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Lentil Soup in Yiayia’s Kitchen

The first time I died I wasn’t ready to go.

Papou pulled me out of that thick fog, and said not yet, stern in a way I had never seen from him before. It didn’t scare me though. I knew. I knew what he meant. It wasn’t my time.

But I was so tired, and so beaten, so beat. And the lentil soup that Yiayia was stirring on the stove in the kitchen, that kitchen of hers, the smell of garlic and bay leaves and comfort, that she took such pride in, immaculate as it always was, the white ceramic tiles absolutely luminescent, perched high above Twelfth Street overlooking the steady stream of sleek eighteen-wheelers and stubby, grubby coal trucks that rumbled by outside rattling the windows and shaking the walls towards the interstate that stretched endlessly to a whole wide world beyond Eastern Kentucky, was too tempting, and Lord was I hungry.

And the lentil soup that Yiayia was stirring on the stove in the kitchen … was too tempting, and Lord was I hungry.”

I hadn’t been eating. I couldn’t eat. That dreadful disease that the medicine couldn’t fix and the doctors didn’t know how to stop wouldn’t let me.

I was hungry but I couldn’t eat, and when I tried, everything came racing through me, scorching liquid tinged deep crimson, my insides melting, my intestines a sieve. Fifty pounds peeled off like nothing in three weeks. I could barely move, couldn’t sleep, dead on my feet. I was done. And all I wanted was to sit down at the shiny stainless steel and red vinyl breakfast nook, a remnant from the diner Papou and Yiayia used to own, where my dad and uncle worked as teenagers bussing tables and mopping floors weekdays after school and all day weekends, and hunch over that steaming bowl of salty soup and breathe it in, eyes glazed over, lazy grin, and slurp it up like my life depended on it, and it seemed like my life did.

All I wanted was a bowl of lentil soup in Yiayia’s kitchen, as Koukla, the cotton candy Maltese my parents got when my sister and I were finally out of the house, who never liked me nor I her, yapped away in that insufferable high-pitched bark of hers and nipped at my heels, the poor creature having long since passed from heart failure and had somehow ended up here, wherever here was. I knew where it was but not exactly how – a moment frozen in eternity, Papou and Yiayia’s old house, in Yiayia’s kitchen, the way it was, the way I remembered, when everything was alright.

How I longed for everything to be alright. But Papou said no, and he could be a real son-of-a-bitch according to my mom, but he loved me, I was sure he did, and I was in awe of him, everything about him – his broken English, his white buzz cut, his leathery skin from working in the yard, the dent above his left eye where he said a bird once pecked him when he got too close to its nest, his stories, how he had come over from Greece alone at thirteen, which I delighted in telling my young friends, flushed with pride as if it had been me but it never could be because I never thought of myself that fearless, the quests we went on during those magical summer afternoons to abandoned, overgrown parking lots to pick dandelion greens and bring them back crammed into teeming paper grocery bags so Yiayia could boil out the bitterness to have for dinner with thick-cut pieces of pink country ham and yeasty dinner rolls.

I knew he meant it, although I didn’t have to like it, and I didn’t, when Papou grabbed me by my boney shoulder, deceptively powerful and strong, especially at his age, which always seemed old, and told me as forcefully as I had ever heard from him, “Not yet.”

I awoke with a startle, in a sterile, confined space, tight and bright and antiseptic, a hospital room in the ICU, stiff and stuffed into a rigid bed, immobilized by sheets wound firmly around with what felt like a twenty-pound weight on my stomach, tubes jammed up my nose and down my throat and into the pin cushions that used to be my forearms, at a loss for anything that was happening, a beautiful, peaceful image scattering from my mind like sand blowing across the beach, reality, my new reality, seeping in, suffocating, to try and begin my life again.

The doctors never mentioned anything about where I had just been, or why, and maybe they couldn’t tell despite all the science fiction machines I was connected to. But I knew, and I was no longer afraid.

The first time I died, it wasn’t my time.

Peter J. Stavros is a writer in Louisville, Kentucky. His work has appeared in The Boston Globe Magazine, Hippocampus Magazine, The Courier-Journal and www.peterjstavros.wordpress.com.

 

 

Shapes in the Grass

He gouges the blade into the soft flesh of the tree. Sap spills from the heartwood, coating the blade’s belly in thick, amber droplets.  His delicate fingers work the knife like a saw, forcing his initials to appear.

“JS.”

He sighs for a moment, running his fingers along the letters he’s slashed.  The world all around is baking lush, green and thick.”

“Those will last as long as the tree does,” he says, stepping back to view his work. He’s twelve years old, unaware that he’s already over halfway done with his life. He was middle-aged at nine, with more than a few of his baby teeth still fastened in place. He wants them gone in order to feel like the adult he’ll never grow up to be.

“And how long does a tree last?” I ask. This one, and the thousands like it, sprawl out at the end of a dirt road that runs past both of our homes. Every day during the summer we vanish within them, ghosts haunting a house made of leaves and bark. This forest is gifted with crops of wild orchards, birthing misshapen apples and bruised, dented pears. We’re never hungry here, never thirsty or bored. The sun wrings sweat from us as payment for the many blue, cloudless days we spend playing here, exploring.

“Centuries,” he replies.

“That long?”

He wipes the soiled blade against the back of his pants. Flakes of fresh dirt drift down to the ground. “Longer, maybe. Depends.” He sighs for a moment, running his fingers along the letters he’s slashed.  The world all around is baking lush, green and thick.

“Let’s go,” he says, collapsing his knife and slipping it into his pocket.

Birds, out of sight, show off their harmonies. Branches snap beneath the weight of our shoes, highlighting their songs, a soundtrack of nature that plays on repeat. Each breath we take smells different from the last; clover with one pull, berries with another. Farther along the trees become thin, allowing tall stalks of grass to burst from the soil. We notice the places where the grass has been matted, where deer and elk have made beds for the night. We lay down in the earth, within the depressions they’ve made.  We lay in their shapes and pretend we’re these creatures. We wonder where they’ve gone, when they’ll come back, and if they ever happen to see our shapes in the grass, our dusty footfalls, and pretend to be other creatures themselves.

My mind is still seized with the passage of years.

“All of these trees? Centuries?”  A single cloud lays immobilized above, as if time, like oxygen, grows thinner with altitude.

“Yeah. Centuries.” He laces his fingers behind his head. “You should carve your initials too, sometime,” he says. “Pick a tree next to mine and carve them right in. It’s like a fossil of you. Something for someone to find a long time from now.”

The wind stirs the grass like waves of an ocean as if the world is exhaling with the passing of daylight. A hint of coolness is beginning to settle, meaning soon we’ll be on the road heading back toward our homes.

Six more summers would pass by, uneventfully. The seventh would bring a late August day, along with a tractor, a chain, and an ending. Men had arrived to thin out the forest, to excise trees deemed fit for harvesting. He would be helping a worker pull a stump from the ground, under the shade once again of towering oaks. The stump was encircled with a length of the chain, the other length fixed to the tractor. A gear would be turned, an ignition fired up, and the machine would lunge violently forward. The stump held tight, forcing the tractor to flip. Secured to the seat with a belt around his lap, he couldn’t flee. Crushed by the weight of rumbling, orange metal, he’d be dead before the dust he’d kicked up settled back to the earth.

By the time another August had passed, a small wooden memorial would mark where he died, off the road but still easy to spot. His initials would make their final appearance, carved into the marker by the grace of his father barely a mile from where they’d been carved just a few years before. Like the smashed stalks of grass we’d passed so long ago, these carvings were proof that a once living thing, some glorious creature that had once roamed the earth, had left an impression behind.

Will McMillan was born and raised in the untamed outskirts of Portland,Oregon. His work has also been featured in the journals Nailed, Sweet, and Sun.

 

A Ring Over Time

Recently, I had to face the fact that a ring I wear all the time could no longer be twisted or soaped enough to fit over my arthritic knuckle. Since this was no ordinary ring, it took me some time to let it go to an expert for resizing.

The ring was my father’s. He wore it all the time; I never saw his hand without it. I know that he had it well before his marriage. Since my uncle wore a similar one, I assume that, in their upper class, professional world of the 1930’s, a high quality, distinctive ring was a marker of a young man’s launch into adulthood.

I choose to believe that this ring has absorbed creative energy from each of the hands it has served.”

My father, a lawyer by profession, was also devoted to public service, literature, and opera. He never talked about his own ring, but he wrote an essay about the role of rings in myth, history, and literature:

“Rings that occur and recur as symbols, tokens and amulets. Rings that heal and rings that kill. Rings that bind and rings that divide. Rings that frighten us, and rings that make us laugh.”

He explained how rings were signs of power, as in a king’s signet, and also of servitude, as in the Prometheus legend.  A wedding ring might be seen as a symbol of love or of subjugation. Rings were key elements in many of Shakespeare’s plots, both charming romances and dark manipulations. Wagner and Tolkien, both probably channeling Norse legend, saw the ring as a source of corrupting and cataclysmic power. But my father’s favorite writer on the subject was Robert Browning who, in his poem “The Ring and the Book,” compared the base metal in a ring with pure facts, while the gold alloy represented the imaginative insights of the poet. For Browning, and perhaps for my father, the ring was a symbol of the creative process itself.

My father could always find ways to share his knowledge and his methodical, disciplined mind.  I remember the day I reported that, while roller skating, I had found a dime on the sidewalk.  He was glad I was happy, but did I think it was right to take money that happened to be there?

I did.

I can still see his brow furrowing.

“Always?”  The wisest defense my seven-year-old self could come up with was “finders keepers.”  That’s the rule, right?

“Well,” Dad asked, “suppose it wasn’t a dime, but a dollar?”

I still thought it was okay. So he raised the ante. Five dollars?  A hundred? At what point would I feel that keeping it wouldn’t be right?  He invited me to imagine how important lost money might have been to someone. Probably not this dime, but how do I know?  What else might I have done? To this day, I am unlikely to take things I find, and even less likely to accept a slogan about much of anything. I hear my father’s voice. “But on the other hand.” And I hear his integrity. “This could matter. Do what’s right.”

On Halloween the year I was six, my older brother had some fun party to go to, so Dad took me out for my own trick or treating.  I was a witch that year.  I came down the steps from the first house I visited and saw displeasure on Dad’s face.

“I didn’t hear you say you say ‘thank you.’ ”

“But I’m a witch,” I told him.  “Witches don’t say thank you.”

“Perhaps not,” he said thoughtfully, “but you have to.” This was worrisome.

“Do I have to say ‘please’?” He wasn’t ready for that one. He took what seemed like an eternity to make his ruling. At last, with a regretful sigh, he told me that, no, I didn’t have to say “Trick or Treat please,” but I most definitely did have to say ”thank you.“ I still do.

When my father died, my mother offered the ring to me. I took it home, tried it on, and immediately saw it on my father’s hand.  I couldn’t wear it. My mother soon noticed and asked about it.

“If you can’t wear it,” she said, “bring it back to me, because I can.” I did. Two days later, a home burglary took everything from my jewelry box. But the ring was safely on my mother’s finger, where it stayed for the next seven years.

My mother did not share Dad’s even and judicious temperament. Intuitive and elegant, she chose people and decors with quick and discerning judgment. She took pride in her individuality, speed, and perfectionism. Scrupulously polite and charming in public, she expressed sharp criticisms in private. People she saw as “dull,” “unattractive,” or, perhaps worst of all, “conventional” were to be avoided. At the same time, she was passionately enthusiastic about particular people, all animals, and excellence in all forms of art. Within her chosen circle, she was boundlessly generous and loyal.

Being my mother’s daughter was not always easy. Much as I yearned to please her, I rarely did. I was not endowed with her charm or taste, and my efforts in the world, while admirable in her view, did not achieve the scale or status that she could recognize as significant. But much of that changed in her later years. Her judgments softened and I came to appreciate the depth of her musings and the talents she had never been able to claim.

As she wore the ring throughout her final years, she knew that one day it would come to me and that, in time, I, too, would become able to wear it. When I found it on her nightstand the day after she died, I took it without reservation and have worn it regularly ever since.

I have now reached the age my mother was on the day she asked me to return the ring to her. It has become my turn to welcome it back, resized and polished, to my changing hand and life. Now I think about the day when it will move on to someone else — someone who did not know my parents and may not have known me. Supported by my ever-rational father’s love of Browning’s poetic imagination, I choose to believe that this ring has absorbed creative energy from each of the hands it has served.  Wherever it goes, may it always carry my father’s reason, calm, and fairness; my mother’s enthusiasm, discernment, and individuality; and perhaps some of my drive to remember and preserve.

Helen Sloss Luey, a retired social worker, is a community volunteer in San Francisco. She has published in Reform Judaism, Aging Today, Western States Jewish History, and in social work journals. The quotation is from “Rings” in Frank H. Sloss’s book, Only On Monday.

Ten of Swords

Last summer when I unpacked a cardboard box after moving into a new apartment, I stumbled on a thick moleskin notebook, its yellowing edges muscling against a soggy Bon Jovi cassette cover. When I picked it up, a high school friend’s loopy handwriting transported me back to Germany, fifteen years ago, to her first encounter with tarot cards.

tarot

I considered the risk of tarot readings. Perhaps the biggest one is the potential for fraud, especially considering how reading cards isn’t a regulated profession, at best passed down from generation to generation.”

The entry extended five pages, detailing the day my friends and I had a fortunetelling session with one of the girls’ elder sisters, whom I vaguely remember dropped one nugget of chilling interpretation after another to in an effort to mess with us. Over the years, I’ve thrown away similar notebooks since they were filled with meaningless teenage memorabilia. I was, however, glad this one still existed, because the friend who wrote in it had died unexpectedly, making the notebook my only item to remember her by. More surprisingly though, the cards may or may not have predicted her death.

During a time when we had colorful braces strapped to our mouths and an obsession with Spice Girls edition deodorants, my friends and I started writing one another in notebooks, each taking turns chronicling our clichéd days. I suppose it was a forerunner of Facebook. Initially, the ‘letter-books’ were meant to bring our group of friends closer, by sharing intimate thoughts and secrets. But inevitably, it became an outlet of teen angst, pages riddled with lyrics of desolating alternative rock songs, adorations of our crushes, fears of failing the school year and frustrations with parents who grounded us for sneaking out at night.

In a rather dubious development, the notebooks fueled our competitiveness, leading us to come up with creative ideas in order to make our own entries stand out. These ranged from harmless experiments, such as flirting with a teacher to improve grades and assembling a remarkable selection of foods mixed with cannabis to rather questionable activities like speed-dating random guys who took us on road trips into neighboring towns and seducing bar owners in the hopes of gaining entry to an otherwise 18-and-over establishment.

Our introduction to tarot started innocently enough, with a friend announcing that her older sister, a senior, had taken up tarot and would offer us a free reading. As chronicled by my friend, we sat on the floor, forming a circle around the cards, with Tupac droning in the background.

The room was overstuffed with makeup and glossy women’s magazines and with their anime-like illustrations; the cards had a cheap knock-off air to them. Still, the day proved nothing short of alluring. While my friends and I asked our questions one by one, the thrill of the paranormal ravaged through us. That and the prospect of having something noteworthy to report on.

Most of us asked meaningless and superficial questions like ‘Will I be wealthy?’ or ‘Will I become a star?’ Regardless of what invented interpretation my friend’s sister jolted out, we were hooked. My friend’s turn came and she asked whether one of us would be dead within the next ten years. We exchanged a quick glance before fixing our eyes on the anime-like drawing of a skeleton riding a white horse, the ten of swords.

The inspiration for this sort of question could have arose in the horror movies we used to watch, in which at least one high school kid dies by the time of graduation or soon afterward. We were all ears as my friend’s sister interpreted the card, her dark eyes emanating a perfect somber atmosphere. Apparently, the ten of swords symbolizes sudden endings, though not necessarily physical death. Some of us chimed in with our own analysis, which according to the entry encompassed rebirth and the end of the world. We did not speculate who would die first, at least not verbally.

For the following weeks, the occult became our newest obsession, each of us thirsty to uncover any prearranged paths we were meant to follow. To satisfy our curiosity, we would meet up under a tree in the local park, at times staying until the final hours of dusk to try out an array of things we could get our hands on such as numerology, palmistry and plastic crystals. I suspect the neglected inner child in us came alive during those instances, tugging at the cloud of illusion one last time, before adulthood arrived. In the face of fate, none of our shortcomings mattered, hence we were equally doomed. However, in typical teenage style, very soon, my friends and I were back to romancing boys and chasing new small-town adventures.

A decade later, I had another tarot reading. After a family member died unexpectedly and under dubious circumstances, I was seeking answers, desperately exploring all means available. I found a lady on Fiverr with A+ reviews and whose warm eyes inspired confidence. I went ahead and mailed her my date of birth and the questions I had regarding this family member.

While I waited for her report, I considered the risks of tarot readings. Perhaps the biggest one is the potential for fraud, especially considering how reading cards isn’t a regulated profession, at best passed down from generation to generation. Fortunately, my tarot reader was courteous and, to my surprise, spot-on about the circumstances surrounding my family member’s death, as affirmed later by the autopsy results.

She was also kind enough to address my questions about tarot readings in general, explaining how the tarot deck was like a snapshot of possible outcomes if everything stayed the same. If used properly, tarot cards were powerful self-help tools, drawing attention to the important elements in our lives and clarifying our feelings about them. Therefore, tarot cards can be regarded as awareness-enhancers, which, similar to works of art, bridge the conscious and subconscious worlds, provide inspiration, prompting us to look at something in a new way. For me, the cards were a consolation, a way to find closure and peace. The notebook served as a reminder that regardless of our tendency to picture ourselves the sole creators of our destiny, life is full of coincidences.

Or is it?

On the last page of the notebook, in the high school handwriting of my lost friend was a quote by Jawaharlal Nehru, the former prime minister of India. It said, “Life is a game of cards. The hand you are dealt is determinism; the way you play it is free will.”

AP’s visval and literary work can be found in Gargoyle, Journal of Compressed Creative Arts and Calyx. Originally from Bucharest, Romania, she currently lives in Zurich, Switzerland.
Photo by Ellen Blum Barish. Copyright 2016.

 

 

Deep Ellum

I have a feeling that one day an Uber driver is going to say something that unlocks my understanding of my place in the universe. Some offhand comment that makes all the pieces of my life seem like part of the same thing. Oh, I’ll think when he says it. That’s what all this random shit has had in common. I am sure that this information will come from a stranger. Every time I get into an Uber I think, are you him?

uber

Most of our fights happen in our heads. Most of our love happens there, too.”

Friday night. My first Uber driver took me from one side of uptown Dallas to the other. $4.75. My friend Matt was back from Los Angeles and he was waiting for me at the Uptown Pub. I was getting drinks with Matt and then meeting some friends at a concert in Deep Ellum. The Uber ride took five minutes. The driver, Will, in a Blue BMW X1, asked if I was going to watch football this weekend. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, a middle-aged black man with thick black glasses. His car smelled like old fast food. Purple tint was peeling off the back window. I lied and said yes just to keep the conversation moving. I looked out the window at all the uptown people. Girls with fake diamonds on the asses of their jeans.

“I’m in a fantasy league,” I said.

“What is that?” he said. “Fantasy.”

I got the feeling he had been wondering for a long time. I didn’t know how to explain it to him. I barely understood it myself.

“It’s a whole thing,” I said, and that seemed to be enough. He nodded and moved the map around on his phone. My destination was coming up on the left.

My wife, J texted me. She had a headache and wasn’t coming to the concert. I texted back, “Feel better,” but what I was really thinking was of course she’s not coming, she never comes, I am basically living my life alone.

“I’m a Packs man,” my Uber driver said to my reflection in the rearview mirror.

I thought he said Pac Man.

“What?”

“Packs man. The Packers. But I’m not optimistic.”

“You never know,” I said. I didn’t know what we were talking about.

“Maybe I should try this fantasy of yours.”

“Maybe,” I said. “It doesn’t seem to be working out very well for me.”

Will dropped me off outside the pub. He said, “Good luck,” and I realized he was talking about fantasy football. I gave him a five-star review and found Matt in the back corner of the pub. I ordered a shot of Makers and a Sierra Nevada Pale Ale. Then I ordered another Makers. Matt told me about his apartment. People are always telling each other about their apartments. And then we talked about the future of interactive advertising. I asked Matt if he wanted to go to a concert with me. I didn’t want to go alone. There was a running joke that I’d made my wife up. Matt said he couldn’t go. He was meeting some friends for dinner at the Mexican place across the street. I felt a stab of rejection and swallowed a little more whisky. I wished I hadn’t asked.

My second Uber driver picked me up in the CVS parking lot. I thought it would be easier for him to pick me up there but I was wrong and he circled the block twice before he found me. Harold. Red Hyundai Sonata.

“Working late?” Harold said. He was also a middle-aged black man but he wasn’t wearing glasses. Was every Uber driver in Dallas a middle-aged black man who may or may not wear glasses? I could tell from the way Harold used his blinkers that he was a thoughtful man.

“Just met some friends,” I said, trying to find where to plug in my seatbelt. “Now I’m meeting some other friends.”

I wanted Harold to think I had about a million friends.

“Elm Street?” He said, poking at his windshield-mounted phone.

I nodded. “Deep Ellum.”

We drove across town. $5.06. The cars changed from Audis to Toyotas. The road got bumpier and narrower. Homeless people shuffled from trashcan to trashcan pretending to accomplish tasks. Completing their rounds. I said it was a relief to get out of Uptown.

“Why’s that?” Harold asked.

“These SMU kids with their Porsches and their Mercedes, man.”

He nodded.

“The guy I picked up before you said his parents gave him seventeen million dollars to help him get started out of college.”

“Right,” I said. “That.”

“My parents gave me a slap on the ass and a good luck.”

“Same here,” I said. Actually my parents gave me ten thousand dollars and a used Honda Accord but still I felt closer to Harold than I did to a guy with seventeen million dollars. Or maybe I just didn’t want to admit that this mediocre life I’d put together was given a head start.

“You look like you’re doing alright for yourself,” I said. I looked around his car like it was proof. The leather seats.

Harold shrugged.

“People do what money tells them to do,” Harold said. “It’s like training a dog. We repeat the behaviors we’re rewarded for.”

“I started working in advertising six years ago,” I said. “Now I’ll never get out.”

Harold snapped his fingers. “There you go.”

We only drove for ten minutes but by the time we got to Deep Ellum it was dark. The clubs on Main Street were glowing. Deep Ellum smells like hot sugar and cigarettes. A smell that reminds me of the Texas State Fair. Clubs keep their doors open to lure people inside. Walking down Main Street is like scrolling through the radio. Rock, Jazz, Hardcore, Folk, Country. Cars drive five miles an hour and people take their time crossing the street. My friend was playing a show at Club Dada. I went inside and bought a drink at the bar. Jack and Coke in a clear plastic cup. I gave Harold a five-star review. The place was mostly empty. Someone slapped me on the back and I turned around and it was Jordan.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” I said.

We walked to 7-Eleven and bought a pack of cigarettes. We missed the whole show standing outside smoking. We talked about God and pre-marital sex. Jordan said that he didn’t want his kids to grow up being afraid of things that didn’t matter. I asked Jordan if he was an atheist now. He used to be a pastor. He said yes, he was an atheist now. I said I didn’t think he was an atheist and he said he didn’t think he was an atheist either. For some reason he just wanted to hear himself say that he was.

I texted J that I loved her and she texted back I love you too. Most of our fights happen inside our heads. Most of our love happens there, too. Acts of imagination and fantasy.

Jordan left and I went back inside the club. A band was playing that I’d never heard of and would never hear of again. Five people were watching. I drank a lot of vodka. The lead singer thanked people for coming out. Somebody whistled from the back of the room. The last song they played was as good as anything I’d ever heard on the radio, something really special.

My third Uber driver picked me up outside the club. Chun, White Nissan Pathfinder. A middle-aged Taiwanese man in a form-fitting suit. He asked why I was going home so early. It was 1:30 am.

I said, “Is this early?”

He said yes, this was very early. “Want me to drop you off there?”

He pointed to a club with shiny silver walls. I asked if it was a strip club. He said no, it was a regular club. “But you can find plenty of girls to fuck there no problem,” He said.

“Oh,” I said. “No thanks.”

He shrugged and sped up onto the highway.

“You’re smart,” Chun said. “You have to be careful not to fuck too much. My wife and I fucked too much. Then she couldn’t get pregnant. I used up all my sperm. So we stopped having sex for three months while I practiced karate. Then, first try, she gets pregnant. Now we have a little boy. Three years old.”

I said, “Wow.”

“Do you want to know the secret to having a boy?” He said.

I said okay.

“Wife on top. That is the secret to having a boy. Wife on top. Do you understand what I am telling you?”

“Yes,” I said. “Wife on top.”

He nodded.

“And do you want to know how to have a girl?”

I said yes.

“Doggie style,” He said. “You must fuck doggie style.”

“Doggie style,” I repeated.

“It is the only way.”

“Where did you get this information?” I asked.

“Tai Pei,” he said. “It’s all true. Now I’m driving Uber to pay for college for my son. I am saving up two hundred thousand dollars.”

I said, “Wow.”

I rolled down the window and took deep breaths of the outside air. My fingers smelled like cigarettes. The air outside smelled like cigarettes but I knew that was just because the inside of my nose smelled like cigarettes and so did the inside of my mouth and probably the inside of my body. Maybe something nearby was on fire. The vodka burned inside my stomach. I felt good about how everything in my life was turning out. It comes to you like that. Out of the blue. For no reason.

I hoped J was still awake.

Chun pulled into my apartment complex. For the first time in awhile I thought about how nice my apartment complex was. Full of SMU students who drive Porches and Mercedes. We all share an address. Before Chun let me out of the car he turned around. “Tell me. How do you make a boy?”

I said, “The wife on top.” The words felt sticky in my mouth.

“Very good,” he said. “Now tell me. How do you make a girl?”

“Doggie style,” I said. “You make a girl Doggie style.”

“Yes,” he said. Smiled. “Doggie style. Very good. Now you will never forget.”

Mike Nagel’s work has appeared in The Awl, Hobart, Salt Hill, and The Paris Review Daily.
Photo by Ellen Blum Barish. Copyright 2016.