Feelings

I met him in the basement where countless dissertations languished under piles of dead skin. He wooed me, kissed me lightly on the cheek, accompanied me to my apartment. My bedroom door closed; we exorcised lingering caution. We finished, satisfied. He requested money. Not for services rendered, he said. But because he needed to get by. I wrote the check, convinced myself of my noble deed. We parted.

He returned again. And again. We repeated the exercise. After the fifth such encounter, I asked him if he felt anything for me. No, he answered. He readied to leave. The towels I had lain atop the bed absorbed his blood quite nicely.

Ten

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

I woke at five; the sun shone in the big sky. My destiny lay with a half-packed sedan. I cracked a can of Ensure – care of my grandmother – and eased onto I-94. Billings, Bozeman, Butte buzzed by. There was a sign indicating Custer’s last stand. Poor dumb bastard. I checked the paper map to see my progress. Coeur d’Alene by two. A long and winding road. A pit stop for petrol and vittles. I hit George, Washington at five. The Mitsubishi climbed into the Cascades. Seattle at six. I found my way to Eighth and Olive, inserted a quarter, dialed. ‘Do you know where George Washington is?’


Ten years ago today.

Food Court

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

I meandered through Los Angeles’ Civic Center on a Saturday afternoon when suddenly the iced coffee I’d had set off familiar alarms. I instantly noticed that the area was a ghost town, its only inhabitants the less than fragrant vagrants talking to themselves upon any and all inhabitable surfaces.

I spied a faded orange sign that indicated a food court; flanking it were the familiar logos of subpar chain eateries. Food means bathrooms, I reasoned. I approached the entrance; a cop ascended the stairs with a ‘to go’ cup in his hand. We considered each other for a moment before I nodded. His unibrow furrowed; he lowered his head and passed.

---

I stole down the steps until I reached a vantage point where I could see the food court. Silence.

‘Must be popular on weekdays,’ I said to myself.

‘It is,’ answered a female voice.

The response startled me. I swiveled my head to see where the voice had originated, but I saw no one.

I turned to leave.

‘There’s a bathroom here.’

I stopped. ‘How do you know I need a bathroom?’

‘You’re skinny, so I know you aren’t here for the crappy food. And you don’t look stupid enough to think you’re going to find anything but food in a food court. So, you must be looking for a bathroom.’

---

‘Okay. Where is it?’

‘Come down, and I’ll show you.’

‘Where are you?’

‘Down here.’

I considered my options, felt my bladder throb, decided to descend further. I reached the lowest level; a map showed the layout of food court. It indicated that the restrooms were located on the upper level at the other end of the court.

‘Did you find it?’

I didn’t respond. Instead I began walking across the cracked cement.

‘You’re going the wrong way.’

I still didn’t reply. I walked to the map to reconfirm; it indicated that the restrooms were on the second level on the side of the court from which I had just come.

---

‘The maps are wrong. Why are you ignoring me?’

‘Who the hell are you?’ I demanded.

‘No need to get snippy, Justin.’

I paused, surveyed the court again. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘That’s not important. Don’t you still have to use the bathroom?’

I ignored the question. The food court remained empty.

‘Well, there’s no one around. I suppose you could just piss in the middle of the court; you wouldn’t be the first.’

I walked to and up the stairs.

‘Leaving so soon? Am I not an adequate host?’

I reached the top step. There stood the unibrowed officer. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ he asked.