No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
I scan around the room, seeking Nina but finding other familiar faces instead. Doug and Klaus, everyone’s favorite couple. I say that sarcastically, of course. People are so jealous of happiness these days. Myself included. They’re practically making love on the dance floor. I try to support the bold act; cannon fodder for the revenge of Oren and the like who would see Locust shut down. The young lovers don’t care. Why should they have to?
Especially when you said “This one isn’t me. It’s something I’ve never done before.”
Jack finished the draft, said so long to Michael and left. Instead of going back to Long Island City, he walked south on Franklin Street. From there he went to Kent Ave into Williamsburg where he was glad to see the sidewalks were busier. A typical Friday night was underway. Near typical, he corrected himself. People continued to live life even after a crash the likes of which hadn’t been seen in a hundred years.
The four of us stood under the automatic porch light. Kandy cradled Elena while I held a sleeping Daniel. "I expect the bad witch to come out at any moment," said Kandy, as I pressed the doorbell. I looked at the inn’s outer wall of dark overlapping half round shingles and had to agree.
When the door finally opened it was not a witch, but an old, old man who gazed out at us. Yet somehow he brought the freshness of a mountain lake with him. His right cheek bulged as though he constantly chewed tobacco. He wore a green tweed suit coat, red vest, white shirt and dark trousers. It was eleven pm in the summer, twenty-three degrees and we were all in shorts and tee-shirts.
“Charlie Suskind is a prideful man who hates losing,” George said. “He’s only lost this tournament once. He fired one of the guys who beat him and made life a living hell for the other until he quit. Our jobs are on the line. Got it?”
“Dad, what are you doing?”
He ignored her and continued writing. His right hand moved in a flurry, a stubby yellow pencil gripped tightly in his fingers. He mumbled something to himself, paused for a moment, then scribbled again. He appeared to be transcribing the contents of one notebook into another. Both notebooks were filled with his own handwriting.