Fried Chicken
Fried chicken. She didn’t know why she’d been thinking about fried chicken, but she had been for the past three days and now it was becoming almost an obsession. It wasn’t as if she had any specific desire for it and she certainly didn’t have any desire to cook it, but the two words remained stuck in her brain. Over and over they repeated themselves like a mantra that becomes a fixation.
Thursday passed and then Friday and now it was Sunday and she wondered if it were somehow connected to some story or television show she’d seen where there was a Sunday-after-church dinner. She wondered about those. Were there really families who gathered every Sunday afternoon as a family and had dinner together?
It was a nice thought. One that she couldn’t quite imagine having grown up in Manhattan, the daughter of two neuro-surgeons who were either constantly in the hospital doing some surgery or in their office seeing patients. One person they rarely saw was Stephanie.
As usual she was alone in the eleven room penthouse apartment on 5th Avenue overlooking Central Park. Stephanie wandered around aimlessly. Everyone was gone for the day. Her parents were doing rounds at the hospital and even the maid had the day off. Stephanie wondered if she went to church and then to a Sunday-after-church dinner before she came back to 5th Avenue? And did she have fried chicken for dinner? Had she mentioned it and that’s how it became stuck in Stephanie’s head? Stephanie didn’t remember even talking with Jenny, their maid, about it. So why the fixation on fried chicken?
Stephanie went to the kitchen, looked in the refrigerator as if compelled to see what it contained. Nothing very interesting. And she wasn’t even hungry – Jenny had made her a big breakfast before she left and it was now only two o’clock, not even hungry enough for a quick sandwich and certainly not a full dinner which, she suspected, would be in about an hour in those fantasy homes. How did people eat dinner so early? And didn’t they get hungry again? What did they eat then? The whole process seemed so completely out of her realm of experience that it was just a part of stories she’d heard and read.
“Okay. This is ridiculous,” she said aloud. “I will not be ruled by some fixation on fried chicken or fantasy about Sunday-after-church dinner. I’m seventeen years old. I can fend for myself and eat what I want when I want to eat it!”
With that said she picked up the book she’d left on the end table a couple of weeks before and settled down to read. Three minutes later she was up and wandering around again. Another three minutes and she was back in the chair. That repeated itself about five times before she slammed down the book and announced – “That’s it!”
She went to her computer to look up the location of the nearest Kentucky Fried Chicken.
The End
6/11/19
www.brucelevine.com
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B07485W4Q1
Love at First Sight
We met online. His profile picture really showed off his beautiful eyes. I don’t usually like to make the first move, but with this guy, I just couldn’t resist. I picked up my phone and nervously dialed the number. Would he still be available? I figured a cute guy like this would already be taken.
A friendly voice answered the phone, and I asked if we could meet in person. He was available that very night for a visit, so I quickly agreed and grabbed my keys and purse. I didn’t even take time to put on lipstick.
When I got there, another woman was already with him. I felt a pang. Was I too late? Were they connecting? I peered through the window to try and assess the situation. She seemed friendly enough, but did she want a long term relationship like I did? As she got up to leave, I quickly turned away and pretended to look at a picture on the wall. I didn’t want her to know that I was interested in the same guy, but as soon she left the room, I went it and took her place across from the beautiful brown eyed boy.
As I sat down, the puppy came right over and put his wet nose on my knee. I picked him up and he snuggled down into my lap. His black fur was so soft, and his liquid brown eyes looked right into my soul. It was love at first sight, and I knew he would be mine.
“I Know You”
It’s slow, even for a Tuesday. The rain slicks sidewalks, streets, doorways, every corner of Olympia. The homeless shelter where they can, under bridges, in the parking lot behind the abandoned industrial park, protected by flimsy tarps, donated tents, anything that isn’t soaked or flooded. People scurry past the picture window, heads down, hands in pockets. No one carries an umbrella. Northwesterners can’t be bothered.
At the end of the bar George Thomas sits solidly on his favorite stool, watching the ballgame on the screen mounted to the wall. The volume on the television is off. The players stand poised, then move suddenly in response to the pitch, soundlessly, as if in a dream. At a four-top near the door the Banners hunch over their frothy mugs. They’re newlyweds, regulars, uneasy in each other’s company. Serenity asks if they need anything else, and the wife, Lisa, looks at her with pain in her eyes as her husband says they’re fine.
The Banners are a stellar example of why people shouldn’t marry. Once that ring goes on, it becomes a chain, Fidel says, which is why he and Serenity have lived together for twenty-six months with a clear understanding that no knot will be tied. He watches the game; Serenity polishes glasses that she’s removed from the dishwasher. The hard water leaves spots. She’s added that special liquid that’s designed to take care of them and never does. She’s told Fidel about it several times. He tells her the glassware is her department.
He’s a good bartender. He hasn’t been stumped by an order in a long time. The book he keeps under the counter was his father’s, who worked in one of the big hotels up in Seattle before he shot himself in the head. Fidel doesn’t talk about it, but Serenity knows Fidel’s mother made the man miserable. She wanted things he couldn’t give her, and in time, his sense of guilt lead him to pull the trigger.
Serenity’s tired. She works too hard. She cooks, cleans, manages their money, when they have any. They’re usually broke. The rent on the bar takes a huge chunk. Business has been bad for months. Last year, when her mother died, Fidel closed the place for two days. He said it was the right thing to do, but the lost revenue added to her grief.
The Banners go on their way. George Thomas has another beer. The baseball game continues. At the bottom of the seventh, three young women come through the door, shrieking, laughing, running their hands through their soaking hair. They’re dressed up, high heels, stockings, lots of jewelry. Maybe they’re students, but Serenity doesn’t think so. Students at the local college shun fashion, feminine trappings, no glitz and glam for them. Maybe they’re down from Seattle, though there’s much more to do up there.
They take a table. Fidel is out from behind the bar before Serenity can get there. He offers to hang up their coats. The blonde on the right give hers to him without a word; the brunette says the back of the chair is fine for her; the blonde on the left hands over her leather jacket with a smile the size of the Ritz.
Serenity thinks of her own hair, which is half blonde, half black. The die job is working its way down, her God-given raven shade replacing what came from a bottle. Fidel doesn’t like her with light hair. She doesn’t look like herself, he says. Because Fidel is handsome, he wants other people to be attractive, too. It bothers him when they’re not, especially women. He won’t have any trouble with the three at the table. It’s clear they know they’re good-looking. It’s almost as if they’re competing for who will win the pageant.
Left Blondie’s a shoe-in. Her sweater is tight, her breasts ample, her neck long and slim. The crucifix dangling from a thin gold chain only adds to the allure. Fidel is a lapsed Catholic, and used to tell tales of what Catholic girls are really like.
He takes their drink order, and scurries back to the bar. He’s amped, almost nervous, and splashes soda water down the front of his denim shirt. Serenity goes over to the table, and asks the girls for ID. They stare at her. She asks again. Wallets are exhumed, licenses slid out and handed over. Right Blondie is Cheryl, age twenty-two. Brunette is Megan, age twenty-four, and Left Blondie is Jill, age twenty-three. Serenity reads Jill’s last name.
“I know you,” she says. Jill stares at her sullenly, the brilliant smile gone.
“I don’t think so.”
“Your family lives on Division.”
“Who are you?”
“Nobody you’d know. But I knew your older sister, Lacey.”
Jill holds out her hand for her license. Serenity returns it, and the others, too.
Fidel appears, drinks on a tray, which he deposits with a flourish. The women laugh. Serenity doesn’t. Back at the bar, she says that’s Lacey Sandhurst’s baby sister over there.
“Who?”
“You remember. You worked on her car.”
“Oh, yeah. ’67 Mustang. Lived down the road. Saw me tinkering with my Chevy. Asked if I could help.” He wipes down the bar, leans into it hard.
“Uh, huh.”
“You never met her, did you?”
“I thought I ought to, you talked about her so much.”
“Just about the car.”
Lacey showed up at her door one night when Fidel was out with a friend, looking at a truck he wanted to buy. She played it cool, and asked if she could come in because their power’s out and she needed to use the phone. The square shape in the front pocket of her blue jeans looked a lot like a cell phone to Serenity. She let her in anyway. Lacey asked if Fidel were home. Serenity said no, he’d be back in a while. Lacey said to tell him she needed to talk to him, and he knew what it was about. Serenity said she’d be sure he got the message.
She never told him about the visit. They’d be watching TV, and his cell would buzz in his pocket. He’d look at the screen, and go into the other room to take the call. He’d say it was his friend with another truck he might look at, or wanting to borrow some tools. Once he said it was the bank calling back about the loan he’d applied for. It was after eight in the evening. Serenity said that banker was dedicated as hell. Not long after, the Mustang and Lacey were gone. The phone calls stopped. The loan fell through, he said, but Serenity has set up online access to their accounts. The loan came in and went to Lacey. Five thousand dollars. Just like that.
Serenity figures it was to get rid of a baby, not to have and raise it. Kids cost a lot more than five grand. She hopes she was wrong, because she doesn’t like the idea. People have a right to be born, don’t they? And to be happy? The Declaration of Independence even says so. And as for the liberty it also guarantees, boy, does Fidel take that one to heart.
Now here’s Jill, who looks so much like Lacey it’s driving Fidel nuts. Serenity bets he recognized her the minute she came through the door. Did she pick their bar because she knew Fidel worked there? That seems like a stretch. But Fidel is a man women go out of their way for.
Her mother warned her. “He’s got a roving eye,” she’d say. After she got sick, the comments were harsher. “All charm and no personality.” Her mother never got to know him, not the way Serenity knew him. And what she knows is that he loves her truly, but can’t stay true.
Women leave men like that for less. Women stay with them if there are children or money on the table, neither of which Serenity has.
George Thomas says it’s time to pack it in. He pays his tab, and meanders across the room in a slight zig-zag. He stops by the table where the women sit. He bids them a lovely evening, and makes for the door.
“God’s sure crying tonight,” he calls back over his shoulder. No one answers. He leaves.
At the bar, Fidel tells Serenity he has an idea. Something to boost revenue, bring people in, even on bad nights like this.
“Ladies Night,” he says. “You know, half-priced drinks for women.”
“It’s sexist.”
“So? If they come, the guys will, too.”
“Call it something else.”
“Like what?”
“’Ovary ovation.’”
“Get out.”
“’Unsung uteruses.”
“What’s wrong with you? I think it’s a great idea.”
“I don’t suppose that table had anything to do with it?”
“What, them? No. I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”
The three women order another round. Half an hour later, they want a third. They’re visibly tipsy. Jill has her eye on Fidel. She’s flushed. The ball game concludes. Looks like the Astros won. Fidel tells Serenity the ladies are too drunk to drive, and he’s going to call them a cab.
When he goes to the table to make his offer, they all groan, protest, giggle, and flirt. Jill says maybe he’s right, but she’s got her car a block over. She hands him they key. They all live near each other. He can drop her off last. One of her brothers can drive him home. Fidel confirms where she lives, and says he can walk, it’s only about a quarter mile. She says it’s raining. He says he doesn’t mind getting wet.
“You look like the cat who got the cream,” Serenity says when Fidel fills her in.
“Can you close up on your own?”
“I’ve done it before.”
He leans in for a quick kiss. She gives him her cheek.
“I won’t be late,” he says.
“Bet you will.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I know you.”
He doesn’t hear. He gets his jacket on, runs Jill’s credit card for the tab, hands it back, and helps them into their coats. They walk out, and head up the sidewalk, four across, arm-in-arm. Serenity stands at the door, watching them go. She turns the sign on the door from Open to Closed, and flips the latch. Before she lowers the blinds on the window she looks up at the sky, where the rain has stopped, the clouds have moved on, and a riot of stars are thrown in an ordered chaos, like wishes that will never come true.
La Nuit d’Ennui
The sun did not shine.
It was too cold to write
so I went to the bar
on that wet, dreary night.
I had me a beer
then another or two;
I was fatally bored.
I had nothing to do.
But then the door opened.
Some people came in.
They were singing and laughing,
revved up by the wind.
That’s when I saw him,
his hat large and loose.
He came straight to my table,
my pal, Dr. Suess.
He sat and he smiled.
He chuckled and grinned.
He pinched my cheeks madly
and said, “Let’s begin!”
He ordered Sam Adams
and green eggs and ham.
He talked about writing
and said, “Here’s my plan!
“I’ll write about flub-jubs
and hespery-gogs
with slithery ponkles
and starry-tailed dogs.
Tiny French bongtruffles!
Salted McGees!
Hand-colored grackles,
and goo-birds with cheese...”
Seuss got so excited
he jumped to his feet,
spat out his beer foam
and whistled, “Tweeeeet tweeeet!”
That beer must be strong;
it went right to his head.
He frisbee’d the green eggs.
It filled me with dread.
He hopped on the table
and tapped out a dance.
I had a bad feeling;
he winked me a glance.
“Don’t worry,” he said,
hopping down to the floor.
“We’ll not get kicked out
of that fine wooden door.
“For I can repair this!
It’s magic! You’ll see.
I brought some Things with me,
Things One, Two, and Three.”
They sprang from his hat.
Then, with twinkling eyes,
Dr. Suess sat back down
as the barkeep came by.
“You clean up this mess!
You clean it up now!
Or I’ll call the cops!
This is just not allowed.”
So Thing One swept the floor
and Thing Two did the dishes.
Thing Three licked up green eggs,
said, “These are delicious!”
They dried all the glasses
and put them away.
They wiped every table
and called it a day.
The barkeep was happy;
his place was so clean!
So very much cleaner
than he’d ever seen.
He offered to hire them,
Things One, Two, and Three.
My pal, Dr. Suess said,
“Hey! What about ME?”
“You should stick to your writing.
Your act is not funny.
Keep on writing stories,
come back when it’s sunny.”
Suess counted his dough.
He looked pretty rough.
He paid, he was ploughed,
he’d had more than enough.
He put on his hat
and finished his beer.
Pushed in his chair
and said, “I’m outta here.”
Some fish are red fish.
Some fish are blue.
Dr. Suess made them all up.
I wish they were true.
I drank my warm beer
and stood up on my feet
and shuffled on home,
back to Mulberry Street.
Mommy dearest...
My mother pinned me against the wall and screamed at me, her face inches away from mine.
“He’ll never marry you. He just wants to sleep with you, thats why he proposed.” she yelled and specks of spit flew at me.
As far as I could remember, my mother had always had anger issues. We lived in Mumbai, India in an apartment and my mother was notorious amongst our neighbors for that reason. My father, sister and I walked on egg shells around her and she was like a ticking time bomb who could go off any minute and say things no mother should ever say to her children.
“You look like a whore. Which corner will you stand on tonight? What’s your rate?” she said to me when at age seventeen I wore a short skirt to school.
“You should just kill youself now.” she said to my sister when she didn’t do well in college and came home sobbing.
She even grumbled at my paternal grandmother, who lived with us, as she attempted to tidy our living room with her eighty year old hands.
Of course, I know now that my mother’s anger was just the tip of the iceberg. My mother’s parents had never cared for her either. Her issues probably stemmed from the lack of love and belonging that was imprinted on her childhood. And she had managed to imprint our childhoods with hate and violence as well. My mother’s anger issues had gone unchecked.
As she pinned me against the wall, I decided in that moment I wasn’t a girl anymore. I was a thirty two year old woman who had picked a man of her choice to marry and my mother was not happy with that decision, becuase he wasn’t Indian. But also because he didn’t make a six figure salary. I decided in that moment to fight back.
So I back yelled at her, “Do you think I care about that? You think I am a virgin. Well guess what, I am a whore. He isn’t the only guy I have been with. I have spread my legs and accepted many men inside me.”
I was shaking with fury as my mother’s hold loosened. She stepped away, aghast at the obscenities crawling out of my mouth. I continued to shriek for what seemed like hours. I emptied my bucket of hate on her and drenched her in dark, gooey filth. And for the first time ever, mommy dearest backed off and was crying in a corner. I laughed at her helplessness; that part of me she could not control. In that moment, I saw the defeat in her eyes and I knew she could never catch me again.
I was free.
I was free.