We’ll Always have Pedro’s

Joaquin stood in his doorway and looked at the sunset. It used to bring tears. But now it confirms his relentless grief. One more ending. Another day passed. Another week.

Once again it is night. And once again it is this night.

Did his friends leave him? Or did he leave them? Who wants to waste their time on him, after all? He has nothing to offer. “Life goes on,” they said. It certainly does. They moved on. He doesn’t need them. Joaquin knows where he belongs.

He sits and stares and sometimes awakens with a start. He never feels rested. Nothing interests him.

He doesn’t follow current events. TV announcers are like nails on a blackboard. Newspapers are a torture.

All these people, blithely living their lives, ignorant of Maria’s passing. How dare they? What gives them the right to enjoy their lives, when Maria left so young?

Only his memory of Maria doesn’t change. Truly the love of his life, she is his one constant. His true north. And that proves a curse too. The living change and grow. But Maria lives no more.

Everything ends. Everything always ends, Joaquin thought. But he lives on. He can’t end himself and this constant pain. If he left, who would remember Maria?

Joaquin knew he wouldn’t sleep. So he stepped into the deepening gloom.

He looked at the clock above the funeral home door. With grim irony, he observed, you can always count on them to have a dependable clock. Each evening he pondered how time continues its cyclical journey. Moving ever forward, yet covering the same ground over and again.

Joaquin stepped carefully on the uneven sidewalk. He remembers when they installed it. They were kids, giggling together. They waited for the workmen to leave, to inscribe their initials inside a heart. It was Valentine’s Day. Today. How many years ago? He chased her with his muddy finger outstretched.

Joaquin noted those initials each time he walked by. Over time, tree roots transformed the path into an obstacle course. Who put these old trees here? Joaquin didn’t remember them. Soon, other workmen will restore the sidewalk to safety. Can’t let anyone sue the city over a sidewalk. Safety first!

Then, Joaquin’s heart and their initials will be consigned to a landfill. But he will remember.

Joaquin continues aimlessly over the same route he travels every night. The store fronts have changed. Traffic ebbs and flows. His path traces the steps they walked together, hand in hand, from the beginning. So many times!

He saw their old café up the street. Just a fast food joint. Joaquin remembered all the meals they shared at Pedro’s. He figured he owned it several times over for all the food he bought. Crispy tacos! It was cheap, good food. But it was always a feast when he shared it with Maria.

Joaquin watched the young couple as they approached the café. They were dressed for a romantic night out. He wondered, “Why do they go to my café?” Joaquin loved this place, but it was not for fine dining.

He reached into his jacket pocket and waited.

~

Sam and Elle bustled about, getting ready. It’s Valentine’s Day and they were going to their favorite, romantic dinner.

They had always gone to this restaurant for special occasions. A relic from a simpler time, the building was once someone’s home. When the city expanded out, someone converted it into the French restaurant they went to for ‘special nights’.

Elle always ordered the filet mignon, the best in the city. And they would share a crème brûlée for dessert. Sam would linger over coffee, or perhaps a brandy, while watching the city settle into nighttime through the bay windows.

“We need to go, Elle. You look great,” said Sam as Elle checked her hair in the mirror and straightened her dress.

“I’m ready. Just let me…”

“Of course.” Sam straightened his tie and donned his sports coat.

As Sam merged into traffic, Elle checked her smart phone. She groaned with disappointment.

“You aren’t going to believe this.”

“What?”

“C’est la Vie is closed.”

“You’re kidding! But we have reservations!”

“No. It says here, the health department shut them down due to ‘rats.’”

“Rats?”

“Yup.”

“There goes the recipe for their ‘secret sauce’. Rats always get blamed. Anyway, I thought rats were ‘de riguer’ for a French restaurant.”

“Sam? Where are we going to eat?”

“Uhm… Everything is booked. It’s Valentine’s Day.”

“Well, I hope you know I’m not cooking.”

“Never crossed my mind… Thinking outside of the Jack-in-the-box…”

“Well?”

“This is unorthodox, but how about that place we used to go to when we first started dating?”

“Pedro’s? We haven’t been there in years!”

“It might be fun. You’re nostalgic. Let’s drive by and see if it’s still open.”

“Great idea. Best food in the world. It’ll be open.”

“Doesn’t hurt to slum it on occasion. It’s for a good cause.”

They parked and made their way down the jagged sidewalk to their nostalgic favorite.  They held hands with affection, but also to keep from falling.

Elle noticed Joaquin standing down the block but then was distracted by the heart shaped balloons.

“Oh, look! They’re beautiful. Sam, this is perfect. You’re a genius.”

“Let me tell you, blowing them up so they float is not as easy as you might think.”

Elle grabbed a booth and Sam went to the counter to order their traditional, “Two plus two crispy tacos, a large fry and two large diet cokes.” The longtime employees were gone. But the chef caught Sam’s eye and gave him a little salute.

Sam and Elle took turns taking pictures with the pink balloons. Elle borrowed a quarter from Sam to put on a favorite from the juke box. “They still have all my songs,” she exclaimed. “Why did we stop coming here?”

Their number was called. Sam went up to retrieve the tray stacked with little baskets of rich food. He asked for two plastic forks.

Then Sam heard Elle call out. “Wait! Stop. What are you doing?” He turned to see a little man hurry away from their table and exit the café.

Sam rushed over to Elle. “Are you alright? What did he do?”

“I’m okay. He just walked up and put that on the table.”

Sam looked down to see a crisp, hundred dollar bill lying on the Formica table top. It made no sense. He grabbed the bill and ran out to catch the man. There was no sign of him.

Sam returned to Elle and put the bill back onto the table. He shook his head. “Did he touch you? What happened?”

Elle still looked confused. Her eyes glistened. “You went to get the food and he just walked up and put it down. He looked at me and kind of made a little bow. He didn’t say anything.”

“Oh! The food.” Sam returned to the pick-up counter and got their tray. He transferred the baskets with the tacos and fries onto their table. The hundred dollar bill lay there untouched. Benjamin Franklin looked more amused than usual.

Sam smiled and pushed the bill towards his wife.  “I believe this is yours, Elle.”

They looked at each other and grinned. “Happy Valentine’s Day!”

Photo Finish

The photo haunts Tom. Who is the woman standing on the tropical beach with his wife? And why does Tania deny knowing her?

Her name is Molly. Molly Treacher. He found her wallet in the bank parking lot. Inside, facing her ID was the picture of her and Tania standing together with Diamondhead behind them.

Tom looked up as Molly approached him.

“That’s mine.”

“Yes. I was going to turn it into the lost and found.”

“No need. Here I am.”

Tom handed it to her. She turned away.

“Excuse me? The woman in the picture with you? She’s my wife.”

Molly stopped. “I doubt it.”

“She’s Tania. How do you know her?”

Molly looked around nervously, “Excuse me? Are you stalking me?”

“No. I just wondered.”

“I need to go now.” Molly turned away. Tom watched her walk into the bank.

Over dinner, Tom asks Tania about Molly. She denies any knowledge of her.

“Maybe she’s married. Molly Treacher? You were in Waikiki together? When were you in Hawaii?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, Mr. Pavlov.”

“Perhaps if you saw her.”

“I’m not looking for a friend, Tom. Why are you pushing this? I said, I don’t know her.”

“I saw the photo of you together on the beach.”

“Sorry, can’t help you.”

Tom sat on the front porch, reviewing the day. People walk through the twilight. No one seems to know anyone else. Isolated souls passing by. Where is everyone going?

He feels like he entered a parallel universe. By asking a simple question, he unwittingly entered a realm where secrets are kept and questions cannot be asked. It didn’t add up. Married for ten years, he realizes he really doesn’t know his own wife.

The next day, Tom acts. He finds Molly’s phone number and calls her. Before she can protest, he invites her for dinner with Tania and himself.

She hesitates and then asks, “May I bring Mercer, my husband?”

“Your husband? Of course.”

Then she asks him, “And Tania is cool with this?”

“She will be.”

He exchanges information with her. They will meet at a restaurant, so if things sour, they can leave at will.

Tania balks. She accuses Tom of working behind her back. Of conspiring with strangers.

He counters with the fact that she is not being honest about this. He has no expectations. But he wants her to be open with him. He tells her he loves her. He apologizes for forcing her hand but he needs to see this through.

Driving to the restaurant, Tania continues expressing her doubts.

“I hope you know what you are getting us into. You don’t know these people.”

“Well, I don’t. But you do. How bad could it be? It is one evening. No great loss.”

“You hope.”

The initial meeting seems especially awkward to Tom. Tania and Molly are cordial and guarded. Mercer takes center stage and presumes his judgement is final. His aggressive grasp of Tom’s hand pulls Tom off balance. As does his comment, “You’re shorter than I expected.”

Tom smiles at this jab and resists the temptation to point out Mercer’s premature baldness. Instead, he feels silly for responding with, “Yes, but my feet reach the ground.”

Tom wonders why, if Mercer is as superior as he presents, he feels the need to compensate. Tom kicks himself for striving to impress this overbearing fool.

Their first drinks arrive and Mercer raises his glass, specifically to Tania, “You are beautiful as ever, my dear.”

Tania responds with, “And you are just as tall.”

Mercer turns to Tom, “She has the most exquisite laugh, don’t you think? If I could bottle it, I’d be a millionaire.”

All eyes are on Tom as he turns to Tania, “Actually, it’s in stores now, isn’t it? Look for it. ‘Tania LOL’.”

Tania smiles.

Tom understands, not only the women, but Mercer and Tania knew each other, long before he and Tania met. Being the odd one out, Tom tries to observe without injecting himself further.

The conversation stays on the shallow end for too long, Tom thinks. What are they afraid of? They touch lightly on current events, with only a whiff of politics thrown in to test the waters. Mercer holds court and makes broad declarations on topics important only to himself.

Molly and Tania sit demurely, enduring a return to the familiar. Tania catches herself tapping her fingers nervously. She looks at Tom and puts her hands in her lap. He smiles at her, but she looks away.

Tom hopes to see Tania with fresh eyes. Who cares if Mercer made a killing in the market, last December?

Molly tries to draw Tom into the conversation “Is your work going well?”

“Yes, I’ve been so busy. I wish we could get away more. Have you traveled anywhere interesting this year?”

Meals are ordered and Mercer makes sure the waitress knows he wants separate checks for the couples.

Tom excuses himself and heads to the restrooms. Mercer stands. “I’m going to the bar. Anyone need anything?” Tom asks him for another Scotch on the rocks. Mercer rolls his eyes.

Tania and Molly look at each other and smile uncomfortably.

Molly speaks, “I know this wasn’t your idea, Tan…”

Tania brushes it off. “We are about due. Don’t you think?”

“I want to tell you I’m sorry…”

“Nothing to apologize for, Molly. We all make choices.”

“Actually, I wasn’t trying to apologize. I mean, I’m sorry I ended up with Mercer.”

This brings them both much needed laughter, followed by a decade worth of unshed tears.

Tania composes herself. “Now you made my make-up run. That was rude.” They laugh again. Then she looks at Molly in earnest. “I think we both know now, one shouldn’t toss away a good friendship over a crush.”

When the men return, the atmosphere is noticeably lighter. The women share stories about their travels.

“…And the Na’ Pali coast? Snorkeling in the caves at low tide?”

“That was unbelievable! What did we name the sea turtle who came to visit every afternoon?”

“Uhm… Tony!”

“Right, Tony! Who would expect a four hundred pound turtle to be so cute?”

Mercer tries to refocus the conversation back to himself.

Tom interjects, “Let her finish. I want to hear the story.”

But he has so much to say on population distribution among the islands and their annual rainfall. The others exchange glances to the drone of Mercer’s voice.

Dinner plates are cleared. Coffee sipped. Dessert rejected.

Tom feels the evening worked out alright after all.

After a moment’s pause, Mercer raises his glass. “I think we are due for a toast. To the one who got away…”

Then Mercer and Tania both say, “…Me.”

Mercer looks at Tania with surprise, “What do you mean, ‘you’?”

She put her hand on Tom’s. “Yes, me. Tom is the best thing ever happened to me.”

Oscar Night

Jimmy could hardly sit still. This is the biggest night of his life. His whole career is riding on this one evening and he feels ready to explode.

Of course, no one looking at him would know that. He’s been in the biz long enough to know, never to show his emotions. That’s what scripts and make up and cameras are for. Don’t forget cameras. Without cameras we’d have nothing. None of us. None of this.

Jimmy loves the cameras. And the cameras love him.

Just smile. You gotta smile. Who wouldn’t? It’s such a circus. How can you not smile? Make it real.

Yes. It is almost too much. The theater is filled with so many people he’s known for so long. Some of them friends. Many competitors. But there is a mutual respect, or Jimmy liked to think so, between long time collaborators. Even when you strive for a job against so many talented people. Someone has to get it. Better when it’s you, but like the Duke used to say, “Catch the next wave.” There’s always another job, another wave, another Oscar. Until there’s not.

But tonight! Oh boy! Walking up that red carpet. He’s made that trip before, but tonight, they were watching him. Everyone knew Jimmy. Everyone wants to grab his hand. Pat him on the back. Take a picture. Be seen with Jimmy! It is grand. Grand to be Jimmy.

And the women! So many beautiful women! And the clothes. Jimmy has never seen such dresses! Each one more extravagant than the one before. Who wears such stuff? Actresses! They can get away with it. Do you know how many poor children you could clothe with the fabric in that one dress? Is that a dress? Or a house?

Oh, and look at her. Excuse me. You look cold. Does your mother know you went out naked? Your goosebumps have goosebumps. Maybe Dame Whatshername will lend you some of her train with which to cover yourself.

Even tomorrow, when they do the postmortems on the evening and cat about this ugly dress, or that worst look. Hey! Shut up. They were on the carpet. They had the good seats. They were the ones the paparazzi were calling to. Where were you? Lame bastards.

Men are smart enough not to compete on the fashion front. Hopefully, they remember to wear pants. And the tux sleeves aren’t too short. That’s about as daring as the men get. Try to look dignified in the midst of all this brouhaha. They want people looking at their faces, not the clothes. What the men really want is to stand beside a beautiful woman. They really don’t need more than that, when the cameras are flashing. That is plenty, thank you.

A man can look like a toad, but if he’s standing next to a babe? Who cares? He’s a toad with good taste in women. “Look at that beautiful woman with the pet toad!” More power to him. Maybe later, when she kisses him, he’ll turn into a prince.

And the paparazzi. How many flashes can you stand? It’s enough to give you a seizure. Yikes! Take it easy guys. I’ll hold the pose… That’s it? How about one more? A money shot. Get it.

Here comes the interview. “Hey! How are you? Blah. Blah. Stunning!”

“Thank you. Hey, I love your blah, blah. How do you do that?”

“Oh, it’s blah. Got it from my mother, blah. But enough about me. How do you feel tonight? Is this your night?”

“I feel great. I know I did my best and I trust the Academy and the gods that be, to touch those most deserving. I’m just so honored, blah.”

“Well, I don’t want to jinx you. Ha, ha!”

“And blah, blah to you too! Ha, ha!” Smooch!

Jimmy looks around at all the people. And not just people, famous people! He never dreamed. Of course he always dreamed. But to be here is something he could hardly envision. Talk about a cast of thousands.

Look at the sets! They dropped a few dimes on this. Every year it out does every expectation. So much talent. And so much talent that never gets a nod. A name on a list at the end of the show. How many people work to make this come off? It is incredible!

Oh! And there she is. If he owes it to anyone, it is to his co-star. Jimmy knows he wouldn’t have the nomination if not for her. They call it acting, but those scenes with her — well, they forgot about the cameras. Twenty people standing around and they were alone.

She is staggeringly beautiful to Jimmy. Not cliché ‘stunning’. Not merely gorgeous. ‘The original knock-out’ is how Jimmy puts it. And none of the distracting frippery about her dress. Simple, pure class. Elegance defined. Of course nothing could disguise her classic looks.

Jimmy tells people, thousands of years from now, scholars will debate ‘What was she really like?’

Jimmy regrets, they couldn’t make a go of it, off set. He thought they were really in love. It was a movie, silly. Jimmy got taken, like all the rest. “It’s called ‘acting,’ Jimmy,” he chuckles to himself. And she is an actress through and through.

He catches her eye and she nods with that little smile of hers that makes him melt inside. It was just for him.

But she doesn’t come over. No time for that. Who’s the new heartbreak escorting her tonight? Some surfer she discovered? Or Tony, her PR hack, shoe-horned into the program? Cue Hollywood Hairboy #3. Action!

Jimmy hopes for his sake, he’s got the stuff to land on his feet. He’ll need it. Jimmy walked that gauntlet. Good luck!

Smiling people stroll by. They offer their hands, embraces, kisses on the cheek. Some of them mean it.

The orchestra is starting up! Here we go. Batten down the hatches. Jimmy’s getting an Oscar tonight! “Don’t let it slip through your fingers, boy.”

Jimmy looks at his notes. Short and sweet. Sincere thanks. Hit all the notes. Humility. Make them laugh. Make them cry. Leave them wanting more. And thank her. She won’t expect that.

Judging by the acceptance speeches, Jimmy knows it will be a long evening. At least until he gives his. Then everyone will wake up. He was all for the third seamstress getting her due. But please don’t let her near the mic.

Jimmy thinks, “Can everyone just shut up and let me have my statue? Enough!”

After a while, Jimmy wonders if he accidentally wandered into a political rally. “Is someone running for president? I thought these were acting awards. Actors don’t have opinions, they have scripts.”

Suddenly, it is time. Jimmy can’t believe it. It all happened so fast. He doesn’t feel ready. Where did the night go?

He keeps repeating the mantra, “Wait to hear your name. Don’t jump up until they say your name.” Jimmy braces himself on the arms of the chair.

The presenters come out. She is one of them. This could be weird. Maybe it will be perfect. Is it a sign? An omen? Jimmy swallows hard.

The presenters stall with some banter. Everyone is laughing. It is excruciating. The man gives her the envelope. She looks directly at Jimmy with that little signature smile. She opens the envelope and the look in her eyes says it all. She says the most beautiful words in the most beautiful voice, “And the winner of the Oscar, for best actor is… Jimmy…”

The crowd goes nuts. She throws the envelope over her shoulder and strides to the edge of the stage to offer her hand to Jimmy as he bounds up the steps. There are screams and whistles as she gives him a passionate kiss. The other presenter makes a big show of breaking them up. It’s pandemonium. Jimmy wipes tears from his eyes as he steps to the mic…

Nurse Salazar tapped Jimmy on the shoulder to get his attention. He looked up at her from his chair with a look of confusion.

“Mr. Jimmy, time for your meds. They’ll help you sleep.”

Jimmy looked at the television. The end credits streamed by. The big music reached its crescendo. Then Jimmy remembered the golden statue, cradled on his lap.

The nurse continued. “Everyone in the home gets so agitated. Every year, it’s the same.” She smiled down at Jimmy. “You want me to take that for you? You don’t want to drop Mr. Oscar. I’ll put it back up on the shelf. He’ll be safe there.”

Jimmy surrendered his Oscar with reluctance. In exchange, she gave him a small cup containing some pills.

“Here you go, Mr. Jimmy. These will help you sleep. Would you like to get into bed now?”

Jimmy smiled at her. “Do you want my autograph? You can say you knew me, when.”

 

 

 

Night Watch

Stewart is finished with his rounds of the automobile storage lot. He climbs the steps to the temporary mobile office unit, enters and hangs up his jacket. The temporary unit is only temporary in that it looks about to collapse under its own weight. It shifted on its foundation during an earthquake and was never jacked back up to level.

It is about 2:00 am. There are no deliveries due tonight. Unloading a train full of late model cars takes most of the shift. A team of drivers and others mill about, getting the new cars off the train, parked and signed off. This lot serves many of the local dealerships. But tonight is blissfully quiet.

Stewart likes the graveyard shift. He enjoys the freedom it offers, to bask in his thoughts, his music, his poetry and privacy.

Roy sits before the computer at the far end of the mobile office unit. He looks up at Stewart as he approaches.

“Hey Stew. Anything to report?”

“All quiet.”

“Great. Listen up. I’m going to call HQ.” Roy held the walkie-talkie up to his ear. “Lot C to HQ. Anyone there? Over.”

In a moment, a voice responds. “HQ copies Lot C. You have something to report? Over.”

“Yeah. I need some back-up. We have some unauthorized bunny rabbits here on the lot. Please advise. Over.”

There was a pause and then HQ responded. “Lot C, did I hear you right? Unauthorized bunnies? Over.”

“Yeah. You heard me. Rabbits. There are several unauthorized bunny rabbits hiding out on the lot. They might be threatening the inventory. Please advise. Over.”

“HQ copies your report of unauthorized bunnies, Lot C. Stand by until further notice. Take no action. Over.”

“Lot C copies that. Are you sure? Over.”

“HQ confirms. Take no action at this time. Over.”

“Lot C copies. Over.”

Roy put the walkie-talkie down and smiled at Stewart. He was thrilled with himself.

“I get such a pleasure giving them grief.”

Stewart shook his head. “I know you get bored Roy. But you really think they give a damn? How often do you make that call? Once a month? They think you’re crazy.”

“Maybe. But it makes the night go faster.”

“Whatever floats your boat. I’m going for a walk.” Stewart turns and heads toward the door.

“You just got back, Stew. Here. Take the desk.”

“Naw. That’s okay.”

“Going to call your girlfriend?”

Stewart doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have a girlfriend. Never will. And Roy knows it. Roy loves giving everyone grief. Stewart thinks belief in God is easier than expecting a woman to desire him.

Stewart pulls his jacket close, against the cooler than usual night. He sees the acres of cars, row after row, gleaming in the moonlight. Some nights they remind him of the rows of stones in a cemetery. All polished up, with nowhere to go.

He gazed at the stars. Here, on the edge of the city, you can actually see them. A rare source of joy for Stewart.

Looking at the sky, the strains of his concerto ‘Star Stylings,’ run through his head. Inspired, but not influenced by John Cage, Stewart didn’t resort to random consultations of the I Ching to determine which star from the sky to place on the musical scale. Stewart thinks Cage’s star map compositions are clever on their face, but too brittle and discordant for Stewart’s tastes.

And Stewart felt Cage’s pretense of invoking an indifferent universe, was a fraud. How is it random if you choose the parameters of the exercise? Creation demands choice. And choices have consequences.

Stewart’s astral influences are both more grounded and lyrical. They draw on the flowing lines of the Saturn, the Mercury, the Nova, and for counterpoint, the Lotus. There was no denying cars are an integral part of his life.

The musical themes suggested by the designs of these cars, suit his yearning, romantic heart. And he likes the private joke too. Years of nightly tours of the lot, provided ample opportunities to study the graceful lines of his favorite models.

How he incorporated the tempo marking the phases of the moon, he could not explain. You would have to hear it, to understand. And maybe not even then.

How to get it heard, though. How does someone like him, a freak of nature, ever get an orchestra to play his music? Or an audience to hear? Stewart doesn’t know if such a thing as an undiscovered genius actually exists. It isn’t for him to claim that status. But being undiscovered, of that he has no doubt. He’s half-way there.

Stewart makes his way through the routine. He moves from station to station, turns the key to mark his passage and confirm all is well at this location. He trains his flashlight across the terrain, outside the fence, and down, between rows of cars. Even at the moon. No one ever breached the perimeter. Not on his watch.

His adoptive mother had high hopes for him. She loved him so much. She and her husband provided Stewart with the best education. Music. Literature. Broad cultural horizons. They, or she, did for his mind what they couldn’t for his body. Stewart learned soon enough though, intellect doesn’t draw the girls.

No matter how his mother cared, life teaches what it will. The incessant schoolyard nickname ‘Igor,’ taught him where he stood in the exacting social strata of grade school. At the bottom. The daily playground lessons in survival, toughened him in a way his mother could not. Those bullies unwittingly, did him a favor. They confirmed what he learned from his ‘father’.

Of food, clothing and shelter, he had no wants. Education? Granted. But he was never accepted. Adapt, or die.

It might have seemed strange to grow up in home always feeling like a guest that over stayed. There was always a sense he was too dim to take the hint and leave. But that was the only life he knew.

Eventually, he did leave. And now he lives independent of external influences, a night watchman. He provides security to others while maintaining visions of grandeur, with modest means. He is his own man. Mainly.

With each new generation of cars, Stewart notes the incremental changes in styling, which make all cars resemble some bland Platonic ideal. He remembers when cars were distinctive and made a statement. Now, except for their size and the emblem, a car is a car is a car. When will the pendulum turn? Does everyone really want to drive a variation of the Toyota Corolla?

Stewart admits his living circumstances are not ideal. But he chose them. They serve his purposes. Stewart and his friend Ira, live in his 1973 Lincoln Town Car, known to them as Lincoln Manor. Their joke is, they could supplement their income by subletting the spacious trunk.

They pay no rent. Their overhead is nil, save for insurance and occasional gas. They shower at the community college. And eat, wherever.

Parking tickets are their biggest expense.

Stewart recalls their last conversation. And many prior conversations, when Ira got tickets.

“How do you expect us to save money when we get multiple tickets per week?”

“I know, man. I’m sorry.”

“You’d be living the high life in Costa Rica, by now, without these things dinging us every week.”

“You think so?”

“Do the math, Ira. Tickets add up.”

“I believe you. I’m no good at math. You know that.”

“You’re missing the point. You can be with Dolores and be happy.”

Ira was an interesting case. He could have any woman he wanted. Stewart often observed Ira’s effect on the fair sex. Standing in line, or walking through a mall, women would literally flock around him. Ira had charisma to spare. There were worse things than being the wingman for a chick magnet like Ira.

Stewart enjoys talking with women. They respond to his poetic outlook on life. But he knows they never see him as more than a source for an interesting conversation. Stewart cherishes those times. But he knows his limitations. It is close to ideal.

Except Ira is attached. Dolores is his fiancé. They met online. They are in love. He is saving to join her in Costa Rica and get married. It will be a wonderful life. Ira’s been working toward this for five years.

Ira’s loyal friend, Stewart, wants for Ira what he can never have for himself. Stewart works to save enough cash for Ira to embrace his dream.

Once Ira achieves his destiny, Stewart feels his task will be complete. Then he can check out. Hang it up. Take the high dive.

Who would miss him?

Who knows? If he went to Costa Rica too, maybe he could meet a senorita who wants an ‘gringo grotesque’.

Being a security guard is a low status and low pressure job. But, also a necessary one. Stewart takes in the acres of mass produced status, under his care. Most would find it boring. But it provides Stewart with the freedom to explore his passions. It energizes him.

Some would consider him homeless. But Stewart chooses to live in his car. His mother’s sister, Aunt Jean, offered him a home with her. But she wants to mother him. Stewart isn’t a kid anymore.

And, Jean wouldn’t accept Ira. She doesn’t know him. He isn’t family. Since Stewart can’t abandon Ira, they continue on at Lincoln Manor.

Besides his music, Stewart also writes. Days off, he sits in his spacious front seat with pad and pen and works on his sonnet cycle. This is another sore spot for Stewart. Getting published.

He has almost two dozen sonnets completed. Each leads to the next. In them, Stewart grapples with questions about his humble place in the universe. He sees himself, an existential ant, but without connection to any nest. Each question leads to another. And so ‘round and ‘round it goes.

He’s composing the final one now, which ties back to the first. You could start with any and read them through, full circle. It all makes sense, regardless your entry point. Each poem begins with the final word of the one before.

But getting it published is the trick. Stewart doesn’t know the ropes. Where can someone like him find a publisher? Who buys poetry?

Making his rounds, Stewart walks the well-trodden perimeter, past car after shiny car. The rhythm of his stride serves as his metronome while composing each line.

A rabbit hops onto the path from behind a shiny new car and Stewart chuckles, remembering Roy.

“You are late, March Hare. Hop to.”

The rabbit stares and then continues on his way. Stewart considers the possibility the rabbit occupies a superior place in the universe. It isn’t plagued with useless knowledge and doubts about purpose and destiny. It doesn’t cling to fallible reason. In its innocence, the rabbit needs and conceives of nothing like salvation. The rabbit is the crown of its creation. Or is it at such peace, because it is conscious and sure of the part it plays?

Stewart looks again to the sky. What instrument or pen could connect those dots and coax out an image of the divine? He always ponders the question he would ask of this tormentor.

“God, how long?”

Once again, done with his rounds, Stewart enters the temporary office unit. Roy is still at the computer.

“Hey Stewart. Anything to report?”

“All quiet.”

“Great! You want to take a break? Dig it. I just beat my all-time high score on Tetris. Go ahead, try to beat that! Three hundred eight thousand, four hundred, nineteen!”

Stewart looks at the computer screen and nods.

“That’s amazing. You rock. Looks unbeatable to me. I’m going to take a walk.”

“Aww, man. You want some coffee or something?”

“I’m going to take in the sunrise, before I punch out.”

Stewart steps onto the gravel lot and looks to the east. The glimmers of another dawn are barely perceptible.