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.

www.hardboiledmen.com

Barnes & Noble

You can go on Amazon

You can even go on Books A Million

Hard-Boiled Men

Around the corner of 68th and Columbus there was a Christmas tree stand that offered a variety of trees of all shapes and sizes to the people of New York. The many who live alone settle for one of those shorter trees that are easier to carry. Those usually went for $30. They cost $25 to those who knew how to bargain down. Those with families, especially the ones who had children had to go for the large ones. Those were much more expensive. But nothing made Christian people feel more blissfully festive that those glittering lights that shun within the realm of that fresh winter pine. Or at least that was what they always told me.

Regardless of what anyone may say or think, there was something special about the Christmas season for any of us regardless of religion. These days, no one is allowed to refer to it as the Christmas season any longer. You were supposed to say the Holiday season. No one wanted to offend anyone else these days. We were all tipping toeing around one another’s hypocritical toes.

Even though the snowstorm was getting worst with every passing minute, she continued to stand out there in the cruelty of the snow. On the other side of the window, people sat gathered within the confines of that corporate warmth. Sipping on hot chocolates and soy lattes, they had no sympathy for the poor Christmas tree girl who was freezing her tits off for $6.75 an hour. To those who actually took the time to notice her, she appeared like an anomaly, like a white polar bear who ran around the Central Park zoo, like the kind of a person whose disposition made us all feel that much better about our own lives.

It was rather atypical for me to find myself around these parts of the city. I never really understood what the big deal was about the upper west side.

An hour later, as the wind bashed across my face, I thought about it all and smiled away. Holding on to a small Christmas tree under left armpit and her number scribbled on a small note within my right pocket, I felt so alive and thought about just how great it was to be a Jew in Manhattan around this time of the year.

Hard-Boiled Men