Roach Hotel

In Cam Trotter's garage, little black and brown creatures scatter every time the light is turned on. It is like an explosion radiating from the center of the cement floor that ripples into every dark, dank nook. There the six-footed disease carriers wait. Cam has wondered for a long time why they are there. He's never seen them inside the house, but there they are in the garage every time he turns on the light. There is no food available other than the odd pizza box, but even that seldom happens anymore in his attempt to rid himself of the vermin. Garbage is double-bagged and put outside whenever possible. He'd prefer raccoons to the roaches. But they come back. Even after poison traps, sticky pads, and fumigation. Over time, Cam begins to believe that super roaches have commandeered his garage, mutant insects with immunity to poison and hunger.

Every Time I Call

Every time I call, you say the same thing. You say that we are done. I need to stop call, you plead. But how can I when all I can think of is you. It is the first thought I have in the morning when I wake. When I open my eyes, for just a second, I imagine you are still next to me. Then I blink, and you are gone.

After I take my shower, I think I smell your perfume in the bathroom. In the steam, I can see your outline floating, wavering.

The phone rings and I fool myself into thinking that it might be you and I am disappointed when it is not. So I call you back and your voice is an oasis to the desert of my existence. Just you saying hello is worth it. But you tell my not to call again, and I will try to honor your request, until the next time I can't bear it anymore.

Visit from the Three Military Men

She knew why they were here before they rang the doorbell. She could see it on their faces. They marched, three of them side by side, in military dress.

They rang the doorbell, but she refused to answer it, as if the truth would go away if she didn't have to hear it. They knocked and wouldn't leave.

She cracked open the door.

"What do you want?"

"Mrs. McGreer, may we come in?" one of them said after he took off his cap.

"No, you may not."

"It's about your son, ma'am."

"I know. I don't want to hear about it."

"Ma'am..."

"Get out of my house!" she screamed.

The men in uniform were taken back by this outburst. They were prepared for emotional reactions but they usually came after they delivered the news.

"Please leave," she said.

"We'll come back at a better time then, ma'am."

She watched them leave, winding slowly away on the walkway. She felt her balance give way, and leaned on the wall, slinked down to the floor into a puddle.

Gone

When she left, they hardly noticed her. She was fifteen, invisible. Everyone at school went about their business and no one suspected anything amiss until the police showed up and asked about Ellen. They wanted to know who her friends were, but she had none. No one knew where she went to after school. No one had ever seen her parents, not even during teacher conferences. They found her body two weeks later. They held a moment of silence at the school and then everyone forgot her again.

Gratuity

My father had the habit of never tipping any money. Not that he didn't tip at all, it was just never in currency. He claimed that money was too impersonal, that the valet would appreciate a hot cup of coffee more than a few wrinkled bills. I still maintain that it was because he was cheap. But whether or not he was cheap, the man was creative.

He left coupons on the table one time after we ate a restaurant. They were for discounted meals at a rival chain. He gave his barber a bar of chocolate each time he went in for a trim. A free slice of pizza went to the delivery guys. He even tipped when it was generally acceptable not to. He gave apples to dentists, random grocery items to checkout clerks. He'd use anything he found around the house: spare calendars, extra clothes, long forgotten vacation souvenirs.

This Show Will Change Your Life

"That's not gonna work," Fran said and resumed her scrutiny of the programming budget. She looked down in an obvious way just to clue in Donald that the conversation was over, but she could still sense his presence. Still facing down at her desk, she peered at him over her glasses.

"Is that all, Donald?"

The man seated in front of her trembled with excitement.

"How could it NOT work?" he exclaimed. He got up and started gesticulating wildly as he repeated the description of his show concept, bouncing around the room like a hamster hopped up on adrenaline. "It's got drama! It's got comedy! It's got--"

Fran held up a hand and thought about her words before she spoke in a measured voice. "Your show, Donald, involves filming random people just going about their daily business being slapped or punched by contestants on your show. It is--as you say--Candid Camera meets The Price is Right meets Fight Club. Are they supposed to win something, your contestants?"

"Yes! Money! See they spin this first wheel right, which lands on a dollar value, say $500. Then they spin another wheel that lands on a person type, anywhere from a baby boy to an old woman. Then they spin a third wheel that lands on the dare that they have to complete to win the money. This could be anything from kissing the person, patting their head, or kicking them in the shin! Nothing is off limits. And we film it! They have five minutes to find the right type of person and perform the selected challenge. Then the studio audience and the audience at home get to vote on whether or not the action was satifactorily performed. If it was, they get the dollar prize. At the end, the contestant with the largest amount on money amassed wins!"

"Let's put aside all the obvious issues like the PR problem with having a show that promotes violence on unsuspecting citizens, or asking audience members to vote on it, or the lawsuits that would start rolling in. What happens if for some crazy reason, you get a contestant with a conscience with refuses to trip an old man or throw a water balloon at a baby? The show is sunk."

Donald smiled broadly. "I thought of that," he said, tapping the side of his head. "If anyone refuses, they are allowed to forfeit that turn, but the other contestants are allowed to steal the challenge. If there is more than one willing opponent willing to do it, then we go into a trivia round, and the winner gets to do it. Then whoever gets to attempt the challenge can win double the original cash value!"

"So, what you're saying is that not only does the show ask contestants to inflict physical harm on others for money, but it also actively discourages normal decent human behavior?"

"In a way..."

Fran adjusted her glasses and clucked her tongue.

"I'll talk to the others," she said.

Thumbing

People had always said that Harry Kringle was too kind for his own good. That was what the hitchhiker thought as well when Harry stopped and picked him up. He thought here was a sucker. But when he pulled a knife, Harry pulled a gun. You see, Harry Kringle may have been kind, but he wasn't no sucker.

Homecoming

During Private First Class Katie Stapleton's first day back from her tour, she was trapped in a bank during a robbery. In one swift movement, she deftly retrieved a guard's gun, and shot both gunmen in quick succession. In the ensuing congratulating and glad-handing, no one noticed her hands shaking when she was alone.

Jackpot

Edna looked down at the lottery ticket and then at the boy who gave it to her.

"Bye, Hal," she said the customer who was leaving and then returned her attention to the ticket.

She looked at the boy.

"What do we have here, Greg Samson? Hmm?"

The boy looked down at his shoes, arms at his back, swayed side to side.

"A lottery ticket, ma'am."

"I can see that. You're a little too young to be having one though, aren't you?"

"It's my mum's."

"Is it now?" Edna examined the ticket. Small flecks of correction fluid covered some of the original numbers and new ones were written on in neat block writing. Holding it to the light, she could see the covered numbers.

"Not bad, Greg. But you know when I scan this into the machine, the numbers still have to match, right?"

She squinted at the ticket, didn't hear an answer.

"Greg?" she said, but he was gone.

In The Blink of an Eye

After it happened, when people asked him about it, Freddie Jacobs would tell them that he couldn't remember the details, that it happened so fast. But the story of those ninety or so seconds was clear in the minds of bystanders on the street that day. It was rush hour at a busy intersection and pedestrians were walking to work en masse, a moving wall of bodies with a modicum of personal space for each individual.

The intersection was known to be a problem to the many that encountered it on their daily routes. The walk signals changed too quickly and when they did, pedestrians rushed to the safety of the sidewalk like a pack of frightened deer before the impatient drivers sped through four lanes wide. The mad dash was especially critical for the ones who were using the diagonal crosswalk.

The intersection was a nuisance for its frequent travelers, but a manageable one. For its infrequent visitors, it is a new experience when they are coralled into the wave of people and ushered and pushed across to the other side. On the day in question, one of these newcomers, a young woman, Kelly Dwyer, was squeezed out of the flood of flesh that rushed to the curb. When the lights changed, she stood dazed and alone in the middle of the street, a fleet of cars converging on her like a stampede of steel beasts.

The red lights became green for the cars, evoking an instinctual acceleration response in the drivers. Removed from direct physical contact in their vehicles, they became a mob, honking and swerving to avoid Kelly. Her tentative attempts to cross were repeatedly repelled by cars that would narrowly miss her. A crowd of onlookers gasped at each close encounter.

Witnesses said that a man, later identified as Freddie Jacobs, broke free from the crowd and raced into the street, nimbly dodging cars like a real-life version of Frogger. He reached the young woman and urged her to follow him, but she was cemented in place, too scared to move. Kelly would later say that she did not remember when the man came to her. She was facing away from the oncoming traffic, afraid to watch. Freddie recalled that it felt like she was looking straight through.

Seconds afterwards, everyone heard the loud urgent horn blasts of a braking car that was barreling towards the man and woman. It was at this point in time that Freddie said lost account of the details. Witnesses said that with mere moments to react, he wrapped his arms around her, and spun around so that his back was facing the car. When it struck, Freddie absorbed most of the impact. It hit him around the back of the knees and lifted both him and Kelly up into the air. His back rode up on the hood and when the car finally stopped with a shudder, they were thrown forward. He somehow braced the fall with one arm with the other one still wrapped around Kelly to prevent himself from landing on top of her and they rolled several yards before coming to a stop.

Kelly said that she had her eyes closed the whole time and when she opened them, he was propped up in a pushup position above her asking her if she was okay in between gasps for breath. Before she could respond, he passed out on top of her.

Ride-A-Long

"Where to, pal?" the cabbie asked after I got in. He was old, round, and had a worn face weathered by a fair share of fights. He didn't look very friendly, but at the same time, seemed like someone you could talk to.

"LaGuardia," I said.

"Coming or going?" he asked as he pulled away from the curb.

"Going."

"Not much luggage," he remarked. He looked at me off the rearview mirror.

"Just a quick trip. Business."

"Mind if I ask where?"

"San Diego."

"Could be worse places to go, even if it was just for business," he said with an easy laugh.

He caught me staring at him fiddling with the GPS.

"I didn't know you used these now," I said.

"Hell, I just like watching that cartoon car move on the big map. I don't need it. I know this city like the back of my hand. I used to be a cop. I know every inch of this town."

"I'm retired," he added, as if anticipating my question. "I just do this to get out of the house."

He pointed to a McDonald's that looked like a three-story toy store. "See that there?"

"Yeah."

"Used to be one level and a bodega. Guy sold stolen electronics from his backroom."

Midnight to Nowhere

A splash of black. Five figures emerged from the darkness, encircled Sarah, who was sleeping quietly in her bed, in her room. They converged on her slowly breathing body, each shape entering her turning her a deeper shade of gray until there was nothing but a shadow. And then they were gone, both her and the specters.

Beginnings and Ends

Denny looked around his room, the same room he'd been living out of for years, and saw something he never saw before: failure. He didn't live a horrible existence. No, but it was wasted. He made good money, but spent it on nothing. The last time he'd been on a vacation was years ago. He was not a workaholic, relished his free time, but had nothing to show for it.

Five years, he'd been there. At first, it was a compromise. He would live and work there because a man needs to make money. Graduate school wasn't for him. God knows he had enough of classroom stress for four years already. Kindergarten, grade school, junior high, and high school were easy, a walk in the park, but college was different. He couldn't skate by and still ace everything. He took on a difficult major and to his surprise, it was difficult. He also found he had no love for it, but by then it was--or at least it seemed to be--too late.

When he graduated, he got one job offer and it wasn't a bad one. If he accepted it, he would move five hundred miles away from home to a new state. It was either than or stay home and try to find another job. But it would mean becoming a burden on his mother and that didn't sit right with him when he had a job offer staring him in the face.

So, he took that job, and five years later he was still there even though the his deadline for finding new employment expired 2 years earlier. It was this sense of temporary permanence that kept him in limbo. He rented a room in a house when he could afford better. He let broken down boxes and other items accumulate, with the notion that he would need them all soon when he moved. He built very little personal connections because who needed them when you were only there short term? Who needed roots?

Five years later, he looked around at his room and saw it unchanged from when he came. He took account of his life and saw it unchanged except for a larger bank account. The things that mattered didn't change. There was no one in his life. He'd gotten used to it, having just a few friends, going home every couple of months, watching old friendships back home weakening. He was a ship with no anchor, or rather a ship that refused to set anchor because it felt it would leave port at any moment. But there is no plan, no new destination. In truth, when he looked closely at himself, a bitter reality emerged. He was lonely. He had gone through the motions for too long and he now feared it was too late to get back on track.

In elementary school, teachers asked them what they wanted to be when they grew up. No one really had any clue, not really, but they had a general time line. In Denny's time line, he should have already been engaged, or at least in a serious relationship. He should have been in a job he loved, or at least cared about. He would not be spending most of his free time home alone doing nothing even though he claimed that was what he wanted. If someone asked him now what he wanted to do when he grew up, he would stare at them and not know what to say. If someone told his young grade school self what he's become, the younger version of himself might come up to him and smack him on the head and tell him to snap out of it, that he was ruining his life.

Denny looked around his room and these thoughts swirled in his head, trying to coalesce into some original solution. But he could see none. He had to look for it. He packed up some things, loaded the car, and drove. With no destination.

The Dead Girl

"John!" he cried and pulled his partner's arm back mid-swing. "That's enough!"

John looked back at him, a crazed look in his eye. "He doesn't deserve any better," he said, spittle forming at the edge of his mouth. John threw another punch at the suspect sitting on the old wooden chair in the dank basement. He felt his knuckles crunch. It hurt but it didn't stop him.

Heaving and sighing, John propped up the man who was nearing unconsciousness.

"Where is the girl?" he asked.

The suspect smiled, blood flowing.

John smacked the grin off his face.

"Where is she?"

"She's gone," the man said, cackling, spitting up red.

John pulled his gun and pressed it against the man's head. His partner reached for him, but he was too late.

My Inheritance

"What am I supposed to do with a hot dog cart?" I said.

The lawyer shrugged.

"I don't know," he said. "That's just what it says."

"And money?"

"There are stipulations regarding money and property, but as now, your father has only left you the cart."

"What am I going to do with it?" I asked, probably to myself. "Can I sell it?"

"It's yours to do with."

"The man was rich. What did he do with a hot dog cart?!"

The lawyer closed his folder of files, had decided the meeting was over.

"I'll have Jenny work out the specifics with you."

Take-out

"I'll be back in fifteen minutes," I said to Jenny.

When I got back from picking up the Chinese, I walked to the front door, and it opened when I pushed my key into the lock. I knew I had locked the door. I was sure of it. Jenny was sitting on the living room sofa before I had left, but she was nowhere to be seen now.

I set the food on the table.

"Jenny?" I called. There was no answer.

I walked upstairs, turned on more lights.

"Jenny?" Again, there was no answer.

My heart began to race, beating out of my chest.

The Lam

We had just taken the Silver City Railroad Company for a million worth in gold. We relieved it from their new transcontinental rail line, which they were using to move some assets to their new ventures in California. There were six of us, and between all of us, it was just about as much as the horses could carry. At night, we eyed each other carefully. We had been together for some time, but a million dollars changes people. I doubt many of us slept those nights.

Sweet Caroline

At Caroline's Confection Shop, there are brownies, cookies, madelines, sweets galore. Sweet-tooths gather from all over to her little shop for her daily wares. For as little as seventy fives cents, they can walk away with a smile on their face, satiated.

Early Warning System

Everday, Jeffrey knows how his mother's mood is faring just by hearing the sounds of her entering the house. At around six to seven, she arrives. If the door opens and closes with a quiet gasp, it has been a good day. No one bugged her at work. The commute was not too long. If it sounds like the door is battling the frame trying to shut itself, it probably has been a bad day. Someone at work might have over-burdened her with tasks. Maybe she had to sit next to a sweaty, stinky man for her one hour train ride. Maybe she spilled coffee on herself.

Jeffrey hears the door close with a thump. Then a set of keys clatters onto a table and a purse is hurled at a sofa. He comes into the room tentatively.

"Hi mom." He offers her a mug of steaming chocolate with marshmallows. "Want some?"

She sit down and takes a long sip.

"How was your day?" he asks.

"Better now," she says with a sigh.

Charge!

I see that you are tired, men. I can see it. I am tired as well. Yes, they have sharp blades and quick arrows. We have swords that have rarely seen battle. We have knives. We have clubs. They are soldiers and we are farmers, bakers, butchers, teachers. But we have something they do not. They are but a few hundred. We are ten thousand strong. They shivering in the cold. Our bodies and hearts are warm because we know our fight is just. We are on the side of the righteous.

Hulk Smash!

Henry had it up to here, if here meant unfathomably incredibly angry. They were forcing him on another trip. He had just been back from another trip and here they were trying to screw him into another one. Everyone else in the office was ten years more senior than he was, and no one wanted to travel, so it was up to him. They would smile when they came by his desk. They would tell him about the new opportunity. New places to discover, new people to meet.

He could quit, but a new job would take forever to find. When he got home, he yelled at the dog, threw the mail across the room, and broke his hand when he sent his fist through the wall. The next day, he went into work with a cast and told them he'd be out for the next week, trip be damned.

Mango

The first time Jenny had a mango, she was six. It was a strange fragrant orange and red oval, its smell emanating, a preamble to the impending flavor. When it was peeled and she bit into it, it was heaven in a bite. Bits of mango and mango juice dribbled down her chin. She ate voraciously and with gusto. When she got to the seed, she sucked on it for an hour until it was a husk.

My One Hundred Million Dollar Breakfast

Cassie's Coffee Shop was a frequent stop for me for a number of years. I would stop by for a donut and coffee in the morning, sometimes for a piece of Cassie's apple pie. One morning, before my daily commute, I found myself inside Cassie's for my coffee and cruller. Then I found myself without my wallet. As a regular customer, they said I could pay them later, but I didn't like leaving without paying. I rummaged through my pockets and found a lottery ticket, a weekly ritual that has paid no dividends. I gave them the ticket, though they good-naturedly refused. Now I get my morning breakfast somewhere else. Cassie closed after hitting the jackpot.

Party Down

I walked through the mob of gyrating party-goers on the dance floor. They wore almost nothing and what they did wear was thin and nearly see through. I squeezed past them, slick with sweat and smelling of musk. I might have impregnated five women in the process.

Mutiny on the Icebox (Revised)

"We're going east! I've had enough of this! We're going east!"

I blink the sleep from my eyes. The sea spray has formed a thin layer of dried salt on my sunburned face and it crackles uncomfortably. The blazing sun momentarily blinds me and I have to shut my eyes again.

"East! East! East!" The voice flirts with madness.

I open my eyes and see a bearded man standing over me and pointing a shaking finger. For a moment, my scrambled mind thinks that we have been boarded by pirates, but the man has no eye patch, no parrot on his shoulder, and no blunderbuss at his side. It is only Tim.

"Calm down," I say.

"East! We have to go east!"

Our fishing boat was overturned in a storm and the only seaworthy vessel left in the wreckage was the icebox. It smells of fish and is just big enough enough for two people with a little legroom to spare. After Tim and I recovered from the freezing waters and returned some of the icebox's existing occupants to the sea, we decided that the best plan of action was to steer towards a buoy we saw in the distance. Tim remembered our boat passing it and since we were traveling east at the time, we surmised that we were going west. In the daytime, we were able to guide ourselves by the sun's position, but we didn't know how to read the stars at night, even as they shined so brightly.

"East!" He is still pointing at me.

Tim is normally very mild-mannered, but a week and a half stranded at sea can do things to a man, and I fear his mind has gone for a temporary sabbatical. The raw fish might not have helped either. I prop myself up, causing the icebox to shift. The water in our rain collectors sloshes around and Tim falls into a sitting position.

"East," he says, but with less conviction, his voice less excited.

"What is it, Tim?"

"We've been going west for days and we've seen nothing. Nothing. We need to change direction."

"Who knows where we are," I say. "We could be anywhere. We could have circled all the way back around during the night. Even if we're sure we've been going west, going east would just mean backtracking for a week and a half. Let's just wait, hope that the search and rescue crew will find us."

"We should go east," says Tim stubbornly.

"Fine," I say with a sigh. A week and a half stranded at sea can test friendships and I would rather placate him than hear him go on anymore.

The sun is still baking us straight overhead as he searches our panoramic view of the horizon.

"Which way is east?" he asks.

I go back to sleep, wondering how far Tim would have to slip into dementia before it was morally acceptable for me to throw him overboard.

Dinner Plans

"So what time are we eating tonight?"

"Huh?"

"I just thought you'd at least buy me dinner before you'd screw me over."

My Uncle, The Superhero

Uncle Marcus was a constant in my life, a bigger brother who was decades older than I was. My mom tells me it was like having two kids in the house when he came over. For about a week when I was a child, I believed he was a superhero. He told me he had the power to burn things just by touching them. All he had to do was think it. I was skeptical, but when he rubbed his hands together and then placed them on my forehead, I felt myself warm up. He said that it was just a demonstration. If he thought about it any harder, he'd turn me into a cinder. Later on, when I discovered I could do it too, he claimed that the power must have passed onto me. He said grandpa had it too and it must have skipped my dad. I was on top of the world, a kid with a super power. It wasn't until I went through a whole loaf of bread without being able to turn one slice into toast that I realized I was tricked.

Lions, Oh My!

In Chinatown in January, it is cold, but there is electricity in the air. The parade has begun. A group of young kung fu students march in procession down the the closed off route. Thousands of people peer over the barricades and shoulders to watch them perform their routine. A pair of lion headdresses follow them. They are bright red with white, green, black, and many other colors. The performers who don the heads wriggle this way and that, executing acrobatic jumps and flapping the eyelids. Another person trails behind him under the red cloth body. Their legs stick out from under the costume. Children giggle and even adults clap and applaud. Cameras click. Flashes go off. The policemen guarding the borders of the parade route whistle in appreciation.

What's-His-Name

"Now, when we meet him, remember, you introduce yourself and get him to do the same."

"Okay. Okay."

"Just remember."

"Fine! What if I can't though--you know--get him to say his name."

"Look, he introduced himself to me a while ago. Too long ago. And now I can't remember. And I can't ask him! How would it look?"

What If

I spent most of the day thinking of things that never had a chance of happening, then I thought of decisions I would have to make if those things happened. For example, I wondered what I would do if I won the lottery. Then I thought about what I would do with the money, then how fast I would quit my job. Then I wondered how I would leave. Would I treat my fellow cubicle dwellers? I would look cheap if I didn't, but what was appropriate. Something proportional to the payout? But I didn't want to do too much work to set up something, which is the whole reason to having money--not working.

In the end, I decided it might be better to forget the hassle and forgo lottery fantasies. The money wasn't worth it. Then I wondered how stupid I was to let something like that to get in the way of a multi-million dollar jackpot.

Surprise Visit

Bradley woke up to urgent knocking at the front door downstairs. He ignored it at first. Whoever it was probably had the wrong house, would realize it, and leave. But it wouldn't stop. He ran down and threw open the door.

"What!?"

A woman, young, grabbed onto the door frame panting. Her hair was in disarray and she had a wild look in her eye like a cornered animal.

"Brad."

"Do I know you?" A moment of clarity came to him. He saw the woman for who she was now, without the wild look, without the tangled hair. He remembered her five years younger, when she used to share his bed.

"Che-Cheryl?"

"We have to go. Now," she said.

"But--"

"Now," she repeated with earnest, grabbed his hand, and dragged him barefoot into the dead of night.