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A place in the shade.

A young man dressed in blue linen, who has never left the Boroughs, walks with

stern intent along the west side of Central Park in full bloom. He appears as if he has not

slept in days. His eyes are scarlet with blood vessels and weariness. The overcast day

soothes his newly found light sensitivity as he rubs his neck under the collar slowly with

the tips of his fingers. Irritable and unapproachable he goes from the park through the

hoards of humanity wearing designer labels and craftsmen hocking their wares. He

rapidly scratches the back of his neck with exhausted desperation. All he can think is that

the cantankerous cankers will not cease. He pops a pill without water.

He wonders what could have caused these blisters and why does everything itch

all at once? He has had allergic reactions before but that was because of the bedbugs that

traveled to his apartment with the delivery of his new mattress. He discarded it and

sleeps on a pullout now. He wonders if it could be the synthetic fibers of the couch. The

young man in blue stops and scratches his leg while leaning on a marble façade of an

entrance to a retail building. The intensity of unnerving, incessant itching increases.

He gouges his lower back with nubs because he filed his fingernails down so not

to cut his face while he slept, but sleep never comes. His temper is ignited when a tourist

with a white visor bumps into him while looking up at the airplanes flying over

Manhattan.

“Don’t touch me,” he screams and keeps walking.

The tourist says, “I was told to expect this.”

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The young man in blue rushes to a CVS and itches his shoulders as he goes in.

The Allergy Medications sign comes into view above a cluttered aisle, a rescue ship to

castaways on a desert island.

The man in blue grabs all of the ointments, creams and pills that can be purchased

without a prescription. He never had use for doctors, and thought they were paid too

much, but he contemplates going to the emergency room if this last ditch effort does not

cure him. He thinks he really should not have passed on the job with health insurance.

Brightly colored boxes holding the relief tumble onto the checkout counter. The squat

male clerk with pock marks dappling his face looks at the man in blue with revulsion.

“Dude, you get stung by a bee or some shit?” the clerk asks.

The young man in blue, eyes almost closed, crashes through the exit and jogs

through the crowded sidewalks. People get out of his way as he pants and cradles his

white paper bag of medicine like a baby. He reaches the shade of the park.

Faster and faster he stumbles and knocks over a lithograph merchant and her

plastic covered pictures. He cannot stand it any longer. Getting the medication to his

blood quickly will be his only resort. A favorite sycamore tree is found.

He rips his bag open as he tears off his blue linen shirt and pants. He rifles

through his pockets and finds his nail clipper and pulls a credit card out of his wallet.

The creams are smeared all over his body. He struggles to get the antihistamine pills out

of the generic packaging but finally chops the pills on the card.

He snorts the powder and large chunks get lodged in his stuffed up nose.

Unbeknownst to him, a couple from the ‘Burbs’ with their newborn watch, get up and

leave. They wave a cop down on the street. The young man, no longer in blue, sits on
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the top of his hands as he scratches his palms on the roots. It is not working. Panic sets

in and he begins to shake. His eyes shut completely as his throat begins to close. All

goes dark.

The cop sees the young man collapse and runs over to see if he is overdosing.

The cop checks his pockets and then his pulse. He finds the medication. The young cop

radios for a “Bus” and puts the man on his side away from the tree so he won’t choke on

his vomit. The cop looks over at the tree, and having grown up in Jersey, realizes what is

there. He calls another cop in so he can wait for the ambulance and wash his hands.

The EMT’s get the young man in the ambulance and the driver says, “That is the

worst case of poison ivy I’ve ever seen.”

“I didn’t know we had it in Central Park.”

“Neither did he.”

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Gratuity

The quiet, quite comfy café only seated fifteen casually. The fragrant herbs in the

window and exquisite ethereal emanations from the kitchen fill the room with scents of

memory. The afternoon crowd dispersed reluctantly back to their jobs beckoned by

unfinished routine. The only remaining waiter dispensed the checks and tallied the totals

looking for tips. The meager take was expected, lingering lunchtime patrons think it is

just a café, no need to tip.

A silver-haired siren of screen legend sits sipping green tea and enjoying the

tranquil anonymity. No interruptions. The time of the paparazzi has passed. Some fans

seek her out but she can handle a few. The distinguished looking Teutonic waiter comes

over and places another cup of tea down.

“It is on me,” he says in a French accent that surprises her.

“Merci Monsieur.”

“Non, thank you for being so pleasant Madame.”

He turns and goes two tables down to wipe the surface.

She wonders if he recognizes her, she was once a favorite of Parisian cinema

critiques.

“My French is lacking but I…” He interrupts and changes his accent.

“I am not French, I am just trying the Method. The acting style that…” She

interjects

“I am familiar with the Method. So you are an actor. A little far from the city for

auditions.”
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“No just a half-hour or so. I am sorry for misleading you.”

“You convinced me and I spent years in France. I admire your commitment to

your craft.”

“Thank you, I just wish I was successful so I could get an acting coach.”

“Money does not make an actor successful, there are many that have transcended

economy, and I don’t mean in style. You being committed to your art is a success.

Persist or perish, it is the way of art. Some persist until they perish and then get the fame

they so desired. Fame is only given to you by others. It is an illusion used to sell

products and not to be worshipped.”

“I agree, Ars longia, vitae brevis.”

“A waiter, I mean actor that quotes Latin without a script. You remind me of

someone once very esteemed in the field you wish to sew. And yes, life is short and art,

true art can stand the test of time. Well, I’m off. But may I ask what role?”

“A French waiter, a bit part but it will get me into the guild. It’s in wartime

France in the 1940’s. Another film by the Director of directors.”

“I know who you are speaking of. He’s wonderful. Well, I’m off and it was nice

talking to you. So well spoken and mannered. You are a relic young man from a time

when I was the one out there auditioning. I am an actor as well. We used to say actress

but not anymore.” She gets up and places the money for the bill under the salt shaker.

They both walk to the front door. He holds it open.

“Yes Madame,” he reverts to the accent, “ I know who you are and admire your

work greatly.”
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“Why didn’t you try to get an autograph or smooze me? Sorry it’s networking

now.”

“I find it ungracious. People go to lunch to get away from work, even here I see

industry people but I never bother them. Nice guys finish last but I cannot change the

way I am at the core for a role.”

“Nor should you, what is your name?”

“Robert.”

“Robert, I see a great future for you if you persist and maintain that level of

commitment. Too many seek the quick path, surgery of the soul just for cash and glory

that does not last. Thank you Robert, I will see you again either here or on the big

screen.”

“Thank you Madame. I loved you on that sitcom last month, you stole the season.

They will be talking about you at the Emmys.”

“Thank you Robert. Good bye.”

As dreams begin to envelope Robert, he ruminates on the voice of

encouragement. He knows it would be inappropriate to solicit help if she comes in again.

Preoccupied, he forgets to set his alarm.

Awoken by the phone he is scolded by the manager. He rushes to the café dreary

eyed and overwhelmed. He gets to the counter when the other waiter says, “ There’s a

bearded guy that asked for you. He’s leaving.” Robert thinks it must be about the spill

the other day. He rushes over with dread as the man’s back is to him. He turns. The

Director of directors looms. Robert seizes.

“You Robert?”
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“Yes.”

“My dear friend called me last night and said I should get green tea, and while I

was here speak to a talented actor named Robert. She said you reminded her of her late

husband. He helped me break into the industry. She said you are auditioning for the part

of the waiter. By the looks of you, I can’t offer you that role. I am sorry, but can you do

a German accent? She said you could do accents and don’t even have a dialect coach.”

“Sure, Ich bin sehr gut. What else?”

“This isn’t going to work.”

Robert feels hope being torn from his body.

“You would be better as the young American spy. Go to this audition on

Thursday. Good tea,” the director hands him a card, “and tell them Betty sent you.

They’ll know. Good luck.” He walks out without paying. Robert stumbles back in shock

and the other waiter asks him what’s wrong.

“Some one forgot to tip me yesterday and sent someone else in with it.”

“Good tip.”

“The best I’ve ever had.”

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The cover

Pierced and violated from the sneering stare, a disconcerted intellectual

instrumentalist hears nothing but drone notes. Eyes escalate from across the cubist

reality and the fragmented room folds inward. An eye for and aye and the eyes

have it. A total submission, the stare down makes the carnal canine look away.

And his awkward grimace expounds more than a tail between the legs. The sultry

blithe Bahamian beauty, a pedestal of pulchritude, made the bombast and vitriolic

tongue lick her shoe as the supposed new school disciple, a doomed dirigible

deflates in a decisive whimper of pure unadulterated acquiescence. Looking away

at a group of girls forbidden in their guffaws and timing but not threatening, he

fixes his white uncuffed cuffs and pulls them prominently out of the black pin

stripe jacket sleeve. She in blithe lithe stylings twists her back just enough for

him to see the evil eye is everywhere and not just her gender blinking and

fleeting. Sacrifice is not in his nature, it was the goddess that first transgressed,

the first offense was that she was what she was. The strikes of flesh from first

investigation where not needed but necessary for the cuckhold to holdfast. He

stands in a stern stance as he begins his slow return to the libation’s altar- not

altered is more like it. The joke was on him and it worked perfectly. Judging is

what he is paid to do, but his confidence, transmuted arrogance, made him forget

the first rule of awareness. DECEPTION. He knew it was trap set by his friends,

now all outside smoking and seething from the gills proclaiming collectively

‘excelsior’. We did it the prank without effort. Finally, they caught him worrying
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about the book’s cover. He was lead to think that there was a woman not of the

like since Helen in his Birthday bar, but some doubt the veracity of this claim in

ideal and animus. He would play along as he was played by his own suspicions

and assumptions that the others cared enough to ‘Punk his assumptions.’ Yes and

no, but they will take credit. He went to her and flirted as he was given the high

sign from his friend, this indomitable spirit he think is Hermes and Aphrodite’s

child but he finds with a grab, no Hermes! She did want to talk to him before, but

about his ambition and editing. As a wordsmith, he realizes a superior debate has

precedent and no logic can deduce or induce victory, no Nike commercial or

winged muse for him. With this proof, his geometry gives way without theory,

retreat and absolution only comes with apology and a meeting to discuss an

editorial opening. She accepts the repentance and leaves in a sanguine stroll. The

woman had planned for a time; the research, whispers and innuendo had finally

functioned properly. Being perfectly perspicacious that fear is the prime

motivation, she utilized the condition with absolute volition.

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Hobo Erectus

“Deranged, bum, hobo, homeless, crazy old coot, that’s all I could induced today.

Perfect freedom for a perfectly carefree existence only subsistence required. Once a man

with a face, and now he’s just a vagrant fragrant presence. It’s easy when respect is not

needed, only food and shelter and this wasteful world provides both even if some do not

seek it out. Still that stupid pride and synthetic respect ideology rules. No taxes, no

telemarketers an existence most desire; they only need give up respect and hope. It

sounds so nihilistic but it is what it is, just survival. Damn! I missed the guy with the fur

lined coat again, he is good for a sneer and a ‘get a job’.

This is the thing, societies are artificial and socially constructed values are

superficial no matter how internalized and regurgitated. I am at the crossroad of modern

primitive scavenger and societal reject. The city is here and must be exploited and the

validity lies in the fact that if you take this all away and it can be done. I will be left

standing in my desensitization. Remember to spit when you talk to them. Here comes a

real snoot, maybe I can get her to, never mind she saw us coming. Listen young blood

surprise is the essence of deconstruction.

Mister business suit over there, if the world sank he would have problems but he

has the cell phone so he would high tail it. The immigrant market guy over there, he

would lose everything but be fine, just start over. From the highest to lowest, the highest

have problems moving in the continuum. Not enough desensitization, even if they seem
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insensitive. That is them thinking about ego and birth. A sweet smelling scatology so to

speak.

That’s why I hang here and fish for insults, it breaks them down. Let’s them feel

shame for a second so they react. I am just a street psychologist. Now take this one, a

good insult coming from the prep-school boy. Wait for it. Damn just the finger! It was

something. So why do you stake out this alley’s corner? Buddy it is a little too earlier

for the night train. Yo! I’m talking to you.” The man in ragged layers of clothes taps the

other man in ragged clothes. The man is blue and too cold on an early spring morning.

The man in ragged clothes and layers rises and shakes his head. “Now that’s insulting.

He just had to tell me I was talking too much and would have stopped. Dying just to shut

me up. Well that won’t work. Hey, you were here before me and never said a word,

damn he was dead the whole time.” The man looks at a woman in a billowing jacket.

“This is what your society did.” He points. The woman says, “I did not do anything.”

“Exactly.”
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Immersed

In a clear and placid lake, mid-Pennsylvania, families gather as the distance from

the cities calms the senses. The sun is at the perfect angle warming the water as it relaxes

those on shore. The children race canoes as one man finds solitude in a primordial

sensory deprivation. He releases the air from his lungs and creates a neutral buoyancy

between the upper soothing tepid layer and the frigid wall of horizontal water where the

light does not pass far through the water column.

He tumbles forward in slow summersaults defying gravity and time as fish tickle

his feet. Remaining still, minnows investigate the hairs on his legs. The smell of fresh

water and vegetation fill his thoughts as he surfaces. Recollections of summer’s past

induce a smile that he surmised was not possible. He submerges and opens his eyes as he

glides and comes face to face with a turtle that is languidly holding onto a piece of

driftwood. They stare for a moment. The interaction ends as one descends into the

depths.

He rolls to his back as he thinks of an otter eating abalone on the kelp beds and

spits a stream of water up not caring whether or not it falls upon him. His leg violates the

no swim zone and chills instantly. He brings it to the surface to sun as a lower back

cramp assails his inactive frame. Panic shoots through his consciousness as quickly as

the cold. He knew about people dying from cramps but never surmised it could happen

to him. Images of a man held down by kelp beds sets in his mind. A brief moment in
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time that will remain in my kid’s memory all because I did not listen to my mother he

thinks. Resolution fills him and relaxes. The pain goes away.

He begins to go back to the man made rocky sand beach. On the horizon, the jet

skis generate the only waves he has seen since being on vacation years ago. He preferred

they did that gas powered recreation somewhere else. He turns on his back and strokes,

wanting to get to shore without touching that hypothermic layer. He looks backward and

sees his daughter waving something silver. He quickens his pace.

Almost to shore, he puts his feet down and cannot touch. He swims

forward and gets to the gravel bottom. Relieved, he walks through the lower cold while

his upper body wants to react. He wipes his face as he sees his daughter.

“Ringing,” she yells. He shakes his head in disbelief. The girl rushes to him and

hands him the phone on the shore. He flips it open, five missed calls.

The girl screams, “Snake.” He jumps three feet and lands on a pointed rock as he

drops the phone and it breaks into pieces. He looks down and sees blood but it is not

coming from his foot it is streaming down his leg from a struggling, dangling, engorged

leech.