Author: Jason Thornberry

Free Beer

I began keeping a journal of my exploits, December 31, 1989, writing in it compulsively as I sought answers. Music became a bigger part of my life as days passed and my diary, like a map, would show me where I was going by showing where I’d been. New Year’s Eve was also the night that I had my first and my last show with the worst band on the planet at an empty bar in Forest Falls, California.

My father’s eccentric high school buddy Dave asked me and my buddy Art to join his Sixties-rock revival combo. Dave raved about how earth-shattering our principal concert would be—his 25-year high school reunion:

“Lights and smoke machines and tons of people…it’s gonna be incredible!”

The rhythm section of the new band would consist of Art and myself. The heavily bearded Bob would play guitar—Bob was another high school friend of my dad’s. Bob’s daughter Beth would handle keyboards, while our leader and his girlfriend Debbie would take care of the vocals.

It was a curious assortment—Bob being the only one who really knew what he was doing. Art, Beth and I were still beginners. And while we could cheat our way around a song, feeling the nuances like Braille, our singers belonged to the zip code of another dimension. Like a duet during a double root canal, their technique was the embodiment of catastrophe. At best, one could re-imagine a version of Sonny & Cher as devout noise terrorists. At worst, Dave and Debbie inhabited the vocal cords of the damned, drowning each other out in a cascade of lamentations. Sackcloth and ashes was all that kept them from becoming a Monty Python sketch. Me and Art, we couldn’t afford so much as a glance at one another while we played.

Dave named us: Free Beer.

“Wherever you see that name written it’ll cause a stampede,” he boasted, waving on a herd of buffalo. This was precisely the guy my father claimed came up with the word zit when they were young. Why not? I guess I didn’t have anything better to do when I wasn’t sitting in a classroom. Art lived around the corner. And we both needed the practice. Then my father (who’d never sang outside the shower) joined as a third vocalist. Free Beer practiced late into the night, the commotion reverberating between our house and that of Steve-Next-Door. I’ll bet poor Steve was late to work a lot back then.

Practice sessions consisted of Art and myself waiting (at minimum) an hour for the rest of them to turn up. Dave and his girlfriend had a ritual, whereby they would rumble in, talking loudly about nothing. And they wore black leather rocker outfits: shiny rawhide trousers that laced up at the crotch and leather jackets with long tassels. Where in our Podunk sprawl could they have found such gear? At least this way, while our singer was getting gas for his caved-in El Camino in Fontana, passersby could assume that his Jaguar was at the shop in Bel Aire.

Just as we were ready to begin, Dave fired up a joint the size of a Belicoso cigar, bragging as he passed it along to his wife, Cheech & Chong style. They analyzed the philosophy of rock and roll with rasping ‘I’m holding the smoke in’ cadences. The soggy doobie was passed to my father, who sucked at it as the garage was saturated. Art sat next to me, waiting to play. It’s widely known that after William Shatner crooned “Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds,” the planet gave a collective sob. Dave burgled Shatner’s crown with a singing voice not dissimilar to that of a broken saxophone. A lopsided Buster Brown haircut and vibrant armpit stains merely added to his charms.

We rehearsed for more than a month before the man decided that his band was ready to try their second number. And even though he’d chosen a batch of exceptionally easy cover tunes, he wanted them p-e-r-f-e-k-t. The rehearsals dragged on, and a waft of Dave’s left armpit was borne on a gust of wind from the amps as he faced me while we played “Baby It’s You” for the eleventeenth time. Art fell asleep on a stool, cradling his bass, midway through another round. The chorus still drags me right back to that infected garage whenever it comes on the radio.

“I don’t want nobody…nobody! Cuz baby, it’s you…sha-la-la-la-la-la-laaa…”

If those were the days of Don Quixote, our singer might have found himself among the non sancta, with a chain around his neck, led to the galleys by mounted guards for his confession-under-torture vocal style.

In his regular life, Dave was a mechanic. He spent years working for a premier engine builder, Dyno-tuning the engines of Sprint cars and other high-performance vehicles. This involved subjecting himself to an unthinkable deluge of metal-on-metal turmoil and sonic upheaval—for extended periods of time. By the time he told my father about Free Beer, Dave was officially tone-deaf.

What had been intended as a warm-up concert for Free Beer might have been a dress rehearsal for a little known theatrical production, given the amount of people it attracted. But to one man, truth mattered not. Like Elvis during the ‘68 Comeback Special, or Mad Max, our lead vocalist was head to toe in heavy leather S&M gear. We plugged in our amplifiers, the lights went up, and Dave rocked the empty room, tongue at the roof of his mouth, eyes pinched shut, groaning and now wailing like a mongoose in labor, raining down buckets of acrid sweat that clung to everything like spatters of green paint. As the last chord rang out, the tavern was transformed into the locker room that deodorant forgot. And I half expected Dave’s girlfriend to come throw a cape over his shoulders as he knelt at the foot of the stage, basking in applause. But the silence was total. It was louder than us.

I wonder what Samuel Beckett would have made of Diaphoretic Dave. “When body odour and volubility meet,” the author, playwright and poet once noted, “then there is no remedy.” As our lead vocalist possessed both in spades, the only option available to Art and me was to resign poste-haste.


The House Meeting

I rented a room in the home of an Asian elementary school teacher in the suburbs of Alta Loma. Resting on a cul-de-sac, the house that she had once shared with her son and former husband felt weirdly unoccupied with the new tenants in their separate rooms and their separate lives. My new landlady had a habit of saying everything at least twice. A teacher’s mannerism? Fifty or so, May had a head of frizzy hair and an equally frizzy Chihuahua called Foxy, her best friend. They had both been flying kites in thunderstorms. Just down the hall was John, our roommate and the archetype of a future presidential assassin. He was forty and short, with a ponytail, glasses and a handful of Asian ex-wives. But my roomies were never an item as far as I could tell. Perhaps John was too sober for May and May too distracted for John. An ex-military man, he rehearsed the things that he said to others in the upstairs bathroom mirror, articulating without emotion for effect like Dirty Harry.

Not long after my arrival John announced a “House Meeting.” I sat with May at the kitchen/dining room table, while John stood across from us breathing slowly, hands on his hips, with a furrowed brow. This can’t be about me, I thought, I’m never home. The twilight on the other side of the windows above the kitchen sink seemed to fade, and I waited some more, sniffing the air, wondering if I should be nervous that I was living with someone who had spent the previous Saturday watching a back-to-back Sylvester Stallone and Chuck Norris ejaculation of guts and gristle on television. Headed to the front door in the morning, I heard machine guns spraying the living room as the Italian Stallion bellowed and mowed down a swarm of movie extras in black. Coming home that evening from my errands, the battles continued to rage. Though he’d never seen real combat (too young for Vietnam, too old for Iraq) the fires of John’s imagination were stoked by a surplus of war movies on network television, ready for a vicarious voyage through a world in which the underdog in each of us could have a smoldering chunk of glory, a bit of carefully revised history all to ourselves. But where he was once absorbed with the flickering screen, now he simply looked agitated and impotent. Perhaps my troubled roommate was thinking of the right way of asking permission to dress the place up a bit for the next gore-a-thon? A few tiki torches, some heads on sticks and curling black smoke from behind the couch to set the mood? Imported beetles? John took a few breaths as though he was plucking up the nerve to jump out of an airplane with a parachute over Kampuchea. He was getting in character. Then again, he might have been calming the chorus of voices in his head. This must be serious, I thought. In the back of my own mind was a little man with a snare, a roll slowly building. John was slouched over as he carried the weight of what he had to impart. It was crushing, this leviathan truth. As the sustained drum roll faded, he opened his eyes:

Jason isn’t cleaning the bathroom properly.

My failure to scrub around the toilet was a crisis of global proportions. It was worthy of a summit. It was worthy of a moment of silence, like that of a number of films he’d seen where very important people paused to look at very important issues and make tough decisions. Sometimes-painful decisions. Decisions that sooner or later added crease marks between the eyes, but in the end managed to ingrain in one a sense of purpose, a willingness to pursue what was right no matter the cost. Times like this called for men like John. And John wanted me to keep an extra towel as well so he would know I was washing my hands. The others crowding the racks and overlapping one another weren’t sufficient. My roommate was exhausted but pleased to have gotten it off his chest. He could stand up straight now. I pictured him holding up a thumb to the mirror. As the owner of the house, May piped in, looking at my face for an instant. “Yeah, it’s just because hygiene is so important…hygiene.” Her eyes returned to the placemat, “We wanna make sure you’re washing your hands, don’t wanna have any germs. Yeah, hygiene.” John fed off of her energy supply and they carried on, mumbling.

Shirtless Mike

A row of brown trash cans saluted from the sidewalk. Colin picked up his suitcase and put one foot forward, when a truck the color of sour milk appeared, every crease in its enormous frame filled in somehow with compacted crust and flattened filth. A decade of rust. Even the windows were dirty. Widening scuff marks ran up one side of its hull and coagulated reddish fluids dried on their way down the other, a cloud of invisible stink accompanying the garbage truck as it wobbled between parked cars on either side of the street, idling, rolling, reversing. It was an albino cockroach on wheels, a rancid beast exorcising malformed rage through a series of knife-like beeps. A brave soul in guano-colored overalls hung from the back of the beast with the bravado of a bull rider. He studied the pickings from above. First, he pulled one, then another of the trash barrels up and into the back of the vehicle, tipping the contents of the barrel, as the exposed guts of the vehicle churned and processed flotsam to liquefaction. Catching Colin’s eye was a rectangle of imitation wood with a skinny black tail that moments before had leapt from the top of an overstuffed can. Colin’s clock—the one that sat on his dresser—looked just like it. The squeal of the garbage truck and the sight of the clock reminded him of the morning he flew home to Seattle.

His alarm clock had wrenched him from sleep: motionlessness shattered, as the ivy atop his bookshelf pulled its shadows from the wall. Like a goldfish vacuumed from the warmth of its transparent domain, Colin was evicted without ceremony into the day. The alarm, a rheumatized, mechanized, asthmatic parakeet called out in unison with a telephone. And it might have occurred to him the two were competing for his attention, a notion that jamming his toe into the corner of the bed sufficiently discouraged him from investigating. He tried to say something into the telephone before he tripped over his suitcase and landed back into bed.

Colin opened the front door. Dennis stood on the other side, massaging the lenses of his glasses with the hem of a wrinkled blue button-up dress shirt. He said something as he was yawning. Yawning back, Colin retrieved his suitcase and they followed one another down a winding concrete path, past the concrete staircase leading to Shirtless Mike’s apartment. Posies in orange clay pots stood at the corner of every other stair.

Appointed with the task of collecting the rents and keeping track of the tenants, in addition to his old job of watering plants, trimming things and mowing the lawn, Shirtless Mike had lived in this two-storey Spanish-style apartment complex for a few years now, and his graduation from groundskeeper to property manager and groundskeeper, along with the hours he put in at his own landscaping business ensured Mike that he seldom had a day to himself. As a boy, he cared for his sisters from the time he came home from school to whenever his parents—both working two jobs—made it home themselves. He never complained if a neighbor asked how he managed to work so much. And though most were inclined to doubt he harbored any great powers of judgment, Colin admired him. This was despite the fact Shirtless Mike addressed everyone as Bro, and in spite of the fact that the empty truck he drove was bigger than his apartment. In the time that Colin had known Mike, he had seen the short, round man fully clothed on two occasions: in line at the grocery store with a jacket and shorts, a setting in which his tanned pectoral muscles, luxuriant chest hair, and patchwork of blurry tattoos could have spelled disaster for the appetites of anyone bumping carts with him in the aisle where quantities of bologna and other processed meats were kept; and at Easter, when Mike returned from church in a huge white t-shirt that read Got Jesus? in black letters.

Unaccustomed to passengers, Dennis’s library was situated on the floor of his black PT Cruiser; and when Colin attempted to move enough of the books to sit down, he realized how many more were behind him. Instead he lay on top of them without a seat belt, his suitcase in the hatchback, somewhere between Harlan Ellison and the complete works of Balzac.


The Regulars

They sat on the front patio of Charley John’s. They met there every day, discussing their backs and their wives and the minutiae of their lives. One old man had a poodle the color of wet cement. It sat on his lap. The old man who hated dogs sat on the other side of the table, lest this superficially passive beast foam at the mouth or show its jagged yellow teeth. There were stories; the old man who hated dogs heard them all the time. Anyway, he knew the cement colored dog didn’t like him, so the man wore sunglasses—so he wouldn’t have to make any sort of contact with it. His name was Edgar. Seated next to Edgar was a man who always brought the subject of war into their conversations. His name was George. As far as George was concerned, a war parable was as good a lesson as he knew for life’s bigger questions. Your back hurts? He could tell you a good story about swimming to shore after a torpedo strike in the Korean war. George pulled an unconscious captain ashore, and his back never felt the same. He took hot showers—as hot as he could stand—every morning, which helped sometimes. The showers reminded him of a story his son-in-law told him about suicide showers in Vietnam. George had a theory about the Civil War, but Edgar and the man with the poodle were both sick of hearing it. Jim was his name (the man, not the poodle). And seated next to George was Garrett. Garrett swore that the new president was going to take their guns. Soon. Jim didn’t have a gun, and he didn’t care. If Garrett told Jim that Obama was going to take his poodle Charlie away, then he might have been interested. Garrett promised the United States was on a path to socialism. The new president was crafting regulations that were going to make it illegal to believe in God. He heard about it on the radio. This reminded Garrett of a story…


The Penguin’s Office

That enclosed recess next to the staff break room turned out to be a yellow cubicle with an armless yellow chair on wheels crammed as far as it could go under a crowded desk. To the cockroach looking up, or to a parachuting mouse, the teetering piles of files on the desk resembled skyscrapers: towers of information looming and soaring beneath a flickering white sun. A pyramid of paper-clipped paperwork—some of it intended to augment these files—was leaning against another, taller stack. A young man sat there awaiting the arrival of the Penguin. It occurred to him, as he listened to a cheap clock hiccupping on the east wall, that if he were to blow softly the top third of the files would slide forward, detaching themselves, one chasing the other chasing the other chasing the other chasing the other into a wastebasket positioned (probably) for this purpose. He could make out a conversation now from the break room, and he recognized the voices, but he was afraid to call out to them. So, he sat. Realizing how long he’d been sitting, he desperately wished that he had the nerve to leave the Penguin’s office and open his locker. Instead, he looked around for something to read that wasn’t business related. The clock ticked, and he waited, until, abandoning his concern to the dustbin at his feet, he found a yellow notepad and a pen and he began to write.


Rowdy Rob

Racing one another to red lights, the cars swarmed past a big blue mailbox at the corner: the place where one small city became another. As the signal changed at one intersection, a vehicle jumped across. A white sedan waited reluctantly behind, its bumper and front end obscuring the crosswalk. When the light changed, the car lurched around the concrete island that ran up the middle of Westcliff, negotiating a frenzied U-Turn to get to the dentist’s office on the other side.

Rowdy Rob Robertson rarely brought his classic car above the posted speed limit. He was behind the white sedan. Rowdy Rob drove a 1957 Pontiac Super Chief, red and white, with original black and yellow license plates. He made a casual turn into an ‘L’ shaped parking lot, “Surfin’ Bird” by The Trashmen buzzing through the speakers of the portable stereo on the seat beside him as he passed an Italian Deli, gliding into an empty space and letting the engine idle while he looked for something on the dashboard.

It was 4:40pm, his second trip of the day to Charley John’s Coffeehouse. Rowdy Rob lived alone, rising in the afternoons to make his way through the week of mail he hadn’t been bothered to pull from the mailbox, squinting in the light reflecting through his kitchen window, crow’s feet deepening as a cigarette smoldered in the corner of his mouth. Thin lips, a day and a half of stubble, reading glasses someplace else. The bedroom? Nothing more than the usual junk, he rolled the papers into something like a ball and looked for his shorts. Not needing to set an alarm, Rowdy’s bladder woke him; he proceeded toward the diner on 17th and a big plate of scrambled eggs with hot sauce. He took his time getting there, imagining the honking noises were compliments.

The sound of so many drivers anxious to get ahead of and around his own car set the tone for Colin’s mornings. It’s tough not to let it bother you, he told his mother when she asked him about his new life in California. He didn’t enjoy driving. And getting tailgated by monster trucks who lay on their horns—and shouted as they shot past—shortened his daily allowance of exuberance as he pretended to enjoy minimum wage. Colin worked an 11 – 3 shift, clocking out instantly, as he learned to do at the employee meeting, arriving at the coffee shop and getting in line.

Back to the sound and activity around him, he was glad to be pulled, happy to see someone he recognized. Colin nodded, smiling, his head turned toward the door.

Dennis took a seat.

“You just missed Alex,” Colin said.

“He’s in the parking lot.”

“He left half an hour ago.”

“Rowdy got him.”

The baristas called out the names of the drinks, punctuating the background music. Colin said that he woke up this morning and forgot where he was. And then, after realizing he learned that today marked one year since he relocated to Costa Mesa.

In the café, the man who sat near the windows was in his late fifties. The sun had weathered him; his goatee was the only part of his face that wasn’t a shocking pink. A profile view displayed a throat the color of rare steak, as he walked inside from an afternoon on the patio. In the time that Colin had been coming to Charley John’s, he noticed this man, on the periphery, always; and because no one else noticed him, Colin entertained the thought that he was looking at a ghost. Blue jeans were faded, he wore a black leather jacket with scuff marks to show he had broken it in a year or two before Reagan and Gorbachev’s summits. Maybe he’d been a cold war spy who retired to the land of sunshine. Maybe he was still undercover. The weathered spy spent his days reading the newspaper and patting his pockets for cigarettes.

Colin could remember, back home in the week or so that lead to the actual, official start of packing to come—that it was—he convinced his friends, his family and himself—going to be temporary.

The older woman near the window wore her grey-blonde hair in a bun. Her blouse, a cheap-looking discount polyester blend, was dark green with light green leaves and flowers. Her stretch pants were black and the soles of her dark tennis were white. Nearby was a beige crutch cane with a dark brown handle. The newspaper was spread across her table. When the phone in her purse called out (a call she had been waiting for) the older woman answered it in a measured tone, rubbing her eyebrow as she spoke in quiet tones. Her right arm stayed in the pocket of her blouse. After a hushed invective, the woman, in her late sixties, heaved the telephone into her purse like a piece of hot coal.

Colin told Dennis he could have begged his girlfriend to hop on a bus. But he thought he’d have a better chance here. “Her father liked me; he’d give us his blessing. I was looking at trying to find a way of bringing him with us, back to Seattle.”

“Rowdy Rob,” Dennis muttered. It was an acknowledgment as well as an announcement of the suspension of logical conversation.

“You guys goin Saturday?”

The friends stared.

Meanwhile, a clock began to tick, loudly; a proposal of marriage was overheard; a honeybee died; a larvae awakened, a butterfly; sea levels rose; a photograph left in the sun began to fade; a woman wondered what happened to all the grasshoppers she remembered as a little girl; a mining town went bust; North American maps were redrawn; the price of gasoline was raised and lowered; a teen popstar had a mid-life crisis and Rome shed another pope. They continued to stare as an airplane burbled overhead. Neither had any idea what Rowdy—frozen in sunglasses like a figure in a wax museum—was talking about.

“They’re fucking headlining!”

Dennis acknowledged that Rowdy’s favorite local band (of whom he knew nothing) had come a long way, “but we’re,” he aimed a thumb, “we’re both working late…”

Colin mentioned tonsillitis.

“Fuckers are gonna wish you called in for this one,” Rowdy assured them, a slip of paper between his pinkie and forefinger. It was a flyer.

The biggest reason Colin endeavored to occupy himself in Rowdy’s presence was the singular goal to which Mr Rosenberg applied himself: it never failed that the Rowdy One, aware that Colin’s brother played in a semi-successful musical group, would query the possibility of acquiring an opening slot on one of their upcoming tours for his friends. Colin tried explaining; Rowdy still asked, as if it were the only thing that he was authorized to discuss with the young Mr Harris. He haunted the regulars of Charley John’s. Rowdy Rob Robertson’s slouching hobble from the parking lot to the front doors sent people running, shielding their worried faces, hoping not to have given the impression that they were hungry for a one-sided conversation relating to his five beloved topics…

1) The Sex Pistols, and that night at the Starwood in Los Angeles on their first and final US tour. It was 1978, and a turbulent time, in particular for a band who juggled animus, bedlam, and conflict. Their bassist and songwriter quit. Sid Vicious, a kid, not a musician at all, took his place. According to Rowdy Rob, Sid spat blood on the audience during the song ‘Pretty Vacant’, while, in the front row, Rowdy Rob was handing Sid the beer and wine bottles that he smashed over his own head. Rowdy also supplied the lit cigarettes that Sid put out on his tongue while the rest of the band played ‘God Save the Queen’. Next came an onstage argument with the singer: Mr Vicious spat, threw his guitar into the audience and walked off, two fingers in the air. Unfortunately, fans and music historians are aware that this concert never actually took place. Hungry for scandal and publicity, the Pistols manager booked them into a series of rugged saloons in the South for the start of the tour. By the time they reached the West Coast to play what turned out to be their last concert in San Francisco, the band wasn’t speaking to one another.

2) David Bowie (pronounced “Buoy”), and his 1983 appearance at the US Festival. Breezy and tall, in a crème colored suit that complimented his blonde, feathered hair, Bowie sang his classic songs as well as what were to become his latest hits during his first American performance in five years. The crowd, who waited more than an hour for him to appear, roared. Rowdy loved to tell this story, embellishing when something made him realize that the person he was talking to had already heard it. Those in the audience on that May evening shook their heads at Mr Rosenberg, unconscious for the duration of Mr Buoy’s show. The only reasonable guess could be that he had observed the performances by a few of the other artists from one of several beer tents. Bystanders recognized the muffled honking sounds of Mr Robertson, snoring on a towel between numbers by the singer he had waited in the sun all day for.

3) His third favorite topic of discussion was the mysterious 1958 Gibson Les Paul that Rowdy Rob said was a gift from Ron Emory, guitarist for the band TSOL. Rowdy tells all and sundry that he was in charge of security for the band on their 1986 tour. And Mr Emory knighted a kneeling Rowdy Rob with this cherished instrument on the last night of the tour, inviting Rowdy up on stage for calisthenics at the end of the show. This same guitar was stolen from the backseat of Rowdy’s car before he got a chance to show it to anyone, though he had already jammed with Ron and the boys and was being considered as a new member.

4) Old School Orange County Punk Rock: a figurative cultural museum piece, and the position he liked to imagine himself occupying in the curatorial department thereof. What had gotten its start as a collection of local musicians, and the cross-pollination of ideas that became a regional sound when those musicians performed in the same night clubs and at the same college radio stations had the romantic odor of a bygone and regrettably underappreciated musical era. Rowdy longed to belong to the bad boy club. But he couldn’t play a thing. After a few botched attempts putting local concerts together in his high school gymnasium, it appeared as if he had been shunned from any dealings in the community to which he aspired to belong, and…

5) Jimmy & the Pumpboyz, an aggressively rude local blues outfit that was his favorite among these conversational subjects owing, for the most part to the band being populated by a gaggle of third-degree-grizzled Old School Orange County Punk Rockers, all of whom he looked up to, none of whom could remember his name.

“Robert, I’d be happy to call in sick if I didn’t have a landlord,” Dennis responded.

Rowdy Rob hadn’t taken notice of the old men seated under an umbrella out on the patio, and the old timers lowered the volume of their conversation, hoping the Angel of Death might pass with paper cup in hand. Like an old lawnmower engine, the conversation—this time about golf—was tough to keep going when you were shielding your face with your black poodle. The oldest fellow, the one with the poodle in his lap emitted a half-whispered expletive as the Rowdy One raised a thumb at them through the picture window and began to make his way outside.

Rowdy Rob Robertson began conversations as though he were picking up where he had left off: an important discussion suspended minutes ago, with the same level of familiarity that could suggest you had known him for years. The man with the black poodle likened him to the persistent gnats that his wife’s flowers attracted. He buttered the morning toast while she carried a tea cup full of vinegar to the sink, two or three Rowdys floating. The old guys did their best to ignore him. Without anywhere else to go, the crazy fool would place himself among them in the afternoon, hunching forward in his chair, cupping a cigarette, listening to their stories and butting in to insert commentary about things to which not a single one of them could relate.

Today he wore a dark pork pie hat and an olive green t-shirt advertising the virtues of a local drinking establishment, while a pair of black cotton twill shorts covered his shriveled, unused reproductive organs. Short white socks concealed yellow toenails as thick as the passenger windows of his car and black low top Vans sneakers adorned his crooked feet. A pair of Ray Ban sunglasses sat atop his skull, itself decorated with unwashed, uncombed and thinning grey hair. With the sunglasses on, he was a cadaver. With them off, passersby could make out what the decades of drink and tobacco had done to Rowdy Rob’s skin. Though he had just turned fifty, Mr Rosenberg was getting the senior citizen discount at the Omelet Parlor, up the street.

The sunburnt understudy was smoking at far end of the patio.

A lanky young man with a dark beard and a white t-shirt stood beside Dennis: “How did you get rid of him so fast?” he laughed, showing mouthful of straight white teeth, shaking hands across the table with Colin.

Colin told Alex that his shoe was untied, and Alex sat down beside him.

“You know, I said that once to a guy in cowboy boots.”

“Explains the scars,” Colin replied.


Lethe’s Shore

To Lethe’s shore he came with raft in hand, and he stood upon the grey sand, watching the waters as they drug things past—things that rolled over and disappeared. Tumbling mementos. Things like the box of letters; things like the unfinished photo album: things that bobbed and others that sank. Things like the personal check for ten dollars, smuggled, without his knowing, back to Seattle. “For Sex!” it said on the memo line—her name, civilized, in the upper left-hand corner, and his name, a rowdy scrawl in block letters beneath. He found it in the pocket of a folded pair of blue jeans. The check was a single-minded tiny flying carpet, there on the river. It was from the week he spent with her—the trip down before he took the plunge. A week spent in bed. They went outside for fresh air—to a nightclub that let guests smoke on the patio. Her friends came by their table. But no one disturbed them at the apartment. Could the two of them have heard? The mutinous tremor of their own voices that rose from out of the quicksand of her bed: pleading with one another in the aching seconds before. Sleeping to wake and repeat. He remembered something from the photo album: it was a picture of her. She was wearing his red boxer shorts and his white undershirt. Short red-brown hair stuck to her forehead. He wasn’t supposed to show it to anyone. He never got the chance. The rectangular, unendorsed slip of paper slid over a rock and was gone. The photo album was already gone. A tiny box floated by, rotating in the water. Then it sank, a few inches of ribbon sinking behind it.