Tiffany works part time.  Her bee’s wax business has yet to launch.  She’s friendly, and waits for Ilene to approach the counter.

“How many of these do you have?” Ilene asks.

“I think we have a case in the back.”

The sales area is soft, beige, and nurturing.  The back of the store is bright, littered with empty food containers.  The trash can is full without a bag.

Ilene brushes past boxes of dream catchers in cellophane packaging.  The case of glasses rests on the bottom rack.  Ilene’s rolls her shoulders forward to carry the weight of the box.  She rests it on the counter.

“Is there a discount for artists?”  She says.

“Well, not really, we do sell some people’s stuff here. Sometimes, the owner trades.”

“No problem.”

“Okay, $175.04 please.”

Paid without hesitation.

26 thick glasses clunk in the box on Ilene’s lap.  The stewardess hands her a Tom Collins.  The flight from New Mexico is typical, always a little turbulence around Colorado.

As part of the New York thing, Ilene sleeps in her studio.  She unwraps two of the glasses, places them   in the center of an empty six foot long shelf.  On another shelf sits a glass bowl.   A lone glass plate rests on another.

The light in her studio is adequate advertisement.

Ben’s feet are small. His hands are thick, manicured. He wears a suit, no tie. Someone else shaves him.  The last time he was here, his wife, who is noticeably taller, accompanied him.

Ilene is un-showered.  She wears a bandana, apron.

Ben doesn’t look at her when he speaks.

“Nice to have you back in town.”

She doesn’t respond.

He motions to the glasses. “These are new.”

“You know good product. I made those in the desert.  Aztec mating goblets. I learned the technique from a man there.”

“Yeah?”

Ben reaches for one.  She cautions, “Please be careful with that, there’s only so much of that sand in the world.”

“How much for the pair?”

“Money’s a small concern, you know that.” She holds the other glass.

“I’m not paying more than $300.00 for the pair,” He says.

She sighs, steps toward the counter.

He steps in front of her, rubs his shoulder into her breast.

“Are these for your wife?”

With his silence, her guilt is gone.

Not everyone ignores me.  I saw some shit the other day.  Angela’s kid, drives past the job site everyday, kicking up leaves.  Fast like some kind of goddamn race or something.  It’s like the kid thinks he’s going somewhere, like he’s gotta get there. 

I know he drives past so I see him.  He started doing it when I started seeing his mom.   He sees me working.  I know he sees me working. I’m the oldest fuck out there with these kids.  So, he flies by, kicking up leaves.  Someone’s gotta tell his ass to slow down.  He’ll kill someone.  

So, I follow him one day. He don’t do it when I’m not working.   Either way, I follow his ass one day, and he don’t see me.  But, I climb in the town’s truck, and follow the dust cloud.   

I catch up with the kid, and I see his car at the damn coalition homeless shelter.   I know his mom will kill him if he’s out past a certain time, so I just lean on my truck and wait for him.  I’m not going in there, and I got nothing to say to anybody anyway.

When he sees me, he keeps walking.

“What, was the damn soup getting cold?”  I ask him. 

“What do you want Henry?”  This kid.  What do I want?

“Your mom know you drive like that?”

“Did you follow me?”

“No, I come here to chill out, and eat Doritos. Your mom tells me everything about you.  She never mentioned this.”

“I have to do hours here.”

“Hours?”

“I just have to do hours.”

“What for… court?”  Now he knows I know what I’m talking about.   And I’m standing in front of his car.

“Not court, Henry. Jesus, I’m not like you.” 

“What then?”

“Nothing.”

“You want to act like a man and drive like you’re trying to be shit?  Be a man and own up when you get caught.”

It was getting late, and the damn kid wouldn’t own up to it.  No one drives like that to not get attention.  This kid wanted me to follow him.   So, I tell him I can ask whoever’s in there. I head for the door, and he pipes up.

“Okay, I had to do hours here, for skipping school.”

“You? Skipped?”  I think he saw me smile.  The little shit always acted so-something, you know, up there.

“I kept coming because a woman here says she knew my dad,” He said.

I’m quiet for a second. “Who is she?”

“Just a lady.  She says she worked with him.”

“She say she liked him?”

“I don’t know Henry, Jesus.  She just said she knew him.”

“What she do for him?”  He didn’t answer. “Just saying, a lot of people worked for your dad didn’t like him.”

The kid’s heels were hard in the sand, and he moved to get in his car.   I got out of the way.   Then he faced me.   Kid was getting tall.  He had a good jaw now.

“Listen, I didn’t know your dad.  But, he left and ain’t around.  Your mom is around.  You like coming here?”

“Yeah.” 

“Keep coming here.  I won’t say nothing. But, slow down.”

Next thing I know, the goddamn kid peels out of the lot.  But he ain’t sped by the work site since, and he goes there everyday.  I know there ain’t no lady.  He goes to see his dad.  I know it.  I know he’s there. Nowhere else for a big man when he gets small.   His mom don’t know that either.  I’m not saying nothing.  Hey, it’s not my truth to tell.

Day 56

On the plane ride home, I’m quiet.  The others recover.  They seem happy.  Several reports on the airwaves describe a covert team that was found and killed.  They were lined up, shot, hanged, and skinned.   The plane’s radio crackles.  There is another story about Taliban weapon strongholds that were abandoned, and loaded with explosives.

By my count 15 are dead, not including the covert guys.

Day 3

The walls here are silent or loud, depending on the day.   It’s never a murmur, never some odd noise.  It’s either dead silent, or someone’s screaming.

Private Cote was with me in the Hummer.  Now he’s in the room next to mine.  He’s trying to hide the fact that he speaks Arabic.

He talks to me through one of the holes in the wall, tells me what they say. “They’re trying to look for the head officer. They don’t even know how to ask.”  He’s just come back from his latest session; I can smell his blood through the hole.  “Fucking electricity man, I used to install the shit.”  He coughs a laugh.

The screams come from the room upstairs; they’re protecting me.

Day 6

These guys are organized.  Every guard walking by my door takes about 35 steps to pace the hall. Someone is always there.  We’re down to five from eight, in our group anyway.

I stop listening to Cote.   He’s telling me about the session he just came from.  He’s wondering why they haven’t questioned me yet.

The nights in our barracks were more restless.  I lost sleep thinking about maneuvers and plans,  guys like Cote and Manning, how to keep them safe. There are no mood swings here.  It’s almost soothing.  Sleep comes easily because we’re caught; there’s nothing to figure out.

Day 9

They speak to me in broken English. I recognize my beige fatigues. Dirty, brown hands hold them.   I’ve been in underwear since I arrived.

“We know mark.”  They point to my stripes.  Uniform is a serious misnomer.

There is a map of the local area in front of me, and a glass of whiskey. “Where are we?,” he asks.

I know what he’s asking. It’s not the location of the Americans they’re looking for. The Americans are hanging out under the camp with the big fucking American flag over it. They want to know where we know THEY are.  Where we know their weapons are.  Where, say, the FAST team is.  The Navy has SEALS, the Marines have FAST teams.  No one makes movies about FAST teams.  Where they are infiltrated. That’s what he wants to know.

I motion to the whiskey.  “You first.”  The man’s teeth are surprisingly clean. He drinks from the glass and they put down two new glasses.  Jack Daniels goes into each, he nudges one toward me, and drinks the other.

The bottle pings as he flicks it. “American, eh?”

The smoky drink bites at first, has a rough finish.

This room is beat to shit.  There are holes in the corners of the walls, stained white paint.

“Think, eh? You others can go.” He points to the map.

We drink in night time silence.  I place the glass on the empty table in front of me.

Day 12

He still looks clean but he no longer has a map in front of him. Dinner here is a friggin’ ritual, course after course. After the meal, they walk me to the cleanest room that I’ve seen since being here.  This place has painted walls, a couch, and a knock at the door.

I pictured their women a little less attractive.  She looks clean, dark and clean.  She presses her hand into my crotch.

Jesus.

I’ll go along, make them think I’m cooperating. Hard-ons happen, everything happens.

Day 13

More screams tonight.  I’m not sure who it is.  No one is talking. These guys already know who I am.  Now they’re just doing it. It’s dark, that’s all I know.  No idea what time it is.  I haven’t heard anything from Cote or the others.  I must have laid down about an hour ago. There’s another scream.

Cote’s door opens, there’s a muffle and a whimper.  He could get out. There are some places they hide weapons that we know about.  I don’t know if we were going to hit them or not.  No one would know. Cote is quiet.  Usually, he tells me more than I want to know.  Now, I can only hear him breathing.  His breath is hard and arrhythmic.

I can’t tell him about last night’s dinner, or after dinner.  She was probably a pro.  It was hard to keep it together.  It’s been a while, she smelt pretty good too. Also, it’s important to make them think I’m cooperating. I may not get out of here.  It’s later than I think. Shit, I’m not sleeping.

Day 19

I can’t tell Cote about my interactions.  He wouldn’t understand the nuances of this negotiation.  I think he smells my soap through the wall.  The other men are being tortured to within inches of death, then brought back.  Let to rest, then being tortured again.  I, on the other hand, have been fed, showered, and consistently laid.

He’s starting to hear the guards talk though.

“Hey, I think there’s another officer here.  They think someone’s about to talk.”

When he was in my command, Cote was a smart-ass.  I know he ripped me to the other guys.

“Go to sleep, man.”  My voice is rested and clear.  He needs to get out of here.

Day 21

We’re meeting again.  More drinks.

“The man in the room next to me needs to go home.”

They look at each other, and before I can say more, the same map of the area is in front of me.  I grab the empty glass and place it over a weapons stronghold I know about. There is no drinking. They make phone calls, and send me back to my room.

Cote is released.

Day 36

My steak is perfectly rare.  The map’s in front of me, and there are three whiskey glasses indicating different places I know are strongholds. The bottle marks a house where the FAST team has people undercover.

“Let us go.”

“For this, we let you all go.”

“I can’t go back to the base. I need to get home.”   A POW will get sent straight home. We all know this, but I need it clarified.

“We don’t hurt you.”  He is smiling and sincere. He’s never lied to me.

Day  79

The 4^th of July parade used to be a joke, now it’s massive.   High school bands march wearing yellow ribbons.  We sit in an open convertible and follow men dressed in revolutionary garb.  Their line includes a drum and fife. Periodically, they fire fake muskets.

Prior to the parade starting, we all shake hands, the guys and my family.

The only one who speaks has a push broom mustache.  A drip of sweat hangs from his earlobe.  Those uniforms are pure wool. “Thank you for your service. How long were you imprisoned?”

“Once you’re in, you’re in, it’s hard to say,” I say.

“No, I mean, do you know how long you were captive for?”

“I think these guys want a picture,” I say.

One of the men’s wives has a small American flag painted on her temple.  She points a camera at us.  They gather around me.  We all smile. Thumbs are raised.

My real uniform’s too small. I wear a fake one from a store.  Once we start moving, we stop every ten feet, so the guys can fire those muskets.  My daughters have red, white, and blue ribbons in their hair.  When the fake rifles go off, they block their ears and giggle.  My wife waves proudly with one hand, the other is snug in mine.

Maryanne relied on confession.  Every Sunday, she entered the booth tight and fast, her shoulders in a permanent shrug.  On exit, her legs moved without effort; her feet bounced.  She said her Hail Marys and Acts of Contrition.  In the summer, the skin on her knees clung momentarily to the leather kneeling pad.  They made a slight ‘fffip’ sound as she stood.

In this church, young angels adorn the plaster ceiling.  A chip in the paint created a one-eyed angel. Depending on one’s mood, she either focused or winked.

For as long as he could remember, Father Aldon had difficulty with himself.  His pale skin, light blue eyes and white hair didn’t fit a man of his age.  When he stood, his thin body swayed, his fingers were long and narrow like claws.  His appearance garnered harsh reactions from strangers.  Acquaintances were scarce.  Through the years, he forgave everyone.  Eventually, his days began with forgiveness toward everyone around him for things yet to occur.

As the youngest priest in the parish, he heard confession.  He enjoyed it. Forgiveness drove him to the priesthood.  As he sat in the confessional, he recognized the cadence of Maryanne’s footsteps as she approached.

“Bless me father for I have sinned. It has been one week since my last confession.”

“What is the nature of your sin?” Father Aldon’s light voice pressed against the holes in the screen and made its way through, faintly but with purpose.

“I’ve been here before.”

Father Aldon recognized her voice and closed his eyes.  “Many people come regularly.”

“You know that I’m married, but I see someone.” She said. “Someone else, Brian. I see Brian, but I am married to someone else.” Her pink mouth strained to maintain her whisper.

“This isn’t the first time?” He tried to pose it as a question, but he knew the answer

“With him, no, I only see him, and, I won’t stop.”

He was surprised.  In the past, she expressed a desire and a promise to end it.

She cleared her throat and leaned toward the screen.  “But, I want to stay married, I just…No, this isn’t the first time.”

“You know God forgives you, but why continue?”

“My husband is a good man, but I only care about God.”  She surprised herself when she said it.

Part of a priest’s duties includes marital advice, but not here. “Say your normal prayers for yourself, but I…I think you should talk with your husband.”

“You aren’t married, you don’t know.”

“I’m committed to God,” he said.

She leaned back and stared into the dark air. “You can’t tell anyone.”  She smiled faintly as she flattened her shoulders against the booth.  She forgot her smile and whispered so harshly that it almost became a shout.  “I know you can’t. You can’t right?”

Father Aldon lowered his voice to add effect. “You know your prayers, and you will have God’s forgiveness if you desire it.  If you desire it, then you will stop.”

“Thank you, Father,” she said.

“Bless you.”

The empty chill in the church required Father Aldon to keep a blanket on his lap.  As always, he folded and left it.  His thin fingers created a perfect crease and he pressed it gently into the seat.  The crease remained undisturbed.  Once the church was empty, he left the confessional.

The rectory was off limits to parishioners.  Sometime ago, the priests began to allow certain volunteers to assist with cleaning, laundry, and meals.  All of the volunteers left for the evening and the other priests were on retreat.  When Father Aldon was home alone, he read and pondered scripture.  He prepared sermons and tea.

The rectory door was large and thick like an amish table top.  A heavy tapping came as he sipped.  His hand jostled and caused a slight spill.  As he approached the door, the tapping grew loud and frantic.  He heard his name.  The door vibrated, but the hinges held strong.  He trembled as he quickened his pace.  His knees wobbled.   His gentle hand slowly turned the knob.

With the side of his face to the wall, he peered through the door’s opening. Maryanne stood outside.  Her coat was too big for her and her breath was visible.  His eyes widened. She sobbed and spoke quickly between gasps.  “He knows… Jack knows.”

Father Aldon was startled. He mustered composure. “Can I help you with something?”

“He followed me out of the house.”  She gasped, and looked over her shoulder.  She whispered harshly, “He knows I am here, please.”  She shoved her fingertips into the crack.  He tried to remove her hand, and watched her body tremble.

“Oh my God.” She looked at the ground.

He looked to console her, but a large figure grew in the distance. Suddenly, he felt the door press against his body.  He stumbled back, and held the door to brace himself.  Once inside, Maryanne lunged for the door.

Father Aldon held it away and stared at her, his hands and mouth quivered. “You can’t be in here.” Maryanne went to push the door shut.  It bounced off of Jack’s thick, leathery hand.  He groaned quietly and the door closed.

Inside the rectory, the knob began to rotate, Father Aldon held it.  His thin hands trembled, but the knob did not move.  Maryanne watched from the floor. She sat with her hands flat; her chin shook.

Jack’s voice came forcefully through tears. “Who is it, Mary?  Tell me who it is.” She heard the bubble in his throat and looked to the door with wide eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I told you.” Her eyes fell to Father Aldon, seeking his assistance.

“Why would you come here?” Jack yelled.

“I don’t even know where I was going,” she told both men.

“All I want to know is who it is, Mary.  Just tell me who it is,” he demanded.  His tone changed with every sentence.

Father Aldon stared at Maryanne, his hand twitched on the knob.  His bony knees pressed a thin shoulder against the door.   The knob stopped turning.  Jack was silent.

The silence broke when Jack screamed and slammed his body into the door.  Father Aldon’s body bounced; his pants shook.  The door remained shut.  Jack unloaded a barrage of words, fists and elbows.  Father Aldon’s clothing tickled his shins and arms as they vibrated from the onslaught.

The pounding stopped.  Silence passed through the rectory and the priest looked to his chair. The pressure on the door was now steady and driven.  Through the door, he felt Jack’s weight.

“I know you confessed it.” Jack’s voice was calm, spoken through hands and tears.  Father Aldon’s eyes fixed on Maryanne.  She mouthed the words, “You can’t.  You know you can’t.”

Jack spoke quickly. “Father, it’s a sin. She committed a sin. I need to know who it is.”

“Go away Jack.” Maryanne spoke from the floor.

“Why would you come here?” Jack asked quietly, almost pondering.  “If you already confessed, why would you come here?” His voice backed away, and he paused.  “Your fucking fucked up up bringing.” He sniffed and whispered. “You’re fucking a priest.  Jesus, Mary.”

Maryanne sat on the floor, said nothing.  Father Aldon stared at the door.  His mouth twitched and trapped his gentle voice.  He couldn’t reveal her confession. Suddenly, Maryanne stood at the wall next to him.  Her hand pressed flat and her eyes confident.  She stood ready to tell the truth.  Father Aldon held his words.  He knew it was her time.

Maryanne placed her forehead against the wall, stared at the floor and spoke “Yes Jack, I am sleeping with Father Aldon.”

The priest loosened his grip on the doorknob, and his hand fell to his side.  He fixed on Maryanne.

The door pressed into his face, and Jack’s large arm was now inside.  His shoulder followed as well as his face, then his torso.  The door opened.  Father Aldon leaned back; and felt Maryanne behind him.  Jack stood in the hallway.

Father Aldon shook his head; and said gently, “No.” Jack examined the room.

“Do you come here?  Is this where it happens?” He asked.

“Sometimes.”  Maryanne stood beside the priest.  Father Aldon pressed his back against the door which now lay shut.  Again, his mouth trembled as he whispered, “It’s not true.”

“I know it’s someone. If it’s not you, then tell me who.”

“I see Maryanne at church.” His face shook. “I don’t know her.”  Father Aldon stared at the ground like the subject of a painting. “I’m not sleeping with her.  I’ve given myself to God.”

Jack turned to Maryanne. “I want it to be over.”

She leaned forward, “It is over. It is.”  She nodded.  She could see Jack was calm. “It is over, honey.”  She continued. “He tricked me.  I thought he was someone who would listen. I feel awful.” She reached for his massive shoulder, “stupid and awful.”

Jack’s voice rose. “She came to you for help?”  Father Aldon shook his head. His hands quivered. “No,” he continued, “No.” His voice was soft.

Priests don’t know how to look for a punch.  His thin hands sprang up, but fell like branches under a stone.  Jack didn’t have the time to make a proper fist.  His right palm and fingertips hammered the side of Father Aldon’s head.  Drawing back for the second blow and without opposition, he clenched a fist.   Jack’s face was red and frothing; tears fell.

Maryanne sat in the corner and held her breath.  She envisioned her protest.  She would tell Jack to stop and hold his arms back.  She would tell him the truth, and then vow to end the whole thing.  He would ask her why she did this. They would have a conversation about how Jack needed to be better to her, about how they needed to be better to each other.  They would grow from this.  She thought in silence.  Her face contorted like she was crying; no tears came.

Jack looked at Maryanne and stopped.  Father Aldon lay on his side, gasping.  He mumbled. Blood from his nose seeped into his throat; he gagged.  He rolled onto his face, and coughed fluids onto the ground.

Maryanne cried as she and Jack left the rectory with their arms around each other.

Father Aldon propped himself up in the bathroom. Eventually, he found his feet and climbed into the shower.  He lay in the tub and the water sprinkled his torso.   It was too hot for him but he leaned forward.  The water flattened the front of his hair, and his cuts stung.  He let the water roll into his mouth and under his chin.  The red blood became pink in the tub and drained away.

Once in bed, the pain in his ribs forced him to roll onto his back. Breathing through the pain, he lay flat.  His fingertips touched the edges of his bed without reaching.  Realizing that he would awaken, he allowed himself to fall asleep.

Mrs. Elmer looked like a teapot and volunteered at the church. She remained ‘after Monsignor Falley had his issues, and,’ she told everybody ‘the last six years or so brought some of the people back.’  Now, more than ever, her parish pleased her.  ‘Mass now,’  she would say, ‘it’s all young families.’ She encouraged everyone to get to know Father Aldon.  She acknowledged that his appearance was startling.  But, ‘he is such a gentleman.’

When she arrived the next morning, Father Aldon was still asleep.  This was common.  Mrs. Elmer ran past the blood stained floor.  “Father Aldon!” she called, sprinting to his room and knocking on his door.

When he answered the door, she stepped back. “Goodness Father, were you attacked?

The sunlight was difficult for him, and this morning was particularly bad.  He winced.  The sunlight surrounded Mrs. Elmer as she stood in the hall.  “It’s nothing,” he said.

“Father, did someone do this?”  She was terrified.  “Nothing? Oh my, look at your face. Who would… We should call the police.  When did this happen?”

“It is nothing.”  He knew where the line of answers and questions would lead.  It was a path he could not go down.   “Can you clean this please?” He pointed to the floor.

“Nothing… Father you… How can you say it’s nothing?”

“Are you here to do the cleaning Mrs. Elmer?” he spoke softly.

“Well, yes, I am, but.”

“Please then.  I’m okay.”

She reserved her most firm voice for unruly children and their parents.  She used it now. “Father, this is ridiculous. Tell me who did this to you.”

For a brief moment, Father Aldon felt tall on his feet.  He stretched and coughed. He stood and spoke as though the pulpit were in front of him. “That’s not possible.”

This was the message he gave to volunteers, fellow clergymen, and anyone who asked.  He looked forward to the day when the wounds healed and people stopped asking.  But for now, he pressed forward in confidentiality.

The following Sunday, Father Aldon heard confession. His wounds hidden in the booth.  After the endless parade of siblings that can’t get along, and children who don’t respect their parents, Father Aldon leaned his white hair against the wooden wall of the confessional. His face was no longer tight from pain.  He folded his blanket and placed it on the seat behind him when he heard a familiar sound.  The unmistakable cadence of Maryanne’s heals echoed in the church.

She felt the one-eyed angel’s focus; like she looked through a magnifying glass.  Father Aldon heard her move from the rear entry of the church toward the confessional.

“Bless me father, for I have sinned,” she said kneeling. “It has been one week since my last confession.”

Father Aldon stared at the wall and prepared to hear her.  He pressed his shoulder against the wooden booth and listened.

“I convinced Jack not to file any formal complaint against you. He isn’t going to tell anyone, so you don’t have to worry,” Maryanne said quietly.  “I had to save my marriage, you understand that.”  She pressed her hand against the wooded window.  “Jack was late last night. He worked late and Brian called me.  He was thinking of me and he called me.  We just talked.  I mean we talked and decided to slow things.  To, you know, slow things down.”

The angst in her voice was familiar.

“I decided not to tell him about us.  I just mentioned that Jack might be suspicious, so maybe we should slow down.  Does God forgive people like me? Father? I guess I’m afraid.” She stared at the floor, refused to cry. “I’m afraid of a lot of things I guess. Does God forgive people like me?”

The angel’s good eye fixed on the center of the aisle that led to the front of the church.  The dark wood of the confessional matched the benches and the pulpit. The wood cut at straight edges and curved for comfort in proper places.  The carpentry was simple and effective.  A worn red carpet covered the aisle.  From the angel’s point of view, she could see the trend of travel.  The choir of candles sang for old souls and new.  Some burned their voices, some were unlit and silent.  Father Aldon knew for whom the candles burned.  They burned for his parishioners, his church and his God.  Without hesitation, he answered her question with confidence, “Of course.”

“Hey John.” He still has all his hair.

“Hey.”

“What year is the Sienna?”

“’07, why?”

“No reason,  just noticed you’re still missing a hubcap.” He has white teeth like a Disney prince.  Last week he mentioned he’d be willing to ‘take care’ of my yard for me.

“Yeah, the thing popped off, dealership wants like $300.00 for new ones.  I could buy replacement ones at the depot, but they just look different.”

“Yeah,” he laughs through his nose. “Well they might look better than a missing one.”

“I guess.  What’s up?” I motion to the envelope.

“Well, the association met last night, and we were wondering if you could maybe take care of that.”

“Oh, no one told me about a meeting.”

“Yeah, we met in the ‘man cave’ ya know.”  He sniffs and tries to laugh with me.

I don’t open the envelope.   Walking away, he pulls a weed out of my lawn.  Holding it up, he smiles, carries it with him.   His khaki shorts have a crease in them from the dry cleaner.

The letter is on Allen’s letterhead.

Dear John Newell:

We hope this letter finds you well.  Please accept this correspondence as official notice that it is the decision of the Misty Meadow Road Neighborhood Association that the missing rear passenger side hub cap of your midnight blue Toyota Sienna, (license plate “ski mom”)  constitutes a sustained nuisance and sight pollutant to the neighborhood and its citizenry.

The consistent and continued display of the interior workings of your tire significantly interferes with the use and enjoyment of our property.

In the event that you do not take adequate measures to alter this situation, we as an association will.  Upon which time, we will seek reimbursement from you.   Please respond to this notice in 15 days.  If we do not receive your response by then, we will assume that you have    no intention to rectify this situation, and will undertake to do so.

Very Truly Yours,

Misty Meadow Road Neighborhood Association

The paper is crisp, and recyclable.  It folds nicely into the envelope.  I should run this by Beth, I don’t think they can meet without her either.

Our dining room table is set.   It’s decorated with different color plates stacked together, real looking fruit and other precise flights of whimsy.  On the walls are black and white pictures of plants we don’t own and people we don’t know.   We eat at the counter.

“Can you believe this letter?”  I show it to her.

“They can’t have a meeting without us, can they?”

“They definitely cannot.”

“I don’t really like driving it like that. Why don’t you just get a new cap?” She asks.

“That’s not the point.  The point is that these guys cannot meet without us.”

Silently, we eat free-range chicken, and organic vegetables, it’s all grilled. Prior to being killed, no living things were harmed in the preparation of this meal.

“Well, they did meet without us.”

She was right, indeed they did. The hubcaps aren’t the point. In a way, we brought this up in the past, but it was  Wes’s Odyssey.  It doesn’t have roof racks and it’s like 10 years old. At the time, everyone shot down the discussion.  But, now Brad hands me this letter.

After dinner, I stand in my driveway, and look at the neighborhood.  They’re all scrambling from me.  None of them can look me in the eye.  The circle that contains all of our houses is big, but not so big.  Some of these houses have three windows on top, some have five.  We have five, thank god.   They are various shades of beige, red doors.   I remember when we all had the trees removed.   The ones we planted are much nicer.  Authentic Japanese Maples from Colorado.   Precise circles surround the trunks, black mulch.  The association demanded it.  That was the point of the association, not this crap.  Back then, we had vision and leadership.

Although they look the same,  these houses have original features.  Ours has a sunflower on the door, for instance.  Brad’s looks like some kind of weird Magnolia.

I do park the minivan to hide the missing hubcap.   Seriously, a fucking magnolia?

Night’s coming. It’s supposed to be a clear one. Trash pickup is tomorrow morning.  For trash, the town allows one barrel per house.   Anything beyond that has to go in this special, purple bag.  You could put anything in that bag.

Both of our cars come with tool kits to replace tires. They have crow bars in them, the varnish on mine is uniform and shiny.  It’d be a shame to scrape it.

My father-in-law has tools.  He’s home.

“Hey Bill, can I borrow your crow bar?” My knees and feet are sore from standing on the tile floor.

“You don’t have a crow bar in your car, John?”

“Can I swing by and grab yours?”

“Fine.”

The sun is set when I get back from Bill’s house.  Beth’s gardening gloves are un-opened, her little hand shovels are pristine (she has three).  I only need the gloves.   Canvas gloves, crow bar, and town regulated trash bags.  I stash them behind the good will clothes.

There was a piece of dinner left in my gum.  I get it out with floss, stare at it, little fucker.  My slippers are under the bed.

Beth has her blankets,  I have mine.  Her breathing becomes slow and elongated, rhythmic.  I pop an eye open.  A hard green 12:31 casts soft light on about a quarter of the room. It’s tomorrow morning. Wait another half hour.  With this mattress, she doesn’t feel me get up.

These L.L. Bean slippers are like boots for crying out loud, quiet and waterproof.   Nothing in the house creaks and I make my way to the garage.

The night air is quiet, but well lit by the street lights.  They buzz.  Someone should do something about that.  It sounds awful.  Everyone’s grass is dry now.

Luckily, the town is going green. So these garage lights are dim, the alarms are less effective.

No one keeps cars in their garages.

Allen’s house is first. Why the hell did he build this fence here?  It would look better along the front, like the rest of us.   The letter was on his letterhead.  His Honda Pilot has some oval bumper stickers with distances on them.  The vinyl siding on his house looks like real wood.

The flat end of the bar finds its way nicely behind the hubcap.  RREEEAAC  Jesus, that was loud!  No lights come on. It’s kind of dangling there.  The final pull gets it.

After a couple of houses the hub caps start to clink together in the bag.  All of them, from the rear passenger side. The next couple go a little quicker.

Taking this cap off Wes’s Odyssey  will be an improvement. No roof racks, for god’s sake the thing looks like a toaster.

I’m almost done when everyone’s sprinkler system pops on.  I have to stand in the middle of the circle to stay dry. Beth will notice I’m wet, or that I had to change clothes. So I stand, borrowed, rusty-crow bar held in one pink gardening glove, and a surprisingly light bag of hub caps in the other.

18 minutes later, the sprinklers are done.  I pop off the rest, tie the bags, and lean them next to my trash barrel.  The gloves go in the bag as well, she won’t notice.  The crow bar rests on the floor of my passenger seat.

The next morning is sunny.  Sunny, bright, and happy. The smell of hazelnut slithers into my nose. The temperature of my coffee is now perfect.  I sip and wait my driveway.   One by one, the neighbors come out to place their trash on the sidewalk. They notice the missing hubcaps.  Non-association members don’t quite know what to do about it.  It’s not their fault, really, but that’s not the point.

Allen and Brad have the same waist size. If you want to know what that size is, say hello to them, and wait 10 minutes.

They thunder toward me in unison.  I stand in my driveway, feet flat.  The folded letter is in my pocket.

“John, what the hell is this?” Brad points to the purple bag.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,  what’s in the bag?”

“Just some trash, you know, when our barrel is full, we put extra  stuff in the bag,” I say.

On the weekends, Allen tucks his shirt in. His hair plugs are amazing.  “Jesus John, we mean, we know what’s in the bag. Are you friggin’ crazy?”

“It’s just my trash guys.”

They both turn and begin to walk toward my sidewalk where the bag sits.

“You both remember bylaw number 112, right?” I look straight ahead and wave to Wes.

Both men stop and look over their shoulder at me.  The giant green truck begins to moan and hiss it’s way around the circle.

“That’s horseshit John,” Brad says.

“I recall the conversation, last year, Wayne had his kids go through the recycling to find bottles and cans, for the Cub Scouts, right.  After that, we passed, 112, ‘no going through people’s trash’. I’m sure I’m paraphrasing.”

Both men watch as the truck pulls up in front of my house.  I walk, letter in hand, toward the truck.

The garbage men in this town are well paid. “Morning,  John,” he says.

“Hey Jack, I forgot this.” I hand him the letter and he adds it to the trash.

I think I’m the only one who tips these guys.  He ignores the fact that I should be recycling the letter.

Everything gets thrown into the truck.  Hubcaps pop as they are split and crushed by the moaning compactor.   The recycling truck should be here in about an hour.

I face Brad and Allen. They watch Jack circulate the neighborhood in his pristine garbage truck.

“We should meet tonight to discuss the buzzing street lights. They’re sort of urban,” I say.  They look at each other.  I continue, “We can meet at my place. Allen, why don’t you let everyone know.”  He nods in agreement. They both avoid everyone’s grass on the way back to their houses.

Normally, I don’t qualify my stories.  But, I think the length deserves an explanation.  The challenge is to write a 12 word story about sex, but not too dirty.  This is my attempt.

Cinderella’s life coach advises her to outsource the housework. This morning, the help is cleaning up the mess from yet another broken glass slipper.  They speak to each other in their native language, ‘How many of these things does she have?’

Prince Charming sits and rests his head against his sizeable chair.  This relieves some of the stiffness in his lower back. He groans through pristine teeth. A small pile of envelopes rests in front of him.  He calls across the massive table to his wife.

“Cindy, is this everything?”

Cinderella takes a bite of her english muffin.  Before she can answer, he speaks again.

“Hon?”  He asks.

Annoyed, she speaks quickly. “Yes?”

“Is this everything?”

“Yes.”

A massive chandelier hangs 30 feet above the table, has countless lights. She examines it.

Charming opens the mail.  He exhales, forehead in hand.

“Jesus, it costs $17,000.00 a month to heat this place.”

Cinderella’s voice is pointed. “You didn’t replace that light bulb?”

“Huh?”

“Last week, I told you to replace that light bulb.”

“I, umm, I replaced it. It must be a different one.”

“No, it’s that one,” she says, turning her attention back to her breakfast.

“Are the kids doing singing lessons again this year?” He asks.

“Yes, and I need to get Scott something, it’s his birthday this weekend.”

“Who?”

“Anastasia’s son. He’s 5.”

His head rolls back. “Are you serious? We have to go to that thing.”

“You’re his godfather, yes we have to go,” she says.

“Will your stepmother be there?”

“What do you think?”

After finishing his coffee, he walks toward her end of the table.  The click of his heels echo in the vast room. Tassels hang from his brass shoulder pads.  The scabbard at his waist bumps the wooden chairs.

“I have to run.”

She smiles. “What do you have today?”

He adjusts his gloves and speaks. “We’re hunting, I’m getting another painting of myself done, and then I have that thing with the K of C.”

“Will you be late?”

“Usual time.”

He leans in to kiss her. She offers her cheek.

“Love you,” she says.

“Love you, too.”

The coach awaiting Charming is porcelain, encrusted with jewels.  The inside is lined with perfect leather, it creaks when he sits.

“Good morning, sir.”  The footman greets him and looks to his empty hands.  “Isn’t it Wednesday, sir?”

He’s right, trash day.

“You know, what,”  Charming says. “Forget it, I’ll just get it next week, no big deal.”

“Very good sir.” The footman gives him a knowing look.

The click of horseshoes on the brick pathway are precise in the cool morning air.  The horses prance regally.  Charming is fighting to ignore the footman’s stare.  Halfway to the gate, he gives in.

Looking at the footman, he speaks. “I’ll never hear the end of it. Turn around, I have to do the trash.”

“Very good sir.”  The footman orders the carriage to turn around.  The trash bags bare the royal crest.  Charming carries them, arm extended.  Shards of broken glass pokes holes.  Bird and mouse droppings sprinkle the walkway.

“Good morning, Bill, I was wondering if I have enough life insurance.”

“Okay, first off, how much money do you make?”

“I make about $250,000.00.”

“And are you married?”

“Yes.”

“Does your wife work?”

“Yes, she does some non-profit work on the weekends, so she only makes about $125,000.00.”

“Per year or per month?”

“Year.”

“Oh, well, okay, does she like what she does?”

“Yes” (laughing) “she does.”

“Well that’s important too. (Laughing)”

“Okay, do you own your home?”

“Well, we have a mortgage.”

“Okay, how much?”

“We owe about  $125,000.00.”

“Okay, rough estimate, what’s the house worth?”

“I dunno, maybe about $700,000.00”

“How many years do you have left on your mortgage?”

“About eight years.”

“Okay, how much do you have saved for retirement?”

“I have about $325,000.00 in my 401k, and about $250,000.00 in an IRA.  My wife stopped working full time about 3 years ago, so she only has about $200,000.00 in her 401k.”

“What about free cash?”

“We have about $100,000.00.”

“Thats’s free cash?”

“AAAhh yes it’s in an ING account, so…”

“Fine, fine.”

“How old are your children?”

“5 and 2, they can both read.”

“That’s great, but I didn’t ask.”

(laughing) “Okay, okay.”

“How old are you?”

“32.”

“Okay and your wife?”

“29.”

“Okay, you’re not in bad shape.  I…I have to say, I’m not real happy about your free cash.  But, getting to your question, how much life insurance do you have now?”

“We have a million on each of us.”

“That’s probably not enough, you may need to have another half million on both of you.”

“Okay, we’ll do that then, Thanks.”

“We have another caller. Hello, this is the money show, I’m Bill Oaks.”

“Hi, Bill I have a question about my retirement.”

“Okay, how old are you.”

“I’m 58 years old.”

“Are you married?”

“Yes, my wife’s 57.”

“Okay, how much money do you make?”

“I work a couple of different jobs and make about $25,000.00.”

“Okay.”

“My wife makes about $18,000.00.”

“Okay, do you own your home?”

“Yes, well we owe about $500,000.00 on the home.”

“Okay, what do you think it’s worth?”

“We bought it for $250,000.00, about 15 years ago, I think it’s worth about that.”

“Okay, how much do you have saved for retirement?”

“I started putting something aside last year, I think, umm I think I have about $37.00, no $38.00 in  my IRA and about $12.00 in my 401 k.  My wife has a little less than that.”

“Okay, do you have any other debt?”

“I have about $40,000.00 in credit card debt, and my wife I think she, she’s good about it. I think she has about half that.”

“Okay, what about free cash?”

“Bill, are you there?”

“Yes, I’m here.  I was asking about free…  I’m sorry… hello.”

“Sorry, just the kids and the dog.”

“How old are you kids?”

“They’re about 15, 14, 13 , 12 and the triplets are 11.  My wife has the same kids.”

“Okay, what was your question?”

“My question is this, when I kill myself, would you recommend a car crash, or a simple hanging in the bathroom?”

“Well, how much life insurance do you have?”

“I think I have about $35,000.00 through work.”

“Okay, the investigations for a car crash are less invasive than a garden variety hanging.  Also, (laughing) your wife won’t be able to collect on your life insurance if you’ve committed suicide.”

“Is that right?”

“For the most part, yeah.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, well don’t get me going on the insurance companies.” (laughing)

“I will agree with you on that! Well I’m glad I called.”

“Yeah, I would aim for a bridge, or something near water.”

“Okay, well I think we’ll do that.  Thanks for your time then.”

“Good Luck.”

He watches her come in and sit at the bar.  The seat next to her remains empty.  His pants hiss onto the leather as he sits.  The smell of her hair wafts in his face.  He speaks with cocked eyebrow. “You know, my wife always thanks me after sex.” She stares straight.

“Why would you say that to someone?”  Speaking through clenched teeth, she stares into the mirror behind the bar, and tilts her face. Admiring her jaw line, ‘easily my best angle,’ she thinks.

“You could simply buy me a drink.”

“Of course.” Todd’s wallet slips from his hand.  Todd bends to pick it up, he uses the floor for balance. Restaurant nastiness sticks to his finger tips.  She rocks her foot from heel to toe.

He knows this movement.  She pumps her foot like this when nothing’s on TV, when the kids are difficult, or when piles of laundry fill the living room.   He closes his eyes, and raises his head.  She swirls her water, ice clinks.  It’s almost melodic.

“Anne…” His shoulders are round as he speaks.  Their eyes connect.  Her coy look lets him know that everything is very much still “on.”

“Oh, I mean, Tiffany… it ‘s Tiffany right?” She smiles sarcastically, like she lost a playful bet.  His thin elbows lean into the polished bar.  They stare at each other in the mirror. Their outfits are trendy, black, and thinning.  Todd’s thinning hair is tousled. He always misses the same spots on his chin when he shaves.  Anne’s belly folds in, and creates a line.  She keeps a stiff back for prevention.

Earlier that night, they got ready together, she helped him pick out his outfit.  “I don’t know about Anne, but, I think Tiffany is going to love you in this.”  Eyes were sly and playful.

“My wife doesn’t usually wear things like that.”  He motioned to her tight black dress.  There was no response, she exhaled when he walked downstairs.   The bathroom smelled like her flowery perfume.   She fought to ignore the dirty toilet.

Now,  looking in the mirror, the crowd hums around them and bumps into one another.  People eat food, share stories. They drink.  Genuine laughter tickles the crowd’s underbelly.  Somewhere in the dark oak and velvet noise, everyone else enjoys themselves.

Half of the people at this bar work here, but come for a drink on their time off.  The other half wants to work here.

The cheap beer is overpriced.  Mixed drinks are not enjoyed, but sipped for display and discussed.

“Who wants to go to Bobby Mac’s?” Someone says, wearing his tight jeans designed to display penis and cloud sexual desire.

“Oh my god, we used to go there in grad school,” Someone else replies, not responding to the question and searching hopelessly for something clever and original to say.