Hard-Boiled Men

There are people around this town who walk around wearing three-piece business suites. If we lived in New York City, it would all make sense. Maybe it would make some sense in Chicago or the nicer parts of Hollywood. But around this tiny town? I mean, come on man.

The August sun feels no remorse towards people who walk around in pinstripe Giorgio Armani suites. No business deal can be worth withstanding this crazy heat.

But some people around these parts do not mind and I am always one to say, “Live and let live”.

The August sun feels no remorse towards my shaved head. I had lost the majority of my hair back when I was in my mid thirties. Those were some rough days back then for this cowboy.

As my old kindergarten teacher always told us studs : “You can not take back stupid.”

Her name was Shelly and she was the woman that I loved.

Her name is still Shelly but now she is loved by another man.

Shelly and I met back in those days when my hair was full and I was still the smiling kind of a man. I was the kind of a man that was going places. I was the kind of a man who inspired other men to be the kind of men that they hoped to one day become.

But the years have gone by and nothing is the same any longer.

The last I heard, she was living with some rich Baptist banker in some stylish new-money suburb right on the outskirt of Austin, Texas.

Shelly had a clear agenda since she was a teenage girl. She wanted nothing to do with our parts. I could not really ever blame her for it.

Her Daddy was a drunk and her mother was not one to say no to any man who paid her any fraction of attention.

Shelly always knew that she would get out of town just as soon as she would meet the right man. She wanted to live the kind of life she always read about in those shiny magazines.

Shelly once thought that I was that kind of a right man. She hoped that I would be the one to get her out of this life that she was living. She did not enjoy working as a waitress down at Bill’s diner down on Irwin Street. A lady’s hands, she always said, should be gentle and soft.

Back in those days, I worked as the senior consultant to our district’s congressman. When I woke up in the mornings, I would put on my pressed kaki slacks and that old crimson tie. While I brewed up that fresh pot of coffee, she would carefully iron my white button down shirt with that old Suzy Home Maker smile.

Back in those days, people mistook me for an honorable man, the kind of a man that was going places. My hair was thick and well brushed to the side. I never missed Sunday service at the local Methodist church.

Walking out hand in hand, looking as clean cut as American bacon, we looked the part and for a while even fell for it ourselves.

Shelly had big plans for our future. For my future is what she really had in mind. I was to work hard and climb up the ladder. I was to keep a smile on my face and my mouth shut.

Just as soon as old man Johnson would finish out his fourth consecutive term, would serve as the perfect timing for us to take that next step, where she would be the perfect little wife for the honorable congressman from Odessa, Texas.

God Bless that woman’s heart.

But Shelly soon found out the hard way that that old eastern saying holds truth regardless of geography:

“God laughs while man makes plans”

Or at least that’s what Father Swanson told me on that Sunday afternoon after that whole fiasco blew up in my face.

The first thing that Shelly did when she found out was slap me across the face.

The second thing that Shelly did when she found out was to once again slap me across the face but only this time, in the opposite direction.

I did not even try to explain. The only thing she ever cared about was that long term agenda. She never really bothered to ask about my dreams. To her they served no utility. And were not, as she said “Something an adult should ever think about…”

The last I heard, Shelly was living in a large estate that was fully paid for in cash. She has two ladies from Honduras who chased after her rotten children whole she would waste her hours down at the old hair salon.

But was I really someone who could judge another?

When Congressman Johnson first found out about his eighteen year old daughter and I, he kicked me right in the ass with the promise that I would never find work around these parts just as long as he had a single breath in his lungs.

My political career over and my hair mostly gone, I found my happiness within the comforts of this small bar.

Serving bottles of Shiner beer to the locals and fancy Scotch over ice to men in three piece suites, I came to accept the way things turned out without wondering what could have been.

Once in a while, someone may recognize me and say “Hey, aren’t you that guy who I used to know back in the day….”

When that happens, I just smile and nod my head. After all, you know what they say:

“Man makes plans and God just laughs” Aint that always the way that things turn out in life?

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Every year, regardless of what city I may find myself in or the guy who lays next to me, it always appears to be the same story. Men are at their worst when it comes to their birthdays.

How often do they misconstrue this insignificant date to make it appear as if it was their crowing moment? For that one special date, they feel as if they ought to take their place amongst the ancient Greek gods, while their women at their feet.

As a general rule, men are mere children. They do not know what they want and more than often they simply change their minds depending on the time of the day. Most men do not know how to communicate how they feel. They do not understand what it is that can drive a woman insane. Men are the exact reason why women develop wrinkles and have to inject themselves with poisonous Botox.

Men are generally bad, but none are worst than a Gemini.

I am not one to believe in Astrology, zodiac charts, moon and sun signs. I was never one to believe in any of this bullshit. That is, until I met my Gemini man.

If you do not believe me, you can simply open up any book in the store. You do not even have to buy it. Just pick yourself a corner, somewhere comfortable in the store and read all about this complicated air sign.

“Beware of the charming Gemini man,” It will read “He will bring wind into the desert and life into the grave yard. And then, just as soon as the party has begun and you once again find your long lost enthusiasm and hope for a better day, he will walk out of your life in search of the next best thing.”

“The Gemini man,” It will read “loves nothing more than his freedom. As the great communicator he will trap you within his web of charm only to thief your heart and ransack your body.” Ain’t that the truth?

“The Gemini man is not as interested in sex as in conquest. His friendly mannerism and childish smile may fool you into giving up your defenses, but do not be so quick to do so. For beneath his allure hides a cold hearted conquest to control earth’s winds regardless of their direction.”

“The Gemini man,” It will read “Says not what he means and does not mean what he says. He simply says for the sake of his own entertainment. In his world all is temporary and on to the next conquest”

At the bottom of the page, you may just find, compatibility chats. The Gemini man goes well with the Aquarius woman, the balanced Libra may balance him, the Gemini woman can run with him and without him just as well.

And if you are a Virgo woman, he will break your heart. He never was deep enough to understand the secret of your heart.

Today is the birthday of my Gemini man. There he sleeps in the warm bed smiling peacefully in anticipation of another day. Just as soon as he will wake up, his birthday will begin and I will do my best to make it a memorable one.

But the problem with these God damn Geminis is that they will not let you out due them regardless of the feat. Give him head and he will out due you by staying down there until you get the most amazing multiple orgasm that you ever experienced. Cook his a five-course meal and he will surprise you with a chocolate fudge brownie that he bought all the way from that specialty store in the upper east side.

Last year after I did my best to make it the most special night of his life he simply smiled and then gently whispered “I love you” into my ear.

God Damn those Gemini men.

A week has gone by and with it so did my Gemini man.

“It has nothing to do with you” that’s what they would likely write in that book of Zodiac “He simply is not designed for a long term relationship,. For the Gemini man freedom is the ultimate goal. He mistakes commitment for a spiritual prison cell.”

Every year, regardless of what city I may find myself in or the guy who lays next to me, it always appears to be the same story. The early days of September are the most lonely days of them all. As the years go by, I try and forget about them at all.

When my birthday will come around in September, I will not open up my email account. I will not check the post office box or answer my telephone.

“Somebody has a birthday this morning” He would likely say and I would slowly wake out of my tired bed with a frown.

“I made you something special for your special day.” He would say and I would pretend that I am love with him despite the truth in my heart.

God damn these Aries man. They never take no for an answer.

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Barbara stuck around the bar area later than usual. She had no intentions other than to help Lou close up after a long day. There was nothing special about that night. Just another simple night in another simple town in the middle of a boring state whose corn fields stretched for miles around. Barbara was born in the same delivery room where both her daughter and newest grandchild came into the world. Around these parts, people knew one another not only by their first names but also by their heartbreaks.

Big Louis’ has become a staple of the town over the years. Generation after generation of local drunks and bitter divorcees would often congregate around the oak wood counter that had more stories to tell than any modern day dramatist.

Time was getting late as the night matured. The cold wind of darkness signaled that winter was approaching sooner than expected. By now, her only daughter must have fallen asleep across from the old television set where she and her accidental son would spend their nights watching old cartoon shows to pass the time.

While Lou went into the back office to finish up the paperwork from another plentiful night, Barbara was doing her best to serve the last remaining drinkers while cleaning up for the night. There were a few customers hanging around the place despite the late hour. Those same old faces that Barbara has seen for so many years. By now they all appeared exactly the same to her, beaten in their loneliness.

Jack sat all by himself at the edge of the bar. Neither the cowboy hat nor the cigarette smoke that surrounded him could disguise his tender age. While most regulars sat around and engaged in the typical conversation about college football, getting laid or whatever it was that men chose to speak about, Jack would typically keep to himself. He seemed like the quiet type.

Twenty minutes after last call and Lou was getting ready to leave. By now most customers have gone home, all with the exception of an elderly couple, a businessman who was driving through town and Jack who was writing down notes in his journal as he often did. Doing his best to avoid his empty hotel room, the stranger kept the conversation going.

“So what does a man do around this town at such a late hour? You’ll have any other bars that stay up later? God darn it darling, do you mind getting me one last drink?”

“Sorry hon., I am way past last call. Time for this little ole lady to call it a night, it is time for me to go home to my baby girl.”

“Well, than, can this southern gent offer the little ole lady a ride home?” He offered.

“No need sweaty, I got my own set of wheels.”

“Well in that case, there ain’t no good reason for this good ole boy to stick around this dump. Why don’t I just leave you here to be with little author boy sitting there all pretty in the corner taking notes down in his faggy journal and thinking he is better than the rest of us drunks.”

Jack let out a careful smile and in his silent way used his fingers to let Billy Bob know that he best take a flying fuck before getting his redneck ass beaten by youth.

But Barbie had it all under control. “You take it easy now Mister, aint no need to get to fighting”.

Now it was just the two of them. How many times did she imagine this scenario during those bracing winter nights when she would lay in bed all by herself with her fingers so soft upon her skin?

“You want a drink Jack?”

“No thank Barbara, I am good.”

“You can call me Barbie sweaty, that is what all of my friends call me.” She smiled.

Jack slowly and unapologetically surveyed her body from the other side of the bar. Her, in her early fifties and him a mere pup. His body chiseled and foolish, hers saggy and experienced. That of course with the exception of those two large sized cups that no men regardless of age could ever keep his eyes from. True, she had to go to the doctors several times for maintenance. Most men simply have clue of how much work these babies demand from a lady, but hey, they were totally worth it, best $2,000 her ex-husband ever spent on her.

After they made love on the bar counter, Jack went out for a cigarette while she laid there blissful in her state of undress. Gosh, she thought to herself, no one screwed me like that in years.

As she invasively read through the secret pages of his journal, she came upon short passages of ordinary tales, lines of poetry and random thoughts.

How surprised was she as she came across that poem that was dated with today’s date and entitled Barbara The Bar Keeper: a Milf’s diet for happy living.

How curious it was, she thought to herself that one moment of living can even for a moment erase the heavy burden of past years.

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The thing that I like most about the bar is the fact that it is my bar. I am in no way an owner, a proprietor or a manager of any sorts. Rather, I just feel a sense of belonging on account of the amount of weekly dollars that I spend in the joint. I have been drinking in this place for way too long but hard habits are hard to break.

There is nothing special about this bar, I must acknowledge. Its floors are sticky, its chairs are not comfortable and its bathrooms are beneath all imaginable standards as aged urine serves as a never changing highly uninspired potpourri that would drive any Virgo woman to absolute psychosis.

I first came across this bar when I was a bit younger. It must have been back in my twenties. Back then my hair was longer, my mind still optimistic. Those days are long gone and so is the majority of my hair. This may have something to do with Maria and the years that followed but guilt is the subject of another day.

But this bar, it is still here and I am still in it. Drinking from those same old glasses that are scarcely washed in that unsanitary pool of rusty waters and inexpensive liquid soap. I have grown accustomed to sitting around with those same old people whose familiar bitter faces have grown into familiar furniture. I pass the time by listening to those same old stories that they often tell. I could not ask for anything more.

The women who come in to this place are perfectly loose and their morals largely absent. Any of them will roll around with any stranger who paid modest attentions to their exhausted tales or opened up his wallet for watered-down vodka disguised as something that healthier women would drink in a better place

Chicago Charlie always works the afternoon shift on Wednesdays. He is a descent bar tender who usually throws in an extra shot for us old timers who have been coming around this place for way too many years. Unlike Pam who typically works during the weekend, Charlie substitutes words with non-verbal communication. Great bar keeps realize that most of us all timers are not there to listen to their troubles but rather forget our own.

Since it was Wednesday and since Lizzy was not around, I ordered myself a double down bourbon on the rocks. I am not the kind of a guy who has a favorite drink. For me, it is all about a schedule.

On the odd days, I drink beers. On the even days I liquor it up. On the weekends it is purely random. I usually order whatever they have on special. I order a double bourbon on the rocks.

Then she approached me as if she did not remember who I was.

“Heya guy, want to buy a lady a drink?”

I offered her some water.

She told me to go fuck myself and walked on over to the other side of the bar where she found a properly dressed college kid with an open tab who was more than happy to oblige.

Jamie is a regular just like the rest of us. She has a gorgeous set of tits and a face that was clearly devastate by her extreme alcoholism and the heartbreak of a plan that did not pan out like it was suppose to.

Just like the rest of us, she could have been something completely different if she only made better decisions, if she surrounded herself with better company, if she only stayed away from the bar.

But like the rest of us, she didn’t and that was exactly why she is here with all of us old- timers.

The dilapidated jukebox is playing those familiar songs of Robert Johnson as it helps pass the time. Kind Hearted Woman Blues reminds me of the time I once spent out in Mississippi.

And now comes a man and sits right next to me. He is much younger than I. He has long hair and a Charles Bukowski tattoo on his left arm. The guy orders a double bourbon on the rocks.

“Great minds….” I tell him.

“Great mind what?” He asks.

“Great minds drink a double bourbon on the rocks. Great minds read books by Charles Bukowski minus his poetry.”

He smiles and waves his dismissing hand in my direction. “Hank Bukowski is the greatest motherfucking poet of all times. What do you know about it?”

I know nothing about it nor do I care. I once read Ham on Rye. It was not half bad. A woman bought me the book many years and told me that I just had to read it. And so I did.

“So what makes a man tattoo the name of another man on his hand?” I inquire.

“Call it appreciation of a far more talented individual than you can ever hope to become.”

I order another round and just smile while I am enjoying my time. From 4 Until Late is playing in the background and it all makes perfect sense to me, to the people have been coming here for years and to the old walls of this small bar that we all love so much.

It likely makes none to any of my readers but that was never the point of the story. I just want them all take a look around this place.

The guy next to me asks me to watch his drink while he takes a piss. For a moment I think about sipping it all down but he is all right despite it all.

Still, I would never consider tattooing a man’s name or image on any part of my body.
It is hard enough to commit to a woman so why bother with a man.

Jamie is all liquored up on the other side of the bar and it looks like she is ready to go. I know that I can do much better if I only made an effort but she is the best that is around.

She smiles in my direction and we head out towards Vernon’s Bar. I grab the drink of the guy while he takes a piss and walk out to the cold wind of the familiar parking lot.

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ATLANTIC CITY (May 3, 2008) 2008 BEACH BOOK FESTIVAL WINNERS announced. Hard-Boiled Men by Guy Jacobs wins the second place prize in the general fiction category. Jacobs’ hilarious account of single life in New York City won praise from readers and critics alike.

Smart, raw and tight”
-Page One Reviews

Hard-Boiled Men is fun and thought-provoking, It reminded me of a modern day Portnoy’s Complaint”
- The Compulsive Reader

‘Powerful, inspiring and heartfelt. Hard-Boiled Men is The Catcher in the Rye all grown up”
-Dr. Paul S. Lieber, Emerson College

“This novel will leave you completely entertained and satisfied”
-Sherri A. Marchese

Other recent awards won by Guy Jacobs include:
2007 New York Book Festival Award
2007 Hollywood Book Festival Award

So what are you waiting for? Get your copy of Guy Jacobs’ novel Hard-Boiled Men on Amazon, BN.com or get an autographed copy at:

www.hardboiledmen.com

For Herald, things seemed rather ordinary for a Wednesday afternoon. Walking through the supermarket aisles, he noticed the perfectly stacked containers of breakfast treats and one hundred calorie snack packs.

But these were not simple rows of consumerism and daily specials highlighted in large print. The super market was his gateway to discovery. It was his suburban version of the kind of life that he always read about in those adventure magazines. It was the kind of life that he never dared to pursue in the name of being pragmatic and those Gods of socially acceptable norms.

His worthy vehicle was no four by four jeep that could break through rough terrains and climb over steep topography, rather, it was a shiny super market cart whose front left wheel was tilted in the wrong direction.

Herald did not mind the daily task of grocery shopping. There was so much to be discovered as he passed through the familiar rows. On aisle Nine there was a special on frozen hamburger meat, only $4.99 per lbs. The old lady in aisle four offered free samples of micro waved pizza that tasted like ketchup dough topped off by gummy imitation Mozzarella cheese. Herald waited in line with the rest of them and when the pizza was finally ready he received a perfectly squared piece that fitted well into the tiny plastic cup.

Herald swallowed the pizza bite without chewing, one could say that he drank the pizza or rather inhaled it. When he asked the old lady for another piece she declined on account of the store policy that every costumer only gets one sample.

Herald was not the kind of a man who knew how to handle adversity. Like so many others, he chose to walk away in silence with that lingering feeling of being mistreated by the world. Life is not always fair, he reminded himself as he walked towards the fruit section where he noticed her standing there in between the ripe cherry tomatoes and those mountains of yellow and green bananas that were on store special, only two dollars per pound.

Her name was Dee. Doris if you wanted to get technical. Doris M. Pupnik if you wanted to be precise. Doris worked at the local video rental store. She had long brown hair that curled at its bottoms. Her skin was fair and her smile was reassuring.

Herald frequented the shop where she worked. He loved the old classic movies from the 1950’s, that time in America when things were more simple and people could be trusted.

In the 1950’s he always told her, people could depend on their friends and neighbors. Back in those days, people left their doors unlocked at night and allowed their children to run free through the neighborhood streets. Doris was not the kind of a woman to engage in those kinds of philosophical discussions. Maybe it had to do with the fact that she was born in September, Damn Virgos are always so practical, he thought to himself.

Dee was a southerner who held on to that southern charm. She always listened in an attentive manner and wished Herald a great day as he walked out of store.

Herald grew hesitant as he approached her. This was the very first time that they ran into each other on neutral grounds. This was the first time that he saw he legs. Come to think about it, he never even knew she had legs before. She always stood behind that rental store counter.

But there she was, in all of her flesh and glory. Herald smiled, approached and then ran scared. He simply freaked, he changed his mind, he could not handle the opportunity, he knew not what to say.

But it was too late. she already spotted him as he turned around.

“Herald, is that you?” she smiled.
“Yea, it is me, how are you Dee?”
“I am ok, how are you?”
“Pretty much the same”

Following some meaningless small talk about the rising price of vegetables, the merits of organic foods and some exotic recipes that she offered him for cooking tofu, Herald and Dee walked slowly together towards aisle ten. That was the place where the supermarket proudly displayed their DVD collection. From oldies to new releases, from such classics as Gone With the Wind to the latest Disney animation flick, this place had it all.

Herald felt the need to prove his sense of loyalty to Dee. He positively reassured her that he would never switch over to the supermarket rentals despite the attractive prices that they offered and their flexible return schedule.

“What about you Dee?” He wanted to know. “What kind of movies do you like to watch?”

“I actually don’t watch too much television or waste my time with movies” she confessed. “I find most of it to be beneath me. If you really want to know what I think, then I can tell you that most people who spend their lives in front of the television ultimately become mindless bores who have no true concept of the world. I would much rather read a novel, go hiking or have an occasional roll in the sack with a good looking man.”

Herald was the kind of a man who wore his feelings on his sleeve. In the case of Dee, he wore disappointment. How he ever mistook her for someone who could understood his heart, he would never know. Running away like a frightened child, he knocked over a couple of Coca-Cola bottles that went on special, only $3.99 for a six pack.

Leaving her, his groceries and his shiny metal cart behind, Herald stormed out of the supermarket and into that same blue Chevrolet that he has been driving for the past seven years.

She just stood there in silence. What the hell was the problem with these men? she thought. This of course was not the first time she tackled this ageless question to no avail.

The voice of a young Hispanic female rang “Cleanup on aisle ten” across the loud sound system.

Dee saw a woman around her age waking hand and hand with her three year old son. The boy smiled at the woman and simply said “I love you Mama”

It was getting late already. Dee would turn 36 in just a few months and had nothing to show for it.

A teenage boy holding on to a mop cornered off the area with those bright yellow cones that simply read “Caution slippery when wet.”

Dee had no place to go. She did not feel like eating another one of those frozen single serving meals.

After a supersized hamburger, French fries and a diet coke, she walked over to her new Toyota that she got on lease. The scent of new leather was still in the air but that did not make things any better for her.

It was getting late already, she thought, time for her to go home.

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gone abroad
I sit under the tv lights
and am interviewed again
I am asked questions
I give answers
I make no attempt to be
brilliant.
to be truthful
I feel bored
and I almost never feel
bored.
“do you?…” they ask.
“oh, yeah, well I…”
“and what do you think of…”
“I don’t think of it much. I
don’t think too much…”
somehow it ends.

that evening somebody tells me
I’m on the news
we turn the set on.
there I am. I look pissed.
I wave people off.
I am bored.

how marvelous to be me without
trying.
it looks on tv
as if I knew exactly what I
was doing.

fooled them
again.

from Dangling In The Tournefortia - 1981
Charles Bukowski

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That morning, like most others, was just another ordinary day that offered limited consequence laced with the morning fragrance of routine. She watched the dials of the old wooden clock shift slowly towards west with the partial enthusiasm of another day to come
.
Her hair was long and brown. It required a level of attention that she could not commit to.

Thank God, she thought to herself, that she never adopted that cat that Marcie offered her. Mr. buttercup may have helped cope with loneliness but he would more likely drive her insane. She did not want to turn into one of those single women who lived with cats. She always thought that letting a cat move in was the last step before accepting life’s lonely trail. But at least, cats did not demand as much work as did people.

Men were the most difficult to deal with, she always thought.

Thank God she never agreed to let John move in with her. He would have likely required even more work than would Mr. Buttercup. John was a stale male. As soon as she had her taste of his limited companionship and that five-inched tickle, she felt just as lonely as she did before he came into her life.

She thought about her birthday. June was only two months away. She will turn 38. She felt like 27. Time was always missing. It was a rare commodity in her life. She decided not to think about it. Repression proved to be a useful technique as the years went by.

The long line of people who were standing in line for a morning cup of coffee did not make things any better for her. She stood behind a homeless man who smelled of misery and collective apathy. His kaki jacket was torn at the shoulder. His hair seemed as confused as the rest of it all.

He walked up to the young lady at the counter and asked her for a cup of coffee and for a cup filled with iced water. When she refused to accept his money on account of her being a born again Christian and all, he dropped two single dollar bills into her tip jar.

God bless you and the rest of America, he whispered as he walked away with his distinct pride.

Now it was her turn. Sabrina stood in front of the young Christian girl where she found herself empty of speech.

What can I get you today? She asked.

Sabrina stayed silent.

The Christian girl tried once again, Good morning, Mam, what can I get for you today?

Sabrina remained silent.

Two Wall Street secretaries were standing impatient in the back of the line. They both wore similar cloths, similar shoes and similar hairstyles. Beneath their socially acceptable appearances, they both held on to those same fears that drove so many people into the world of banking-.the fear of being alone in the world.

Hey lady, one of them bolstered, some of us have jobs to get to this morning, can you please hurry it up already?

Sabrina said nothing. She ignored their rudeness as she placed her eyes on the shiny crucifix that hung from the coffee shop employee’s necklace.

Following a third attempt, the young Christian girl just smiled and turned towards the large coffee percolator. She returned with a warm cup of coffee and a reassuring smile.

Here you go honey, no charge.

Sabrina dropped a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar and walked away feeling better about the world.

There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women, said the homeless man who was standing outside. I could be wrong, but I think that the quote came from former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright.

Sabrina smiled and nodded her head in agreement. She took the old black book out of her crowded purse and disappeared into the hopeful streets of the East Village.

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Hard-Boiled Men

That morning, like most others, was just another ordinary day that offered limited consequence laced with the morning fragrance of routine. She watched the dials of the old wooden clock shift slowly towards west with the partial enthusiasm of another day to come
.
Her hair was long and brown. It required a level of attention that she could not commit to.

Thank God, she thought to herself, that she never adopted that cat that Marcie offered her. Mr. buttercup may have helped cope with loneliness but he would more likely drive her insane. She did not want to turn into one of those single women who lived with cats. She always thought that letting a cat move in was the last step before accepting life’s lonely trail. But at least, cats did not demand as much work as did people.

Men were the most difficult to deal with, she always thought.

Thank God she never agreed to let John move in with her. He would have likely required even more work than would Mr. Buttercup. John was a stale male. As soon as she had her taste of his limited companionship and that five-inched tickle, she felt just as lonely as she did before he came into her life.

She thought about her birthday. June was only two months away. She will turn 38. She felt like 27. Time was always missing. It was a rare commodity in her life. She decided not to think about it. Repression proved to be a useful technique as the years went by.

The long line of people who were standing in line for a morning cup of coffee did not make things any better for her. She stood behind a homeless man who smelled of misery and collective apathy. His kaki jacket was torn at the shoulder. His hair seemed as confused as the rest of it all.

He walked up to the young lady at the counter and asked her for a cup of coffee and for a cup filled with iced water. When she refused to accept his money on account of her being a born again Christian and all, he dropped two single dollar bills into her tip jar.

God bless you and the rest of America, he whispered as he walked away with his distinct pride.

Now it was her turn. Sabrina stood in front of the young Christian girl where she found herself empty of speech.

What can I get you today? She asked.

Sabrina stayed silent.

The Christian girl tried once again, Good morning, Mam, what can I get for you today?

Sabrina remained silent.

Two Wall Street secretaries were standing impatient in the back of the line. They both wore similar cloths, similar shoes and similar hairstyles. Beneath their socially acceptable appearances, they both held on to those same fears that drove so many people into the world of banking-.the fear of being alone in the world.

Hey lady, one of them bolstered, some of us have jobs to get to this morning, can you please hurry it up already?

Sabrina said nothing. She ignored their rudeness as she placed her eyes on the shiny crucifix that hung from the coffee shop employee’s necklace.

Following a third attempt, the young Christian girl just smiled and turned towards the large coffee percolator. She returned with a warm cup of coffee and a reassuring smile.

Here you go honey, no charge.

Sabrina dropped a twenty-dollar bill into the tip jar and walked away feeling better about the world.

There is a special place in hell for women who don’t help other women, said the homeless man who was standing outside. I could be wrong, but I think that the quote came from former Secretary of State Madeleine Albright.

Sabrina smiled and nodded her head in agreement. She took the old black book out of her crowded purse and disappeared into the hopeful streets of the East Village.

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“Yesterday, some guy came in here and told me that he loved me”
“He did what?”
“Yea, I am totally serious. At first, I just thought that he was joking. But he wasn’t. Even after I told him to get lost, he stuck around. He must have lingered around that table for at least another hour if not longer.” She pointed towards the corner.
“That’s kind of creepy.”
“But that is not the half of it. Just as he was about to leave, he once again turned my way and told me that he was a friend of Jason’s.”
“Your Jason? The Jason?”
“The one and only?”
“Ok, this is really strange. How does he know him? Did he say?”
“He did not say much. He just stood there smiling. As he was walking out, he gave me his business card and said that he would be back later on today. What time do you have?”
“It is almost 8pm. This guy better hurry up and get here before Louis closes down.”
The two of them sat around the bar area and waited. Smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee always helped time go by that much quicker. Richmond Virginia was the last place that smokers were considered human beings. Maybe it had something to do with that giant conglomerate that was situated downtown.
Sam thought about Jason. Four years have gone by since they last met. There was not a day that went by when she did not think about him, about them, about the way he used to make her feel alive. Some things in life could not be repaired by time. A broken heart was one of them.
A few more customers walked into the joint while others left. Every doorbell ring made her lift her eyes up in anticipation. A large plate of French fries and a grilled cheese sandwich did not make her feel any better. When 10 pm came around, she greeted Louis goodbye and asked Remy if she would not mind sticking around for just a while.
The two of them, like a tall pine standing beneath the horizon made little sense in the settings of the old neighborhood. So many years have gone by and nothing has changed for either one of them.
They both still worked at that same restaurant where they first became waitresses more than a decade ago. They hung out with those same people who held the same conversations, watched the same television shows and smoked the same menthol smokes that chiseled away at the larynxes of everyone around their side of the street.
Remy did not mind the daily routine. Some people just preferred to live their lives in that fashion. But Mel wanted more, much more.
Jason was the one who opened her eyes. He was the one told her about the word outside of Hull Street. He told her about far away nations, about Laos, Azerbaijan and Bolivia. He told her about those strange kinds of food that people ate, cobra snake stews, lizard pies and hog fat soup. He has traveled the world and has seen it all. His two years down in Highland Springs was always meant to be temporary. Guys like Jason never put down their roots in suburban America. He always viewed corporate malls and gated communities as agents of spiritual devastation.
It was getting late now, nearly 10:45pm. Remy said that it was time to go.
Mel dipped her extended fingernails deep into her warm suede pocket. On the expensive business card, his name was spelled Jeremy A. Klein, Attorney at Law. She did not recognize his name nor could she remember Jason ever mentioning this guy’s name.
Jeremy A. Klein did not show up that night nor did he show up any other time in subsequent days.
Two weeks later, she broke down and called him up. The fine print beneath his name identified his place of employment as the Weinstein and Gad Law Firm (In Manhattan’s financial district is what she gathered). The vigorous secretary transferred her call after a few moments.
“Hello”
“Yes, this is Jeremy Klein, how can I help you?”
“Hello. Yes, hi, this is Mel from the restaurant. You know, you gave me your card.”
“Is that what you best remember me by Mel? Or was there something else?”
“Well,” she laughed “You did tell me that you loved me”
“And?”
“And that you will come back.”
“Yes, I did, I did say that and I meant every word of it too.”
“Which did you mean, the part about coming back or the part about you loving me?”
“I meant both”
“Well, it does not appear like you meant either. You never showed up.”
“So you were waiting?”
“Well, yes, I guess I was, but only out of curiosity.”
“Curiosity killed the cat, did anyone ever tell you that one?”
“Hey Jeremy, you have to admit that this is all so strange. Do you always just show up at places and tell strange women that you love them? That you know their ex-boyfriends? Is that what you always do?”
“Actually, it is not.”
“So what gives?” she demanded to know.
“I will tell you, but not over the phone.”
Six months went by and Mel moved her things into his apartment. When faced with boredom, with a lack of hope and with the feeling that there is no way out, any woman can fall in love with any guy as long as he pays her the right kind of attention. Strange was the nature of human beings.
One the other side of the continent, Jason was working around his garden when the phone rang. The rain around Seattle seemed to be like the wind that came in for a visit every day or so. Sometimes it just said hello, other times it stayed around for coffee. The mention of her name made him pause. He did not hear the name Mel in several years.
Despite numerous girlfriends, he never really did stop loving her even after all of those years and all of the pain involved.
So just imagine how he reacted when he found out that some random guy that he once met on an airplane ride asked his former love to marry him. He almost went insane.
Weeks and weeks of heavy drinking could not take away the pain and compunction.
If he only closed his eyes and went to sleep like he always did on long flights. If he had only watched that movie that they were showing for the twentieth time . If he had only not had the urge to tell everyone that he ever met about that one woman that he left behind, to show them the many pictures of Mel with her gorgeous eyes and perfect figure. If he had only kept the long conversation to small talk like most people did instead of telling that shady lawyer about the small town where he met her and that great restaurant where she worked.
If only life was that much different, he would not have to face the fact that Mel will soon be known as Mrs. Melissa A. Klein. To face the fact that a random stranger had the guts to take Mel to that place where he was always afraid to go.

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