DMV

I give you a story in eleventy one times three words.

He went to the Pennsylvania DMV. I’d like a new license, he said. Here’s your number; please sit and wait, they said. Thank you, he said. You’re welcome, they said.

He sat and waited. They called his number. Hi, he said. Hi, they said. Do you have your paperwork? they asked. Yes, he said. He showed them the paperwork. Good, they said. They both smiled. They moved forward with the process.

Oh, they said. What’s wrong? he asked. Your license has a problem, they said. What problem? he asked. You have to contact the Washington DMV. Oh, he said. We can’t issue your license today, they said. Oh, he said again.

===

He called the Washington DMV from his car. Hello, the woman said. Hello, he said. How can I help you? she asked. I have a problem with my license, he said. What is your license number? she asked. He told her. She typed. There are no problems with your license, she said. Why would they tell me there’s a problem? he asked. Sometimes names and birthdates get mixed up in the system, she said. I don’t understand, he said. I recommend you contact another Washington DMV department to fill out a form, she continued. That department will contact the Pennsylvania DMV, she concluded. Thank you, he said. You’re welcome, she said.

===

He called the department she had recommended. Hello, they said. Hello, he said. How can I help you? they asked. He explained the situation. What form do I fill out? he asked. That form is for another problem, they said. You will need to contact the Pennsylvania DMV, they continued. I already talked to the Pennsylvania DMV, he said. They told me to talk to the Washington DMV, he continued. The woman I talked to told me that I’d fill out a form with you, he concluded. That is untrue, they said. Can I help you with anything else? they asked. But wait; I don’t understand, he said. Goodbye, they said.

Irreconcilable

The weight of it all. The stuff in the garage. The stuff in storage. The stuff said and unsaid. All of it. 

What does that mean? You have to give me more than that. Why won’t you talk to me?

What’s the point? 

You ignore me. You leave when I get home. You stay out until all hours. It feels like you’re punishing me.

Maybe I should get an apartment.

What? We can’t afford that.

I know. I’ll always love you, but I don’t think this is reconcilable. 

Based on what? What happened? Help me understand.

Sorry, I just need more space. She walks out the front door towards the car.

Garbage

Around a pole on which is nailed a sign saying, “fine for dumping $300,” sits the remains of multiple feeble white trash bags and their former innards.

On a corner near said pole and accompanying rubbish, a man with tooth-gapped smiles vends illicit stimulants to regular buyers.

With sweeping views of pole, person, and debris, I stare and seethe from my newly built abode. 

On a scorching Saturday, the man and his regular buyers, with snow shovel and gloved hands, stashed the trash in strong sacks immune to rodents and roaches. 

Later that day, I thanked him. He, with tooth-gapped smile, replied, “It stank. Welcome to the neighborhood. I’m Kareem.”

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.”