home every night with that scowl on your face. By the way, I thought you hated french bulldogs? Anyway, really, congratulations on your new trophy / life. I hope everything goes just swimmingly.

xo,
Chloe

grand street station: then and now

Chloe remembered their third date. It was the first time they rode the subway together; a bright and cold Sunday afternoon in an endless winter.

As they awaited the next train at the Grand Street station, they reminisced about the second date's merits and shortcomings, the former being the excellent food at the Ethiopian restaurant on Mulberry, the latter being his unfortunate, uncontrollable sneezing episode which rendered their conversation mute for a good five minutes. As he rehashed his haphazard theory that he must be allergic to red lentils, he pulled out a veritable deck of metrocards from his back pocket, shuffling them like kings and queens. He explained that each card was it own ride, its own trip with its own ticket. He rode the subway this way so that his life would be more a series of small adventures rather than one continuous blur provided by the monthly metrocard. This, of course, went against all reason and logic, the monthly metrocard being the most cost-effective and convenient. But she admired his principle, nonetheless.

And she imagined him standing there at the Grand Street station, explaining his metrocard theory for the second time, four years later, on a bright and cold Sunday afternoon in an endless winter, to a different girl: tall, like she, only skinner, with bigger breasts and a dark crease at the crown of her head where her bright blond hair betrayed her.

a work/life continuum

Chloe sat there like some dumb animal, staring at the moss green wall of her living room. She sat straight up, her back against the weathered brocade fabric of her small couch, her legs in right angles with knees pointing forward. A row of holes in the plaster betrayed her endeavor last April to finally hang up the bunch of framed artwork and photos that had been sitting propped up against the baseboard. Recently, she'd had to take a few down, those works associated with her somewhat recent ex-boyfriend. She was sick of the reminder. A mere glance would open the floodgates to a rush of disgust and resentment for having wasted so much time, now having realized what a terrible mistake he was. At any rate, that was all over now and in the past few months she was was able to shut the floodgates relatively quickly.
She turned her gaze to the window, where the creepy-crawly vine had had its way with the window frame, tangling itself around the old moldings and basking in the warm November sun, which at this time of year, only shone in on her apartment directly between one and three in the afternoon.
Looking out at her neighbors' clothes hanging on the line, bright against the sky, she sat there pondering the questions of her universe. Why was it that, more often that not, she would arrive at a subway station only to just miss the train? Didn't subway karma dictate that just-misses would more or less even out with spot-on arrivals? Or, why was it that whenever she was late to work, her boss was always there, sitting in his glass-walled office, his eyes following her every move? And when she was early, he was never there to see it? Furthermore, why for god's sake could she not fall asleep before midnight, then suffer dizzying tiredness all day, only to revive just when it would be an intelligent, appropriate time to go to sleep, say, 10pm? If she had it her way, the days would be 36 hours long. (That would put an end to the ridiculously uneven work/life ratio so common these days, whereby the 9-hour-a-day worker, toiling away with the end goal being to continue fattening up the bank accounts of her superiors while they sit in their corner offices drinking whiskey on the rocks, spends the majority of her waking hours making just enough money to fund the few remaining ones.) Then she'd have some time to actually do some worthwhile things like paint that cabinet in the living room, or play the Moonlight Sonata on the piano. Then she could maybe retire to the chaise with Summer by Edith Wharton, pass out, and wake up 8 hours later, refreshed and bright eyed, to the sound of the garbage truck making its morning rounds.

cannibal carpet

Louise dropped onto the soft carpet of grass that covered the hill on the southern face, letting the folds of her white eyelet lace dress land gently about her, which contrasted nicely, she thought, with the saturated green of the ground. She gazed about, her eyes level with the tops of the few hundred gravestones of fallen civil war soliders that stood at tired attention in roughening rows, casting diagonal repeating shadows. The sun shone down on her face, the warmth kissing away the pervasive chill in her bones. A fact unknown to her, this was the highest point in Brooklyn, and when the sun shone in November, the warmest.

Louise had been coming to this spot regularly ever since Ward Jenkins had gotten married and went off on his African tour honeymoon with his socially ambitious and, she opined, commonly pretty new wife. It had been three months now since they left, and Louise was charged with the general upkeeping duties of the office as well as the house, including the feeding of the three macaws, two cockatiels, one african grey, and that damned loud cockatoo that always sounded like it was being tortured.

Aside from the cockatoo's screams, it was lonely and dark in the first floor office. She looked forward to the afternoon light that would stream in through the stained glass windows in the foyer. Her days and nights melted into each other eventually, and sometimes she didn't speak to a single soul for a few days, in the back-and-forth from her apartment to Ward Jenkins's. It got to the point where in the mornings, when she unlocked the front door, she would pretend that things were going on exactly as before, with Hilda the housekeeper bumping noisily around in the kitchen and Ward sitting contentedly at his desk eating his daily breakfast of grapefruit halves with the serrated spoon. That was when she decided she'd better get out, and one day, found herself on the hill in the cemetery.

She imagined, with a revolting, leadened feeling in her stomach, Ward and his new wife touring the pyramids, smiling and happy and sickening. And his wife was just so... boring, thought Louise. At any rate, Ward could be so self-centered and moody, and maybe they deserved each other. He'll probably make a terrible husband, she thought, as she brought her gaze down to the ground, picking at the little blades of grass, tearing their innocent, young bodies in half in undeserved cruelty and throwing them back onto the earth where, certainly, the soil would swallow the dead matter and the grass would grow strong from feasting on itself.

trials

Every year around the same time, Chloe made the trip down to Miami to visit her parents. She only saw them once a year, owing to the fact that if her family was to maintain some semblance of, well, family, the duty rested upon her shoulders to show up for Christmas. This was because her parents never came to visit her in New York, for all of the five and a half years she had lived there. Her father detested the city, having grown up among palm trees and sunny open spaces in Florida, and also having developed a severe case of claustrophobia crawling through pyramids on an Air Force tour in Egypt in the 60s. Her mother made verbal promises to visit, but unfortunately she had that dreadful combination of being a persistent procrastinator and non-commitant.
As such, every year, the month of December meant having to arrange for the trip: buying the plane ticket, shopping for "New York gifts" of which her family members were fond, but which had to be non-liquid, unbreakable, and not too heavy, stuffing said items in her suitcase, and then the pleasant experience of LaGuardia Airport on December 22nd.
She dreaded the whole process every year, but she had to admit that once she landed at Miami Airport and the doors of the baggage claim slid open before her, the rush of warm and humid air signaling that she was home for Christmas, it was worth it.

Chloe vs. The Raccoon

Through the fuzzy darkness, Chloe strained her eyes to see the clock. 2:36 am. Damnit, she thought. Maybe it's too hot in here. The entire bed felt too warm, her body heat having transferred over the course of the past few hours. Tearing the bed clothes off of her legs, she cursed that raccoon intrusion incident that forced her to shut her windows every night since then.

[Back in the Spring, Chloe had made the mistake of leaving her bedroom window open, which was located on the fire escape. This being Chinatown, not only was her apartment not furnished with an oven, but it also lacked window screens. She never saw the thing, but evidence of the raccoon was everywhere when she returned home late one night. Sooty footprints betrayed its run of every square foot in her apartment... it trekked across the white bedspread, overturned the bookcase, splashed around in the toilet, then rummaged around the papers on her desk before going on its merry way back out the window.]

Aside from the uncomfortable temperature, something else weighed on Chloe's mind. Jenkins. It was one of those names that's common in theory but rare in practice. She couldn't shake the memory of the events earlier that day at the cemetery, and, feeling that there must be some depth to the story, she resolved to look into the matter more thoroughly in the morning.

It's so damn hot. Then, Chloe remembered an old trick. Flipping the pillow over, her cheek met its cool underbelly, and she fell asleep.

the meeting

It was again that time of year for the trip to the cemetery. Autumn, Chloe's favorite season, had settled in with a whisper, scurrying the dead remnants of summer's growth over the earth. The air was chill, and it tore through the buttonholes of her cardigan as she pedalled fast, careening down the slope of 5th Avenue, past Union and 1st, then up, and then down again.

The sun had already begun its descent into New Jersey, but it was still bright in a clear sky, and Chloe had a few hours yet. She was always late, even to her own planned-upon outings. At what point will she finally change her ways? She imagined she'd finally learn, someday, to be one of those who always arrives early, calm and collected, having perhaps spent the past half hour at the bar with a scotch, or having taken a stroll in the nearby park. Chloe always envied those people, as if this issue were something she couldn't actually, easily, change (she couldn't).

Having finally reached 25th street, and nearly run over twice by speeding Mack trucks, Chloe arrived at the iron gates of Greenwood. They towered over her in all their Gothic glory. Locking up the bike, she crossed the pathway and headed straight for the first grassy hill. Days on end of nothing but hostile pavement made the soft earth seem cloudlike under her moccasins. It gave way to her weight, and felt natural, serene.

Having walked ten minutes now into the vast graveyard, Chloe realized she hadn't seen another person since she entered. Looking around it appeared deserted, and she figured that maybe it was too chilly a day to be out at a cemetery. Maybe she shouldn't be here, either. The sun was ever descending, and the cold ever more biting. (Of course, she forgot her coat.)

A sudden gust blew over the tops of the hills, and among the whirlwind of leaves, a flash of bright green. Chloe turned her head quickly to follow it, and watched a green parrot alight on a low branch. Of course, everyone knows the story of the green parrots of Greenwood. Sometime back in the 70s, someone at JFK opened a suspicious crate, letting escape hundreds of exotic monk parrots, who eventually found their way to Greenwood, where they made the cemetery their home.

The wild bird looked at Chloe with the one-eye bird stare, cocking its head to one side, then took flight towards a mass of trees around a mausoleum at the top of a nearby hill. Chloe followed, thinking with slight amusement that this scene would be a nicelead-in sequence to a horror film.

Nearing the mausoleum, she noticed the door ajar, and the bird, peering down at her, sat atop a cornice above the engraved name "JENKINS." She craned her neck to better see inside the cavernous space. It was dark, and a hint of stained glass light shone on the floor. As she drew closer, she could feel the damp, cold air.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Startled, Chloe jumped, turning around abruptly.

Elderly and staring with uncomfortable intent at Chloe, she wore a fuchsia silk dress with covered buttons, her hair pulled back neatly, a cashmere coat over her shoulders, with a bouquet of peonies in both hands. She stood still, feet clad in black pumps planted equally firm in the soft ground.

"Oh! I'm so sorry. I didn't realize anyone was here..."

"Do you think that means you may go barging into strangers' resting places? For shame!"

Chloe clutched at the camera strung about her neck.

"You young people are always coming out here, up to no good with your cameras and such nonsense, making pictures where you oughtn't."

"I'm very sorry..." As Chloe started walking away from this horrible situation, the woman held her pose, turning her head to follow Chloe with her eyes, until Chloe was just beyond a large old tree. After about twenty uneasy paces, Chloe turned to gaze back at the woman, and she hadn't moved an inch, rigid as a gravestone.

Poor Peeved Phebes

Phebe was pissed. "I can't believe she did such a terrible job. I mean, I went through all of that pain and the hair is still there. It literally looks like I never had it done."

Just like every second week of the month for the past three years, Phebe had been going to the same lady for a Brazilian wax at a clandestine, semi-questionable top-floor salon in Soho. All of their services were dirt cheap but generally they did a good job, and Phebe was always happy with the quality of Helena's Brazilian wax services.

"And of course, this had to be the time that I get it done the night before I leave on a trip to the Bahamas with Steve, when it's really going to matter. Now what am I going to do?"

"Poor Phebes," thought Chloe. "She really got the full wrath of the bikini wax gods this time."

Of One Ward Jenkins

In the summer of her 27th year, Louise came to know one Ward Jenkins, Avian Pathologist of Greenwood Heights. Having just completed a short stint as an assistant gardener, Louise took a receptionist position at Mr. Jenkins's home practice in his Victorian mansion, which had been passed down to him from his great grandmother Cecile Jenkins.
When, on interview day, she ambled up the wooden steps and met the eyes of Ward Jenkins, she sized up his dapper countenance, with dress shirt and tailored pants, and instantly detested him and his kind. That too-sure-of-oneself attitude, conventional good looks, inflated ego. She could tell right away.
The interview went well, even though she couldn't stand the the thought of working for this man, or boy, really, and since no other jobs turned up, she reluctantly accepted his offer when he called the next week.
Her desk sat awkwardly on the parlour floor, just to the right of the front door. The dead birds were usually carried in shoe boxes, or sometimes still in their elaborate cages, by their teary-eyed owners, who demanded answers as to why their beloved birds had crossed over into the world of the dead.
Louise would come to learn that Ward, just one year her senior, was highly regarded in town as an exceptional professional in his field. He gave speeches at seminars almost every week, and received numerous accolades for his research. Aside from his professional success, he was wittily funny, kind, and off kilter in an approachable way. Needless to say, everyone in town loved him, and Louise detested him even more, for his success compared to her lack thereof.
Ward Jenkins had decided upon his life's work early on, at the age of eight, when, one sunny day, his pet cockatiel named Marty had begun making choking noises in his large domed cage. When Ward came to see to his precious Marty, the poor bird abruptly released its foothold on its perch, and for the first and last time in his glorious, pink-feathered life, Marty fell through the air to the bottom of the cage where he lay motionless, breast side up, curled and twitching talons in the air. Apparently, little Ward Jenkins screamed with such wild, helpless despair so loudly that he gave his grandmother Cecile, upstairs sewing in her bedroom, a heart attack.
After the funeral, Ward gave Marty the Cockatiel a proper burial as well, sobbing in fear of what other misfortunes the world would rain down upon him. He wanted answers to explain Marty's death, but Avian Pathologists didn't exist in those days, and that fact fortified Little Ward Jenkins with the resolve to help others who had been through what he had been through.
When Louise learned his story, her hard heart developed a soft spot for Ward Jenkins, and over the months, it grew. One day in the Spring, Louise came down into the basement examination room, where Ward was hunched over the carcass of an Upper East side socialite's deceased macaw. Under the solitary yellow light triangle of the ceiling lamp, she caught his warm brown eyes, shimmering the reflection of parrot blood.
From then on, Louise could think of nothing other than Ward Jenkins, star Avian Pathologist.