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.” 

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.”

Unwelcome Adventure

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

When they reached the room, Chris declared, “I need a drink!” He lofted his bag onto the bed, squawked, “I’ll text you,” and fled.

Darren called his family assuring them that all was well, then waited. Tracking down Chris, even in a small, abandoned city like Charleston, could become an unwelcome adventure.

Almost asleep, Darren heard his phone. A text inquired, “Are you coming?”

Darren had accepted that Chris lived in a universe in which everyone should be able to read his mind. “Where?”

“Broadway. This place is a hoot!” Chris included a blurry picture showing an incoherent mixture of decor. “Come!” After a pause, he added, “Oh, and bring cover.”

Charleston, WV

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

“Well, that’s bad,” Darren replied. “Want me to drive?”

“Nah, let’s see how the crab settles.”

It was a false alarm, Chris’ odorous emanations notwithstanding.

The car wound through the hills west of the Appalachians as Chris’ travel playlist started its second loop.

They entered the abandoned state capital after eight and checked in at the Quality Inn. Chris reiterated that it was the only stop on their journey at a chain hotel.

Well-traveled and moderately adventurous, Chris prided himself on finding local gems in order to appreciate quirky regional culture. When Darren asked why Chris hadn’t sought out a West Virginian gem, Chris responded, “Ain’t nobody got time for that!”

Cab

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

The soldiers turned abruptly, surprising Darren and causing tensions to mount.

Chris stood. “No need to start another war over little ol’ me,” he quipped weakly. The soldiers left.

“You look terrible,” Darren remarked.

“I feel worse than I look.”

“What happened?”

“I laid down; a guard poked me with a gun; I traipsed to the lobby; they paged you, but you don’t care; I laid down; the guard poked me again. I figured either you’d come or they’d haul me away. I didn’t care which.”

“What can I do?”

“Cab,” he groaned.

Chris returned to the hotel where he staggered between bed and bathroom for the rest of the trip.

Pavement Reclination

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


Reunification Palace was the last bastion of the South Vietnamese government in what had been Saigon. Darren and Chris chose it as their first destination.

Having perused the perfectly preserved sixties decor, Darren ascended to the roof where a Bell UH-1 Iroquois military helicopter, a Huey, evoked an unexpected catharsis. He had visited myriad ancient and intangible sites, but this building conjured memories of his grandparents’ house, the helicopter notwithstanding.

Upon reentry, Darren heard a faraway voice say something unintelligible; he ignored it and meandered back to meet Chris. Upon exiting, he saw Chris reclined on the pavement as two Vietnamese guards admonished him.

Darren approached and asked, “What’s going on?”

Stalemate

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


Chris, Darren, and the bartender sat still as statues while the dry squid’s smell saturated the air.

“You try?” The bartender beckoned.

Chris shoved the box toward Darren, who vehemently ignored him.

“Taste good,” the bartender coaxed.

The silent stalemate subsided when Chris retrieved the box with a huff. “Fine, I’ll try some.” He tore off and tasted a tiny tentacle.

“Not bad. Your turn.”

Darren shook his head.

“You said you’d try it.”

“Did not. I said I’d eat tarantula, which I did.”

“Whatever,” Chris munched on a moistureless mantle before offering some to the bartender, who declined.

“Are you gonna eat all of it?”

“No, I’m done. Let’s go.”

Sarcasm

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


The vendor returned, his eyes smiling at the opportunity to sell the arid cephalopod. Meanwhile, the bartender made room for the acrid remains. Chris glared at Darren, then made a “do something” face.

“Umm, I don’t... I just… No, thanks,” Darren sputtered.

The vendor extended his hand while the amused bartender enjoyed the show.

“Pay him,” Chris blurted.

“I don’t want it.”

“You called him back.”

“It was sarcasm!”

The vendor thrust his hand with an exaggerated grunt.

“Oh my God!” Chris erupted. When he saw that Darren still refused, Chris pulled a few bills and dropped them on the table. The vendor, with the bills in hand, fled the scene.

Dried Squid

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

They sat outside drinking cocktails at a place named, The Pub. It was their first day back in Ho Chi Minh City after adventures across Cambodia and Darren’s 72-hour marriage in Bangkok. The bored bartender invited himself to sit and chat with Chris and Darren.

Soon after, a vendor appeared. Chris, a sucker for weird foods, asked what the vendor was selling. Dried squid; the bartender smirked at Darren’s reaction, then waved the vendor over. The duo gagged at the smell; the bartender laughed. As the vendor returned to his cart, Darren waved and sarcastically declared, “Thank you, come again.” The vendor turned and the bartender paused. Chris shook his head.

The Crabby Pig

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

Jersey was a blip. Then came the litany of burgs and villes in southern Pennsylvania.

They reached the Mason-Dixon line around noon, their stomachs grumbling at the dearth of food. But they persisted, eager to earn more mileage toward their first day’s goal.

As the late December day waned, they decided to stop in Cumberland, Maryland at the Crabby Pig. Chris, who always ordered the weirdest item on the menu, chose the soft shell crab sandwich. Darren opted for the burger.

They departed the restaurant at dusk with Chris driving. As they wound through the West Virginian hills Chris announced, “My stomach’s not great. It feels like it did in Vietnam.”

Right or Left

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


They hit traffic on Varick as they waited to get into the Holland Tunnel.

“What am I doing?” Darren blurted.

“Driving? Well, no, sitting in traffic,” Chris quipped.

Darren ignored him. “Is this the dumbest thing I’ve ever done?”

“Nope, you’ve done dumber.”

Darren side-eyed him before continuing. “Am I making a big mistake?”

“Of course. You’re leaving the best city in the world.” He paused for effect. “And me with it!”

Hairline fractures formed in Darren’s stoic exterior. They sat in strained silence.

“Listen, Tequila,” Chris used the nickname he had given Darren years earlier. “There’s no mistake to make. There’s no right or wrong. There’s only right or left.”

Seeds

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

Murray had planted the seeds of Darren’s departure nine months earlier.

It was at Murray’s sendoff in Tribeca. An army of finance folk littered the pretentious bar gulping overpriced cocktails and quarreling over chic seating. Murray, a fairly senior leader and Darren’s former boss, lay sprawled on a couch between his boss and the head of the department. They traded quips and thickly veiled insults. After a few more drinks, Murray was just short of sloppy. That’s when Darren heard his name spoken above the corporate din. Darren turned to see Murray pointing a finger with unfocused eyes and a stupid grin.

From Darren’s loosened lips escaped an uncharacteristic, “Oh shit.”