Family Fortunes

Aunt Mary’s apartment always smelled of strawberry incense, cigarettes, cat shit, and the cabbage she boiled as part of her “weekly detox”. The windows were permanently fogged up and the once white walls were covered in a sticky browny-yellow film. Every space not occupied by a cat, held a brightly printed pillow, antique lamp, stack of books, or porcelain figurines of wolves and fairies.

It was Vanessa’s favourite place in the world.

On that winter day, Vanessa walked along the creek behind the cul-de-sac all the way to the river on the north side and then to the part of town where the houses were tiny but the streets were straight and logical. In her pocket, she carried Aunt Mary’s gift from her mother, Ruth, who was Mary’s sister.

When Mary opened the door, she gave a raspy, “Come here, girl!” and enveloped Vanessa with her plump arms and soft bosom. She smelled of vanilla and earth and laughed as the two of them rocked back and forth. She was dressed in the red velvet robe, the one she wore on “special occasions”.  Her others—one for each day of the week—were only “a sorry woman’s sari” a joke Vanessa didn’t get until many years later.

Mary quickly ushered her into her favourite chair in the living room—a plush recliner that could only be described as “burnt orange”. Soon, she had a cat in her lap, a pillow under one arm, and a cup of mulled wine that warmed her inside and out in the chilly room. She chatted excitedly about her upcoming early graduation and starting college the next month.

Vanessa watched carefully as Mary opened the envelope with a perfectly manicured nail the colour of the wine she squeezed from a box throughout the day. She smiled and raised an eyebrow as if to say, “Well, well. What have we got here?” Usually, Ruth bought Mary candles or bubble bath.

As a rule, Ruth never went to Mary’s house, claiming an allergy to smoke. But Vanessa once overheard her mother tell a friend “I had to hose myself down with disinfectant. Absolutely vile. How can she live like that?”

Vanessa never understood why people said her mother and aunt were “chalk and cheese”. Chalk and cheese are both white, soft, and break easily. They were more like chiffon and chutney.  In high school, Mary derided Ruth’s “white suburban Stepford wife dream”, and Ruth sneered at Mary’s penchant for “hitchhiking god-knows-where, mixing with all sorts of low-lifes.”

Mary stared at the paper as if doing so would change the words. Her eyes were slightly narrowed and Vanessa could see the lines above her lips which her mother always referred to as “smoker’s wrinkles”. The voucher for a manicure was cruel on three levels—it was the type of impersonal gift you might get from a boss; Mary did her own manicures impeccably; and Mary rarely left the house.

Though Ruth was a housewife, it was Mary who spent the most time at home. In her 30s, the endless highways and unexplored towns that had been her freedom had become giant mouths threatening to swallow her whole. If she walked past the barrier of her sidewalk, she heard a deafening static like a broken TV. The first time it happened she thought she was having a heart attack or stroke. But after all the MRI scans and several more attacks, she was diagnosed with anxiety disorder and agoraphobia.

To supplement her disability income, she read palms. She predicted enough adulterous affairs, twins, heart attacks, and job offers to be considered “the real deal” and through word of mouth, often had as many as five clients in a week. Ruth had once said, “Clients? More like suckers. She takes their money for a lie and then takes their tax money to pay for her invisible illness.”

Mary put the voucher on a tall pile of magazines and smiled warmly at Vanessa. “Cash would have been better. I could have treated us to a pizza! Ah well, it’s the thought that counts, right? How about a refill of Christmas juice and then we’ll do that reading you’re always bugging me for. Consider it your Christmas and graduation gift.”

Vanessa jumped up, cat and pillow falling to the floor, and rushed over to give Mary a hug. She’d been begging for Mary to read her palm for years, but Mary had always said, “In the long run, it’s best not to know what’s going to happen.”

As she entered The Room, a spare bedroom whose walls had been painted with tree murals so realistic, Vanessa could almost smell the pine needles and hear the wind in the leaves. The only furniture was a table covered with a maroon velvet cloth and four chairs, all different sizes and styles. A cd player sat in the corner, playing “Rain Forest Meditation”. The heavy curtains were tied back and the bright winter sunlight made the room less creepy than usual.

Vanessa never told a soul her aunt saw that she’d have to search many corners of the earth before she found her true love. After graduating, much to the dismay of her parents, she joined the Peace Corps and was away for several years.

When Mary and Ruth’s mother died, Vanessa came home for the funeral, a man black as night on her arm. When she saw Mary, she gushed, “You were right all those years ago. Look, I found him. Best gift ever.” Zeke, having heard many a time that he was Vanessa’s destiny, smiled and thanked Mary. Ruth, who overheard the exchange, demanded to know what they were talking about.

After Vanessa recounted the entire romantic tale, the sisters locked eyes, on Mary’s face the slightest triumphant smirk. It was a look borne from a lifetime of the tug of war of hurt and payback.

Mary leaned and whispered in Ruth’s ear. “Maybe I should have just given her a voucher, eh?”

 

 

 

 

 

The Dish Washer

Mother and Daughter stood side by side and watched the white sky grow shades darker as the sun set itself in the usual spot behind the shed. The mountain of dishes beside them contained the remnants of their annual Thanksgiving feast, the cranberry sauce bright purple spots amongst the brown splotches. As they fell into the rhythm of washing and drying, Denise noticed her mother’s grip upon the plates had become more claw-like.

At 6:00 every night since Denise was old enough to stand on a step stool and reach the countertop, they’d done this ritual, the steam from the soapy dishwater covering half the window. Then, she was slow and awkward, constantly worried about breaking the plates and cursing the house with an uneven number. By the time she was a teen, she could grab a dish with her left hand and with two or three swipes to the front and back, put the dish on the counter in time to grab the next proffered one. They’d had a good rhythm then, speeds easily matched, and it freed their concentration to look out at the yard as they talked about the latest gossip and injustices among family and friends.

Now Denise waited patiently as her mother moved the greying dishcloth around and around the same plate and eventually passed it over with the slightest of shakes. Denise concentrated on the gurgle and splash of the dishes and the familiar thin towel embroidered with ducks and apples that somehow always dried the very last spoon, despite being sopping wet.

“Mom, you should be able to rest more, especially after these big meals. Let me get you a dishwasher.”

“What on earth would I need of those cockamamy things for? They’re noisy and they use gallons of water and electricity. They’re a scam. Remember when your Aunt Margie got one? She had to spend an hour rinsing and scraping and then putting the dishes in just so and then two hours later, she’s got super shiny plates with crud all over them. Total waste.”

Denise had heard the Margie dishwasher stories a hundred times. Margie liked keeping up with the latest gadgets and trends and nothing made her mother happier than when these failed abysmally.

“But Mom, they make them much better now. They save energy and water and they’re actually a ton cheaper than when Margie got one 30 years ago!”

“No way, Jose. And besides, where on earth would I put the damn thing?”

What Denise’s mother didn’t realise was that in a few days, that new damn thing would replace the old oak stand under the south facing window. For years a ceramic basin and pitcher sat upon it proudly, reflecting the afternoon sun. It had been Denise’s great-grandmother’s and was among her mother’s only connections to her European ancestors.

On the day of the installation, Denise’s mother was across town, under the blasting heat of an ancient hairdryer, as she had done twice a month for the last three decades. Despite the roar of the dryers, the women had no difficulty chewing the fat, especially after a major holiday. The haircut sorely lacking on a grandkid; the son-in-law who drank too much of the good sherry; and the comparisons of total hours invested to make the perfect turkey that was devoured in ten minutes.

Denise’s mother admired her daughter for her crisp and clean business suits, immaculate nails, and no-nonsense tone when taking calls on the back porch. She had no idea nor interest in what she did but bragged at the salon that Denise’s company couldn’t survive without her. So because of her love and admiration for her daughter, she smiled graciously upon seeing the new shiny metal box snugly installed beneath the window, the basin and pitcher looking sad and lost, on top, like a doily on the moon.

But in fact, she hated the damn thing. It whirred and gurgled and moaned for hours and when opened, emitted a steamy smell of a bleachy bin. She tried watching TV while it carried on, but found the news to be just a repeat of what she’d watched at 5:00. The game shows left her feeling hollow and anxious and she missed watching the sun setting behind the shed. After two weeks, she threw the powdery disks in the bin and filled the sinks.

Christmas came and with it the baked ham, cherry pies, and various side dishes. After the men and women had spent the requisite amount of time chatting at the table, the men shuffled off to the den to watch other men crash into each other; the kids went out to hurl snowballs.

Denise rose and began carrying the plates and serving dishes into the kitchen.

“Mom, I’ll load the dishwasher. You just relax.”

Denise’s mom sat at the table, playing with a napkin and listening as her daughter rinsed and scraped and crammed as many dishes as possible into the two levels of the machine. She suddenly remembered a Christmas day years ago when they had hid some leftovers on two plates and after washing and drying nearly the entire cupboard’s worth of dishes, they brought two chairs onto the back porch and gorged on cold ham and pie, leaving the others to fight over the little they left in the fridge. How they had laughed and held their bulging stomachs that day.

Denise was now standing in front of her, clearly annoyed.

“Where is the soap for the dishwasher?”

“Oh, I must have run out.”

Sinks filled, Denise fumed in silence, grabbing each cleaned dish and rubbing it furiously with the cloth. She noticed her mother smiling.

“What?”

“Just like when you were 16. You’d rather be doing anything other than drying dishes.”

“And wouldn’t you?”

Denise’s mother turned and put two soapy hands on her daughter’s shoulders and spoke the long remembered words quietly.

“Anything that brings you even the teensiest bit of joy is never a waste of time.”

 

Strings Attached

The afternoon light coming in from the window cast a buttery glow over the decades old décor of the small hotel room. It softened the lines on their skin and washed out the grey of their hair. Cora felt as if they were in a Rubens painting and through her half-closed eyes, the chipped and stained walls were made of marble and the floral duvet and carpet were a real garden.  The fading light meant that John would be expected at home soon, so she gently nudged him awake and told him she was leaving.

As Cora drove home, she looked in the mirror to catch a glimpse of the pink and orange brightening behind her and thought for the hundredth time that day that she loved being “a mistress”. A month ago, she would have been sitting on her sofa in her pyjamas eating three-day old Chinese food and watching a re-run of “Law & Order”. The same night she’d had again and again for years. What made her giddy was that she would still go home and put on her pyjamas and eat take-out but with the adrenalin rush of the rendezvous still buzzing inside her.

John, too, was driving home though with a bit more unease than his recent companion. He looked in the mirror and saw the kind of asshole he never wanted to be. But it was fun, dammit, and he wasn’t ready to stop yet. And besides, Cora said they would stop immediately when it became “cringy or boring”.

The fact that Cora worked with John’s wife did not make the situation very easy to ignore. They’d met at a work function, waiting at the bar for a drink. Cora asked him how he’d been screwed into coming to one of the infamous “booze n’ snooze fests” and when John said he’d come to keep Kathy company and get free drink, Cora replied with an “Office Space” impression that made him spit out his drink in laughter.

When John returned to Kathy with their drinks, he said he’d met her colleague Cora. Kathy said she was someone who was a bit odd and kept to herself but always had people in stitches when she made fun of the managers.

The next day, John found himself on the company’s website, looking at the contact information for the staff. When he found what he was looking for, he sat in his chair for a very long time pretending to weigh pros and cons, but knowing exactly what he was going to do.

Cora had waited until five minutes before she was due to leave work to reply that an early matinee and a drink sounded like the perfect way to spend a Tuesday afternoon. She then sent an email to her boss stating she had a dentist appointment the following day and would be leaving early. The two emails made her giggle and she wasn’t sure if she was more excited to skip work or to meet a stranger in a darkened cinema.

They spent the entirety of the film looking straight ahead, their fingers barely touching over the chasm of the drinks holder. After as they walked down winding back streets, he pulled her into doorways for a long kiss, breaking away before they started groping. Over a pint in an old man’s pub, they talked and joked easily, their lack of familiarity with one another loosening any inhibitions. He ran his fingers up and down the inside of her thigh, thankful she’d worn a dress just this side of slutty.

John got them track phones and when hers vibrated in the early afternoons, she tried not to look in the direction of his wife’s desk as she tapped out her reply, heart racing and face flushed. When she did occasionally pass Kathy in the corridor or on the way to the staff toilet, she felt a shame that gripped her intestines and stopped her breath. But as she sat on the toilet, staring at the screen of the phone she justified the disgrace by reminding herself and later John, that their meetings were temporary and only physical.

That all changed the moment Cora walked into the staff canteen and saw John sitting across from his wife, a half-eaten salad on a tray between them. Her fork was poised gracefully over the leaves as she smiled and spoke animatedly. He sat, nodding and laughing. Suddenly, Kathy paused as she noticed the strings attached to her blouse at the cuff had come undone and were dangling into the salad bowl. John immediately put down his fork and gently grabbed his wife’s arm and tied the string into a delicate and perfect bow.

Cora’s hands shook as she took out the change for her bag of popcorn and Diet Coke and didn’t stop until she was back at her desk. As she munched and scanned news headlines, she tried to ignore the thoughts of John’s tenderness towards his wife.

At their next meeting John was surprised when Cora put a foot on his lap and asked rather seductively if he’d put a plaster on the blister on her pinky toe. He wasn’t about to touch anyone’s foot, especially one that had been crammed tightly into a shoe all day. Cora continued to make odd requests—shoulder rubs, splinter removals, and zipping up her dress, which he’d seen her undo on her own just 10 minutes ago.

She daydreamed about moments where he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear or kissed the tip of her nose. But they continued as usual---sneaky pints and hotel rooms that felt dingier as the sun began to set sooner. She began thinking about what to get for dinner before he even finished. They put their clothes on in silence, ignoring the creak of old springs. They didn’t kiss good-bye.

When she ended it, he was relieved, but had to know why.

“I guess I want strings attached after all.”

 

 

Tale of the Coveted Shoes

Beth wanted more than anything to hate Whitney. Whitney with her shiny blonde hair, two missing front teeth, a pack of older brothers and sisters who adored her, and two parents who were still happily together. But mostly she hated that Whitney had a perfect pair of black and white saddle shoes.  

What Beth didn’t realise was that they were Whitney’s only pair of shoes—in fact, only piece of clothing—that wasn’t handed down from an older sibling. She’d saved money from her paper route every day for three months during the summer so she’d have the shoes when school started in the fall. After school, she cleaned and buffed the shoes until they looked new again.

When Beth begged and whined for a pair of her own saddle shoes, her mother reminded her that she already had a perfectly good pair of sneakers that she had picked out just two weeks ago. Besides, she’d have them ruined in a week or would get tired of them.

“Remember the jean jacket you had to have? Remember when you used it as a rope to climb a tree and ripped the arm off?  Go play outside and leave me alone. I don’t want to hear another word. Got it?”

Beth stormed out of the house, making sure to slam the door and giving an “I hate you” as a parting farewell.  She then went and jumped in every mud puddle she could find and rubbed grass all over the sides of her sneakers. But her mother didn’t budge.

In late October, Whitney’s family hosted a Halloween party for all the neighbourhood kids. Though Beth and Whitney didn’t talk much at school, they rode bikes around the block and played gymnastics on an old mattress in Whitney’s backyard. Beth always felt out of place with Whitney’s funny friends, but she was too bored not to go.

The night of the party, the house was decorated with fake cobwebs, candles, posters of witches and skeletons, and scary noises were coming from a scratchy boom box somewhere in the kitchen. Whitney’s mom made the kids put on blindfolds and touch eyeballs, brains, and teeth which turned out to be grapes, spaghetti, and chiclets.

The boys were dressed as pirates, cowboys, and vampires, and the girls, princesses, black cats, and witches. Beth was covered in a white sheet that had two holes cut out for eyes. Her mother had made two large circles around the holes, using her liquid eyeliner. She liked that nobody could see her face and she didn’t have a mouth cut out, so she didn’t need to talk.

At one point, they were herded up to go out to the “haunted garage” which involved Whitney’s dad and older brothers jumping out from behind stuff and scaring the living bejesus out of everyone. The kids squealed and ran out to run and hide behind trees, which as it turned out, sheltered more scary brothers. They ran around and around, laughing and dizzy on their own fear until Whitney’s mom told them to come back inside.

“And take off your shoes this time! There’s a lot of mud out back”

Beth was one of the last to add her shoes to the growing pile near the backdoor. As she threw hers down, she noticed the saddle shoes sitting neatly and pristinely apart from the others. The kids all went into a large family room that had two worn sofas and several pillows on the floor. Whitney’s mother had made popcorn balls and was setting up the VCR to watch “It’s A Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown”.  Beth wanted to plop down with the others but there was something she wanted even more.

Heart pounding, she quietly went out of the room and towards the back entrance. She grabbed the white and black prizes and stuffed them down her pants under the white sheet. As she put on her own shoes, Whitney’s dad came in and said, “What you up to, Kiddo?” She said that her tummy hurt, politely refusing the Dad’s offer of escorting her the half-block to her house.

Once outside, she started running, feeling the soles of the shoes scraping her skin, the dangling laces tickling her thighs. The air was colder and the trees much taller and more menacing than before. She felt if she turned around, she would see Whitney chasing her.

Her mother wasn’t surprised to see her home early. Beth often had enough of social events before other children. She was glad that Beth had gone at all.

Beth shoved the shoes in between the box spring and the mattress and didn’t sleep at all for fear they would somehow walk out into plain sight. When her mother was in the shower the next morning, Beth was horrified to find that they were too small. It hadn’t occurred to her that Whitney’s feet would be so much smaller than her own even though she was about three inches shorter.

She thought about bringing them back to Whitney’s and saying she put them on by mistake, but realised they would ask about her own shoes, which she hadn’t left behind. She thought about just putting them on their porch but was terrified someone would see her. With the kind of logic that only comes from childhood panic, Beth decided to throw them in the gutter on the corner.

The next Monday, Whitney arrived at school, wearing grey canvas shoes that were probably once white. After school, they rode bikes around the block and Whitney didn’t say a word about the shoes.

At night, whenever the phone rang, Beth’s heart nearly exploded, so convinced was she that the shoes with her fingerprints were discovered in the gutter. Each day she crouched down and peeked into the dark hole and saw the white tip of a lone shoe. The stab of guilt and fear became a part of her daily routine, even after the spring rains washed the evidence away.

 

Crushed

Lora couldn’t quite bring herself to call Nanthap a stalker. Though he brought her mangoes and langoustines each day before class and added a heart as his only comment to her facebook statuses, he never actually spoke to her or seemed to want anything from her. In class, he sat apart from the others, dutifully copying words whose sounds he couldn’t form and whose meaning might as well have been Greek philosophy. Yet he copied and attempted repetitions and smiled blankly when called upon.

“Hello, Nanaphat. How are you?”

“19.”

“Nanaphat, what do you do?”

“How do you do, Teacher.”

“Thank you so much for everything you’re given me. I really like that part of you.”

The other students fell over themselves not because they had mastered these basic greetings themselves, but because Nanaphat replied in the same breathless tone of wonder usually reserved for rendezvous on balconies.

Lora had initially assumed Nanaphat was taking the piss. After all, she was 15 years older, 5 inches taller, and likely 50 pounds heavier than the boy. She sweat profusely in the sauna called a classroom, making her made up eyes rather clownish by 11:00 am. She felt awkward in this room of 35 engineering students, 32 of whom were males, which made her act all the more school-marmish. Yet there he was day after day, a young man earnestly admiring her.

As the semester wore on and the students finally started to grasp a few coherent sentences, Nanaphat’s advances became more verbal. Upon her desk where ripe fruit was once presented as a token of adoration, now were short notes written in a shaky scrawl.

“Teacher you like garden person. I am vegetable. Thank you.”

“Song meets bird then bird fall earth world. You are song.”

“Please give good score.”

After class he carried her books from one building to another and gave her rides to the teacher flats after school, she sitting side-saddle and he beaming at the front. Lora found she began to like the attention and assured herself she was not on the path of Mary Letourneau and wasn’t doing anything to encourage the young boy’s passion. 

One of the teachers, delighted to know the slang phrase, always made jokes about “Teacher’s Pet,” suggesting that she demand more of the student such as lunch for the staff and collecting all the photocopying for the day. Lora just smiled and said that she liked all her students equally and only wanted them to learn to not be afraid of English.

But in reality, Nanaphat was her favourite student. It was a strange existence being the only white female in a town of 50,000 people. 50,000 pairs of eyes watching her every move, laughing at her attempts to buy shoes and trousers that fit, laughing at her freckles that seemed to multiply every day, laughing at her inability to remove chicken from the bone with a spoon. They shouted to her in the street, “You you!!! USA!! Hollywood!! Jack and Rose!! My heart go on!” and there was no point explaining how she was just an ordinary woman from an ordinary Midwestern town.

Though the students were generally respectful to all teachers, Nanaphat seemed to regard her as more than an exotic foreigner. He treated her like a human.

That is, until he saw her with Mark, a retiree from Canada, who spent his days drinking and fishing or drinking and reading, depending on the weather. Lora had met him when a sudden downpour forced her to take shelter in a beachside cafe.

“I love Inspector Moltalbano! A witty man with an appreciation of good food.”

“Not to mention good at solving crimes.”

“That too. I’m Lora. Do you mind if I sit here for a while? It’s raining buckets out there.”

Lora was never this forward with a man and especially not a white man in Thailand, as they were certainly not there to meet tall, pudgy white women pushing 40. But there was something about the graceful way his legs were crossed and the slight furrow of his brow as he read that were instantly endearing. As the rain continued to fall in sheets, they sat and shared big bottles of Leo beer. Like most ex-pats who found themselves in the tired southern town, they glossed over some chapters of their history while spinning wild tales from others. Though he never said it, regret was his catalyst and lack of purpose hers.

As with many stormy afternoon trysts, theirs ended in a small non-descript room, in this case one that also had a kettle and a hot plate. He explained that he was living as cheaply as possible to stretch the retirement money to its fullest but lamented not being able to cook. He smiled sadly as he recounted afternoons spent getting the gnocchi just so.

“Now, it’s instant noodles and coffee.”

“Just like a college student.”

“You make me feel like a college student.”

She didn’t mind nor really notice the age gap and he didn’t seem to mind nor notice that she wasn’t a young, slim Thai girl.

On the way home the next morning, she forgot to tell him to take a route that would avoid the roads used by the students. She saw several familiar faces and hoped her mascara wasn’t too smeared or hair too mussed. She wondered if they knew the expression, “the walk of shame” and how she could ever possibly explain it.

When she arrived in the teachers’ office, she saw the teachers look from her to her desk, expressions giving away nothing. She heard a buzzing noise and saw a basket of rotten fruit.

Under it a note, the last English words ever written or spoken by the young Thai man. Words that made Lora turn crimson; words that led to whispers, laughter, and eventually banishment.

“You were lady of day but now lady of evening. You were bird in sky but now fallen lady. You are true American.”

 

The Waterfall

By the second night, Anne was sprawled out in the middle of the bed, limbs bending and stretching in every direction. It was the best sleep she’d ever had. Delicious and luscious, like being nestled in a noiseless, weightless cocoon. The feeling of not wanting to ever move disturbed only by a throbbing bladder.

Anne was supposed to be in this huge bed in the cosy bungalow with her partner of eight years. But as she’d expected for a long time, he’d found another big bed, belonging to someone not younger or prettier, just not her. “More present” as he had put it.

Her personality had swallowed itself in the last few years. Each day a vat of wet cement to be trudged through. The listening, smiling, nodding, and replying required hollowed her to the core. Anne sometimes glimpsed at him as she watched soaps in silence, wondering when he’d put the withering thing out of its misery. She couldn’t be bothered to do it herself.

Anne went to the rooftop for the complimentary breakfast and as she drank her coffee and stared out to the sea, she thought about when she and Mike had last eaten breakfast together. They usually spent Saturday morning at a greasy spoon called Heartland Café, where they watched couples in various stages of decay, newspapers as buffers. They’d wondered if the silence was companionable. Was everything already said? They’d vowed in those first years to never be like those couples. But on that last morning the only sounds between them were the scraping of knives on toast and the slurping of coffee. She thought about asking him what he thought these people were going to do after they paid their bills. He would have answered animatedly, making her laugh with his turn of phrase and unpredictable ideas. But she said nothing and neither did he and after they paid, she went to the library and he went for a ramble through the city.

After breakfast, Anne went to the appointed spot for a trip she booked to a waterfall. As she awkwardly climbed into the songthaew, she saw that she was the only customer and felt a stab of fear and loneliness. Then she remembered the last trip she had taken with Mike, each of them in different seats on the train so they could “both have a window view” and feeling lonelier when they were forced to sit together on the way back.

 The palm trees were unnaturally tall, like redwoods and the layers of green suggested untameable places with snakes, spiders, and all types of horrifying insects. When Anne was a child, her father brought the family out on Sunday drives out in the country. She would project herself out the window and watch herself run in the tall grasses and fields, her arms held out, face turned slightly towards the sun. On this ride in the jungle, Anne feared any projection of herself would be strangled and consumed by all that green. But she imagined it anyway.

She heard it before she saw it. Louder than any thunderstorm and strangely calming. She laughed at the enormity of it, a wall of white that stretched as far up as she could see. In the sun the droplets of water shone like diamonds.

The driver slid out of the truck and lit a smoke. He looked at Anne and then seemed to scold his young companion, who shyly beckoned with a skinny arm for her to follow. He didn’t smile or look at her and she imagined that he’d much rather be hanging out with his pals in an internet café than schlepping a middle-aged white lady through the jungle.

As the climb became more difficult, she noticed how deftly the barefoot boy jumped from rock to rock, spotting the easiest route for her to take. The boy frequently held out his hand to help her over steep and slippery spots. At first she felt weak and reluctant to feel his small, slender almost bird-like grip on her but as the energy drained from her legs, she welcomed the boy’s strong and gentle hand and found herself not wanting to let go.

In the beginning, she and Mike had always had their fingers laced or at the very least, touching. Walking down the street, sitting on the old broken sofa in their favourite pub, at night when falling asleep. She had known every line, vein, and callous of his hands by touch. Why had she started burying her hands deep in her pockets and sleeping with them curled under her chest?

As Anne struggled to breathe in the thick air of the jungle, she gasped at the realization that the simple act of withdrawing her hands had been the first act of sabotage. The gradual silence had followed.

Anne and the boy were now at a relatively flat area of the mountain, a giant bench that had been carved out and covered with a soft layer of grass. The water was shallow and there were large smooth stones shining in the sunlight. Anne slowly trudged up and over stones and climbed onto a large rock. She felt the spray of the waterfall behind her and could see the sheer drop before her. She let herself be surrounded by the noise before beginning to sob into her hands.

She suddenly felt two hands covering her own as the boy hugged her from behind. He rested his head between her shoulder blades and she could feel his mouth on her skin whispering kind words in a language she didn’t understand.

As Anne walked back to her hotel hours later, the boy ran to her. She immediately thought she should give him a tip and began digging in her bag. He put his hand on her arm and with a smile thrust a small, smooth stone into her hand. He said something, which could have been anything, really, but for her was always, “Don’t let go.”

 

 

 

Rushed

Denise couldn’t seem to help the fact that she did everything quickly. In the morning, rather than let her coffee cool or take the moment to temper it with milk, she downed the scalding liquid, becoming addicted over time to the burning in the back of her throat. She was the same with booze, easily knocking back three gin and tonics in the time it took her companions, if she had any, to have one, and getting drunk as a result. She spoke quickly and succinctly and even in the bedroom rather than relish the rise of the oncoming pleasure, employed all manners of tricks to get off and then rushing her partner to do the same.

But where her rushing caused the most problems was on the city streets. Her long legs meant she could easily outwalk her fellow denizens and she was quite graceful in weaving in and out and between them, careful to avoid the inner city moms pushing prams at a crawl as they chain-smoked and gossiped in packs. She avoided running into the pocket-sized grannies who walked with canes that reached their temples. But occasionally someone would bump her shoulder or her bag and she would hear them shouting at her to “slow the fuck down”.

From the moment she awoke at 6:00, the day consisted of a series of tasks that had to be completed and ticked off a neatly constructed mental list (writing the list would be a waste of time). While doing one task as quickly and efficiently as possible, she was simultaneously thinking of the next. Get to work, make the copies, do the lesson, prepare for the next. She had tried to linger over a coffee at the break, chatting with colleagues but found the upcoming tasks too distracting. She secretly envied and admonished their lazy but relaxed approach to the days. After fleeing out the door, she had to do the shopping, put in the wash, cut the vegetables, wash the rice, do the dishes, hang the wash, grade the papers. And finally at 10:00, she could unfold herself into the bed and feel the mattress absorb the day.

It was on a particularly crowded Saturday at the mall that she tripped over an unseen small boy and tumbled down the concrete stairs. Stunned, she looked up at the faces peering down at her, angry at the boy because she should be in Tesco by now, basket over arm, strategically zigzagging through the aisles. In the ambulance, rude and impatient from fear and pain, Denise asked the man who was in charge of jabbing and pinching, when she’d be done and could go home.

“This looks like a bad break. You’re going to be with us for a while.”

For the first time in years, Denise called in sick for the next day and was quite miffed when her boss insisted on a full week so she could get a jump start on the healing and learn to use the crutches.

On her first day “off”, she was bored after 36 minutes and decided that she’d finally go to the outdoor café in Sergeant Square, which she’d passed nearly every day of her life for six years. As she hobbled to a small table, two men jumped up from a nearby bench and tried to help her ease into her wobbly metal chair. They smelled of cider and cigarettes but were full of smiles and “there you go loves”. She sipped her coffee to stretch the time and watched the activity in the small square. People stopped on the benches for spontaneous picnics, and an endless parade of homeless and junkies met, bantered, laughed, argued and went on. There was a repeating ballet of men feeding the pigeons and the children chasing them away, and all the while people rushing through the square were oblivious to it all.

Denise eventually finished her coffee and decided to walk to the supermarket for the week’s provisions. Walking at a much slower pace, every few steps she heard muffled words of sympathy and encouragement as people passed her by. She noticed that children were not as empty-headed as she previously thought—everything seemed to fascinate them, which is why they seemed to wander aimlessly but were actually moving from one interesting spot to the next. Old people, too, were not wishy-washy wanderers out for a stroll. There was a hard, gritty determination in their grunts and shuffles.

The groups of friends who always annoyed her by taking up the “whole fucking sidewalk” were clueless about their surroundings because they were so focused on one another, commiserating, giving advice, and making jokes at one another’s expense. She’d never walked down the street with a friend, knowing that the pace of it, the stress of listening and trying to get to Point B as quickly as possible would be a nightmare. Better to kill the two birds of socialising and shutting off her brain while at the pub.

By the third week, she was back to work and feeling quite calm despite the hassles of doors, stairs, and writing on whiteboards. There was more than ever a long list of tasks to be finished but she found she didn’t mind if some were pushed to the next day. Yet she yearned to be free of the monstrosity encasing her leg. When it was finally cut off, the first thing she noticed was how foreign her slightly shrunken leg appeared. She walked outside, arms feeling light without the crutches, center of gravity restored. She stood motionless outside the hospital for so long, someone asked if she needed to go inside.

She could see a long mental list of things she was unable to do for the last two months: clean the fridge, restock the pantry, flip the mattress. But she felt no pull towards them, which unsettled her greatly. Disoriented, she walked slowly west, noticing for the first time it felt, the sky turning pink.

 

 

Swimming Lessons

They’ve been at the deserted lake for hours. It’s a muggy day at the edge of summer with a slight chill in the air when the clouds cover the sun. Little Sister is getting bored with making sandcastles with the single plastic bucket and shovel. She likes digging a moat around the castle but hates the way the green slime keeps getting in the way. She’s trying to get the attention of Big Sister, who keeps looking at the empty gravel road. “Watch this!” She spins, does cartwheels, feels sand land in her hair. She jumps and twirls like a ballerina, but Big Sister won’t stop frowning and biting her nails.

Suddenly they see the dust and hear the crunch-crunch-crunch of an approaching car. Little Sister is scared, thinking of the movie she saw with the Big Kids when Babysitter was snoring in her reclining chair. The teenagers were running in the countryside from a madman in a mask. He kept finding them and stabbing them with a big knife. The boy in the car doesn’t have a mask. He’s wearing a jean jacket and has long hair. The music blaring from the car makes her ears hurt.

Big Sister now looks straight out to the lake. Her face is frozen like when Mom tells her she isn’t living up to her potential, that she’ll be barefoot and pregnant for the rest of her life if she keeps this up.

The boy turns off the car and runs his hand through his hair. He gets out of the car and sits down next to Big Sister and kisses her on the cheek.

“You’re late.”

“I’m sorry, Babe. I had stuff to do for my mom.”

“You’re a liar. I know you were with her.”

“Don’t be like this. You know you’re the only one for me. I swear!”

Big Sister gets up and in one fluid motion, takes off her shirt, revealing a hot pink bikini, held together by strings. Little Sister has never seen her Big Sister’s body like this. It is beautiful and terrifying.

Without saying a word, Big Sister dives into the water and begins swimming towards a wooden pier far off in the middle of the lake. Soon, Little Sister can’t see the pink straps, just white arms cutting through the still black water.

The boy watches for a moment and without a word, lights a cigarette and gets into his car. The sound of the wheels spinning on the gravel and the angry music jar the stillness of the lakeside. Little Sister feels like she isn’t in a real place, that it’s a movie and something bad is going to happen.

The dust of the car is gone and she can’t see Big Sister’s arms anymore. She screams her name and begins to shake. She wraps herself in a towel and sits at the edge of the lake. Big Sister has never left her alone, has never ignored her.  They always go on adventures and build couch forts and make plays. And when she is afraid at night, Big Sister always lets her in and they tell secrets until they fall asleep.

The pain in her heart makes her think she is going to die. She is crying so hard she can’t breathe. She buries her head in her hands just like when she watched the movie.

It feels like hours have passed when she hears a splashing sound and Big Sister is crawling towards her, heaving and gasping. Her arms are covered in goosebumps and saliva falls from her mouth in long strings. She clutches Little Sister and her bony arms feel like popsicles and she smells like the slime. She cries when she sees Little Sister’s wet face and red eyes.

“I’m so sorry I shouldn’t have left you. I thought he would follow me. Did he say anything?

“You almost drown-ded! You left me alone. I hate you. I HATE YOU!!!”

Little Sister wants to squeeze herself into a ball or inside one of the many shells that are scattered on the beach and make noise if she holds them to her ear. She wants to be inside the sandcastle protected by the moat. She can’t stop crying.

Big Sister sits and pulls her close to her chest like she has done since she was a baby. They used to sit like that for hours, reading in front of the fireplace. She rocks her and hums and soon she feels calm. Under the towel, their skin begins to warm and there’s a tiny bit of release from the fist clutching her heart.

The car ride is silent save the occasional piece of gravel hitting the car and the steady whoosh of the heater. At dinner Mom knows something is up. But when Big Sister looks at her and crosses her eyes and sticks her finger in her nose, Little Sister forgets the heaviness in her chest and laughs. The laughing is an unexpected treat, like eating Cool-whip from the tub or licking the chocolate off the beaters. She can’t get enough and eventually Mom yells at her to knock it off.

That night Big Sister reads her a book in bed and acts out all the characters with such funny voices, Little Sister can’t get sleepy. But she knows already that she won’t sleep.

“I’m so sorry, Little Sister. I will never do something like that again. I will never leave you. You are my bestest sister. I will never care about a boy more than you.” After a pause, she whispers, “And I will never trust a boy again.”

Later in the dark, the words soothe Little Sister, especially the bestest sister part, but something broke apart from her, like a twig on a tree, and was left on the beach. She hears the words Big Sister said and one phrase bounces around her head. She knows she will have to be careful now. She understands she must never trust again.

The Man Named Ben

Rachel was 10 when she first met a homeless person. It was a muggy Midwestern afternoon that was so hot even the flies hovered ever so slowly in the thick air. But she didn’t notice the heat as she twirled down the street, flanked by her two cousins who never told her to shut up when she started singing or humming. They were 12 and 13 and at that stage when they were trying on the hardened expressions of men. They didn’t make eye contact with anyone they passed but their gait suggested that trouble would ensue if anyone looked twice at the skinny and slightly unkempt girl between them.

Rachel had been sent to live with them when she was 6 and through the hushed mutterings between their mother and grandmother, they figured out Rachel had been living with bad people and had somehow been rescued. She was a quiet, odd girl with permanently stringy hair and a dirty face. She sat at the back of class at school, looking out the window and pinching herself when she started to hum. But because her two cousins who were rough enough to be considered bullies took her on, the other kids ignored her.

She had two qualities that for her cousins, bordered on the supernatural and made her even more valuable to protect. Though she was often oblivious to what was going on around her, she had an uncanny ability to know when something was in distress. Countless times, she had led them blocks away to a small kitten stuck in a fence or sewer grate and she could always spot a tiny chic that had fallen from its nest. Many a robin she nursed back to health but more than a few were laid to rest in a tiny patch of dirt in the backyard, their short lives marked by a single plastic pinwheel.

Her other talent, of slightly more interest to the two young boys, was her ability to steal from the corner shop and never get caught. She would shyly go the counter and buy a pack of grape gum or a pencil or a bag of chips, slowly and carefully counting out the exact change in pennies and nickels and the occasional quarter, meanwhile chocolate bars and magazines were securely tucked in various places under her clothes. It didn’t occur to them until years later that the rather gruff Mr. Schmidt may have known she was stealing and just let it go.

So it was on this hot, steamy day that after going to the shop that Rachel knew they had to go to Herman Park a few blocks away. The boys didn’t mind as the park was small but had a few old and therefore more dangerous slides and even boasted a barrel that you stood inside of and made spin like a hamster wheel.

When they arrived they saw a youngish man sitting on one of the benches, wearing all camouflage, two giant army green bags next to him. He had a huge reddish beard and long, wavy hair. When the boys raced to go into the barrel, Rachel sat down next to the man and offered him candy. He smiled and introduced himself as Ben. He asked her if they were in Albion and she said they were. He then explained that the town was completely different, that they’d moved all the buildings to confuse him.  If he went to the places he knew like the newspaper where his uncle worked, the school where his mom was a teacher, or even the factory where his Dad worked and told everyone what he knew, what was really happening in the war, he’d start a revolution. What he knew would change the world.

“Maybe the buildings are different now but we got a school and a factory. You could still go there.”

“No, they don’t know me so they won’t believe me. And they probably hired actors to pretend they don’t know me or believe me. Like on the Truman Show.”

What Rachel didn’t realize was that Ben and she were in Albion, but Ben was in the wrong Albion. His was miles and miles away in a different state.

When her cousins saw that she was talking to a strange man, they came and told her more sternly than necessary that it was time to go home. They didn’t even look at Ben but looked at one another, slightly scrunching up their noses and trying not to laugh.

That night Rachel begged her aunt to let Ben come and live with them. Her aunt, accustomed to her niece bringing home strays  they had no place for in a two-bedroom house, told her he was homeless and homeless people were sometimes dangerous and crazy.

“But I was homeless and you kept me.”

“You’re family, honey. A little crazy, but that’s ok.” And she gave her a big hug and gently wiped her tears away.

Rachel hatched a plan that involved taking a bus to a town an hour away and stealing a minivan for Ben to live in somewhere out in the country. The cousins were immediately on board and the three discussed the details well past the time the lightning bugs came out and the air cooled.

The next day, Rachel brought Ben a sandwich and chips but wasn’t allowed to stay and chat. On the third day he was gone. Rachel went to the police station, sandwich in hand, and said, "Have you seen the homeless guy named Ben. I need to give him this” They told her not to talk to strangers and to go home. They then proceeded to do their own search of the town.

The boys never stole a van or any other vehicle and the police never found a man wandering their tiny, safe town. And Rachel, instead of twirling in a state of oblivion, never stopped searching the faces of strangers looking for a man name Ben.

 

 

Comfort Food

When Libby announced, at the age of 11, that she’d no longer be eating meat, thank you very much, her mother, Karen wasn’t the least bit surprised. She’d given her the name Liberty after all and had witnessed how the name had manifested itself in a variety of ways, from her refusal to wear matching clothes or any pink, and to having tea parties with plants instead of dolls.

That day in school, Mr. Harmon had showed his 6^th grade science class a video highlighting the effects of human development on the planet. In one scene, a nest of baby ducklings was crushed to death under the smooth wheel of a bulldozer. Libby was horrified and choked on her sobs, despite the sniggers she heard around the classroom. Mr. Harmon opened his class discussion by asking if the students thought it was fair animals lost their habitats to make way for shopping malls.

“They’re just birds” said one boy in the back. “Like chickens. And we kill them for KFC. Umm. Finger licking good!” As the class laughed and continued their discussion, Libby sat in silence. It never occurred to her before that animals had to be killed for her to get a Happy Meal or chicken fingers. From the time the video stopped to when Karen arrived home after work, Libby calmly weighed the pros and cons of eating meat and decided that for the rest of her life, she’d play no part in an animal’s death.

Karen sighed upon hearing the news. She’d put a roast in the crockpot that morning and had looked forward to a meal that required her to do nothing more than ladle out chunks of meat and vegetables.

“How about a grilled cheese, then?” she smiled. Libby having feared a battle or refusal, grabbed Karen around the waist tightly and cried. “Thank you Mommy.”

“Libs, I’ll probably still eat meat, but we’ll make it work together. Always, always stay true to what you believe but don’t force it on other people. Promise?”

So began the Friday ritual of “Grilled Cheese Night”. After a few weeks of single wrapped cheese and white bread, they began experimenting, both loving emmental on rye and hating roquefort. Karen was surprised that she liked brie and fontina and was especially fond of haloumi, which wasn’t too far off from a fried cutlet texture-wise. They added pickles, roasted veggies, pesto, and even fruit and jam. Mushrooms, onions, dill pickle, and cheddar became known as The Libber and their favourite.

But it wasn’t the endless combos that made the night a treasured part of the week. While they chopped, smeared, grilled, and assembled, they talked without restraint. No TV, no pressure of sitting face to face. Side by side, hands busy, they were freed. They gossiped about workmates and classmates; they ridiculed and speculated about the aunts, uncles, and cousins. They talked about Libby’s future, her crushes, and the thoughts that crushed her. And sometimes they even talked about her absent father.

 In high school, they made room around dances, theatre, and sleepovers for Grilled Cheese Night, and more than once Karen thought how cheese was the oozy glue that held them together. She kept waiting for Libby to hate her, to shun her very existence. They had battles over make-up, grades, and curfew, but she couldn’t help but marvel that Libby was “a damn good kid.”

During her first semester of college, Libby came home every weekend for laundry, her own bed, and snuggles with her cat. She was full of chatter about what she was learning at school, especially her Environmental Studies class, most of which was over Karen’s head. But her thirst was contagious and Karen found herself reading more during those days when Libby’s absence made the silence of the house hum so loudly.

The changes in Libby were so gradual that Karen didn’t really notice until one day she came home to a scowling Libby and her counters covered with the contents of her fridge and cupboards.

“How can you eat all this crap, Mom? Processed lunch meat? Hamburger Helper? There isn’t one thing that hasn’t been made in a factory!”

“Well, I haven’t done the shopping yet, for starters. And this is my food, remember? I thought we always agreed you wouldn’t shove your beliefs down anyone’s throat. Especially mine.”

“Mom,” she began as though talking to a child, “you just have no idea how these food corporations are slowly killing us and the planet.”

“All right. Well, let’s go to the deli and bakery and get some good stuff for grilled cheese.”

Libby gave a frustrated groan.

“I’m vegan now, remember? The dairy industry is horrific. Dairy cows are forced to live in tiny stalls and be constantly pregnant. Their babies are taken away from them immediately. It’s so cruel.”

Karen looked at the stranger before her who was a thinner, angrier version of her daughter. “We could make a salad?”

“With overpriced lettuce that thousands of gallons of petrol were used to transport? That come in non-biodegradable plastic bags? No thanks. I’ve got to go.”

And she left, her disgust lingering in the air for days. Karen ate ham sandwiches and TV dinners in silence, feeling both devastated and relieved when the phone rang. She didn’t know the person on the other line. This other person was passionate. Articulate. Grown up. This other person quoted statistics and said things like, “Karen, I can’t gossip and joke with you knowing what is happening in the world. Your first world privilege has blinded you to the reality of suffering.”

One night a pale, dishevelled Libby arrived looking as though she hadn’t showered in days.

“Mommy, he broke up with me.” Karen didn’t know who “he” was, but she pulled her daughter to her as a life’s worth of tears spilled out, her head resting on Karen’s chest as it had since she was born.

“Can you make me a sandwich?”

“I’ll hold the cheese.”

 

A Tiger's Stripes

The street awakens at dawn. Those who continue to sleep think it’s the roosters who start it all, but actually women unfold the day as they light fires, fill buckets, soak rice, mop floors, hang wash, and chop vegetables. So it seemed to Tom who was walking through the winding streets having finished his fourteenth beer a half an hour earlier. He still wore the uniform of the English teacher—khakis and a polo shirt—but he’d long lost the scent of a shower. He had a class in three hours but was in no hurry. Strong coffee and a steamed bun would get him through the two hours of basic conversation and he’d go back to his unfurnished apartment and collapse onto the mattress on the floor. He found that he actually taught better hungover or slightly drunk, his brain and mouth working more slowly and limited in a way that was easier for the students to understand. No witty asides or tangents today.

As he neared the 7-Eleven, he saw a man lying on the curb of the street. Blood was seeping from a gash on his forehead. Tom stopped and stared. The man was in plain sight, yet no one seemed concerned. Motorbikes, people young and old, and the soi dogs all went around him careful not to hit him, but not bothering to stop. Tom caught the eye of a woman who was washing some dishes in a plastic bucket nearby. He pantomimed dying and pointed to the man. She pantomimed drinking and pointed to him, “Same same you!” and cackled as she dumped out the water.

The water ran down the street and pooled around the man’s feet. Tom, still drunk and unsure of the cultural etiquette this situation called for, went on to the 7-Eleven and headed home for a long shower and leisurely breakfast.

At the school, he told the story to his colleague, Jam, who was much revered for his kindness and philanthropy. Jam would teach all day and then spend the evening volunteering at an orphanage, making merit at temples, or giving students extra help for free. But despite Tom’s impassioned plea that they had to help the man, he scoffed and made a brushing away motion with his large bony hand,

“He’s a loster.”

“What? He’s lost or he’s a loser?”

“Both, Tom. A loster. Some people like him we cannot help. Everyone—his brothers, the monks, the shop owners tried every time. But he always choose the wrong way.”

After class, rather than go home, Tom stopped at a few shops for supplies and went to search for the man. He was in the same spot but sitting up, smoking a cigarette, and watching the people go by. The blood was a thick brown crust covering his right cheek. Again, people swerved around him but didn’t stop or look. He had open sores on his legs and his feet were bare.

Sitting down, Tom pulled out two cans of Leo and offered one to the man who grabbed it with a toothless laugh. Tom pointed at himself and said, “Tom” and pointed at the man. The man pointed at himself and said, “Tom”. He tried again but with the same result. Tom gave up and set about cleaning and dressing the wound which wasn’t as bad as it looked. The man stared straight ahead and Tom could hear the sound as he drank the beer in long gulps.

The people on the street stopped and stared at the foreigner playing doctor to the drunk. Some pointed and laughed and more than a few shouted angrily at him. He figured they were calling him an enabler, but he didn’t care. When they’d finished their beers, Tom stood up and shook the man’s limp hand and turned to leave, but the man followed him. He mimed that he was going to sleep but the man just laughed and copied the motion. He wanted to run, or at the very least, start walking quickly, but the cruelty of it made him feel more nauseous than he already was. But when he realised that he could drink all day and do a random act of kindness, he laughed and draped an arm over the man’s bony shoulders.

They sat at a concrete table on the beach making a pyramid of the empty Leo cans and putting their cigarettes out in a Styrofoam container that once held some barbecued pork. With the help of pen and paper in his bag, Tom discovered many things about the man, who drew quite well, despite his shaking hands. His name was “Ton”, which means “tree”. Earlier he hadn’t been just repeating what Tom said. His parents were farmers. He was too. He liked Manchester United and hated frogs. He’d had a family but they died. The man drew tears but his eyes were dry.

Eventually, he stood up and curled up under the shade of a tree and immediately fell asleep. For a moment, Tom envied sleeping with the feeling of the wind and the sound of the surf until he remembered the ants and flying cockroaches and small children who would love nothing more than to poke and prod a slumbering foreigner.

The next day at school, Tom told Jam about his afternoon with Ton. He felt sure he could convince Jam to help him.

“He’s not a bad man. He’s had bad luck. His family died and he’s all alone. Isn’t there any way to help him?”

“Did he tell you the story about how his family died?”

“No, but I’m guessing it was some kind of accident or illness.”

“His family died, yes. But because he was drunk and driving. And after that, he didn’t stop. He’ll never stop. Some tigers cannot change their stripes.”

Tom suddenly could smell the 36 hour drinking session on his breath and radiating from his skin, despite his shower. Jam looked at him carefully.

“But Tom, you can.”

Dine and Dash

The Secretary ordered a third margarita much to The Waitress’ delight. Drunk women on their own often tipped more. It was a Friday afternoon, that quiet zone between the lunch rush and Happy Hour. The Secretary had arrived at 2:00 p.m., having just been laid off due to “company cutbacks”. She couldn’t bear the thought of going home to an empty apartment, empty fridge, and empty days ahead. The cheap Mexican restaurant located in the parking lot of a strip mall always had its heavy red curtains shut to the world so its patrons might forget what awaited them as they downed strong drinks and complimentary chips and salsa.

As The Waitress set the drink in front of this woman who seemed to be about her age, she felt suddenly envious of her carefree Friday afternoon. The Waitress had been working several extra shifts in order to save money for her son’s birthday at the end of the month. He was turning six and she wanted to give him his first real party at Chuck E. Cheese, complete with a big ticket gift—his first bike. She was only halfway towards her goal and had less than two weeks to get there. So she wanted to make sure her customer was happy and cared for. Especially this one with her manicured nails and tailored business suit.

The Secretary looked at her drink and tried to rationalise its cost. She decided she was celebrating the end of one chapter of her life and the anticipation of a new beginning. Never mind that she hadn’t bothered saving for a rainy day, that all her salary went to clothes, beauty salons, and drinks. Never mind that she hadn’t seen the axe coming or even noticed her head was on the block. All that stuff about poor performance was bullshit. She’d find a better job and at least she wasn’t a waitress. She took a long drink and reached for the laminated menu sitting at the edge of the table.

The Waitress was in a dark corner near the bar, rolling silverware into paper napkins and chatting with the cook. She saw The Secretary grab the menu and felt relieved. There was a sadness lurking around The Secretary and The Waitress didn’t want to deal with the emotional aftermath of a woman drinking on an empty stomach.  

The Secretary ordered a bowl of chilli con carne and a side of flour tortillas. And another margarita. The Waitress told the cook the order and he groaned, saying the stuff they had was three days old and “getting nasty”. He said he’d liven it up with some extra meat and freshly grated cheese.

The Waitress put down the brightly decorated ceramic bowl of steaming food and the margarita and asked if The Secretary wanted anything else. Luckily she didn’t, as a couple walked in and sat at the opposite end of the restaurant. The Waitress looked at her watch and realised she would be getting the Friday Happy Hour crowd soon with their khaki pants, back slapping, and loud laughter.

The Secretary unfolded the foil and took out a soft steaming tortilla and tore off a bit. She dipped it into the pot of gooey brown and orange and took a bite. At first it scalded her tongue but as she smelled the food, it occurred to her she’d smelled something like it many times growing up. Cat food. To be sure it wasn’t just the sharp contrast with the margarita, she blew on another bit of dunked tortilla and took a bite. Unmistakable. Pungent, slightly fishy, and strangely gelatinous. She took a big drink of the margarita and contemplated what to do.

She’d been wronged. Laid off for no good reason and now served cat food. There was no way she was going to pay $7.95 for a bowl of slop. In fact, she wasn’t going to pay for any of it. What right do they have to charge her double the price in the afternoon while the Happy Hour crowd paid less? Why was she being punished for not having a job during the day? It was totally unfair. She finished her drink.

A couple more tables had wandered in and The Secretary knew The Waitress was in the kitchen filling plastic baskets with free chips to bring them. She made her move. She took out a $1 bill and put it under her glass as though she were settling her bill and quickly left the booth. Outside, she started running despite the heat, her heels, and feeling nauseous.  

When The Waitress saw the meagre bill sitting on the table, she felt her body go hot. She silently walked into the kitchen and in the calmest tone asked the cook to take out the drinks to her tables. She had calculated that The Secretary’s tip would be half a pizza or some tokens for the kids. Now, she was looking at using half her day’s wages to pay the tab the privileged white bitch left behind. Getting into her car, she knew the woman would be headed to the bus stop to get a bus to the trendier part of town where she likely lived.

When The Waitress screeched to a halt beside her, The Secretary stumbled to the car and got in. She didn’t look at The Waitress or apologise. She sat with her hands folded and quietly said she needed to go to the ATM. She withdrew two $100 bills and gave one to The Waitress. She took it, knowing it was twice what was needed and not caring. Rich people always threw money at problems.

When The Waitress later got in her car and saw the withdrawal slip and its balance of $5.16, she felt neither pity nor regret. For the first time in a long time, she felt grown up. Smiling, she drove home imagining the feeling of stuffing the bills into the coffee can and kissing her son goodnight.

 

The Elephant in the Room

Chad had no idea why he had chosen to break up with Ashley as they bounced and swayed on an elephant in a southeast Asian jungle. It didn’t occur to him that once the break had been made, they’d have to bounce and sway back to the minivan, where they’d bounce and sway back to the hotel and then sit rigidly cramped together for the 14-hour flight back home. Had he thought of those obvious consequences, he might have waited until they were safely re-embedded in their natural habitat in 17A Driscoll Lane.

Maybe it was the way she had laid her body on the elephant, hugging it and telling it what an “amazing and good boy” it was. Or how her face seemed to be stuck in a permanent grin since they’d climbed the bamboo bench perched atop the creature, how she nearly bent in half giving a “wai” to the confused young boy who sat shirtless and shoeless on the elephant’s neck with a small whip.

They’d been in Thailand for 3 days and Chad thought if she didn’t stop smiling and saying the word, “amazing”, he was going to have to kill her.

Ashley had been dreaming of this trip for a year and when they finally booked all the flights and hotels, she talked about it as if it were the last thing she would ever do. Given Chad’s feelings about her on the trip, perhaps It would be. There was a map on the fridge with places they were going highlighted in a coding system far too complicated for Chad to feign interest in. Guidebooks towered on her bedside table with post-it notes protruding from all directions and he’d been forced to watch at least 20 clips of other people’s badly shot vacation footage on youtube.

On the front door of their apartment hung a huge brightly coloured poster of “Ashley & Chad’s Bucket List”, so that he was able to see it when he left in the morning and the first thing when he returned and hung up his jacket. Ride an elephant; snorkel over a reef; eat an insect; feed a monkey; ride a train; pray in a temple; eat one new dish a day; ride in a tuk-tuk.

It wasn’t that Chad felt no excitement for the trip. He’d suffered like everyone else through the grey and oppressively wet winter and quite longed for a cold beer on a hot white sand beach. He’d been to Australia and Spain but never any place “exotic” and the thought of eyeing a few Asian beauties surreptitiously from behind his sunglasses filled him with a bit of boyish glee.

As the day drew nearer, Ashley’s squeals, gasps, and gushings became more pronounced, her eyes and smile widened into a permanent state of awe. Chad dreaded getting on the plane and when it did finally lift off into the night sky, he drank a series of rum and cokes and almost became as excited as his companion.

When Ashley finally drifted off while watching a film, Chad closed his eyes and tried to “get inside himself”, a phrase he had always used when he needed to figure out the source of a feeling that lingered like an itch. More specifically, why did the sight of Ashley’s slumped head make him want to stab himself in the eye with a fork?

They had met as most suburban people of their generation did, in a bar. He was struck by her immediately and even impressed himself when he used the rather bloated word, “vivacious” to describe her to his pals. His father, when asking after Ashley, always followed the question with, “That girl lights up a room like a 100-watter!”

She smiled at everyone and everything and had such a natural positive attitude that she didn’t post motivational and inspirational memes like most secretly depressed people do. He liked that. And he needed her energy to shed some light on his flat, grey, miserable soul. But sitting on the plane feeling the rum course through his inactive limbs, he realised he was suffering sunstroke from being with this woman. Where was her darkness or depth of character? Why instead of existential angst on a Sunday afternoon, she was happily folding laundry and making lists of dinners for the week? Why instead of feeling the relentless grind of suburban 9-5 life, she just planned a holiday? Was she the one who had it right and he had his internal perspective all wrong? Had she just been born with the natural gift of mindfulness and the ability to be happy? He realised he hated her.

Tired and overfed on plane food, they stepped into the roaring mugginess of Bangkok. Ashley charmed her way into overpaying 1000 baht on the taxi fare as she chatted with the driver who only understood, “American” and “first time”. 

For the first two days, Chad lived a double life. He let himself be dragged to temples and markets and can be seen smiling in every photo that hasn’t been destroyed from that trip. He fawned over cheap souvenirs and heartily ate every dish placed before him. But inside he was plotting an escape and imagining his new life in a Spartan apartment with a grumpy but loyal Boxer dog. He imagined the pleasure in not having to speak, smile, or muster enthusiasm. He could taste the tanginess of unstructured and unlimited time.

What he didn’t imagine was that Ashley had been having her own fantasies. She had been certain Chad would propose on this romantic, exotic adventure. Every place on her itinerary was a perfect and memorable spot to start the course of a marriage.

So when Chad turned, whispering her name and grasping her hands tightly as they swayed atop the gentle pachyderm, she didn’t catch the wince in his voice. Instead, she giggled and blurted out “Yes of course I’ll marry you!”

And that was the last time he ever saw her smile.