Trystan

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words

hey man. that’s what Trystan wrote. after twenty years. the person to whom he wrote, Bill, wrote howdy in return. a careful choice. ‘hi’ seemed too curt. ‘hey’ felt like parroting. ‘what’s up’ asked a question he didn’t want answered. ‘howdy’ has a playful lilt, an unassuming gesticulatory quality sans handiness.

how’ve you been? the dreaded ‘how are you’ conjugated into the present perfect with a dollop of nostalgia to make it seem like he cared. (he didn’t). doin well, wrote the cautious Bill; he courageously fought the urge to add, ‘and you.’

thats good. an unapostrophed response that can spell the death knell of a chat. or so Bill hoped. 

Pronounced the British Way

they found a cab and, eventually, their way to the west village which you might guess is the village next to east village, or central village (which doesn’t exist) but which is really next to greenwich (pronounced the british way) village. this was after the cab driver took them by some meandering route of which Chris was not particularly fond. Chris’ mixture of passive aggressive and regular aggressive commentary encouraged the cab driver to meander even more. and thus, they arrived in the west village via what might be abbreviated as sovi if south village existed (but it doesn’t). instead, they arrived via soho, south of houston (pronounced the british way).

Oh Henry

 I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

“So, not everyone gets a nickname,” Darren remarked.

“Oh, don’t be so literal. You’re getting one.” 

“What’s your nickname?”

“I don’t respond to them.”

Darren rolled his eyes and signaled the bartender. “Another tequila and ginger, please.”

“That’s it!” Chris cried.

The bartender eyed Chris.

“Oh Henry, don’t you... wait, Oh Henry! I love it! Another chillax, Oh Henry.”

Henry scoffed and stalked away. 

“I hope we get our drinks,” Darren lamented.

Chris shrugged it off. “Where were we?”

“Who knows?”

“Where are we having our preantepenultimate drink?”

“Our what?”

“Our I-haven’t-had-nearly-enough-alcohol drink.”

“Our next drink?”

“Yes.” 

“Posh? West Village?” Darren hoped Chris had forgotten the whole nickname thing.

He hadn’t.

Chillax

 I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

“No nickname for me,” said Darren.

“Everyone gets a nickname,” Chris replied Oprah-Winfrilly.

They were each on their third drink at Viv, a Thai restaurant in Hell’s Kitchen.

“What should his nickname be?” Chris implored the occupied bartender. 

“He couldn’t care less,” Darren retorted.

“That’s a terrible nickname.”

“Ugh,” Darren signaled the bartender. “Another tequila and ginger, please.”

“You?” the bartender asked Chris.

“A chillax.” 

“Huh?”

“Whiskey, diet, splash of Chambord. So, what’s your name?” Chris purred.

“Henry,” the bartender responded flatly.

“How long have you been working here?”

“A month.” Henry left the drinks and moved to another customer.

“He doesn’t deserve a nickname,” Chris huffed. “But he’s still hot.” 

Kentucky Tequila

 I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

After a few hours on highway sixty-four they arrived in Lexington, Kentucky. They chose the scenic route from the city’s outskirts enjoying miles of horse farms before stopping at Ramsey’s Andover Country Store, a diner that promised one of the trip’s better meals.

They found a packed house, yet Chris expeditiously secured two vacated seats at the bar. 

A bartender appeared in front of them. “Whadda y’all havin'?” he asked.

“Whiskey and diet,” replied Chris. “The well bourbon,” he emphasized.

“Tequila and ginger,” Darren added. The bartender rolled his eyes before heading off to make the drinks.

“What are you doing?” Chris blurted.

“Huh?”

“Tequila? Really?”

“Duh.”

“We’re in Kentucky!”

“And?”

Almost Heaven

 I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

Their Friday night in Charleston came to an early close.

They partook in a meager breakfast of yogurt and juice before enduring the glacial walk from the hotel to the rental. As they meandered toward the highway, they reflected on the juxtaposition between the drab city and the beautiful Appalachians. 

“Almost heaven,” Darren commented.

“Huh?” Chris was confused.

“West Virginia.” 

“More like purgatory.”

“Blue Ridge Mountains, Shenandoah River.”

Chris eyed him. “The Blue Ridge Mountains aren’t even in West Virginia.”

“Life is old here.”

“Wait.”

“Older than the trees.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

Darren belted, “Younger than the mountains, growin’ like a breeze. Country roads, take me home to the place I belong.”

Disdainfully

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words...

“Cover?” Darren texted. But no response came.

Darren splashed his face with water, descended in the elevator, and stepped into the frigid night. After a short walk, he spied, between an orthodontics office and a vacant retail shop, a misplaced two-story house with a rainbow flag hanging between the centermost Ionic columns.

A grizzled young man stood in the foyer.

“Five dollars,” he drawled.

Darren wanted to walk away. Instead, he opted for an eye roll and forked over the five.

He sat beside Chris, the only other person at the bar.

“Tequila!” Chris proclaimed.

“What the hell is this?” Darren asked.

The approaching bartender remarked disdainfully, “A converted funeral home.”