Dead History

‘But history isn’t dead.’


‘No, it never is was will be. It’s when none of those exist.’

‘Philosophical mumbo jumbo.’

‘No, history isn’t dead.’

‘Then what is this?’

‘It’s just something else they haven’t named yet. Maybe they’ll call it post post modernism.’

‘Seems unoriginal.’

‘A tongue in cheek shout out to the post modern.’

‘Sounds more like 1984.’

‘A little of that too.’

‘I think it’s something else. A coming to terms with. A puss ridden silence spelling the end of a festering wound. A returning. A fed uppedness.’

‘Maybe. I wouldn’t count on it.’

‘I’m not. I’m just saying how it feels.’

‘I get it. Another beer?’

‘Of course.’

Art Student

I give to you an observation at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in eleventy-one words...

The verdant student yearns to mark the page with lead, ink, blood. The teacher grins, his teeth like blinding blizzard snow. Not yet, he mouths, not yet. The fecund moment lingers in pencil potentiality as bastard children circle like birds of prey. The master nods. The young sinister hand responds, grasps the black rod between a trinity of fingers; they form a gentle vice that transforms the lifeless stick into a wand both sacred and profane. He lifts the pen erect, a composer who has heard the dulcet oboe. With eyes closed he lets fly the tip across the page, scrawling a segment of the base, stopping short of actualizing infinity.

Swooped

I give to you a story in eleventy-one words... (To read from the beginning, click on the 'Loose Grate' link below.)

‘Thank you,’ uttered the giant.

‘Put him down,’ the thin one responded bluntly.

The giant lowered the fat one to the ground.

‘And the stick?’

‘Stick?’

‘Yes, you picked up a stick. I want it back.’

‘I’m sorry. I don’t have your stick.’

The thin one unsheathed his stick and pointed it at the giant’s shin. ‘Don’t test me.’

‘Wait, wait,’ the fat one cried. ‘There it is!’ He pointed a few yards away.

The thin one glanced over to confirm. ‘Go get it,’ he ordered the fat one.

But he wasn’t fast enough. In mere seconds, a golden figure swooped from the sky and snatched the stick from the ground.  

Beef Pork Fish

I give to you an experience in three times eleventy-one words...

‘Flushing? Like out towards Europe?’ I ask.

‘Oh, stop. You’re coming to Flushing. I want dim sum.’

I board, ride across the river. He steps onto the train at Sunnyside and grins at me. We banter.

‘I’m going to Flushing; you know it’s the home of the Mets, right?’ I whisper conspiratorially.

He gives me a look.

We exit, find the restaurant. They’re still serving dim sum.

‘You know what you’re doing?’ I ask.

‘Yeah, just look for stuff you like.’

‘Stuff I like? I have no idea what it is.’

‘You’ll be fine. Just smile and point.’

‘Are you kidding? How are you going to order?’

‘By smiling and pointing…’

 

A woman pushes her cart lazily, smiles at us, keeps walking.

‘Aren’t they supposed to stop?’ I ask.

‘Hush.’

Another cart approaches. A woman with bad teeth begins lifting trays off her cart with abandon, waiting for us to show interest.

‘Wait, what’s… wait… What’s that? No, that?’

‘You’ve obviously done this before,’ I quip.

‘What’s that?’ he points into the cart.

‘Beef pork.’

‘Beef or pork?’

‘Beef pork?’

‘Ok,’ he pauses. ‘And that?’

‘Fish.’

‘That’s fish?’

‘Beef fish.’ She thinks about it. ‘Beef pork fish.’

‘What!?’

‘Beef pork fish. You want?’

‘This is going splendidly,’ I interject.

He gives me another look.

‘You want?’

‘Yes, yes, give it to me.’

 

‘How’s your beef pork fish?’ I ask.

‘Not bad. Tastes like chicken.’

‘Nice.’

Another cart, another woman with slightly better teeth.

She points into the cart. ‘Yes?’

‘What is it?’

‘Hearse.’

‘Hearse?’

She nods.

‘What about that? Is that beef?’

‘Beef,’ she confirms.

‘Beef?’ he points to the same dish.

‘Beef Pork.’

‘Alright…’

‘And what was that again,’ I point to the first dish.

‘Hearse oof.’

‘Horse hoof?’

She nods. ‘Orse oof, you want?’

We look at each other.

‘Do you want it?’

‘I don’t know. Never had horse hoof.’

We start laughing. She grimaces, puts it down, scurries along.

‘Horse hoof, it is…’ I blurt, tears streaming down my face.

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.