An excerpt from Deep Below the Ocean

          “Whatcha see?” whispered Kib, the fat, bald headed one. Behind him stood Twiggins, the tall skinny one.

          “It’s some boat.” Surrounded by the fog, a boat floated in the current’s haunting rhythm.

“Easy now mates—” warned Kib. “Keep still.”

“Where’d it come from?” asked Twiggins.

          “Shhh—”       

“Hello there!” Thorton called across the water. “Anyone about? Hello!”                        

“Quiet—” barked Kib. “It might be a Dearthen boat.”

There was no answer.

All was silent, save for the sound of hollow waves knocking against all sides of the vessels and echoing off the swells. It seemed just an instant before the strange boat brushed the edge of their ship with its rotten, cracked body. Their wide eyes stretched over the wall and searched for a noise to creep.

But there was nothing.

Thorton climbed up on the side of the ship, jumped over the water, and splattered onto the shaky deck of the other boat. He fell with a crash onto its wood and nearly broke through the boards.

“What ya doin?” yelled Kib.

Thorton picked himself up.

          “Get back over here!”

Thorton kept silent and looked around.

          “Whatcha see?” whispered Twiggins.

A blanket of fog covered the quarters of both vessels, and nothing but the gray mass floating before them could be seen. The two men stood against the side, waiting for an answer while the faint figure of their shipmate disappeared past the curtain of clouds.

“Get back here! Thort, do ya hear—”

 “Nothin!” Thorton’s voice finally called back. “There ain’t a soul aboard this ol thing.”

The two men looked at each other and shrugged with a gram of belief, but it was just enough for them to leap over and join him.

When they reached the deck, they quietly called out to Thorton. Even in the company the two gave each other, they feared the loneliness of the boat more than their irrational mate did.

Morning light had begun to break through the fog, revealing the emptiness and age of the vessel. There was not a single useful item atop the deck or hanging on the walls. No furniture, equipment, or food of any kind.

There was no noise beneath its deck. There were no delicate creaks or whisperings of rats in the decaying wood. All was quiet. Yet the men did not feel alone. They quietly crept through the boat as if some ghost waited just around the corners.

The three men climbed down a small flight of stairs and found a tiny cabin with a single bed in the corner. The room lay dark and empty with the smell of old dirt drifting in the air. Thorton was right. There was not a soul on board.

Beside the bed was an old desk nailed to the floor, and on top of a pile of dirty rags lay a timeworn, leather-bound book. Kib picked it up and carelessly flipped through the frayed pages. Thorton crept over to the desk and seeing the book, snatched it from his hands.

“What’s this?” he wondered aloud as he looked through the pages. After a pause, he noticed that there was a date on each corner. “Looks like some journal.”

Twiggins crept down a hall towards a door that led into another small room. Kib walked to the other corner of the cabin and found a small, rusty box on the floor. Thorton kept flipping through the book.

“Lot of writin—like some man wrote everything he did out here.”

Kib picked up the rusty box and brushed a thin layer of dirt off the lid.

“Reckon he didn’t catch much of anything if he had all that time to write, eh?”

“Wonder where he went?”

          “Wonder where he kept his whiskey?” asked Kib with a chuckle, but was quickly hushed by a sharp yell down the hall.

Twiggins was screaming as if he had seen a ghost.

Thorton dropped the book and rushed toward the noise to find Twiggins doubled over, gagging. Not a minute later, all three were sickly pale nearly vomiting outside the doorway of the small room. Crumpled under a sink in the room was the rotten carcass of a monkey, and the foul aroma of decayed flesh steamed through the doorway and seemed to stain their very skin and trousers.

“Where’d that come from?” cried Kib.

“What is this place?” asked Twiggins between coughs.

          “Not sure if I wanna know,” said Kib. His eyes searched the dark room.

          “Let’s get outta here,” whispered Twiggins, as if he were afraid to wake the monkey.

Rushing from a room of that sort injected a fear into the men; the fear one may feel when walking down a dark street with the suspicion of being followed. Thorton stumbled up the steps behind the other two when suddenly he remembered something. He jolted down to the desk beside the bed and rummaged through the rags. He felt something under his right foot. The brown cover of the book stuck out from under his foot. He quickly grabbed it and ran to the stairs. The three men spilled onto the deck, flooded in a jungle of fog.

They climbed onto the boat’s rugged wall and jumped back onto their vessel. Twiggins turned and faced the small, deserted boat. He nearly felt sorry for it, much like he would for a small, lost child in the middle of a city street. He noticed the brown scraps hanging from the mast; the remains of the sails.

They anchored just a few feet from the strange boat. More fog lifted, as far up as the portholes, creating a heavy haze between the door handles and the tops of the doorways. The sailors were given no choice but obey the weather’s hideous warning to stay put. If another boat like they had found was out in the water, no map or compass would warn them of it, and they could sail straight into it.

_________          

“Foggiest day I’ve ever seen,” mumbled Kib. He sat beside Twiggins at the dim kitchen table, stirring his cold gravy.

“Better for swimmin I say,” said Twiggins.

          “No wind, no light. We could be stuck out here for weeks and we’re already runnin late.” Kib lifted a bottle of whiskey to his mouth and took a gulp.

The voyage had been extended already from windless days and Twiggins’ daily joy swims. Their home, Craton, the southern most part of the world, was at war with Dearth. Famine had spread through each land. The three men were the only remaining members of their crew. Dozens of their shipmates had been taken by the bloodshed, leaving the three alone in the miles of water. They were the only ones left to fulfill the last mission. They were to sail to the country of Lihingwuy and give the King census records in hopes that Craton could send some of the refugees to that land. Their travels had become longer than planned, and the battles they had survived did not leave them with the rations to go on much longer.

 Thorton sat across from the other two, hands tucked in his coat pockets and staring at a spot on the table. Twiggins scarfed down his bowl of gravy and reached for the kettle.      

“And then we pour the gravy on the biscuits like so—” he lifted the kettle and poured the gravy.

          “Ration it—ya ol pig,” muttered Kib.

          Twiggins giggled like only a tall, skinny man can. “You can’t say nothin. Ya know every pint of this gravy ya stuff in yer mouth stops up that noggin of yers. That’s why yer always cravin women folk—ya can’t tell yer brain to stop thinkin about em.” Twiggins lifted his mug and poured a large gulp of whiskey down his throat, then leaned up in Kib’s round face and growled like a dog. “Woof!” 

“And ya can betcha my girlies back home ain’t stoppin me from makin this gravy, Mr. Twiggs,” Kib half chuckled, then guzzled down more whiskey.

          “Oh, is that right now? Well, pass over that kettle and give me a pint—or ten!”

          “I see ya got one pair of trousers ‘til the next sunny day? Well don’t be comin my way tomorrow mornin, whether ya wear yer stank or if yer naked, cause I ain’t gonna want to smell ya nor see ya!”

          “Ha! Even if I gulp down every drop of that magic gravy?”

“Ain’t no lady, if the devil was a woman, gonna wanna smell ya come tomorrow. Go head, swim in this gravy!” They threw their heads back to gulp down the rest of their drinks and then laughed like drunks too late for saving.

Thorton sat with a lazy smile on his face, entertained by the two misfits.

          “I’ll throw ya both on that boat and take the gravy for myself,” he said with a chuckle, “after you, Twiggs, have raised them sails.”

          The three knew that food rations were low, but lightened the mood with their drinking and jokes. Kib finally finished his cold breakfast and climbed up to the deck to fish. Twiggins followed.

          “O gimme a nibble and I’ll give ya a fight—,” sang Twiggins as he stood beside Kib against the deck’s wall. “Come little fishies and bring us a bite—‘Cause nobody’s watchin and nobody’s waitin— I’m just a sailor that’s rattin and ravin! Ha-ha!”

          “Quit ya singin. Ya scarin the fish.”

          “You just wished ya could sing like me.”

          “Ah, right.” 

“It don’t matter anyway. There ain’t a fish for miles. That’s what Thort told me. The water’s dead, ain’t a shrub down there. All the fish take up northwest.”

“Yeah, right where we should be headin.”

          “Ain’t there some islands just before Lihingwuy?”

          “That’s what they say.”

          “How far’s that?”

          “Ten kilos—which’ll turn into a few weeks with this fog.”

          “We ain’t gonna sail in this—”

“Not today—tomorrow.”

“We ain’t gonna see a thing—”

“—Don’t matter. Ain’t much food down there, and we’re already behind schedule.”

“Well, I’m sure it ain’t gonna stay long. We’ll ration all right. No worries, Kib. We’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, if it comes down to it, we’ll just eat yer legs.”

_______________

The wind disappeared and the evening sky filled with clouds, the moonlight barely breaking through the fog. The three sailors spent most of the night in different parts of the ship, each at the usual spot they tended every evening. Twiggins lay below the sails, watching the dark mass of fog whisk across the faint blue moonlight. Kib, beside the anchor at the back of the ship, smoked a handful of cigars as he dreamed of women and whiskey. The anchor lay against the ocean floor as the waves gently tossed the ship next to the strange boat. Down below, Thorton lay in his bed holding the brown, leather book.

Not all was as dark and foggy as the world above him.  The room glowed from the spark of a candle sitting on the nightstand beside his bed. He lay staring at the book. It fit perfectly into his palms with his fingers stretched comfortably across it. Its worn cover stared back into his eyes with a power and mystery that came from every letter sketched inside. The smell of struggle—pain—joy drenched from front to back. Thorton felt as if he held all the adventure and tragedy that only a lifetime and more could contain. He opened the cover and traced his finger across the top right corner of the first page. Scribbled and smeared in faded ink were the words Day 1. His eyes scanned the first entry. 

          My little boat has truly taken me out to sea. All the houses and rooftops have turned into specks. There’s nothing now but miles of water. My family hated the goodbyes, as did I, but we all knew what must be done. I will tell of my trip in these pages, and try my best to share my thoughts as best a sailor can. My wife thinks best that I am good with words, but I would warn it’s not true. No man can take on his trade and be well with writings. You, my little book, will perhaps be my only friend on this journey, and will be great use to me during the long, quiet nights.

          I am from one of the last remaining villages in Dearth, Pier. Famine has struck our land, as it has the nearby towns. The war with Craton has reached its sixth season and in no way has showed signs of slowing down. I have willingly left my home to seek the only thing that can possibly save us, a loot of treasure at the bottom of the sea. All my people know that beyond the third island northeast of our shores, just before Lihingwuy, lays a chest filled with gold. With it, we can get all the food and medicine we need. I will return to bring it back, and to kiss my wife and children. I miss them already and it has only been a few hours. I can find this gold and save the town, and I will, even if no one but my family believes I will return. I will not die without it. Something tells me that not even death can stop me.

          Thorton fixed his eyes at the wrinkled page, pacing over the scribbled words. Dearth? He’s from Dearth, he thought. For several moments he stared at the faded ink, his fingers shaking faintly. This man is the enemy. He looked around the dark room. No one was there. No one was watching. I should keep readin. But his hands continued to tremble, hesitant to turn the page. But he may come back and he’ll come lookin for it. Ignoring his fears, he turned the leaf slowly and his eyes studied the words. The words and thoughts scribbled by the hand of an enemy.

          He read on.

Day 4

Today was beautiful. The winds were fast and smooth, taking my boat far out into the ocean. The fish must have been as hungry as I. They didn’t think twice before biting into my hooks. I am proud of those hooks, made them back home. Timothy watched as I sharpened and smoothed out their edges. He always hid behind my left leg, scared I would cut myself. Lydia and Leena never really cared much for fishing. They’re like their mother, always working with their hands, making beautiful quilts and baskets. The talent and grace in those beautiful fingers. I can’t wait to hold them again. It seems this has been the longest I’ve ever gone without seeing them, just a few days. It was her, my bride, who gave me this book. She told me to write the things I see. A good man knows to listen to his wife. It will save his world from all sorts of tragedy.  

Thorton carefully closed the loose cover. The tattered pages barely clung to the spine and felt as if they could crumble at any moment. He lay staring at the ceiling with the book on his stomach. Who is this man? Just some fisherman from the enemy land? He saw the man’s boat in his mind. And why is he gone? And why’d he leave his diary? He got up and ran to the deck. He looked across the water and saw the boat still floating quietly amongst the fog. He cupped his hands over his mouth and yelled, “Hello? Anybody over there? Hello!”

He waited—listening.

“Can anyone hear me? Hello!”

          “Thorton!” Kib smacked him on the back of the head. “Ya tryin to wake up every shark in the ocean? Shut up now and go to bed!”

          “I think there’s a man over there. He may’ve been—”

          “What’re ya talkin about? There ain’t nobody over there. Ya saw for yerself—we all saw—”

Twiggins scampered up behind Thorton, rubbing his eyes and yawning. “What’s goin on? What’s all the noise about?”

“I read that book—” Thorton ignored Twiggins.

          “What?”

          “The book—the one ya found on the boat.”

          “What’re ya talkin about?” 

          “Somebody wrote in that book and they gotta be somewhere over there.”

          “Ya take that thing? There ain’t no one over there. We looked—we all looked. You said so yerself.”

          “But some man wrote in—”

          “—But he ain’t here now. So please, go to bed.”

          “Yeah, there ain’t no use,” yawned Twiggins. “Let’s get some sleep.”

          Thorton kept his eyes fixed on the boat as the other two climbed under the deck and into their beds. Twiggins curled into a ball and quickly fell asleep, snoring with his whiskey-stained mouth wide open. Kib lay on his stomach and flew back to his dreams of women and whiskey.     

After a moment, Thorton climbed down to the cabin and tucked the fragile book under his pillow. He lay in his bed, staring into the tiny glow of the candlewick, surrounded by darkness. A minute passed. His eyes closed and he fell asleep. But his ears were awake and listening, still waiting for the enemy to answer his call.

The Last Night On Earth

The sirens stopped. 
            She sat alone on her living room floor, holding her breath and waiting in the silence. The doorbell rang. She jumped, startled by the bell, and looked toward the door and saw the silhouette of a man through the glass. She looked away and closed her eyes. It rang again. She hesitated, then slowly stood and tiptoed to the door.

“Who’s there?”

“Julie! Let me in!” said the man standing outside.

She opened the door and the man barged inside.

“Richard?” gasped Julie. “What are doing here? Why aren’t you at your apartment?”

“Julie, I heard the sirens going off and I had to make sure you were alright.” The man

was out of breath.

Julie looked at him with a confused expression on her face.

“Well,” said Richard. “Are you alright?”

Julie laughed. “Of course I’m alright. I was just doing what they told me to—sit quiet and calm. I was just—wait, why are you here? Richard, everyone’s supposed to stay inside their own house when the sirens go off.”

“I know, Julie, I know. But I had no choice.”

“What do you mean you—?”

“I lied. I didn’t come over just to make sure you were okay. When I heard those alarms going off I just knew I had to come over here. I came here because I have to ask you something and, well, this is my last chance.”

“Okay, what is it?”

“Julie Whitmore, will you marry me?”

“What?”

“Will you marry me?”

“Of course I won’t.”

“But I love you Julie. I love you more than anything. I’ve loved you since the moment I saw you. Oh, please marry me!”

“How could you ask me such a question on a night like this? It’s the end of the world

and you want me to marry you?”

            “Just say you will. It’s a perfect night to be married.”

            “It’s a horrible night to be married. Why would I—”

“Think about it, Julie. We could get married right here this very minute. You won’t have to plan the silly wedding or spend bundles of money on a reception and we won’t have to bother with invitations or putting up with our horrible relatives. We won’t have to deal with any of that nonsense. There simply won’t be enough time for it. It’s a marvelous idea. We could marry right now and commit to each other for the rest of this night and make passionate love with all its pleasures and sensual bliss and—”

“Richard! How dare you! How could you say such things? You don’t want to marry me. You only want to sleep with me. You’ve never been with a woman your whole life and now you’re taking this last chance to get me to sleep with you!”

“No, Julie, no! I want to sleep with you because I love you. I really do. You must believe me.”

“Well, I don’t believe you.”

“It’s the end of the world and now is the time to marry if you’re ever going to.”

“I’ve told you a thousand times before, Richard, I could never live with a man as mad as you. You’re always working late at night, interrupting people when they talk, and you’re always combing your hair. And besides, I don’t even love you. So how could I possibly live with you? Now, please go before I—”

            “But that’s what’s so wonderful! You don’t have to live with me. There is no tomorrow or any length of life ahead of us at all. We will simply marry for this night and indulge in the pleasures of sensual ecstasy and be done. The sirens went off, Julie, and tonight is all we got left.”

            “But what is the point of marrying if—”

            “Oh, Julie, please don’t think too hard about this.”

            “But it’s just one night. Love is forever. If there were a million days left would you still marry me?”

“Well, I suppose. Oh, of course I would, but I know you do not feel the same and that’s why I’ve come here this night.”

“Oh, stop it Richard! All you care about is sleeping with me because you’ve never been with a woman. You’re a grown man and still a virgin and you would feel ashamed and at a loss to have died and not known a woman. Well, I’m not falling for it—”

“You’re right, I’ve never loved a woman, but I’m sure I’d be very good at it. I’m a very good looking man. All the girls at work think so.”

“So that’s why you work so late.”

“Well, wouldn’t you?”

“You are a handsome man, Richard, I won’t deny that, but I will not marry you because of your looks and I would never marry you just to be married for one night.”

            “You’re afraid of love, aren’t you?”

            “What?”

“You’re afraid of marriage?”

“I am not!”

“Then you must be afraid of love for one cannot be without the other. If you have one then you must have the other.”

“That’s not true. Love is not just about being married, nor is being married just about love. It’s not just a legal agreement to be signed on the dotted line. You don’t have to be married to me to love me, Richard.”

“What?

“You don’t have to be married to me to love me.”

“I can love you with about being married to you?”

“Of course you can. Can’t you just love me from the sidewalk or from the doorway there?”

            “Well, I suppose I could. But I want to be with you, Julie. I want to enjoy all the physical pleasures that love has to offer. I want to feel them, Julie. Before the world is over I want to feel it!”

            “Ha! See! You just want to sleep with me! You just want to fulfill your desires. You don’t really love me.”

“But I do! I feel it all over my body.”

“But love is not a feeling. Just because love may arouse the senses or come with many physical pleasures doesn’t mean—”

            “Oh, Julie, see, you believe it is a pleasure as well. Love is a wonderful, joyous indulgence! And I have never felt the heights of what a love so strong can bring to the body. It can weaken the bones and tingle the flesh and change the world! Love can change the world, dear Julie! Let me taste your beauty fully and partake in the delicious aroma of your touch and relish in your exuberant exposed body that no other man has touched or seen or experienced—”

            “Oh, now stop it Richard, you are nearly making me blush. You speak so boldly and forcefully that it is hard for a woman as fragile and delicate as I to bear it all.”

            “Julie, my love, do not waste this night. Let us exchange our vows. This is our last chance. Take down your fear and release your desires on this glorious night.”

            “Richard, you are very good with words. Your speech shines like a sun into my soul and no woman could ever refuse such a beautiful confession of love. But if I was to give you my affection you must promise me your love is true. I would never give just anyone my last night and certainly would never give away my chastity to just any man. You must prove yourself.”

            “Anything, Julie, I’d do anything to assure you my love is real. I’d cross canyons a million miles wide. I’d climb every timber and mountain of rock. I’d stop the world from spinning just to hold you. I would count all the grain of sands to have you just this night.”

            “Oh, Richard, your way with words moves me and I am fighting to resist your hand. There is not much more I can take of your flattering expressions.”

            “Then take no more and give me your love. Let us embrace each other long into this final night! Marry me Julie! Marry me!”

            “But do you love me, Richard? Do you really love me?”

            “I love you with everything in me and more, but I cannot fully love you until I have you and have you completely. I do not know the potential my love for you can bring and I must know your touch.”

            “Would I be such a fool to give up such a request and leave this world and life not knowing what this passion could have brought?”

“Never!”

“Could I say no to such a man that expresses such fearless devotion he is so willingly ready to release?”

“You are no such fool, Julie. Marry me now and let us die in the peace that we surrendered everything for the bliss of love! Embrace me and take me in your darling bosom and let us be lost in our sensual slumbers. Will you marry me?”

“I will! I will marry you, Richard, and I will love you this night and give you all that I have. I will embrace you with all my inner strengths and desires.”

            “Let us pamper in this ecstasy and let it burn and shine!”

“Richard, your flattery has taken me over! I love you! I do, I do! How did I not know it before? How could I have not seen it? Hold me, Richard! Hold me tight and never let me go!”

“Wait! First, we must exchange our vows and promise one another that we’ll never betray our love. Say it, Julie. Say you love me and will never stop.”

“I love you and I will never stop.”

Richard reached in his pocket and pulled out a paper and pen.

“Now, just sign your name here on this line,” Richard pointed to the paper.

“What is it?”

“It is our marriage contract, the declaration of our love, Julie.”

Julie took the pen and gracefully whipped her signature along the dotted line.

“There, now we are married forever! Now, our love is strong and without limit.”

“Julie, I commit the rest of this night to you. Until my eyes close and my body forever falls into rest, I will never stop loving you.”

“And I the same, Richard! I will love you until the world ends!”

“And I the same, Julie! I will love you until the world ends!”

The two embraced one another with all their strength. Their arms clenched tight around their backs and their love consumed and burned around them filling every space in the house.

The doorbell rang.

Their arms loosened and slowly fell limp to their sides. They turned to face the door. They saw the silhouette of a man through the glass. Richard and Julie looked at one another then back at the door.

It rang again.

“Who could that be?” Julie asked as she walked toward the door and turned the knob.

She swung the door open and found a short, bald man wearing a uniform and standing on the steps.

“Can I help you?” Julie asked.

“Good news, good news!” said the man. “False alarm! They hit the sirens too early. We got another sixty years or more to go! Isn’t that great?”

Mint Simons

            “There are only two kinds of people in this world,” says the old man sitting at the bar. “Those who don’t know a thing but pretend they do—”

The old man sits across the way with a glass in his left hand and a purple neon light glowing above him—“and then there’s people who don’t know a thing at all but don’t even know it.”

I sit at the corner of the bar. My head hangs toward the wooden counter covered in a dozen years of stains and scratches, and for the past ten minutes I’ve been hiding small, quick glances between the scratches and the old man. I think he caught me a few minutes ago. I naturally jerked my head the opposite way as if I didn’t notice him. I hate that. If someone catches me looking at them I try playing off innocent by doing the exact thing I shouldn’t. I make it more obvious than if I had just casually moved my head to the side and looked at the waitress or the neon signs on the brick wall or the ugly woman in the green dress across the way.

The old man at the bar wears a black suit with one of those thin black ties that detectives wear in the movies. He’s also wearing a pair of shiny Mint Simons dress shoes. I always wanted a pair of Mint Simons. There was this old man named Tom Delmarler who always came into my father’s shop wearing a pair of Mint Simons. He would come in to check on his nudie magazines we were selling for him and I always knew it was him because his shoes made a tapping noise on the tile floor. It sounded like he glued two pennies to the bottoms. Old Tom Delmarler fell off his balcony one night last year and died. My cousin told me his wife pushed him off for selling those nudie magazines.

The old man at the bar has a skinny neck between two bony shoulders. The neon lights put all kinds of shadows on his square face making it look as sharp as a razor blade. He talks as if the whole town is listening. In my mind I can see old Mr. Perry, the lawyer who used to live on Chesterwoods Court, waking up from all the noise. I see him coming out of his three story townhouse with his fancy red robe flying above his legs as he runs down the lane. He comes bursting through the doors and takes the old man by the collar and strangles him to death. “I’m trying to sleep you moron!” Mr. Perry screams. Old Mr. Perry was my father’s lawyer. He’s the one who divorced my parents. Mr. Perry died in his sleep a few months ago. My cousin said it was just a cover up story. He said he really died from some new disease they call “Propaganda.” It was a shocker for all of us. I’m sure he had a pair of Mint Simons. He was rich.

“Don’t you know what I mean?” the old man at the bar says to me. I look up slowly, pretending like I hadn’t noticed him sitting there. “People don’t know a thing. They really don’t. They talk all day about money and who cleans their teeth and who won the horse race and this and that. Then they’ll all nod their heads up and down as if they care. They go on about the musicals and plays they go to every night with their whores and they always stand around in hotel lobbies with their wrinkled old fingers in their pockets playing with their coins.”

I’ve always wondered why old guys in suits constantly have their hands in their pockets.

The old man at the bar keeps talking. “And the whole time they’re looking around trying to remember which woman they want to sleep with or if their hair’s still in the same place they combed it. Then they’ll start staring down at people’s shoes. They’re always looking at people’s shoes and seeing if they’re shiny or not. Don’t you know what I mean?” The old man is talking really loud.

Then in my mind I see old Jim Reynolds, that mean banker who married four times. He had an affair with his neighbor’s wife and Mr. Perry’s second wife and Mr. Perry’s maid. I see him in my mind running into the bar with his hair all tangled and greasy from his queer hair product. Then I see him throw a bottle of beer over the old man’s head. “I’m trying to sleep you old bum!” Old Jim Reynolds went to school with my father. One night my father saw him beating up two black boys in the courtyard. My father showed him a thing or two that night. Old Jim Reynolds got caught counterfeiting money in San Paulo two years ago. They found him dead in his cell a week later. My cousin told me they found a spoon in his intestines. He must’ve bled to death or something. I’m pretty sure he had Mint Simons too.

The old man at the bar starts talking again. “Shoes are supposed to be dirty.”

I look back down at the cracks in the counter. Then my eyes shift down to his shiny shoes.

“What’s a man going to do with clean shoes when he’s all sick in bed?” says the old man. “What’s he going to do with a gold watch when time runs out?” He looks at his gold watch and stands up.

The Mint Simons make a tapping noise when they hit the floor. It’s the same sound I would hear when old Tom Delmarler walked in. I peek down at them and they reflect the light of all the neon signs.

Then a man across the room shouts to the old man at the bar.

“Hey pal!”

I keep staring down at the Mint Simons.

“Hey pal!”

The entire room is quiet now. I ignore the shouting man hoping he’ll stop and leave the old man alone. I don’t feel like seeing a fight.

“Hey, kid!”

I turn around and the shouting man is looking at me. “Tell your old man to go home!” he says.

The old man at the bar spins around and looks hard at the shouting man. The two stare at each other for what seems like an hour. I look around the room and see a dozen frozen faces and big white eyes watching the two men. In the distance I hear the faint buzzing of the neon signs hanging on the brick walls.

In my mind I can see old Mr. Sangerly who used to sell houses on Lexington Avenue.  He comes walking into the bar and pushes the old man down, kicking him in the head and the face and stomach. Then old Mr. Sangerly starts throwing bottles and glasses at the shouting man. The glass cuts him so much you can’t even recognize him. Mr. Sangerly rented my father a little office off 2^nd Street. He kicked him out a month later because some old man said he’d pay more. Mr. Sangerly died when he was just thirty-nine. My cousin said he stabbed himself in the temple with an ink pen.

The old man sits back down and spins around to the bar. He faces the bartender and pushes his empty glass to him. “Fill her up,” he says. The bartender grabs a bottle and fills the glass.

I scan the room and see that everybody has gone back to their drinking and gossiping. The really ugly woman in the dark green dress is sitting on the shouting man’s lap. Her face is all covered in make-up. I hate it when girls wear make-up. They look like clowns. She is kissing him and rubbing her hands all through his hair. I hate it.

The old man at the bar looks at me and says, “I ain’t your old man.”

I am quiet for a few seconds.

“You know that don’t you?” he says. “Don’t listen to that fool.”

My eyes search the counter and find a long crack in the wood. They follow the crack until it stops near the edge of the bar.

“Did you hear me?” the old mans says.

I look over at the old man and open my mouth. 

“I heard you,” I say. “But I don’t know what you mean. You left my mother about twenty years ago.”

“Who told you that? I never had a wife. I never had anything.”

“You had money,” I say. “Just like those old guys wearing suits in hotel lobbies.”

            I look at him for a second. I hang my head toward the scratches on the bar. Then I look over to his shoes.

            “Where’d you get your shoes?” I ask.

            “I made them.”

“What do you mean you made them?”

“I make shoes. That’s what I do.”

            “You make Mint Simons?”

“For six years. Always wondered why they sell.”

“What’re you doing here all by yourself? Don’t you have any friends?”

            “I used to but they all got rich and dumb.”

            “And what about you? You look rich.”

            “There are two kinds of people in this world, kid. But you ain’t my kid, got it? There are those who don’t know a thing but pretend they do. Kinda like you. Then there are people who don’t know anything at all but don’t even know it. Like that idiot over there.” He points to the man who had been shouting. “I saw him down at the old Westcott docks last week unloading these boats full of all kinds of useless junk. Queer hair products and beard trimmers and nail polish remover. He was cussing at these boys walking by. They were the boss’ boys. He got fired on the spot. He saw me down there ‘cause I had some leather coming in I was picking up. Sometimes you just got to keep your mouth shut. You don’t know when stuff like that’s going to happen.”

            He stops talking and it is quiet for a few minutes. I try to listen for the buzzing of the neon signs over the laughing and talking and the sound of pool balls but it’s too loud.  

“So which group do you fall under?” I ask.

            “Both. I’m done pretending,” the old man says.

            “That doesn’t make any sense,” I say.

            “Don’t let the suits and ties fool you. Their skin tears as easy as yours.”

He throws a few coins on the counter and stands up.

“And never talk like you know what’s going to happen,” he says. “That’s when life will prove you wrong.”

I nod.

“But don’t let not knowing get you down,” he says. “You got at least another sixty years on you. I got another twenty or so to go. There’s a lot more I’ll be doing than making shoes. We both got time to work on it still.”

I nod again. I watch him walk towards the door. His shiny Mint Simons make their tapping noise against the floor. I can hear their sweet noise over the laughing and talking and pool balls. I watch each step against the wood and see his feet disappear out the door.

I stand up and push my stool under the bar. I put my fingers in my pockets and play with the coins. I pull out a few and drop them on the bar. I nod to the bartender and he nods back. I look over and see the ugly woman still playing with the man’s greasy hair. The woman is really ugly. I walk over to them and they look up at me.

“Don’t talk like you know a thing,” I say.

“What are talking about, kid?” the man says.

“Don’t talk like you know what’s going to happen. That’s when life will prove you wrong.”

The man and ugly woman just look at me in silence.

I turn around and walk toward the door. I hear a sound of screeching tires coming from the street. Then there’s a thud and a crash. Suddenly, a young boy charges through the front door. He stands in the dim space with all the cigarette smoke and neon signs glowing around him.

“Somebody help!” he screams in panic. He points toward the street outside, his chest pulsating up and down. The whole place is quiet and the ugly woman’s hands are clutching the man’s greasy hair.

“Somebody help!” the young boy screams again.

I dash out the bar and see a large circle of people standing in the middle of the street. I push my way through the mob, moving my head side to side, trying to peek around the shoulders. As I squeeze between the bodies I hear them mumbling softly and see them pointing at something on the ground. I fix my eyes on the pointing fingers and try to catch a glimpse at what they are pointing at. I find two short ladies at the front of the crowd and look over their heads. I see a small black car sitting in the middle of the street. I look down. Two legs are sticking out from under the car. Limp against the black asphalt are two Mint Simons.

The End