duty free seattle

Just A Feeling

2010-07-05T17:28:00.000-07:00

Georgetown, 2010

Dwayne managed to get himself up off the floor of the RV and stagger over to the mattress, where he sat. He felt a trickle of blood along the side of his nose and waited for it to reach his mouth and when it did, the taste was not unexpected. He spat the blood into a coffee cup and recalled the last time he was assaulted, about a month ago down in Georgetown, behind a wholesale furniture warehouse. Blood tasted no better when one was sober.

The Georgetown fight ended with Dwayne lying face down, unconscious, in a pile a broken concrete. He doesn’t remember the ambulance ride to Harborview or the blue clad intern stitching up the deep gash above his left eye. He does, however, recall the court ordered stint in detox and if this latest cut required stitches, he would sew them himself rather than face another week without a drink. He pressed a t-shirt against his forehead as he rummaged through a cardboard box for a bottle of water so he could clean the wound.

He had been finding decent spots off Leary Way lately, and seemed content to stick around Ballard for a while until the police or unforseen circumstances forced him to relocate. This latest attack might very well qualify as one of those circumstances, but it was too soon to come to any decisions. First he had to get the blood to stop gushing.

The Georgetown incident was preceded in recent months by similar scuffles in Des Moines, Seatac, South Park and one particularly memorable skirmish along the shores of the Duwamish River near the First Avenue South Bridge. Dwayne’s penchant for making enemies while inebriated had put him on a free wheeling RV tour of the greater Puget Sound area, beginning in Tacoma and traversing north one stop at a time--here for a day, there for a week--until ultimately, he would cross the border and become Canada’s problem.

Dwayne’s troubles began in earnest about a year ago, when he inherited the RV and a little cash from his grandfather, who had died of a heart attack driving the vehicle through a snow storm in the Colorado Rockies. Grandpa Ellis, a decorated World War II veteran who, upon retiring from the military, divorced his fourth wife and spent the remaining years of his life criss-crossing the United States in his "Big Baby," routinely lectured to anyone who would listen that some vehicles were simply made to be owned and operated by men. “The Recreational Vehicle is a man’s domain, his fortress” he declared. “Men can handle these big rigs. Women can’t. That’s just the way it is.” His will stipulated that his oldest male descendent inherit the RV, presumably to insure that no woman would ever try to operate his beloved gas guzzler, or worse, sell it.

But selling the RV was exactly what Dwayne set out to do once the title was handed to him.

At the time of Grandpa Ellis’ death, Dwayne was piecing together a meager existence in Hamilton, Montana, stocking shelves part-time at Wal-Mart and Costco. He had gotten his drinking more or less under control and was considering enlisting in the army when his friend, Dean, an unemployed mechanic, suggested he drive the RV down to Los Angeles and sell it to some illegal Mexican families who, he convinced Dwayne, would pay good money for the rig--“Way over Blue Book value,” he said--allowing him to finally get the sports car he’d always dreamed of owning. Dean would accompany him, acting as mechanic, consultant and drinking buddy. This idea sounded good to Dwayne. If all else failed, his boss at Wal-Mart, Frank, assured him that he could find a job stocking shelves somewhere in Southern California.

When the pair reached Las Vegas, however, their plans went awry. Dean, the unemployed mechanic who had dropped out of high school and lived in his brother-in-law’s garage, who had never crossed the Montana state line in his life, was smitten by the glitz and glamour of Sin City. “I feel it in my bones,” he told Dwayne. “This is where I’m meant to be!” But, unfortunately, Dean's optimistic premonition was swiftly quelled. The city swallowed him up in no time. Luckless at the tables and slots, he gambled away all of what little money he had and much of the cash that Dwayne loaned him. One night, in the RV park on the outskirts of the city where the pair were staying, he got Dwayne drunk on Jack Daniels, knocked him out by smashing a bottle to his head, and stole most all of Dwayne’s inherited cash. The next morning, Dwayne awoke with a massive hangover and the first of what would be a series of head wounds that would require medical attention but rarely receive it. Dean was never seen or heard from again.

After a few days of nursing his injury and drinking the hours away at the RV park, watching the happy vacationers come and go, Dwayne reassessed his situation--his life, really-- and decided not to sell the RV. Maybe his Grandpa was right, after all. Maybe this vehicle was truly intended to be his domain, his fortress. Maybe losing his money and his friend Dean and the allure of Las Vegas was the best thing that could have happened to him.

Dwayne walked over to a small, family-owned casino and sat down to enjoy his first meal in days. He lingered over several cups of coffee, watched the news on CNN, and flirted with the waitress. It felt good to be among people again.

Afterwards, he bought a case of whiskey at a liquor store and then secured it in the back of the RV. Finally, sitting on his mattress in the cool shade of his fortress, sipping a whiskey, he studied a crude map of Nevada printed on the coffee-stained placemat he had pocketed at breakfast.

It was high noon and the blistering, blinding white heat of the sun immobilized this normally bustling city in the desert. The sidewalks were empty, the roads eerily quiet. Dwayne saw this as a sign, an opportunity. He finished his whiskey then got behind the wheel of his domain for the first time in a week, turned the key and revved the engine. From the RV park he turned right, not south onto Interstate 15 and Los Angeles, but toward the US 95 exit, north to Sparks, Nevada, where his destiny waited.

He maneuvered his rig onto the highway with renewed purpose and clarity. A genuine sense of calm enveloped his whole self--perhaps for the first time since he was a boy, before the drink took over, when the days were good and life was full of possibilities.

Like his friend Dean had felt it--that certainty--in his bones in Las Vegas, so now, on the road to Sparks or beyond, did Dwayne.

Ballard Industrial Area, 2010

Sharvi

2010-03-30T13:18:00.000-07:00

East Ballard, 2010

Sharvi Vajpai unfastened the seatbelt and let out a deep breath as she took in her surroundings.

"Oh, dear God."

She had lived in Lynwood all her life but hadn't known this stripmall existed until yesterday, when the man, Nathan, emailed her the address. It was in an expansive concrete and asphalt industrial park on the southern outskirts of the city, just off Highway 99. The place was deserted. Starbucks was open but a mattress outlet, a party supply store, a teriyaki joint and a gun shop were all closed or no longer in business. A pair of half-barrel planters sat forlornly on either end of the sidewalk, the dying petunias and begonias mostly hidden by chickweed and garbage.

The dashboard clock read 3:30. She was half an hour early.

Her mom had been driving her crazy at home, following Sharvi around, telling her what she should wear and how she should act and asking questions about Nathan for which Sharvi had no answers.

"This is not right, Sharvi!" she declared. "You are a beautiful, smart girl. You do not need to go begging for love from a stranger."

"Mom, you don't under--...."

"He's twice your age, Sharvi."

"He's only twenty seven!"

"It is too risky, Sharvi!"

"Jesus!" screamed Sharvi, "I c-c-can't stand this." She picked her keys out of the fruit bowl and headed for the door.

"Sharvi, wait!" her mom cried. "Where are you going?"

But it was too late. Sharvi was through arguing. She slammed the door and ran out to the parking lot.

Her mom stood on the condominium's tiny balcony, one hand on the railing, the other fighting the wind for control of her sari, and watched her only child drive off through the rain.

She shook her head.

"What would your father say?" she whispered, as she slid the glass door shut then returned to the couch and a golf tournament she had been watching on tv.

Sharvi called her mom before she got out of the car to tell her that she had arrived safely.

"Just be yourself, Sharvi," her mom advised. "Any man will adore you."

"Yes, mom," sighed Sharvi, before hanging up, "I know. I know. I know."

She entered the coffee shop--one of Starbucks' spare, no-frills stores--ordered a tea and sat at the small table in the middle of the room. She cupped her cold hands around the drink and thought how conspicuous and foolish she must look, in makeup and pretty clothes and fancy shoes with her hair trained just so, sitting here by herself on a Saturday afternoon, all tense and nervous. But a middle aged man and teenage girl, the only other customers, paid no attention to her and the barista was too busy behind the counter to care. "Just breathe," Sharvi told herself. "Breathe and relax. Be yourself."

Sharvi knew very little about Nathan, of course, but in his correspondences he came across as intelligent and funny, if not slightly insecure. He was 27 and, like her, lived with his mom. He was taking classes at Shoreline Community College and eventually wanted to get a degree in theology. He had posted one picture of himself on his profile, a rather blurry shot of him hugging a dog in the mountains somewhere, though he wrote--as if apologizing-- that it wasn't his dog. He was white, blue eyed, had some acne scars which he made a point of mentioning, was average height and had short brown hair. He professed to enjoy traveling--something he and Sharvi had in common--so she reasoned that, at the very least, they might have a harmless conversation sharing a few travel stories, shake hands, and part ways.

Sharvi was interested in many other things besides traveling, of course. She was an excellent student, taking pre-med courses at the University of Washington. She designed and made her own clothing. She played the guitar. She was researching her family history and, with her mom's encouragement, planned to go to India in the fall to investigate her father's mysterious death. She spoke Hindi and Italian and was learning Spanish. In the three weeks in which she had been active on the dating website, Sharvi had been contacted by several men who were impressed with her talents and interests and, she guessed, the photograph of her sitting with her attractive friends at a restaurant table under dim, flattering lights. However, these contacts had not resulted in one meet up, not one date. Sharvi figured that it was because she had been completely upfront with these men in her correspondences. She had presented herself to these men honestly, and they had chosen to not pursue her further. With Nathan, she decided to be discreet. Nathan would not discover the truth until he walked into the Starbucks and saw her.

Five years ago, Sharvi was diagnosed as having the degenerative muscular disorder known as Facioscapulohumeral Muscular Distrophy, or FSH. She had been experiencing a subtle weakening, a soreness, in the facial muscles around her eyes and mouth for almost a year until she finally mentioned it to her mom, who brought it to the attention of her doctor. Since then, the disorder had progressed to the point where Sharvi's speech had become slurred and her mouth, indeed her smile, was perpetually crooked. Her eyelids drooped, making her appear sleepy or tired. The muscles in her upper arms had weakened and raising them past a certain level was difficult. Her shoulders sloped. Her lower leg muscles had weakened as well, causing her to limp.

But, the good news--as Sharvi had to occasionally remind her friends and her mom--is that the disorder progressed slowly and that it did not affect one's life expectancy or intellect or imagination or sense of humor or the very essence of one's being. "You may have to put up with my neurosis for a hundred more years," she joked.

Nathan entered the Starbucks at precisely 4:00 and walked around the middle aged man and teenage girl, who were leaving. He spotted Sharvi, now the only customer in the shop, and stopped.

Sharvi took a sip of her tea, looked up, and waited for him to approach. But he just stood there, expressionless, his hands buried in the pockets of his long navy peacoat.

"Well, here we go again," thought Sharvi.

Nathan pulled his cell phone out, looked at it, and returned it to his pocket. He glanced out the window. Then, finally, he walked up to Sharvi and extended his hand. "Hi. Sharvi? I'm Nathan."

Sharvi moved her right hand from the tea cup and brought it slowly and deliberately to Nathan's. "Hi, Nathan," she said, "I'm Sharvi. You picked an...." And here Sharvi had difficulty ennuciating the word. "An...un...unu....unu...--"

"Unusual spot?" Nathan interrupted.

"Yes!" laughed Sharvi.

"I know," replied Nathan with a grin, slightly embarrassed. "Can I explain?"

"Of course," said Sharvi. "Take a seat. Make yourself com...com...fort...able."

"Thank you. I will." He took off his coat and as he set it over the chair his cell phone slipped out, dropped to the floor, and fell apart. "Dang it," he muttered. Nathan collected the pieces and stuffed them into the coat pocket. "Sorry. I'm a little nervous."

"That's okay," said Sharvi.

"Do you mind if I get a coffee first?" he asked.

"No, g-go ahead," Sharvi smiled. "I'll be here."

Bird Watching

2010-02-15T20:23:00.000-08:00

Dove, South Lake Union, 2010

"You need a hobby, Ken."

They sat across the table from one another but may as well have been a hundred miles apart.

This was Gwen's idea, this Saturday morning breakfast at the cute little diner with the '50's decor on Leary Way that young couples swarmed to on weekends to feed hangovers and commiserate about the previous night's debauchery.

They had arrived early and were seated immediately, but the place was filling up fast and getting noisy. "We have no business being here," mumbled Ken between sips of water.

"What did you say?" asked Gwen.

"Nothing," said Ken, gazing at the young people outside in the drizzle waiting for a table, mingling in small groups, drinking coffee, laughing.

Ken had worked as a laborer in the shipbuilding industry for over forty years. Still relatively young at 62, he hadn't really considered retirement until he suffered a debilitating back injury when he was struck by a steel beam as he was welding a sub-assemblage on an oil tanker. He didn't have the skills or desire to move into an office position and so, with little fanfare, he stepped away from his life's work and retired to his modest Ballard home. He figured that he would find plenty of things to do around the house to keep himself occupied, that he wouldn't miss the early mornings and the long hours of dirty, strenuous, demanding work.

But if there was ever a man who was defined by his work, it was Ken. He was not prepared for the idle time retirement granted.

Gwen began rummaging through her purse. "I have something I want to show you," she said, as the waitress set two large plates of pancakes, eggs and sausages in front of them.

"Thank you, Miss" said Ken.

"I'll re-fill your coffee in a minute," the waitress replied pleasantly, but obviously harried.

Gwen slid a pamphlet across the table.

"What's this?" asked Ken.

"Kathy at the salon told me that her brother...Rick?...or Eric?...I can't remember...Anyway, her brother went on this bird watching tour at Discovery Park and--"

Ken slid the pamphlet back to his wife without looking at it. "I don't need or want a hobby, Gwen."

Gwen took a bite of her sausage. "Ken," she chewed, "they meet once or twice a month on Saturday morning. There's all kinds of people there. Students. Seniors. Beginners. Kathy said that--"

"Pass me the salt," snapped Ken. "Gwen. I don't like birds. I don't care about birds. What makes you think I would be interested in that?"

Gwen set down her fork and wiped her lips, then picked up the pamphlet and read out loud from it:

With five expert birdwatchers from Seattle Audubon, participants will split up into small groups of varying ability. Three educational outreach specialists will be on-hand to guide families through a children’s scavenger hunt--

The waitress returned with a fresh pot of coffee and re-filled their cups. "How is everything?" she asked.

Ken looked at Gwen who was intently studying the pamphlet. "Fine," he replied. "Thank you."

"I think you should at least consider it, Ken. If nothing else it would be good exercise, get you out of the house" said Gwen, as she resumed eating her sausage, now cold.

Ken said very little throughout the rest of the meal. He could tell Gwen was upset with him. As the commotion and volume rose around them, he fought off the desire to finish quickly and go home. He tried concentrating on the flavor and texture of his pancakes ("Slow down, Ken... taste your food," Gwen constantly reminded him) but it was no use. He set his knife and fork to the side. Then he said, to no one in particular, "Well, that was good."

He twisted the cap tight on the ketchup bottle, then picked up the empty white syrup cups scattered on the table and carefully set them along the edge of his plate. He watched Gwen, who was lost in thought, finish her poached eggs.

"Are you ready, Honey?" Ken asked his wife. She took a last sip of coffee and nodded yes, before tucking the pamphlet back into her purse.

He left a twenty on the table, then helped Gwen with her coat. He took her hand and they made their way through the clatter of happy diners and out onto Leary Way. The sun had come out and was reflecting sharply off the wet asphalt. The cars racing by sounded especially loud.

As the couple walked home in silence, a flock of chickadees flew overhead and disappeared into a Japanese Thundercloud Plumb tree, aglow in its early March splendor, the pinkish-white blossoms dewey and glistening. In an instant another larger group of birds, purple finches and sparrows, perhaps, joined the chickadees and now the tree was bursting with color and cacophony. Gwen stopped to take in the spectacle as Ken, head down, trudged on, oblivious.

When he finally became aware of his wife's absence, Ken turned and saw Gwen, half a block behind him, staring up at the tree.

"What's wrong?!" he yelled.

Starlings, Greenwood, 2010

The Stray

2009-12-29T13:31:00.000-08:00

Outdoor Seating, Former Doughnut Shop, Wallingford, 2009

Dutch shook out his umbrella, stomped his feet a few times, then stepped out of the rain and into Winchell’s. He waved at Steve as the Assistant Manager-Trainee took a customer’s order. Steve winked in return.

The doughnut shop's aging linoleum floor was muddy wet. Bare florescent bulbs cast a blinding reflection off the glass display case. The radio played something closer to static than Soft Hits. The windows were covered in condensation. Dutch traced a smiley face above a Puffies poster that clung by a single piece of tape, then slid into his usual seat at his usual table, removed his parka, and waited for Tina to bring him his coffee and lemon jelly doughnut.

It was a just another dreary Tuesday morning in the Wallingford Winchell's Donut House and Dutch couldn’t have been happier.

Dutch Kerrigan would turn sixty-eight next week. He would mark the occasion in the same manner as he had for the last ten years, the length of his sobriety. He would pull the thick wallet out of his coat pocket and show the kid behind the counter--probably Steve this year--his driver’s license. “See? It's my birthday today. I'm still here,” Dutch would grin. “Where's my free doughnut?”And the kid would find a candle, stick it in the doughnut or apple fritter or maple bar, light it, and make Dutch’s day.

Dutch was everyone's favorite regular--gregarious, sweet and unassuming. He regaled the staff and fellow customers with stories about the Wallingford of his youth. He told corny jokes. He handed out trinkets to little kids. He greeted everyone who walked in the shop like a long, lost friend.

Steve walked over with the coffee and lemon jelly. “Morning, Dutch. Here you go.”

“Thanks, kid. Where’s Tina?”

Dutch had a special fondness for Tina, a tough, ornery street kid, a runaway from Wisconsin who escaped an abusive boyfriend by hitchhiking across the western states with nothing but the clothes on her back and plenty of guile and perseverance. When she started working at Winchell’s last summer, Tina treated Dutch with the same poorly disguised contempt as everyone else she encountered. But Dutch saw through her tough façade. He recognized the disillusionment and hurt beneath the scowls and attitude. She reminded Dutch of his oldest daughter, Kimmie-- the one who got away.

In spite of her resistance, Tina evenutually warmed to the doughnut shop's beloved fixture. With a few words exchanged each morning across a grimy, laminated table in a poorly lit, nearly empty doughnut shop within earshot of the Interstate's drone, a friendship was forged.

Entrance, Former Doughnut Shop, Wallingford, 2009

Steve looked solemnly at Dutch's jelly doughnut, then took a seat across from the old man. “Tina’s probably not coming in today, Dutch.”

“Oh. Why’s that?” asked Dutch.

Steve explained that the Winchell’s corporation was losing money and closing unprofitable franchises. He told Dutch that all of the employees at the Wallingford location were being laid off or offered part-time positions at a shop in Kent, some twenty miles away.

Dutch took a sip from his cup and considered this news. He scanned the empty room and noticed that his smiley face had disintegrated into something abstract and lifeless. “Are you going to Kent, Steve?”

“No, Dutch,” replied Steve, “I’m done with doughnuts. I’m thinking of going back to school.”

“Oh, that’s good. What about Tina?”

“I don’t know, Dutch.” Steve heard the chime indicating the door had opened and turned to see a couple of teenage boys enter the shop. He got up from the table. “When I told her about the lay-offs yesterday she was pretty mad. She stormed outta here without saying much. I don’t know where she is, Dutch.”

Dutch couldn’t finish his doughnut. His felt anxious.

Tina was strong, a survivor. She had been through far worse than this, but still Dutch worried for her. He couldn’t help it. He envisioned her somewhere out on the streets frantic, beside herself, with no one to turn to. He left the shop without saying goodbye to Steve.

Dutch waited in the rain for the number 44 to take him into the U-District, to the dilapidated house on 7th that Tina shared with a bunch of other kids. He would find her and offer her whatever comfort and support he could. She might refuse him, he knew this--fall back on her street instincts to protect herself--but he would be there for her. He would not lose this one.

Service Entry, Former Doughnut Shop, Wallingford, 2009

Charlie's Guitar

2009-12-12T23:15:00.000-08:00

Elliott Bay, December, 2009

Father Bernard called Jess, a concert promoter, to ask if he knew any musicians who might want to sing and play guitar at Mass on Sunday. Jess thought about it for a moment, then volunteered himself.

“That’s great, Jess” said Father Bernard. “I didn’t know you played.”

“Yeah,” replied Jess, taking a sip of his whiskey.

“Well, thank you, Jess. I guess we'll see you on Sunday, then.”

“Okay, Father. See you then,” said Jess.

Jess walked down to the basement and found the acoustic guitar he had bought as a present for his son’s fifteenth birthday. Charlie loved the guitar, a Seagull S6, and had been taking lessons for a couple of months before the accident. After he died, the guitar was the only possession of Charlie’s that Jess had kept. Everything else was given away. Jess had asked his brother, Mark, to manage the purge, while he disappeared for a month somewhere in the remote woods of the Cascades confronting the deepest, most painful despair a man will ever know.

He took the guitar out and studied it. It hadn't been touched since Charlie’s friend, Rick, had played it at the funeral, three years ago. It felt light and foreign in his hands. He ran his fingers over the few scratches on its body and the remnants of a Radiohead sticker that Charlie had pried off after tiring of the band.

“He was getting good,” remembered Jess, cradling the guitar in the dim light of his tool room. “Really, really good.”

Jess gently placed the guitar in its case and carried it upstairs.

He poured himself another glass of whiskey and sat down in front of the tv. A basketball game was on. Tomorrow he would go to church for the first time since his son’s funeral. He would go to church and play a few songs for God and Father Bernard and all the rest.

He would play for his boy. His boy, Charlie.

*****

Jess arrived at the church a few minutes before Mass was to begin with the smell of alcohol on his breath. Father Bernard greeted him warmly, handed him a list of songs, and asked Jess if he still felt up to playing.

“Yes, Father,” he said. “You remember the last time I was here?”

“I do, Jess.”

“It’s been a tough few years, Father. You know what I mean?”

“I think I do, Jess,” said Father Bernard.

Jess stared at the priest for a moment and said nothing, then turned to leave the sacristy.

Father Bernard caught up to him. “Jess, you don’t have to do this.” But Jess ignored him and made his way to the sanctuary, near the altar, where the small choir sat, waiting for him to lead them in song.

*****

On Father Bernard’s cue, Jess rose from his pew and moved to the microphone stand. He strapped on Charlie’s guitar and gazed out at the packed church.

The parishioners waited for Jess to introduce the first hymn.

But Jess froze. He had taken this as far as he could. There would be no redemption. He stood paralyzed before his friends and neighbors, defeated and helpless, like an innocent man convicted, awaiting his sentence.

Father Bernard pressed his interlocked fingers against his chest and looked to the ceiling, as if beseeching God to intervene on poor Jess's behalf. But a full minute of silence passed, interrupted only by a few restless coughs and the plaintive cry of a tired infant. Father Bernard had seen enough. If God chose to show no mercy upon this grieving soul, then he would. He was about to escort Jess to his pew when a young man in the very back of the church stood and made his way down the aisle toward the altar. It was Rick, perhaps the only person in the congregation who knew that Jess had never played a single note on this or any other guitar in his life.

When he reached Jess, Rick carefully unstrapped the guitar from his neck, then placed it around his own. Then he whispered in Jess’s ear, “It’s good to see you again, Mr. Gainey. I hope this thing's in tune. Why don't you introduce the song.”

Jess took the list from his pocket, cleared his throat, and spoke hesitantly into the microphone. “The…uh…first song today is…uh…How Great Thou Art.”

For, Elliot Bay Fishing Pier, 2009

Wrong, All Wrong

2009-11-28T23:23:00.000-08:00

Blue Beam, Fremont, 2009

The memo informed John that the promotion would go to Davis, not him.

This news surprised John. He was certain that he would get it. He had been given every indication by his boss that the promotion was his to lose. The interview had gone very well. Everyone liked him. Everyone. His production was up. He hadn’t missed a day of work all year. Not one day.

But it was Davis, not him, who was named the new assistant.

Davis.

“How can this be?” he wondered. “I’ve done every thing they’ve asked. Everything. What has Davis done?”

That evening after work, Davis approached John in the parking lot as he was getting into his car. John decided that he would avoid Davis. “Just look straight ahead,” he told himself.

Before he could escape, though, Davis stepped in front of the car and tapped on its hood. John could not ignore him. He took a deep breath and rolled down the window. “Davis,” he said.

“John,” smiled Davis. “I’m glad I caught you before you left.”

“What is it, Davis?”

“I just wanted to say…well…I just, ah….”

“Congratulations on the promotion, Davis,” John said.

“Thanks, John. I know it must be hard--”

“Tell me, Davis,” interrupted John, “what have you done?”

“John?”

“What have you done in the time you’ve been here?” asked John.

“I’ve done everything they’ve asked,” replied Davis.

“Have you?” said John.

“Yes,” confirmed Davis. “Everything.”

John fiddled with the zipper of his jacket. A squirrel scampered across the parking lot carrying what looked to be a piece of pumpkin pie in its mouth.

“Did you see that, Davis?”

“See what?” asked Davis.

“Never mind,” said John.

“John--”

“I have to go, Davis. Things to do, you know.”

“Sure, John” said Davis. “I understand.”

John rolled up the window and drove off, ignoring Davis' wave.

On the way home, as snowflakes began to fall, John decided that his car needed washing. He pulled into a stall at the deserted Fremont Brown Bear and spent the next three hours there, under the harsh florescent lights, washing and rinsing his Prius and wondering what more he could have done.

Foam, Leary Way Northwest, 2009

Delectable

2009-11-15T18:13:00.001-08:00

Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #1, 2009

“He’s a two-timing son of a bitch is what he is,” Stella cried, and threw her engagement ring into the giant, silver chrome vat.

“What are you doing?!!” screamed Rainey. She flicked off the power switch, yanked up her sleeve, stuck her arm into the vat and frantically worked to retrieve the ring but it was too late.

The ring had become one with the thick, gooey Ding Dong batter.

*****

Rainey McCartney and Stella Von Trope had been best friends since high school and had worked side by side at the Seattle Hostess Cake plant for just shy of ten years, integral in the production of millions of Ho-Ho’s, Twinkies, CupCakes, Suzy Q’s, Sno Balls and Fruit Pies. They knew their way around industrial baking machines. The women had tried their hand at other professions (Rainey as a daycare teacher and convenience store clerk, Stella as a dog groomer and waitress) but found bakery work suited them best. They didn’t make much money and the hours were grueling, but the work kept them busy, the benefits were good and the uniform was free. Plus, they got to talk to each other all day and enjoyed a generous employee discount on the world’s most delicious snack cakes.

Rainey lived with a grizzled ex-marine, Chet Wilson, another baker at the plant, fifteen years her senior. They had a young son, Ben, the result of an affair that cost Chet his marriage but gained him a new lease on life. The couple worked opposite shifts so that one of them would always be at home with Ben, and to keep their stormy relationship half-way sane.

Ben’s doting godmother Stella (“Auntie Stell”) was single, childless, and had never had a long term boyfriend. In fact, few men had ever shown much interest in her at all, really. Until Deacon came along.

Chet’s younger brother, Deacon Eugene Wilson, was a recently ordained minister (online, Universal Life Church of Modesto, just $12) and auto parts store clerk from Abilene, who had visited last spring, met Stella at a company picnic, and fell madly in love.

Before returning to Texas, Deacon promised Stella, “I’m gonna marry you, girl.”

“Well, I suppose you could, legally. If I ever find a man, that is,” she grinned.

“Oh, you’ve found him!” he declared. And off he went, back to Abilene, to resume his upstart ministry, Fly By Night Weddings And Inspirations.

They exchanged emails and calls over the summer, and in September, Stella used up the last of her sick days and made the long drive to Texas to visit Deacon. They spent a glorious weekend at a Howard Johnson’s, swimming, lounging and ordering room service. During Stella’s drive back to Seattle, Deacon called and proposed. Stella pulled off the interstate somewhere near Baker City, Oregon, wiped the tears from her eyes, and accepted his offer to become Mrs. Deacon E. Wilson, minister’s wife.

Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #2, 2009

A young couple, not much older than twenty, contacted Deacon to have him officiate their wedding ceremony, as soon as possible. “Right now, if you can fit us in.”

After offering them iced tea and a comfy chair on his front porch, Minister Deacon asked them a few questions about how they met, their plans for the future, and their financial situation. Then Deacon came right out and asked the young woman, “Miss, are you with child?”

The young woman was so startled by the question that she yelped. Then her eyes started to water. She bit down on her lower lip and pressed the hem of her dress tightly against her knees, trying to keep it all together. She looked to the young man but his head was turned away, his eyes downcast. The tears fell now, unrestrained. She hated him. She hated herself. She wished she were dead. Better dead than to live with the constant judgment and persecution and uncertainties and guilt. She quivered and looked helplessly at the minister, in supplication.

Minister Deacon leaned forward and took her hands in his. “Everything’s gonna be alright, Miss,” he whispered. “I promise.”

His words and touch calmed her, soothed her. She believed him. She would believe anything he told her right now.

“You’ll be taken care of,” he said. “I promise.”

Finally, she answered his question, “Y-y-yes, sir.”

Deacon addressed the young man. “Son, listen to me. Do you truly, from the bottom of your heart, from the very depths of your soul, love this woman?”

The young man looked at her, with pity and remorse, then gingerly stroked her stringy blonde hair. He returned to Deacon, but said nothing.

“Son,” encouraged Deacon, gently, “be truthful with me here: Can you give me your solemn word that you will love this young woman, treasure her, protect her, exalt her ‘til your dying days so help you God?”

“Sir?”

“Can you, son?”

“Sir, I like her an awful lot. An awful lot.”

Deacon stared thoughtfully into the young man’s teary, tired, brown eyes, then said, “Son, that’s not good enough. I cannot condone, nor will I preside over, a holy union based on…on like.”

“Yes, sir” said the young man.

“Son. Miss. Go home. Rest well tonight. Pray. Talk to God. Then, if the Spirit moves you, give me a call tomorrow or the next day and we can set up a time to meet. For a small fee I can offer you guidance. I can steer you in the right direction. I can clarify the mixed messages your heart is giving you. Think about it, won’t you? Here’s my card.”

Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #3, 2009

Stella slid the steaming hot sheet pans out of the rack oven and placed them on the transfer dolly, slid the next set of pans in, programmed the temperature and time on the control panel, and slammed the oven door shut.

“What’s wrong?” asked Rainey, pushing the dolly toward the cooling tower, where the Ding Dongs would settle before being inserted into the cream coating machine.

“He didn’t call again. He said he would call. It’s been over a week,” said Stella.

“Has he texted you?”

“He doesn’t text. He doesn’t even have a cell phone.”

“Really? That’s weird,” Rainey said. “Even Chet has a cell phone. Though he never answers it.”

"He calls me from a pay phone. From a Seven/Eleven," sighed Stella. "When he does call."

"A pay phone?"

“He’s probably busy with his ministry, or whatever,” Stella reasoned. “Help me with this.” The women hoisted a fifty pound sack of baking powder onto the dolly and made their way back to the mixing vats.

“We’re supposed to get married in April,” Stella complained, “and we haven’t even talked about the wedding. Every time I bring it up, he changes the subject, Rainey. I think he’s getting cold feet.”

An unusual odor, a mixture of sweet corn syrup and burning acid, wafted through the warehouse. “Oh, man. The Sno Balls got flamed again. Damn,” said Rainey. “Sid said he fixed that thing.”

Stella phoned Maintenance, then the women started toward the oven room. “Don’t worry, Hon,” assured Rainey, “he’s just nervous. He’ll come through. You’ll see. Those Wilson boys are hard-headed and unpredictable, but they keep their word. Mostly.”

“I hope you’re right, Rainey.”

Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #4, 2009

The young woman, Hannah, called Deacon the next day to make an appointment to meet. “And what about the young man?” asked Deacon. “I can’t find him,” said Hannah, through tears.

“Why don’t you stop by this afternoon,” suggested Deacon. “I have no other appointments scheduled.”

The fact is, no appointments had ever been scheduled in the six month existence of Fly By Night Weddings And Inspirations. Hannah would be Deacon’s first customer. People just weren’t getting married in Abilene, apparently, and weren’t ready to embrace Deacon’s unorthodox, rather hodgepodge approach to spiritual guidance. The large, very expensive, blinking neon sign bolted to the side of his house, CLARITY INSIDE!, attracted plenty of attention and free publicity, but no business. “God is testing my faith,” the minister acknowledged. Deacon had taken out a second mortgage, a small business loan, and had used plenty of credit card debt to finance his modest ministry, but it was looking more and more like God’s plan didn’t call for Deacon to spread the good word at this time. Deacon was considering temporarily shutting down the operation and going back to the auto parts store full-time. Then Hannah showed up.

Hannah took much comfort in Deacon’s words and reassurances. His pontificating was hard to discern sometimes, but undeniably uplifting. He was an odd man, to be sure, but she found his confidence and enthusiasm to be charming, even attractive. And for a few minutes, in the presence of this stranger who may or may not be all that he claims, she was able to forget that she was single, poor, pregnant and without hope. She scheduled another appointment for the next day.

“It looks like I’ll have some time available between…um… 11 o’clock and noon,” said Deacon, scanning the blank pages of his appointment book.

“That’s fine,” said Hannah. “Minister Wilson?”

“Yes, Hannah? And, please, call me Deacon.”

“Minister…er,Deacon…I have to tell you: I don’t have much money. I’m not sure I’ll be able to--”

“Money is not an issue here, Hannah. The good word cannot be bought and sold. It just… is. No one has ownership over... One’s path to enlightenment is not paved with... sales and receipts and stocks and withholdings and...and...well...things of this nature!”

“So,” giggled Hannah, “what you’re saying, I think, Minister...Deacon...is that--”

“I’ll see you at 11 tomorrow, Hannah,” Deacon smiled.

*****

Deacon finally called Stella.

He called and told her that he was closing Fly By Night Weddings And Inspirations for good and that he was going to let his license lapse. He was resigning from the ministry. He told her that he was applying for the manager’s position at the auto supply store and felt that he had a good chance at getting it. He also told her that he had fallen in love with a woman named Hannah and that he was going to be a surrogate father to her unborn child.

And Deacon told Stella that he was very, very sorry that he had mislead her and that God works in mysterious ways.

Stella told Deacon that she appreciated his honesty and that if some kid chokes to death on some foreign object found in his Ding Dong that he was to blame. Then she hung up, put her engagement ring in her purse and went to work.

Hostess Cake Factory, Aurora Avenue North, #5, 2009

The Aerialist

2009-11-07T20:22:00.000-08:00

Blue Tarp 1, 2009

When are you going to fix the roof?

When the rain lets up a bit.

It’s not raining now.

It's not?

No.

I need to get a few more materials. The right tools. I need to do some research. On the internet.

What were you just doing on the internet?

Looking at…pictures of…endangered wildlife.

There’s a leak in the bedroom now.

Yeah, I know.

And the bathroom.

Yes. I know.

You said you would fix it this weekend.

I'm organizing my thoughts.

Blue Tarp 2, 2009

Why don’t you just hire a contractor?

I told you I don’t trust contractors. They’ll just charge us for repairs we don’t really need. And they’ll take forever. I’ll do this myself and save us thousands of dollars.

Alright. When?

It's stopped raining?

Yes. The kitchen has a leak, too.

It does?

Yes.

Hmm.

Should I call my brother?

No.

Why not? He’ll help. He’s good. He wants to help.

I don’t need help. It’s a one man job.

You sure?

I’ll fix the roof.

You know what you’re doing?

What?

You know what you're doing?

I might have to improvise.

Improvise?

Blue Tarp 3, 2009

The Mule And The Salt Lick

2009-10-30T22:11:00.000-07:00

Doors, Mottman Building, Pioneer Square, 2009

He ran his fingers carefully through the bowl one more time, convinced that there were some uneaten pistachios hiding among the spent shells. He would find the elusive last few and finish the whole snack. Nice and tidy. Nothing wasted.

Back and forth. Back and forth. Digging and stirring. Whisking. He kept at it, but found nothing but hollow, dusty half shells.

He stopped fishing for nuts and licked the salt from his fingers. "What am I doing?" he wondered.

He craved one more unopened treasure, one more shell to break apart (the satisfying snap!), one more kernel to suck up like a vacuum cleaner. One more savory nugget to chew.

"Stop this!" he told himself, then resumed mining the bowl.

Just as he was about to give up and get on with his evening, he found one.

It was a pistachio he recalled tossing back because it was sealed shut. It had been quickly dismissed and discarded. Useless. But that was when the bowl was chock full of ripe candidates, easy openers. Then, it was simply interference, an obstacle, a tease. Now, it was his last hope.

He held it pinched between his thumb and forefinger and re-examined its potential. Perhaps he had been a bit hasty. There was some space there, not much, but something to work with, at least. He placed the pistachio between his clenched teeth--like a vise--and bit down in an effort to pry the seam apart, but the nut did not cooperate and flew from his mouth onto the table top, then down to the carpeted floor, where it lay harmlessly at his feet.

He picked up the pistachio and cleaned it with his shirt. “We've made some headway,” he supposed, optimistically. “The door is ajar, I think.”

He inserted his sharpest nail, his right thumbnail, into the suggestion of a crack and began to pry. He wedged his left thumbnail in. He pulled and pried and twisted. He persisted, but it was no use. The shell halves would not budge. The kernel remained safely ensconced in its casing.

For his futile efforts, he sustained a small but painful cut beneath his right thumbnail--no man's land. It was sore, throbbing, and the salt found its way into the wound and made the sting worse. He instinctively put his thumb into his mouth to suck the pain away. It was the last salt he would taste that night.

He dropped the pistachio into the bowl then buried it. He had laundry that needed folding.

Shell, 2009

Do You Want To Walk Around Green Lake?

2009-10-09T18:18:00.000-07:00

Green Lake Path #1, 2009

A couple of women, neighbors, who have known each other only a short while, talk more openly about their lives with each other . A middle aged man, bald and sweaty and shirtless, navigates the path gracefully on roller blades, bobbing his head to the beat of his music. A new mother pushes her babe in a stroller and exhibits a particularly joyful gait. A group of three adolescent girls in bright clothing and braces laugh and gesture and move at a pace that the small dog one of them is walking can barely keep up with. A mother in her sixties is walking with her daughter in her forties and they are talking about the man who was neither a very good husband or a very present father.

Green Lake Path #2, 2009

A contented looking man is wearing blue athletic shorts that are a product of the Seventies--super short and very tight fitting. A large man in soiled gray sweatpants is jogging deliberately, huffing mightily, trying to maintain his pace, but you wish he would stop and rest. A grandmother pulls off the path and adjusts the hat on her new grandchild’s little head. The delicacy and tenderness she bestows on this small task is touching. Two twelve year old boys on small bikes maneuver their way around and through the walkers and runners with a confidence that borders on cockiness. But they are not out to hurt or intimidate--it’s their lake, too, and they're aware of you. Two men walk side by side but find words hard to come by. A tiny man runs as if his very life depended on getting around that lake. Two couples with dogs cross paths. The dogs stop and sniff and inspect each other, but the human couples hardly acknowledge the other’s existence. A young couple in their twenties, in the throes of new love, hold hands and smile and laugh, oblivious to all around them. A little girl tries to steady herself on her pink bike as her dad gently guides her along the path. A woman skater glides by, looking like electricity on wheels with a smile that tells all.

Green Lake Path #3, 2009

A clean cut, conservatively dressed man in his thirties performs some knee bends and push ups before engaging in meditative Tai Chi movements. The sweaty, bald skater whips by once again. Three women walk in unison and talk animatedly about something either very embarrassing or very sexy. A couple looks like they’ve taken this walk everyday for fifty years. They wear matching REI-type clothing and hiking boots. They seem to have come to some kind of agreement about their relationship. A woman of an indeterminate age wears an expression of deep, deep sadness. A large collection of people, maybe ten or twelve, who look not to be related but associated in some way, move with an awkward, uncertain unity. They don’t know each other’s pace. There is no real leader. Conversation is difficult in such a setting. Yet, they look happy to be with each other at this park on this beautiful day.

Green Lake Path #4, 2009

Salvation

2009-10-04T00:22:00.001-07:00

Shirt, Ship Canal, Fremont, 2009

She spent a restless night under a maple tree in Gilman Park, thinking and planning and worrying. No one bothered her, no one was around, but she was convinced that she was being watched, that she was being trailed, that she would be accused of something if captured, and couldn’t sleep for the anxiety this caused her. They only pursued her at night. Morning couldn’t have come soon enough.

Daylight would be her salvation.

She methodically pushed the grocery cart filled with her belongings along the Burke-Gilman Trail toward Fremont, past warehouses and metal fabricating shops and marine enterprises. The worn rubber wheels ground and stuttered erratically over the rough asphalt trail. Her arthritic hands could scarcely grip the handle of the cart. Lumbago had seized her back and every step she took the pain worsened. Her feet were calloused and sore, the paper thin soles of her slippers offered no protection. Still, she labored on.

When she reached the stretch of trail along the ship canal lined with poplar trees, she stopped and began unloading her possessions onto the soft, wet lawn for inspection.

Piece by piece, her valuables were sorted and displayed and accounted for.

The napkins came first, weighted in place by a brick. Pens and straws followed--the pens laid horizontally, the straws vertically. Newspapers were next, tied in twine and bundled chronologically. Hundreds of yogurt cups were stacked into towers according to brands and flavors. She arranged her neatly folded blankets, seven of them, in a semi-circular pattern from darkest to lightest. Aluminum cans, stuffed with gum wrappers and bottle caps, were set in three precisely aligned rows. Plastic bags containing her paperbacks and receipts and rocks would be reviewed some other day.

Satisfied with her work, she moved to push her cart off the trail and onto the lawn and as she did, a man on a bike, commuting from Ballard to his office Downtown, approached and shouted, “Look out!” He tried, but could not maneuver his bike around her quick enough and smashed into the cart, knocking it over and sending her sprawling onto the grass.

She lay motionless amongst her scattered articles.

The man had somehow managed to stay on his feet. He straddled his fallen bike, its mangled rear wheel spinning irregularly just below his crotch.

“Godammit,” he said. “I could’ve been killed.”

The man’s knuckles were bruised and bleeding. He put his hand to his mouth to suck away the blood. He couldn’t move his right index finger and cried in pain, “I think it’s broken! Shit!”

He slipped the carryall off of his shoulder and got out his cell phone. He called his wife, who was at home with their baby daughter.

“Honey, my bike is shattered and I--”

He saw her then, flat on her back, her hands cupped atop her chest, looking like a angel in repose.

“Are you all right?” he asked, but she did not respond.

“Who are you talking to?” asked his wife.

He walked toward her, stepping over the goods strewn about, careful not to knock over the last standing yogurt cup tower. “Can I help you up?”

“Mitch,” pleaded his wife, “what’s going on? Where are you?”

As he crouched over her, several drops of blood fell from his knuckle onto her cheek. “Oh, my God, I’m sorry,” he said, and gently wiped the blood off of her with his shirtsleeve. She opened her eyes.

“Ma’am, are you all right?” he asked. She looked at him, smiled, then closed her eyes. His chest tightened, then released, as he watched her go.

He stood and yelled for help.

“Mitch, my God, what’s wrong?! Mitch!” cried his wife.

“Oh, Honey, this is bad, this is bad….“ He lifted the brick from the napkin pile, grabbed a handful, and wrapped the wad around his knuckle which was bleeding profusely now.

“Mitch, what is it?!“

“I‘m gonna have to...." He stopped, breathless.

"What?!" asked his wife.

"I'm gonna have to... call the police now, Honey. I'll talk to you soon," he told her, and hung up.

He picked up one of the blankets, the woolen gray blanket with the blue floral pattern, third from the right in the semi-circle, unfolded it, and placed it over her still body.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” he reassured her. “I promise.”

And he was right.

Call, Northgate Mall, 2009

Softy

2009-09-28T20:29:00.000-07:00

Hillside, Lower Queen Anne, 2009

His voice is so soft that it is difficult to understand him sometimes.

He is reasonably intelligent and articulate, has a decent vocabulary and expresses himself well enough, but it is observed that he mumbles occasionally.

A conversation with him is peppered with these phrases….

“What?”

“Say that again.”

“Did you say something?”

“I didn’t hear you.”

If he is right in front of you when speaking, it usually isn’t a problem. But if the distance between the two of you is greater than, say, ten feet, well....

In a crowded room, at a party, in a bar, it is virtually impossible to hear him the first time around.

“What did you say?”

“Speak up.”

“Once more?”

He is typically good natured about this perceived…condition of his. He can laugh about it, poke fun at himself. There are worse afflictions than having a quiet voice, after all.

However, he does sometimes get flustered on the phone, where his inaudible mutter is most often misinterpreted as disinterest or aloofness, or worse, incomprehension. He will ask or answer a question and get no response. He will say something clever or funny and the recipient will remain eerily silent. He will wait a moment, then say what ever it was he had said over again, for clarification.

“Are you still there?” they will inquire.

“Yes.”

“What?” they will ask.

“I said, yes, I’m still here.”

“Can you put your mouth closer to the phone?” they will suggest.

“It can’t get any closer.”

“What?” they will ask again.

He will raise his voice ever so slightly and try once more. “How’s this?”

“I’m going to hang up now,” they will say, somewhat exasperated. “Can we talk later?”

“But we’re talking now.”

“What did you say?”

"I said, we're talk--"

***click***

Grace And Natalie, International District, 2009

The Appointment

2009-09-19T16:05:00.001-07:00

Smith Tower, Downtown, 2009

The dental hygienist placed protective glasses over Roger's eyes and asked him if he had been flossing.

“Yes,” Roger lied.

The one-size-does-not-fit-all glasses pinched the back of his ears and the bridge of his nose. The bleached yellow lenses cast Mary Anne, the hygienist, in a dreary light. “You look a little jaundiced,” joked Roger.

“What?” said Mary Anne, through a surgical mask.

“I said you look a little jaundiced...."

“Open, please,” instructed Mary Anne.

Roger took a deep swallow then opened his mouth as wide as he could, straining his jaw muscles, and clenched his fists against his thighs. “Aaahhh,” he bellowed.

“You can relax your jaw," said Mary Anne. “Not so wide.”

“Okay,” said Roger, as the Warm Hits announcer introduced The Little River Band’s Reminiscing.

“I see some build up, some tartar in there. If you are flossing, you’re not doing a thorough enough job.”

Roger raised his eyebrows slightly, neither admitting nor denying anything.

Mary Anne held a hooked instument in one hand, a small mirror in the other. She looked like she was preparing to carve a Thanksgiving turkey. "Open, please."

Roger alternately held his breath and winced as Mary Anne probed his gums. “You have some sensitive areas?” she asked, rhetorically.

“You’re right. Good work,” thought Roger, “I do. May I leave now?”

The hygienist proceeded with her job, poking and scraping. “Your gums are a little red. If you don’t clean the areas between your teeth, Roger, you’ll develop gingivitis then, eventually, Periodontal disease. You could lose your teeth.”

Roger was barely tolerating the pain. He looked at Mary Anne pleadingly and blinked once, slowly, as if to say “Yes, I may have been negligent, but I will do better, I promise. Have mercy. I beg you.” But Mary Anne was too busy grating to notice.

Phil Collins' One More Night was cut short. The radio signal was lost temporarily and now the only sounds in the room were metal on enamel, and Mary Anne’s labored breathing.

Roger gazed at the high-rise across the street. He imagined its offices to be full of busy people with healthy, bright, white teeth doing important things, developing new ideas, original models, master plans, more efficient methods. He wanted a pretty woman carrying a stack of documents to glance over and catch his eye and give him a look of sympathy and understanding. “It’ll be over before you know it,” she would mouth, and blow him a kiss.

But the windows were black and reflective and all Roger could see were the soles of his sad shoes and Mary Anne, hunched over his helpless, supine torso like a vulture devouring a carcass, busy and deliberate.

“Prevention is your best weapon against gum disease, Roger,” she said, as her tool found a particularly tender spot near Roger’s lower right first bicuspid. “Ohh!” cried Roger.

“I’m sorry,” said Mary Anne. “I’ll make note of that for the Doctor.”

She pressed on, giving each of Roger's neglected teeth equal time and attention, working diligently with her sickle and hoe and mirror, extracting layers of laziness and sloth and apathy and tartar and plaque.

Time stopped (but the soft hits did not). Mary Anne worked with great focus but seemed to make no progress. She was taking forever. Hooks and blades and bristles and points and suction and swishes and swallows. Sometimes the pain was dull, sometimes sharp, sometimes excruciating. Roger considered ripping off his bib and leaving, never returning, and accepting the decaying state of his mouth and a liquid diet for the rest of his life.

Roger's feet began to reflexively rattle in response to the pain. The dental chair vibrated against Mary Anne's leg. She set down her tools.

"Are you all right, Roger?"

“May I have a pint of Novocaine?" he whispered.

Mary Anne smiled. “We’re just about done. I promise," she said, and resumed working.

Lionel Richie’s Endless Love (with Diana Ross) came on and Mary Anne hummed along. Roger joined in.

“You like this song, Roger?” she asked.

“Not really,” Roger said.

“Me either,” said Mary Anne.

Roger grinned, then closed his eyes, grateful that the end was near.

Tightly Coiled, Duwamish Industrial Area, 2009

The Hay

2009-09-08T22:02:00.000-07:00

Styrofoam Posting, Ballard Light Industrial Area, 2009

Dean locked his office door, then bid goodnight to the custodian and the security guard. A late night meant Dean would miss his workout at the gym, and this disappointed him. He quickened his pace as he walked across the parking lot toward his truck and thought about going for a run when he got home.

As Dean approached his pickup he discovered, inexplicably, that someone had placed a bale of hay in its bed.

Of course, Dean was puzzled. Who would have done this? And why? It made no sense. On the drive home he tried to come up with some logical explanation, but failed.

As he prepared his dinner, Dean called his ex-wife, Laura.

Laura and Dean did not get along. Their divorce was acrimonious. They were out of each other’s lives and were trying to move on, but resentment lingered.

Dean got right to the point: “Laura, did you put a bale of hay in the back of my truck?”

“What?”

“I said, ’Did you put hay in the back of my truck?’”

Laura hung up without responding.

Dean went to bed uncertain that it was Laura who was responsible for the hay. But if not her, then who?

Dean couldn't settle. He couldn't sleep.

He got up and went out to the driveway to make sure he wasn't imagining things. Of course, the hay was there. He scanned the truck with his flashlight in search of some clue, some indication of foul play, some evidence left behind by the perpetrator, but found nothing.

Dean went back inside and dialed 9-1-1. When the operator answered, Dean hung up. "This is ridiculous," thought Dean. "What am I doing? It's a bale of hay for cryin' out loud."

An hour later, Dean got out of bed and phoned his good friend and associate Merle, a mathematician, with whom he shared a beer on occasion.

Once more, Dean didn’t bother with small talk: “Merle, do you know anything about the hay in my truck?”

“What?” asked Merle, half asleep. “Dean, it’s one in the morning. What’s wrong?”

“I said, 'Do you know anything about the hay in my truck?’”

“What, Dean? ...Haiti?”

“Never mind, Merle. I’m sorry I woke you.”

Dean got back into bed. A sleepless hour passed. He wanted to believe that a stressful day at the office and the missed workout were the cause of his insomnia, but he knew the real source of his restlessness.

Dean rose and went to the kitchen to make a cup of tea.

As he waited for the water to boil, he called his older sister, Kathryn, who lived with her husband on a ranch in Kentucky. They raised horses, or at least they did years ago, and so would have plenty of hay at their disposal....

"Hello, Kathryn?"

"Dean?....Oh, my God, Dean, is it Mother!?"

"No, Kathryn. Mom's fine."

"Then what is it? Why are you calling so early? Or late? What's wrong?"

Dean stood before the living room window and gazed out at his driveway. Under the white light of a street lamp, dew glistened atop the bundle in the back of his truck.

"Who would do such a thing?" wondered Dean.

"Dean? Dean, are you there?"

"Yes, Kathryn, I'm here," Dean said, finally. "I... just... wanted to hear your voice."

"Oh. ...That's sweet, Dean."

"Well. That's all. I'll call you later, Kathryn. Bye."

He crawled back into bed, but it was useless. He could not sleep. He could not get the hay out of his mind.

Dean resolved to rid himself of this inconvenience, this bother, now, in the middle of night. The issue would be vanquished, like a disturbing dream, by morning.

He dressed, put on a pair of gardening gloves, and drove his pickup and its mysterious cargo around the foggy streets of his Fremont neighborhood.

Dean eventually pulled into the empty paking lot of Market Time grocery.

"Here," he decided.

As Dean was hoisting the bale into a dumpster, a police car approached and flashed its lights. An officer ordered Dean to lay down and put his hands on his head.

Dean sqinted into the glare of the beam. “But... this is not my hay, officer.”

"Then who's hay is it?" asked the policeman.

"I guess it doesn't matter, does it?" said Dean.

"No," replied the officer. "Not really."

At the North Precinct, Dean was afforded one phone call before he was booked.

"Hi, Kathryn. It's me again. Dean."

"Dean," hesitated Kathryn. "Um...How are you?"

"I'm good, Kathryn," said Dean. "I'm better, anyway."

Hay Bale, Fremont Avenue North, 2009

Him, Again

2009-08-31T11:10:00.000-07:00

Passenger, Metro 54, 2009

You see him all the time.

Everywhere.

He lives and moves and operates in your world. You exist in the same orbit of sidewalks and stores and parks and stoplights. He minds his own business, tends to his own thoughts. He shares nothing of himself with you, is uninterested in you, and seems entirely comfortable with that arrangement.

He won't make eye contact with you. But, why would he? You offer him nothing but your curiosity and, maybe, your contempt.

His age is indeterminate. He could be anywhere from thirty to fifty. He is white and small and scrawny. He sports a goatee. He wears a loose fitting t-shirt, tattered jeans, and a baseball hat worn backwards. And always sunglasses. Today he is listening to something, or nothing, on oversized headphones.

He moves like a ghost, appearing here, then there, out of nowhere, unannounced. And just as quickly, he is gone. Without a trace.

(Maybe he really wants something from you and is following you, gathering information, making observations about you. Perhaps behind those sunglasses his steely eyes are tracking your every move. Might he be trying to break you down? Is he plotting some crime against you?)

You see him outside the pet store, squatting against the cool brick exterior. His hands are folded. His head is downcast, motionless. You take note of his posture, his dress, his willful disdain for convention, as you walk past. But he doesn’t seem to notice you.

Then you see him coming out of the auto parts store, hands in pockets, and he glides by you, brushing against you, without so much as a glance of recognition. He has something on his mind and it’s clearly not you.

You buy a candy bar and when you leave the drug store, he enters.

Minutes later, there he is again, standing outside a dark tavern by himself. Is this mere chance? (Of course it is.) Why does this man intrigue you so? Should you say something to him? Something stupid like, “Fancy running into you again.” No. You walk right by him like he does not exist and behind those black sunglasses he is just as perplexed and amused and slightly bothered by these encounters as you. Or so you like to think, anyway.

You wait for the bus to arrive to take you downtown, away from this neighborhood. And him.

You step onto the bus and pay your fare and you see him, of course, seated there, by himself, leaning against the window, buried under the oversized headphones, lost in thought.

Every instinct tells you to take a seat at the very back of the bus, hidden from his watchful eye, but you choose to sit just a few seats behind him because you need to see where this relationship is headed.

Parking Lot, Northgate Mall, 2009

Flight 283, Row 16, Seats A B C D E F

2009-08-25T12:45:00.001-07:00

Dated, Gas Works Park, 2009

A
She is returning to Seattle to resume the conversation she had with her father fifteen years ago, the last time they spoke. She cannot sleep. She cannot concentrate on the novel she bought at the airport. So, she looks at the wing of the plane and the tops of heads and the latch holding the tray in place and considers what she will say to her father and how to say it. She has rehearsed the scenario in her head over and over but it is never comfortable, never right. She is nervous and scared and wishes the plane would just stay suspended here in the clouds. She pops a stick of gum into her mouth. She folds its wrapper into the tiniest, most perfect square possible and drops it inside the pouch which holds the in-flight magazine and emergency instructions.

B
She is tired and feels dirty and wants to be home sitting in her bathtub, but home is five hundred miles behind her now and she won’t see it for another week. Just relax, she tells herself. She knows she should be grateful for her sister’s invitation and is trying to convince herself that they will get along great this time and that it will be different because the boy is older, easier, less prone to tantrums. Her sister will criticize his father and she will come to his defense. But the truth is that she is angry that his father doesn’t take more responsibility, more interest, send more money, make inquiries…it makes her wish she had not met him. The boy is calm right now. She offers him a piece of blue candy. On the wrapper it says that the candy contains real fruit and other natural ingredients.

C
He likes these trains and the animal characters riding them. They are all the wrong colors and ridiculous. The thick cardboard pages feel good between his fingers. He likes the weight, the sturdiness, the glossy coating. He wants to bite and chew on these pages. He thinks that if he threw the book it would not tear or bend and that it might hit someone, maybe that mean-looking man in front of him, and that it would cause the man to turn around and frown at him. He wants to stand up and see what or who is behind him but knows his mom will tell him to sit down and be quiet but he will try it and see if she might not care for once. He wipes the sticky blue candy residue off of his cheek with the back of his hand.

D
He has to go, again, but considers waiting a little while longer so as not to look like someone who has to go to the bathroom every five minutes for that is embarrassing. He thought that by reducing his water intake before the flight that this would not be a problem, and this frustrates him. He wonders if anyone has noticed his new glasses. He wonders if anyone admires the way they make him look sophisticated and intellectual. He’s only had them for a week and they are causing irritation along the bridge of his nose, but he knows that this can’t last long and he’ll get used to them and is willing to put up with the temporary discomfort because the glasses are just so flattering and expensive. He made a good choice. He thinks that the flight attendant looks sort of like his mother might have twenty years ago if she were a little heavier and had brown hair.

E
He pulls the sandwich out of his backpack and bites into it though he’s not really hungry. It is nervous energy, he knows, and there’s nothing he can do about it. (He doesn’t like this kind of bread. What is it? Whole wheat?) He is returning to graduate school and thinks that it is the biggest mistake of his life but he would never tell anyone that, especially his girlfriend, because then she would lose all respect for him and he would lose her, and that would be worse than anything. He takes another bite of the sandwich and some sauce drips onto his pants. He wishes there was someone in his life to tell him what to do, to counsel him. His foot is tapping uncontrollably but he won't stop it because there’s something comforting about the rhythm it keeps. It's a rhythm that scores his eating and his nervousness. It’s his rhythm. He’s making it. It’s his. He feels full but keeps eating the sandwich and can tell that the man next to him finds his chewing and his foot tapping annoying and so he tries to chew softly and demurely and slow down the foot, but he’s not sure that’s possible and why must he always try and please others and not himself?

F
She hates this traveling back and forth between her sons but what else is she to do? She has no one else. It wears her down. She is always tired. She misses her husband terribly right now and is remembering how they held hands so tightly when planes would land, how they would squeeze each other so hard until the screeching wheels finally, mercifully, stopped, and they knew they would live to see another day. Her son will be in the baggage claim area waiting for her and he will not be smiling, she knows this. He will lift her bag from the carrousel and they will walk in silence to the car and they will listen to the radio on the way to his house and not say a word. But maybe it will be different this time. She sensed something in his voice last night that led her to believe that he might be more sympathetic this time. Her feet are aching again and she wants to slip off her shoes but she won’t because she’s not bold enough, like her late best friend, Louise. She wishes she had the nerve to just wear her slippers all the time, like Louise did. She wants the flight attendant to bring her a Bloody Mary because you deserve it, Ma’am, and here is a blanket and pillow for you, as well.

Barrier, Greyhound Terminal, Downtown, 2009

Do Not Open 'til Christmas

2009-08-16T23:06:00.000-07:00

University Heights Center, University District, 2009

Shane was talking to his new next door neighbor, Beth, who had recently divorced. He was feeling sympathetic toward Beth, who, at fifty five, was alone for the first time in many years, so invited her to take whatever she wanted from his garage to help her get started in her new life. ”Most of this stuff is in near mint condition,” he explained. "Help yourself."

Beth had little interest in Shane’s old tools or sports equipment, or floor tiles, or bags of sand, or board games, or a giant computer monitor or his collection of science fiction paperbacks. But she did like the wind chime, thinking that it would bring a bit of cheer to her sterile new apartment. “I’ll hang it out on the deck,” she told Shane. "It'll chime for both of us."

Shane had forgotten about the wind chime. His mother had sent it to him as a Christmas present two years ago but it never left the box. It was buried behind a Hefty bag full of clothes that no longer fit and an old VCR player which he didn’t feel right about throwing away because he still had his Great Moments In TV Comedy tapes somewhere in the house--the attic, maybe--and he might want to play them for his kids some day, should he ever have kids.

“Oh, are you sure you want that old thing?” Shane asked.

“It looks like it hasn’t been opened,” Beth said, and held out the box for Shane to inspect.

“Huh. You're right. It was a gift from my mom.”

“That’s sweet,” said Beth. “Then you should keep it. You should hang it up.”

“No. That’s okay,” replied Shane. “You take it.”

“Thank you for your generosity, Slade,” said Beth. “I really appreciate your kindness and support.”

“It’s Shane. And you’re welcome. Enjoy the wind chime,” he said.

Shane did not like wind chimes but had never gotten up the nerve to tell his mother. He was slightly embarrassed, to be honest, by his reaction to something so seemingly innocuous. But the constant, invasive clinking and tinkling drove him nuts.

When he was outside working or lounging in his yard he wanted to hear …quiet. Or birds. He wanted to hear the wind brushing against the branches of the fir and maple trees, not hollow little metal sticks and discs. He could put up with the odd motorcycle or jet roaring past, or children playing in a yard nearby, or someone mowing their lawn, or the blast from a teenager’s car stereo. Those occurrences were part of the natural soundscape of a city. The noises came and went. Their duration was short.

A wind chime, however, never stopped. The tink-tink-tink was incessant, relentless.

“It’s a violation of my senses. It’s noise pollution,” Shane declared. He just couldn’t allow this to happen.

So Shane baked a cake.

He would take the cake to Beth and explain to her that he is sorry but he must ask her not to hang the wind chime and hopes that she understands and he would poke fun at his neurosis and they would have a good laugh and she would reassure him that, no, she would not hang the chime because she totally understands what it’s like to have your peace and quiet disturbed and don‘t think any more of it and lets have a piece of this good cake.

But, then...

When Beth answered the door, Shane handed her the cake.

“Oh, my God! Thank you, Slade.”

“It’s Shane. Beth. Actually...I would like to keep that wind chime if you don’t mind. I think I’ll hang it from my porch. May I have it back, please.”

"Oh," she said.

Beth put the cake on a table then went out to her deck and carefully removed the wind chime from its hook.

“Here you are,” she said.

“Thank you, Beth. Sorry about that. You understand, right?”

“Yes,” said Beth. “I understand.”

"Umm. Do you still have the box?" Shane asked.

"Yes. I'll get it."

Beth returned with the box and handed it to Shane.

“Well...." said Shane. "Enjoy the cake!”

“I will,” said Beth. “Thank you.”

Shane returned the wind chime to the shelf in his garage, behind the Hefty, safely hidden, forever muffled.

Several weeks later, Beth bought her own wind chime at a street fair--a fancy, ornamental, multi-layered unit with sea shells and bamboo made in Thailand--and hung it from her deck.

The neighbors rarely spoke anymore. But with Beth's wind chime producing its subtle variations of dings, tinks, pings and clinks, an exchange, of a sort, existed between the two, ongoing and continuous.

Apartment Steps, University District, 2009

The Sensualist

2009-08-11T22:09:00.000-07:00

Popcorn, Day Old, Seattle Center, 2009

The hummus tasted good at the time, but now he had a craving for something, maybe something sweet, that might eliminate the thick, smokey aftertaste it had left in his mouth.

It was late, 10:30, almost time for bed, so the practical thing would have been to simply brush his teeth and call it a night.

But then he got to thinking....

He reasoned that a piece of licorice, which is what he had after dinner, was not dessert. Not in the classic sense. Not that every dessert had to be a true classic, of course, like pie or cake or peach cobbler or a thick slice of fudge. But one small, bite-sized, semi-sweet piece of black licorice does not produce smiles and ahhh’s when eaten. It is almost like taking a pill, really.

In his mind a meal has three components:

1. A salad.
2. An entrée.
3. A dessert.

Tonight he did not have dessert, a real dessert, so the meal felt incomplete. He felt incomplete. This is what he reasoned.

And this is why he got out of his pajamas and back into his clothes and walked four blocks to the Seven Eleven to find some real dessert so that the meal could be completed--in the classic sense--before he retired for the night.

He headed straight to the freezer in the back of the store and eyed their rotating selection of Haagen Dasz and Ben And Jerry’s ice cream. He was in the mood for something slightly--slightly--more decadent than plain vanilla or chocolate or strawberry.

But every offering seemed to include four or five different incongruous flavors in one pint. Peanut butter with marshmello and Oreo chunks and cherries and cookie dough and chocolate covered jelly beans and pretzels and banana pudding and raspberry swirls and cotton candy and M & M’s and Cap’n Crunch and cinnamon sticks and graham cracker crumbs and….

The freezer door was fully fogged now. The clerk behind the counter cleared his throat loudly and said, “You pick now?”

He had to make a choice. Or did he? He could walk away from the store right now empty handed and go home and go to bed and everything would be just fine in the morning and he did not need a classic dessert and who was he fooling?

He selected Chunky Waves of Grain (butterscotch ice cream with candy coated bread crumbs and dried apple shavings). “Now, that’s a dessert!” he joked with the clerk who handed him his change and said nothing.

Back home and in his pajamas he sat in front of the TV and scraped away at Chunky Waves of Grain, determined to eat only a quarter of the pint, at most. “This will be my dessert for the rest of the week,” he promised himself.

The syndicated crime scene investigation program was very compelling, and by the time it was over at midnight he had eaten the entire pint, despite his best intentions.

Now he did not feel well at all. He felt bloated.

He did not feel complete.

His sister once told him that eating licorice helped alleviate nausea. So he ate a piece then went to bed.

Warning Sign, Abandoned Building, Westlake Avenue North, 2009

The Effort

2009-08-08T16:13:00.000-07:00

Leaf, University of Washington, 2009

He followed her down the hall once more, only this time with a sense of purpose.

Class had been dismissed on the final day of the semester. It was now or never. He caught up with her, then tapped her elbow.

She stopped and turned, “Yes?”

But his courage betrayed him. He froze.

“Yes,” she repeated. “What is it?”

He locked on to her sympathetic, pale blue eyes but could summon no words. She was granting him an invitation into her world but he was paralyzed by his reserve.

“Well?” she said.

For nine weeks they had shared the same small classroom with just six other students, yet she looked at him as if he were a stranger.

Finally, he spoke. “I think y-y-y-you forgot your….”

“My what?” she asked.

“I forgot my pencil,” he responded, and the descent commenced.

She blinked once, slowly. "Oh," she said.

She noticed the pencil in his fist, then said, “Well, you should go back to the classroom and get it before Telford locks the door.”

I. Forgot. My. Pencil.

This is not how he had rehearsed the scene in his daydreams. This is not what he envisioned. He saw the exchange ending in a soft, tender kiss, not I FORGOT MY PENCIL.

The disappointment and embarrassment cut deep. But worse, he had placed the burden of salvaging the moment, and his dignity, on her.

"Oh, right," was all he could muster.

He stepped away from her and saw that the classroom door had already been locked but knew that where retreat was concerned, his imagination was limitless. He surreptitiously pocketed his pencil and continued toward the room, moving his legs in slow motion. She would be gone by the time he reached the door. He would will her gone. She would be gone, for humiliation cannot run any deeper.

“Hey!”

He recognized the voice as hers and quickened his stride.

“Wait,” she pleaded.

He could not resist, and turned to her approach.

“Why don’t you just borrow one of mine,” she said, and handed him a pencil. “I’ve got a bunch.”

“Oh. Okay. Thank you." He avoided looking at her but regarded the pencil as if it was the most amazing thing he had ever seen. And it may have been.

“I expect to get that back,” she said, as she walked away. “Eventually.”

Rose, University of Washington, 2009

Where You Need To Be

2009-08-06T23:12:00.000-07:00

Stay, Fishermen's Terminal, 2009

The Greyhound pulled into the Seattle terminal at midnight and Bradley stepped off because he had run out of money.

When he got on the bus three days ago, his future was as cloudy as the Illinois sky that he was leaving behind. Now, at least, he had arrived somewhere. His destination had been established. There was no option. Seattle would be his home.

He grabbed his duffle bag from the storage compartment and begged some change off a police officer so that he could call his mom and tell her where he was and that he was safe.

Bradley was eighteen and out on his own for the first time. His mother, Varlene, had pleaded with him to stay with her in Normal, but Bradley would not hear it. He needed to erase his sad history in that town: the school suspensions, the brushes with the law, the restlessness and aggravation and lonliness that haunted him. He told his mom that if he didn’t get out of Normal he didn’t know what he would do.

Varlene knew her boy, and knew that this was not idle talk.

Resentment and rage and anger festered in him like a virus and was destroying his soul. It broke her heart, but she did what any other mother would do to protect her child. She set him free. She saved him from himself.

“Go out and find your life, Bradley,” she whispered in his ear, as she held him for the last time. “My boy.”

“I love you, Momma. I’ll always love you, Momma.”

A sympathetic shelter worker found Bradley a cot at that late hour, and the next morning gave him $30 to buy some clothes at Goodwill and $5 more to grab a breakfast at McDonald’s. Bradley was grateful and told the man his kindness would not be forgotten. The man pointed to a sheet of paper taped to the wall. “There’s a list of places that are hiring day workers,” said the man. “Take a look and see if anything appeals to you.”

Bradley did not want to be a day worker. He wanted a real job. He wanted to earn a living, and knew that day work would get him into nothing but trouble.

He bought a blue denim dress shirt, khaki slacks and a pair of decent, used, black work shoes at Goodwill, then, after some breakfast, changed into his new clothes inside the McDonald’s restroom.

He hopped on the first Metro bus that went by, the 17, and determined to take it to wherever he needed to go. “Have faith in yourself,” his mother always told him, “and good things will come your way.”

From Downtown the 17 crosses the north side of Queen Anne and heads into Ballard by way of Westlake Avenue, which runs parallel to the shore of Lake Union, where Seattle’s yacht and pleasure boating related businesses are headquartered.

Bradley had never been on a boat in his life, but he liked what he saw. He was captivated by the size, the stateliness and majesty of these boats, and how they represented wealth and comfort and ease, the good life, the life that Bradley aspired to.

He pulled the cord and got off the 17 because he had found where he needed to be.

At Incredible Yachts Of Seattle, the vinyl sign flapping above the door said, Welcome Aboard! Bradley entered and found Dan Sutterfield, the owner, on the phone with one of his brokers arguing over some deal gone wrong. Sutterfield motioned for Bradley to take a seat and indicated with his finger he would be with him in a minute.

Bradley picked up a copy of Yachting Magazine and paged through its glossy advertisements as he waited.

“See something in there you like?" asked Sutterfield, after he had gotten off the phone.

“I sure do,” said Bradley, pointing to a feature article on a yacht called Odysseus VIII.

“World class boat,” said Sutterfield. “World class.”

“Yup,” agreed Bradley. “World class.”

“What can I do for you today, young man?” asked Sutterfield.

Bradley did not hesitate. “I want to sell yachts,” he said.

Sutterfield said nothing. He looked at Bradley dispassionately, much like one would a broken down car on the side of the road at rush hour. He noticed the second hand shoes that were too big for Bradley’s feet, the unkempt greasy hair and unshaven face, the ill-fitting shirt, the bags under his eyes, the dirty fingernails, the nervous blinking. He saw troubles.

He also saw in this boy the earnestness and sincerity which he, Sutterfield, had lost years ago, and which his current team of brokers apparently had never possessed.

“Just a minute, son,” he told Bradley, and stepped inside of an office where Sutterfield’s wife, Diana, was working.

Bradley helped himself to a drink from the water dispenser. He held the conical paper cup as if it were a fragile cocktail glass, delicately, with his fingertips, and sipped the water carefully, with grace, like a yacht owner might.

“Son,” said Sutterfield, when he had returned from the conference with his wife, “how would you like a job cleaning boats?”

“I would love that, sir,” said Bradley. “I would love that very much.”

Wholesale Floral Supply Warehouse, South Lake Union, 2009

The Break

2009-08-03T12:39:00.001-07:00

Corner, International District, 2009

Elle told her secretary that she was going to get a cup of coffee and would be back in fifteen minutes. Her secretary looked surprised.

“But you don’t drink coffee,” she said.

“I used to. A long time ago,” said Elle. “Do you want me to get you something?”

“Uh…no,” laughed her secretary. “But, thanks.”

“I’ll be back in fifteen minutes.”

“I know,” her secretary said. “You already told me.”

Elle pressed the down arrow and waited for the elevator to open. Then she pressed the up arrow. She waited a moment longer, then returned to her office. “I forgot my purse,” she explained to her secretary. Several minutes later she re-emerged and this time opted to take the stairs. Her secretary noticed that she was not carrying her purse.

“You sure I can’t get you anything?” asked Elle, as she passed. But before her secretary could respond, the door to the stairwell had closed.

Elle ran into one her associates, Dan--Dan, The Ineffectual she called him--in the lobby just as she was about to leave the building.

“Elle. Where are you headed?”

“I need to….,” she stopped herself. “That’s none of your business, Dan,” she finished, and walked away.

Elle wished she had remembered her sunglasses, the light was so intense at midday. She could scarcely look up. It was like trying to walk through a giant kaleidoscope, the unforgiving rays careening recklessly off the steel and glass and asphalt and chrome, blinding her, confusing her.

She rode the wave of pedestrians, though, with their relentless crush of deadlines and appointments and time constraints and agendas until she got to Pioneer Square, where she escaped into the cool shade of an alley. Two men were hoisting large rugs onto a truck but took no notice of her. A seagull perched on a dumpster flew off when she caught its eye. She pressed her back against a crumbling one hundred year old brick wall and put her hand over her chest. She was breathing hard, too hard. She needed water.

She walked to Occidental Park and found its rustic old drinking fountain. The tepid trickle was not refreshing, but she was drinking here for sustenance. A mob of pigeons warily approached her, saw that her hands were empty, and directed their attention on an unsuspecting family who wandered by, carrying their lunch in familiar white Ivar's Seafood bags.

A young woman was leading a small group of toddlers by a rope and Elle followed them for a while, then broke off and headed south on First Avenue, past bars and antique businesses and empty art galleries. She finally reached the end of Pioneer Square where the retail shops transitioned into factories and warehouses.

Elle kept walking. Block after block with her head down in the heat of the afternoon. No one was telling her to stop or to come back. No one cared.

Her face was flush and sunburned, her hair damp, her hands and feet swollen. She walked on until she reached the doughnut shop south of the stadiums. The place was empty but for the teenage boy behind the counter who was texting someone. She slipped out of her heels, then approached him for a glass of water.

“Hold on,” he said, and finished his message before putting his phone into the pocket of his red apron. He filled a 24 ounce cup to the brim and asked her if she would like some ice.

“No. Thank you,” she said.

She took a seat against the window overlooking the railroad tracks and waited for the boy to resume his texting, before dipping her fingers into the water. A train heading south to Portland rumbled past.

As she massaged her feet, Elle decided not return to her office that afternoon. She would ask the teenager to call for a cab to take her home.

Tomorrow she would try again. She would try to fit into this life she had made for herself one more time.

Alley, International District, 2009

Natural Selection

2009-07-31T22:42:00.000-07:00

Crow At Work, International District, 2009

Dennis put his book on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and pulled the covers up to his neck.

He waited.

He waited with his eyes open in the dark.

It wouldn’t be long now.

Another minute or so.

There….

There it is. Again.

Dennis attributed the noise above his bed to animals engaged in some prolonged, bizarre, mating ritual. It puzzled him that this only happens at night, as far as he could tell, but he guessed there must be a logical reason. Humans had encroached on the animals' habitat, after all, forcing them to adapt or perish. So, it shouldn’t be that surprising that they found a roof --his roof--at night, to be a preferred environment in which to seduce or fight or compete or battle to the death or whatever was going on. He put up with the annoyance and the interrupted sleep as well as he could, knowing that mating season was just that--a season--and couldn’t last much longer.

He rocked his head slowly from side to side and pressed his arms against his torso and waited for them to stop for the night. Dennis wanted the creatures to be quicker. Or better yet, he wished they’d take their business to another roof. What about the troubled couple across the street? They’re probably still up, fighting and drinking, and wouldn’t even notice the animals.

They kept at it, the beasts. Scratching and clawing and digging and flapping and ripping and pecking.

What's up there?

Maybe it was a squirrel--or two, or three-- it was hard to tell. Their movement is erratic, fast and unpredictable, like the marble at play in a pinball machine. Crows can make a good racket if they’re sincerely invested, or if they‘re convinced they have a chance at chiseling away another layer of human arrogance and conceit. A raccoon would make more of a plodding sound. They take their time, their steps seem calculated, premeditated, like they avoid the very notion of getting somewhere, like a distracted little boy on his walk to school.

It could be mice, but they are lithe and focused, business-like, and too smart to stay in one place for long. Rats are a possibility, but why the roof? Shouldn’t they be in sewers and pipes where their excursions are mapped out so well and it's dank and safe? A man's roof is no place for a rat. (Dennis would never say this to anyone, but he found rats to be hideous, grotesque. It wasn't rational, he knew--they're just another of God's creatures-- but he hated them. They creeped him out. "Anything--anything--but rats," he prayed.)

Bats are nocturnal, but they are active and airborne at night, gracefully sweeping the sky, devouring insects with military-like precision. No, bats would not waste their night dancing and mingling on a roof.

“Oh why won’t they stop?” wondered Dennis.

He was so tired.

"Why me?"

Finally, after weeks of speculation and hours of lost sleep, Dennis decided to take action. He got out of bed and went to his garage, where he removed his extension ladder from its mount and carried it to his backyard. Across the way, he heard his neighbors laughing at something on the TV. Better that then gun play, thought Dennis. With a tennis racket in one hand, Dennis scaled the ladder, ascending some twenty five feet, before adroitly stepping over the gutter and finding his balance, barefoot and in pajamas, on the steep pitch of his roof.

He would find the animals and remove them. If that meant killing them, then so be it. He needed his sleep.

He heard scampering coming from the far side of the chimney. When he turned to investigate, the tennis racket hit the end cap of the ladder, dislodging it and sending it earthward. The sound of the ladder's descent and impact--all hollow aluminum and cracked twigs and disturbed shrubbery--startled the neighbors. They muted the volume on the TV and turned off the lights in their apartment.

From his vantage point high above the avenue, Dennis watched moths blindly negotiate for space under the hot white light of a street lamp and marveled at their tenacity. Or was it desperation?

Preventive Measure, Warehouse, International District, 2009

Happens Every Day

2009-07-28T12:58:00.000-07:00

Infield, Ross Park, Fremont, 2009

He called her home phone in the middle of the morning knowing she would not be there to answer. He left a message.

When she got in from work that evening she listened to her voicemail, as she always did, and was surprised to hear his voice. “Hey, Babe….” What? Why didn’t he call her cell? Or her work?

He had convinced himself that this was the best way. The best way for both of them. The easiest way. The cleanest way.

When he began, “I should probably tell you this face to face….,” she thought he was going to apologize for the insensitive comments he had made about her dress the other evening and was momentarily pleased.

He had reasoned that this kind of thing happens to people every day, all over the world, and will happen again tomorrow and the next day and the next. It happens. It’s just life. She’ll understand. She understands me, how I think, he reasoned. So he called her home number at ten thirty when that revelation was fresh and certain.

She listened to his message, then pressed nine to save it. The other messages concerned a hair appointment, a meet up with a friend, and something about remembering to vote for the progressive candidate, and were listened to and saved, as well. She immediately called him, got his voicemail, and hung up.

He said he thought that by being quiet--brooding, she called it-- he had made his feelings clear to her the last time they had been with each other. He thought that she knew him well enough to sense that he was unhappy and that it wouldn't serve either of them to pretend otherwise. There was no need to hash things over and make a big display. They were too dignified for that. They were a dignified couple.

She had seen this coming, anticipated the moment, but still felt she deserved to express some outrage and hurt, and to have him...sense it, he would say. He owed her that. They had invested a lot of themselves in this relationship. This moment was big and demanded a gesture worthy of its significance. She searched for the proper response, but it eluded her. She could call her best friend. Her mom, maybe. Or her over-protective little brother. She could drive to his place and pound on his door. Or she could sit here and cry. She could bring on tears easily, and it would be right to cry.

He ended his message with, “I love you,” then hung up. He felt relieved that it was over, that he was a free man and that he had spared her from the drama and the anguish which she did not deserve. He called his friend to see if he wanted to play tennis that afternoon.

She replayed his message. When the mechanized woman prompted her to save or delete, she pressed seven and he was gone. She went to the refrigerator and took out the six pack of beer which he had left from the other night and put it on the counter. She opened a can and took a swig, and as she expected, it tasted like his breath. It tasted good. She took another drink, then poured the remainder in the sink. Glug. Glug. Glug. Glug. The foam and the sizzle.

Left Field Foul Line, Ross Park, Fremont, 2009

It's A Fine Line

2009-07-25T00:27:00.000-07:00

Latch, Mottman Building, Pioneer Square, 2009

An overnight security guard stepped into the dim light of the alley and found Johnson fiddling with a lock.

“What are you doing, sir?” he asked.

The guard startled Johnson, but he kept on with his business, undeterred by the intrusion.

“I said, what are you doing, sir?”

“What I’m doing is none of your business,” Johnson said. “Now leave, would you?”

“Sir, you’re attempting to unlock this door,” said the guard.

“So you know what I’m doing,” Johnson remarked. “Then why did you ask me?”

“Sir. Step away from the door, please.”

Johnson inserted the correct key and unlocked the door. “Finally,” he sighed, and entered the building.

“Sir, put your hands on your head!” shouted the security guard as he followed Johnson in.

But Johnson ignored the order and kept moving. The inside of the building was dark save for the soft glow cast by the EXIT signs on either side of the foyer. Johnson bumped his leg against the armrest of a couch as he tried to maneuver his way through the blackness. “Owww!” he cried, and grabbed his knee. “Where’s the elevator!?”

“To your immediate left, sir, but I’ve asked you to put your hands on your head.”

Johnson was in pain, his leg badly bruised. He eased himself onto the couch. “Turn on your flashlight and point it toward the elevator,” Johnson demanded. “Or better yet, just turn on the lights.”

“I'm not sure where...Sir, I have the authority to---”

“The authority to what?” snapped Johnson. “I need some ice.”

The guard tried detaching the flashlight from his utility belt, but fumbled in the darkness. “I can have you arrested for breaking and entering,” he said, then sent the flashlight flying to the floor when he inadvertently cracked the plastic clip which had secured it in place. The impact caused the batteries to dislodge from the unit and they could be heard rolling along the marble tiles.

“What was that?” asked Johnson.

“My flashlight, sir” said the guard. “Do you see it? “

“I can’t even see you,” said Johnson. “How do you expect me to see your flashlight?”

“Sir, I can’t lose that flashlight. It was just issued yesterday.”

“Run across the street and get me some ice and I’ll stay here and look for your flashlight, okay, uh….what‘s your name?”

“Mike,“ answered the security guard.

A police cruiser roared by, temporarily illuminating the foyer in brilliant incandescence. The guard caught a glimpse of Johnson, incapacitated on the couch. He slowly backed his way toward the EXIT sign. “Sir, you’ve broken the law here. This is criminal trespassing.”

"I'll find your flashlight, Mike," said Johnson. “Now get me some ice. Quick.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll be right back.”

Mike bought a bag of ice at the mini-mart across the street and hastily returned. He stood in the doorway and peered helplessly into the dark foyer, his forehead streaked with sweat. He held the ice in his outstretched arms as if offering salvation.

“Sir?...Sir?...Sir?”

Bolt, Mottman Building, Pioneer Square, 2009

Aerodynamic

2009-07-22T23:19:00.000-07:00

Aurora Bridge Span, 2009

"What in God’s name are you doing?” Margaret asked her husband.

Wallace was in the bedroom getting ready for a bike ride with his friend, Tim.

“What does it look like I’m doing?” he deadpanned.

Tim had suggested to Wallace during their last ride that he might want to buy a pair of biking shorts like his. Tim wore black, skin-tight shorts made of lycra. Tim had claimed that the shorts offered better support than a jock strap and that they kept the sweat off of his body and that they were more efficient, more “aerodynamic,” he said, than the cotton gym shorts Wallace usually wore (when he wasn’t wearing dress slacks).

“Well. I don’t like it,” professed Margaret. “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

Wallace could not understand his wife’s displeasure. After all, it was she who badgered him into getting off the couch in the first place. She was the one who told him he was out of shape, that she didn’t want to be a widow before her time. So after several weeks of finding excuses to avoid the inevitable, Wallace finally acquiesced and bought a bike. He committed to an exercise program he had read about in a magazine and was following through. He found exercise to be difficult, but invigorating. Tim, a young paralegal at his firm, had invited him on a ride one afternoon and a friendship blossomed.

“Tim says these are the best. What’s the problem?”

Wallace was sixty-two years old and heavy set. The shorts were extra-large, his typical size, but they were not easy to get into.

“Oh, Tim! Tim is almost thirty years younger than you and is shaped like a toothpick. You look ridiculous.”

Wallace got up off the edge of the bed and stood, topless, before his wife. “See. They fit nicely.”

Margaret glared at her husband. “I suppose you’ll want this.” She reached into the laundry basket she was holding and tossed him his old SuperSonics t-shirt.

“No, I won’t need that,” Wallace said. “I’m wearing this.”

Wallace held up a zippered, polyester mesh jersey that was vibrant with swirling color and unabashedly adorned with corporate logos ranging from soda to candy bars to automobile manufacturers.

“I bet that breathes better than your Sonics shirt, doesn’t it?” Margaret asked, rhetorically.

“Tim says the elastic hem will keep it from billowing in the wind.”

“It’s more…aerodynamic… than the Sonics shirt?” Margaret suggested.

“Yes,” replied Wallace, as he struggled to get his new jersey zipped.

“Here...let me help you,” said Margaret. She got the zipper to work then stepped back to assess her husband's brazen new look.

"Well...the cars will see you, at least," she said. "Be careful out there, Wally."

“I will, Hon,” said Wallace. “See you later, then.”

He sauntered out of the house, his bike shoes clicking like dog claws against the hardwood floor.

Burke-Gilman Trail, Under The Aurora Bridge, 2009

Mentirosos

2009-07-16T11:45:00.000-07:00

Plate And Fresh Tar, Along The Duwamish River, 2009

He slid the pizza in then sat down to watch some tv. In twenty-five to twenty-seven minutes his meal would be ready.

With a cold beer in one hand and the remote in the other, he began drinking and clicking.

There was a baseball game. Click. A sitcom from his youth. Click. The weather. Click. A home makeover. Click. Entertainment news. Click. A cartoon. Click. Jesus. Click. Click. Click. Click.

The cat hopped onto his lap and licked the back of his hand. “Just a minute, Honey,” he told her. "I'll feed you in a minute." He finished his beer and kept clicking.

He watched a documentary about World War II fighter planes for a while and decided to have another beer.

He drank and clicked some more.

Soon, the bottle rolled from his hand and fell harmlessly to the carpeted floor.

Then, the remote....

“No hice nada malo!!” cried the actress. He woke to the smell of burning cheese.

He singed his hands removing the smouldering pizza from the oven, impulsively throwing the pie on the counter where it slid until it hit a bag of cookies. White smoke had permeated the studio apartment. He coughed and his eyes teared as he struggled to turn the stubborn window crank.

The smoke alarm from the hallway outside his door began beeping now. An actor confessed, “Nunca he amado a ustedes.”

Within a minute, the apartment building's manager, a retired woman named Terri, was banging on his door and screaming, “Are you okay!? Are you all right?!”

“I’m fine, yeah! Everything’s good,” he yelled back. “Thank you!”

“Are you sure!?” Terri hollered.

He walked to the door and opened it a crack, concealing the hazy cloud of his studio from Terri, who was holding her trembling chihuahua, Lovely.

“It’s okay,” he assured her. “It was just my pizza. It‘s under control.”

“Didn’t your alarm go off?” Terri asked.

He said nothing at first, then, “Yes. Yes it did.”

"You put in that battery I gave you, right?"

He looked at her through his swollen, red eyes, seeking absolution. He nodded his head somewhere between yes and no.

“I think you’re a liar,” Terri said, and held his stare. Neither of them blinked or said a word for several long seconds.

Then, as music swelled over the closing credits of the tv drama, she finally broke the stalemate. “Let’s go, Lovely.”

He returned to find Honey on the counter, scratching at the pizza, which had cooled and hardened like molten lava.

“I’m not a liar, am I, Honey?” he said, and opened the cabinet where he kept her food.

Harborview Medical Center, First Hill, 2009

Hobbies And Interests

2009-07-11T11:19:00.000-07:00

Restaurant Back Door, Rainier Avenue South, 2009

“What do you do in there, anyway?”

“Nothing.”

“What do you mean, ‘Nothing’?”

“I just…ah…I-I-I don’t know.”

“What!?”

“I store stuff in there.”

“Stuff? What kind of stuff?”

“Let’s go.”

“No, seriously, what stuff?”

“What does it matter?”

“I’m just curious. What, do you keep, like…extra furniture or something in there? What?”

“Not exactly. No.”

“Is it some hobby you’ve never talked about?”

“Eh. No. Sorta.”

“What!!?”

He paused.

“Alright. If I show you , you have to promise not to tell anyone. Okay?”

“What? Is it criminal? Perverse?”

“Oh, god, no!! Not at all,” he laughed.

“Fine. I won’t tell a soul,” she purred.

He went to the house to get the key. “Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll be here,” she said.

They had been dating for about a month and things had been going so well. He was the kindest, funniest, most interesting man she had met in a long time. What she admired most about him though was his honesty, his willingness to talk about things, even difficult things, in a such a thoughtful, reflective manner. He listened to her and encouraged her and was open to her ideas and suggestions. They seemed to bring out the best in each other.

Now this. This…shed, or storage space, or whatever it is. Why hadn’t he talked about this before? She had seen it, of course. They had spent some time in his backyard. But she just assumed it was a garage or something. The structure itself was not remarkable. It wasn’t until this afternoon that she felt inclined to ask about it.

She stood there and fought off all of her worst premonitions. She wanted so badly not to be disappointed in him, for this relationship to work.

She wanted him to open that door and surprise her with something magical and grand. She would even be fine with something dull and benign.

“Just nothing …weird,” she thought. “Please, just nothing weird.”

He returned from the house with a key ring and a glass of lemonade. “Here you are, Ma’am,” he said, and handed her the glass with a mischievous grin.

God, that smile. The smile that made her weak and helpless in his presence ever since they had met at a mutual friend’s birthday party. He approached her to introduce himself but had won her over with that smile before he even mentioned his name.

“Please,” she uttered when she took the lemonade.

“What?,” he said.

“…Sweet!, I said. How sweet of you. God, you are so thoughtful.”

“My pleasure,” he returned.

He moved to the structure and inserted the key. But the key would not slide in all the way. He jiggled it and pushed a little harder. “What the…?” he said. He tried again. And again. Still no luck.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

He stood still for a moment without looking at her.

He finally turned toward her but the smile had vacated his face. It had been vanquished to some other galaxy as far as she could tell. “Someone has changed the lock," he said.

“Please. Please. Please. Please,” she prayed.

Lumber Yard Container, Ship Canal, 2009

Saturday Morning

2009-07-07T22:58:00.000-07:00

Hinge, My Backdoor, 2009

He set the novel down in his lap to look at the butterfly which had landed on the lavender plant. It turns out it was just a moth. He was slightly disappointed. Nevertheless, he followed the erratic flight of the moth for the next few seconds until it lost interest in the lavender and flew around the corner of the house to embark on other moth business.

He took a drink of coffee and carefully placed the cup back on the parched, brown grass of his backyard and resumed reading.

Across the street, a landscape crew had finished the weekly maintenance of his neighbor’s pristine yard. Before they left, though, one of the workers put on a pair of headphones and started up a leaf blower. He roamed the pavement with an impressive single-mindedness, a man on a mission. The gas powered blower emitted a deafening roar as it dispersed grass clippings and clouds of dust from one spot to another.

It was too noisy for anyone to read or do much else, so he set the book on the lounge chair and went inside to pee and refill his coffee.

Meter, My Backyard, 2009

He returned to his chair and book, refreshed.

He flipped through some pages, trying to remember where he had left off. He thought it was somewhere near the middle of Chapter 3. He picked a page at random and began reading. The passage was not familiar but he decided to go on anyway.

A woman walked by pushing a stroller. He watched and waited for her to make eye contact and smile, but she passed him without notice.

He read a sentence, then stopped and closed his eyes for a moment. He could fall asleep if he let himself.

He started over, reading the same sentence.

And again.

But the words on the page did not--would not--register.

He turned to the last page in the book, p. 547.

"I can’t read this,” he finally admitted.

But he was dedicated to completing the book because his wife had suggested it to him and said he would love it and he didn’t want to disappoint her.

It bothered him that he couldn’t get through a page--hell, a sentence-- without having his mind drift elsewhere. He wondered if it was not the book, but rather his own inability to focus that was the problem. “I can watch a sitcom or a football game from beginning to end without any trouble,” he pondered. “Why can't I finish this damn book?”

He took another drink, but the coffee was now tepid.

He watched a jet fly by, heading east, to China maybe.

Then he put the book on the ground next to his chair, and very slowly and deliberately poured the remains of his cup onto its opened pages. He watched the brown streams deface the text then converge in the crevasse of the book’s spine, before filtering out onto the thirsty lawn.

Retired Mailbox, My Backyard, 2009

Vernon Munsley

2009-07-02T23:45:00.000-07:00

Officer Under The Viaduct, 2009

He entered and everyone stopped talking.

He sat in his usual chair near the back of the conference room, then adjusted his tie and cuff links. He removed a folded piece of paper from his pants pocket, cleared his throat, then finally looked up to the podium where the Sargeant was waiting for a cue from his most veteran officer.

“Uh…Ladies and gentlemen,” the Sargeant began, “before today’s briefing, Officer Munsley would like to, uh, come up and, uh, say a few words. So, uh, if you’ll give him your attention, please. Officer Munsley?….”

Vernon Musley stood almost six and a half feet tall with broad shoulders and a barrel chest, his burgeoning mid-section held in check by a belt pulled to its very limit. Despite his girth and a piece of bullet lodged in one leg, he could still out run most officers half his age. He walked toward the front of the room with the deliberateness of a man who knew exactly what he was going to do. But the fact is, inside he was trembling.

Vernon had never spoken formally to a group of people in his life. He was a man of few words, just like his father, who taught Vernon the value of conducting himself with humility and grace. On the street, Vernon’s mere presence, his calm, confident countenance, was as effective and potent as all talk, swagger and bravado, which served his inherent shyness well. His brief conversations were limited to the people he met on his beat, victims and perpetrators, store owners, distraught wives, the drunks, and the like. With fellow officers he was professional and courteous and succinct.

Some of the younger cops mistook Vernon's reserve for arrogance, but those who knew him best--the three partners he had over the course of his career: Sam, Johnny and Russ--would tell you that Vernon was a stalwart cop, tough, reliable, thoughtful and fair. If he seemed unapproachable at times, well, he probably had good reason. “The tax payers are gettin’ their money’s worth outta you, Vernon,” Sam had told him one day.

Vernon was, as always, meticulously groomed as he stood before his comrades. His reddish-gray hair was cut short and neat. His nails were trimmed and clean. His chin was as whiskerless as the day he was born. The pride with which he wore his freshly pressed uniform and carried his pistol was evident. Not a thing was out of place. The only aspect of Vernon Munsley that was altered at this moment was his state of mind.

He pulled a pair of reading glasses out of his chest pocket, then unfolded the paper.

“I, uh…I…I just wanted to say….”

He looked over at his Sargeant for guidance, but the officer had nothing for Vernon.

“I…I, uh…I’m going to need you all to be very patient with me, here….”

The room was his, if only he could summon the courage to say what he needed to say.

Secured, Alaskan Way Viaduct, 2009

The Role Of Desire

2009-06-28T23:27:00.000-07:00

Stop/Go, Fremont Railroad Track, 2009

His wardrobe was ready. A light weight, brown jacket. A navy blue t-shirt. New jeans. White socks. White court shoes. He had laid it out last night in preparation for today.

He ate a good, hearty breakfast, then packed his lunch. He put a second water bottle in the bag just in case. These days could be long.

He checked his hair in the mirror and was disappointed that it didn’t have the same lift, the same sexy, disheveled look that the stylist had achieved yesterday. It looked flat. Like his old hair, only shorter. Oh, well, he thought, then got in his car and drove off.

He had gotten directions off the internet and had them printed out and memorized a week ago. Still, he wanted the sheet at his side as he drove north on I-5 to Seattle. A waft of air entering from the broken vent kept lifting and shifting the paper, forcing him to anchor the directions to the seat with his right hand.

He noticed the gas gauge needle pointing precariously close to E and was angry at himself for neglecting to fill the tank yesterday. There wasn't time now.

An unexpected delay occured near Kent, where a semi-truck had spilled some of its load, several mattresses. Traffic was diverted through one, insufferably slow moving lane for a quarter of a mile.

He had to pee very badly. He looked at the empty Starbucks cup on the floorboard but thought the better of it.

A trip which was supposed to take thiry-eight minutes was running close to an hour and ten minutes. He was thinking the worst thoughts about himself and today and what it would mean if he was late.

Every job I do the same thing!, he scolded himself, and pressed hard on the accelerator.

Finally in Seattle, he took the Mercer Street exit and followed the signs directing him to Memorial Stadium, where he found a pay lot and parked, then ran into a McDonald's to ease the tension in his bladder.

Outside the stadium two hundred or so other extras were patiently waiting in line to fill out release forms and receive their coupons for free subs and sodas. He scanned the crowd for familiar faces but found none. There was a young couple pushing twins in a double stroller. One woman had brought her dachshund along. He saw a man wearing just a bathing suit. A group of Japanese tourists were in line as well, looking at maps and taking pictures. Many others were just now arriving, like him. He hadn't missed a thing. His breathing slowed to normal. He chided himself for getting so worked up and took his place among the assembled.

“Today’s shoot will start in about an hour and forty-five minutes,” a production assistant announced into a blow horn. "You can expect to be here until about 3:00. Take a seat in the stadium around mid-field and make yourself comfortable. I’ll let you know more as information becomes available.”

He found a spot on one of the cold metal bleachers and took out a water bottle.

“That was smart to bring your own water,” said the woman next to him. “I wish I had thought of that.”

"Yes," he said, without looking at the woman.

Then, he reached in his bag for the other bottle and offered it to her. “Here,” he said. “Have this one.”

“Why, thank you!" said the woman, accepting the water. "I’m Kim. Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Rory,” he said. “Nice to meet you. Have you worked a sports related film before? I haven't.”

“Yes, I have,” she said. “It’s not too complicated. You’ll do fine. Just follow my lead,” she smiled.

“Okay. Thanks,” he said. He took a long drink from his bottle. “How do I look?”

Waiting For Opportunity, Brewery, Fremont 2009

Structures

2009-06-24T12:26:00.000-07:00

Lumber Company Address, Ship Canal, 2009

Mrs. Rosalie Dawson decided to put up a fence to keep the mischief out.

She called her son, Kenneth, and asked for his help.

“Mom, I’m in Philadelphia on business for the next three weeks. Can it wait?”

“No, it can’t,” Rosalie told her only child. “You do what you have to do. I’ll build it myself.”

Last night’s trampling of her beloved flower bed was just the most recent in a string of disturbing incidents around her once quiet neighborhood. Her garbage can was routinely knocked over. Her garage door had been tagged with graffiti, someone named Jeans, as far as she could tell. She found the general tone of the teenage boys who walked in packs at night to be rude and threatening. For the first time since her husband, Grand, had died eight years ago, Rosalie felt unsafe in her home.

Grand Dawson had kept a loaded rifle under his bed for security, and Rosalie never liked it. After Grand’s funeral, Rosalie told Kenneth to take the gun out to the woods and bury it. “I’ve got my wits and Dolly to protect me,” she said. Kenneth did as he was told. And after he had tossed the last shovel full of dirt on the weapon, Dolly, Rosalie’s cantankerous Miniature Poodle, defecated on the spot. Grand and Dolly had never really gotten along.

Web, Lumber Company, Ship Canal, 2009

On Monday, Rosalie took the Metro bus to the only lumber yard in Seattle she was familiar with, the one along the ship canal that Grand always complained about. A gentleman there named Steve took her order and told her that the lumber and supplies would be delivered on Tuesday. Rosalie thanked him and asked if he would be kind enough to direct her to the bus that would take her back home. Steve accompanied her to the No. 17 stop and waited until she had safely boarded. “You be sure and call me if you have any questions,” he told Rosalie, as she waved off the driver’s offer to lower the wheelchair ramp.

On the ride home Rosalie thought of little Dolly and how she would have hated the idea of being fenced in.

“My good, sweet Dolly,” she remembered, and clutched the strap of her purse a little tighter.

Rosalie hired a neighbor man, David, to dig the holes, pour the concrete, and set the posts. David, who was developmentally delayed and unemployed, had helped Rosalie around the house before. Rosalie had paid him a little cash, but mostly David was grateful for Rosalie’s company and willingness to listen to him talk about his many obsessions. When it came time to put up the rails and fencing, though, David said he couldn’t help because he had come down with a bad cold.

Rosalie picked up the hammer and felt its great, awkward weight. Her arthritis had worsened over the past few years and simple chores like sweeping and cutting vegetables brought pain and frustration. Her eyesight was weak. She could scarcely distinguish the fingers on her hand. She couldn’t remember where she had placed the bag of nails.

"I am old and weak and I hate it," she said to herself.

She let go of the hammer and it deflected off the stack of heavy rails before landing on the dusty, hardened dirt. Rosalie kicked at the hammer, then looked up to the heavens.

“Goddamn you, Grand! Goddamn you!”

She walked back into the house and searched her purse for the receipt from the lumber company.

"Hello. This is Mrs. Rosalie Dawson. May I speak to a gentleman named Steve, please?"

Windows, Lumber Company, Ship Canal, 2009

Face The Day, Martin

2009-06-18T21:29:00.001-07:00

Weight, Former Felt Factory, 2009

The coversation was interrupted by the alarm clock's assault....

AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT

Martin pressed the snooze button, adjusted his pillows, and worked to regain entry into the pleasure of his dream. She wasn’t quite there anymore, though, this woman who had found him so fascinating. There was some vague impression of her lingering about, but the moment was over. He dug deep, Martin did, to bring her back, but found only frustration. Her lovely face and hair and voice had been replaced by something else, neither woman nor man, just some entity laughing at him, taunting him….

AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINT-AINTAINTAINTAINTAINTAINTAINTAINTAINTAINT!!!!!!

He pulled back the covers and slid his legs over the side of the bed. His feet felt swollen, hot and sore. His lower back ached. What kind of gymnastics had he performed in his sleep to warrant this kind of pain?

He reached into his pajama pocket and pulled out a decaying Kleenex. He carefully unfolded the crumpled tissue but it disintegrated in his hands.

He got up to go pee.

Martin wanted nothing more than to crawl back under those blankets and hide from the day he faced.

Martin, you see, had fallen behind at work. Templeton had arranged a meeting with him at 8:00.

Meters Under Aurora Bridge, 2009

He started his coffee, then stepped into the shower.

The soap slid from his grasp and careened and spun wildly around the tub and through his legs before finally coming to a rest atop the drain. When Martin bent down to pick it up, he slipped and smacked his skull against the towel rack. He felt the welt on his brow and winced.

Martin, naked, wet and shivering, got an ice pack from the freezer and took a seat at the kitchen table.

"Templeton is so hard to read," he thought. "What can he want?"

He got up and managed to pour himself a cup of coffee without incident, then returned to his wet chair.

"I don't want to see Templeton. I don't like him," he said to himself.

Martin touched his brow and sensed that the bruise had swelled in spite of the ice. He saw a little blood on his finger and licked it off. Then his phone rang....

“Hello, Martin?” the voice said.

“Yes?” said Martin.

“This is Templeton. I thought I’d save you the effort of coming in---”

Martin interrupted his supervisor, “Just a minute, Mr. Templeton.”

He took another drink of his coffee then set the cup and the ice pack on the counter. Then he walked to his bedroom with the phone. There, still naked and damp, he got into bed, pulled the covers up to his neck, found a comfortable position, and brought the phone to his mouth....

“I’m here, Mr. Templeton.”

99/560, Aurora Bridge, 2009

Passengers

2009-06-14T12:52:00.000-07:00

Train By My House, 2009

The brothers sat quietly in the office, their backpacks and lunch boxes at their feet, waiting for their father to arrive.

Ben had sent a note with Devon on Tuesday informing the school's secretary that he would be picking up the boys early today, around 10:30, to attend to a family matter. This was the first time all year that the boys would be absent from school.

Last year, before Quinn had entered kindergarten, Devon had been removed from school by his father to attend to family matters on six occasions, each roughly a month apart.

Ben walked in at precisely at 10:30 and cordially thanked the secretary for having the boys ready. He was carrying a cardboard box about the size of a microwave oven, sealed expertly with packaging tape. The secretary, Miss Eisen, was new and so wouldn’t have noted that this was the same box which Ben had been holding each time he had picked up Devon for the excused absences last year.

The boys got into the waiting taxi ahead of their father. The cabbie suggested Ben put the box in the trunk, it wouldn’t be a problem, but Ben insisted on keeping the box on his lap. “This is fine,” he told the driver, “King Street Station, please.”

Pressed, Tracks By My House, 2009

At the train station Ben was told by the ticket clerk that his box would have to be placed in a storage compartment, that it was too large to carry on. Ben insisted that the box had to stay with him for it contained medical equipment necessary for dealing with his youngest son’s respiratory condition. After some deliberation, the clerk issued the three tickets to Portland and the box stayed in Ben’s arms.

On the train the boys took their comic books out of their backpacks and read. Ben, with his box, sat across from his sons and looked alternately out the window and at his watch.

Quinn looked up from his Spiderman comic, “Where are we going, Dad?”

“To Portland, Quinn.”

“Why?”

“Just read your comic book, Quinnie.”

“Where’s mom?” Quinn asked.

“She’s at home. She wanted to stay home,” Ben replied.

Devon knew not to ask anymore. This five hour train ride to Portland was becoming as routine to him as a trip to the grocery store. He pushed his shoulder into his little brother’s and said, “Quit asking questions for once.”

“Now, Devon,” his father reprimanded.

In Centralia, the train stopped for a brief layover and Jennifer, Ben’s nineteen year old daughter from a previous marriage and a student at the college there, was waiting for her father and the boys.

“Thank you, Jennie,” said Ben, with box in arms. The boys stood in the tiny lobby of the Centralia station and greeted their step sister with a perfunctory, “Hi.”

“Whatever,” shrugged Jennifer. She collected her bag and textbook and stepped on board the train to accompany her father, once again, on another pointless trip to Portland. Her twelfth, or fifteenth. She had lost track.

70, Train By My House, 2009

Hours later, the train pulled into the Portland station. Ben herded his family onto the city bus which would take them downtown.

When the bus neared the Wells Fargo Center, Ben shifted the box in his arms and asked Jennifer to pull the stop chord. “I know,” she said.

Ben instructed his children to sit on a bench in the boulevard park.

“Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t make eye contact with anyone. Don’t move from this bench.”

“Dad?” said Quinn.

“Not now, Quinn. Jennie, you have your cell phone with you?”

She pulled the phone out of her bag but did not look at her father.

“Good. All right. I’ll be back in five minutes.” He secured the box in his arms, walked away from his family, and entered the office tower.

Devon put his arm around Quinn’s shoulder but said nothing. Jennifer considered her two young relatives for a moment, their skinny legs dangling from the bench seat, their forlorn little boy faces, then offered them a stick of gum from her bag. The three of them sat side by side and chewed in silence. Gum had never tasted this good, this sweet. The action of the jaw and tongue and teeth and saliva working in unison was comforting and distracting.

Finally, Jennifer said, “Good, huh?”

Five minutes passed. As promised Ben returned, but without the box.

“Let’s go home," he said.

Extra Rails, Track By My House, 2009

Ascent

2009-06-10T10:42:00.000-07:00

10 Tons, Waterway 21, Lake Union, 2009

It was inexplicable. Insane.

It made absolutely no sense to anyone, especially herself. When she recalls the evening now, it is as if she is talking about someone else, some unstable person. A stranger.

But she did it. There are pictures, news stories, witnesses.

It was a warm Monday evening around 7:00 and she had finished grocery shopping and was driving home. At the stoplight on Stone Way she turned off the radio. It was ’Norwegian Wood.’ Why did she hate that song so much when she loved everything else by The Beatles? But she just did. The song bugged her,and so she simply shut it down. Click! Off. Gone. And that was very satisfying to her.

She wouldn’t have done that if he was in the car. She would have had to justify her dislike of the song, analyze her taste in music, defend herself for disrespecting the most influential band of the 20th Century. In fact, she would have probably just let it play on. He would’ve said it’s classic Beatles, how could she not like it? What's your problem? He would’ve laughed and grunted and rolled his eyes and they would have listened to the song without further comment.

She looked at the downtown skyline. “What is wrong with me?” she wondered.

“There is nothing wrong with me.”

“I don’t think there is anything wrong with me.”

Neck, Waterway 21, Lake Union, 2009

The light turned green and the driver behind her honked to get her out of her reverie. It startled her, and instead of continuing straight she impulsively turned right onto Northlake Way, the pock-marked access street that runs along the shore of industrial Lake Union. She pulled over onto the side of the road and turned off the engine. Her hands were sweating. She got out of the car.

And this is where her memory gets a little fuzzy.

She remembered noticing the crane towering above her and how it was reflecting the last of the day’s light, how it shimmered and bled against the sky‘s backdrop. The orange crane and the azure blue sky seemed to compete and compliment at once. She thought about how he wouldn’t see it. He wouldn’t even try to see it.

She doesn’t remember how she got past the obstacles and barricades and fences guarding the base of the crane. Or how she brought herself to begin ascending the triangulated lattice of the mast. Or how she boosted herself onto the roof of the operator’s cab. She has no recollection of crawling across the trolley of the jib, the working arm, where she ultimately ended up, suspended some 250 feet above the water.

She can’t remember the face of the firefighter who held her hand and talked so calmly to her, but does recall his name, Justin, and how he nodded and smiled when she pointed out to him how beautiful the downtown skyline looked from so high up.

She remembered how slowly her heart could beat if she allowed it. This memory she keeps to herself.

The Crane, Waterway 21, Lake Union, 2009

Thank God It's Friday

2009-06-05T20:53:00.000-07:00

Fun Forest Duck Ride, Seattle Center, 2009

The conditions were just perfect. A Friday evening in late spring with clear skies, hardly a breeze, the temperature in the low-seventies. After last Friday’s… indiscretion… he couldn’t have asked for a more accommodating atmosphere in which to renounce his actions and reprise his apology. He didn’t expect to regain her good graces in the course of one evening, but this would be a good start, here at Seattle Center, in public, by the International Fountain on the great lawn of the urban park where they had met ten years ago.

He personally saw to filling the big tote bag with the necessary diapers, plastic bags, wipes, lotions, formula, snacks, water, rattles, teething rings, picture books, ointments, bottles, creams, salves, powders, extra clothing and towels. He got both the kids situated into their car seats, and even asked her if she wanted to drive, as if offering her a treat. She said no, why would she want to drive?

Earlier, after work, he had stopped at the Italian deli in Pike Market and bought bread and cheese and salami and olives and truffles and her very favorite Tortellini pesto salad, and finally, a bottle of 2003 Valtellina Superiore that he found for just $12.

Step Carefully At The Fun Forest, Seattle Center, 2009

She wasn’t that mad, really, and thought that she had made that clear to him. After all, he had called and told her --actually, he had asked her if it would be okay to go out for a drink with a few people from work. She readily gave her consent, though she wondered why he wasn’t rushing home from work so that she could leave the two babies in his care for just a couple of hours so that she might have a drink with her friends. But she chose not to say that.

He probably--no, he should-- have called her when he discovered that three of the people who had agreed to meet after work had bowed out at the last minute, leaving only himself and the woman from sales sitting at the bar. But he chose not to call. He chose, instead, to savor this unexpected moment with this woman because, well… because it had been a long day at work and the bar was dark and she was pretty and he loved his wife and children and would never do anything to compromise that love and nothing is wrong with having an innocent drink with a co-worker even if she happens to be really good looking. Right?

When he got home that evening he told her that he had a drink with some woman from sales because the others didn’t show and the woman was self-centered and dull and that he couldn’t wait to finish his drink and get back home to her and the babies. She said oh, that’s too bad. She wanted to ask him if the woman was attractive but didn’t because it would make her sound suspicious and jealous and paranoid and she was already so self conscious about her looks ever since the babies and why didn‘t he just cancel the drinks when he found out nobody but the woman was showing up. But she had no reason to question him this way. Right?

Barricades, Fun Forest, Seattle Center, 2009

The International Fountain was not operating and the area was roped off with yellow caution tape. Workers were spray washing the concrete surrounding the Fountain and the electric generators powering their water guns were emitting enough noise to scare off tourists, the homeless and even the seagulls and crows. Seattle Center, on the nicest evening of the year, was virtually abandoned, a ghost town. Nevertheless, they found a spot on the lawn and spread out a blanket, then gently placed the babies on their bellies. When he took the bottle of wine out of the grocery bag it occurred to him that he had forgotten to bring an opener.

“I’ll run into the Center House and see if I can find one somewhere!” he yelled, over the din of the generator.

“Oh. Forget it,” she replied, as she comforted the crying little girl on her shoulder.

“What?” he shouted.

“I said, ‘Forget it!’”

He sat back down on the blanket and looked at his wife holding their distraught daughter and patting the back of their contented son, then put the Valtellina Superiore back into the grocery bag. A man wearing a uniform and big headphones drove past them in a golf cart with a dated Seattle Center logo on its door. He nodded to the family as he passed, as if giving them his approval.

She set the girl back on the blanket next to her brother and mouthed, slowly and clearly to her husband, “Let’s. Go. Home.”

They collected their things and their children and made their way across the wet but clean sidewalks of Seattle Center toward the parking lot.

Ring Of Light, Fun Forest, Seattle Center, 2009

Between Semesters

2009-05-29T21:58:00.000-07:00

Mini Golf Cup, Fun Forest Pavillion, Seattle Center, 2009

Matt teed up his ball then found his footing. He took a few practice swings, paused, then let it rip. It sounded good on impact as it always did, but once again it hooked left, this time into the trees off the 18th fairway.

“Shit,” Matt said.

“Your shoulders are turned too far right, man,” said his friend, Harry.

Matt removed his tee from the grass and stuck it between his teeth. “I hate this game,” he mumbled.

Harry’s shot was straight and true and outdistanced Matt’s by a good twenty yards. He led Matt by 12 strokes heading into the final hole and Matt did not need another lesson at this moment.

Harry continued, “You’re trying to overcompensate by---.”

Matt interrupted him, “Just help me find my ball.”

Protective Netting, Interbay Golf Center, 2009

The brush was thick with prickly pine trees. Matt moved a branch away from where he thought his ball had landed . His palm became covered in sticky black sap. He cursed under his breath and wiped his hand on his pants. He thought he had a bottle of hand sanitizer in his bag and was about to get it when he looked down and spotted a ball. The ball was nestled under the beak of a large crow, which appeared to be freshly dead. Matt squatted and recognized that the ball was indeed his, a Dunlop 3.

6th Hole, Fun Forest Pavillion Mini Golf, Seattle Center, 2009

Matt and Harry, both twenty-one, handsome and athletic, had been best friends since they were middle school students at Tyee in Bellevue. They graduated together from Interlake High School and now were brothers in the Sigma Chi Fraternity at the University of Washington. Their fathers were long standing members of the country club and, growing up, the boys had spent almost as much time on the grounds here as in their own palatial backyards. And for Matt, who struggled mightily with this frustrating game and his father’s expectation that he keep at it because, at the very least, it will make good business sense in the long run, these trees and rough were all too familiar.

“You find it?” Harry shouted.

“No,” Matt said. “I’ll take the penalty.”

“Oh, forget it. Just drop a ball and play on.”

And play on they did. Harry beat Matt again, this time by 14 strokes, and the friends walked to the clubhouse to begin their post match ritual of seeing who could out drink the other.

“Beer’s on me,” said Harry, “You’ve had a rough day. Heh-heh. Get it, rough day?”

Driving Range, Interbay Golf Center, 2009

“I’ve gotta pee,” said Matt, and he got up from the table and headed to the restroom. Harry laughed and told him to hurry back because it’s no fun to drink alone.

Matt walked right past the men’s room and out the back door of the clubhouse. Without hesitating he started to sprint in the direction of the 18th fairway, cutting through a surprised foursome on the 16th green.

As Matt ran he recalled his mom’s last day, how she had passed with such dignity and grace even after the series of failed treatments had worn her down to a shell of herself. He missed his mom‘s encouragement and sense of humor. He wished he would have been kinder to her, more cheerful and happy around her, like he was with his friends.

He finally got to the spot on the 18th fairway where his ball had sailed out of bounds and stepped amongst the trees.

The crow’s eyes were open . A wing was instinctively fluttering some. Matt found a stick and nudged the bird ever so lightly in the ribs, but it did not respond. He knelt down over the crow and began blowing on it, as if to will it into action, to make it rise from this pathetic state and become it’s proud, obnoxious self again.

He stood up over the bird and began to cry. He hadn’t cried since his mom’s funeral six years ago, and even then the tears did not come easy.

He rubbed his thumb into the palm of his hand to work off the lingering sap. Then, he lifted his foot and with his spiked golf shoe, crushed the crow’s skull, killing the creature instantly.

Matt picked up his Dunlop 3, pocketed it, and walked back to the clubhouse.

Donkey Mini Golf, Fun Forest Pavillion, Seattle Center, 2009

Bad Traffic

2009-05-27T21:39:00.000-07:00

Poppies On My Parking Strip, 2009

The invitation said 7:00 and they were running late. An accident on 99 had reduced northbound traffic to one lane. He kept calling her, updating her on his status, and it wasn’t looking good. Her boss was notoriously anal about punctuality. This would be a mark against her.

She had dreaded this evening ever since the invitation was received a week ago. Of course she had to accept. Of course they had to go, she and her husband, the man who had informed her just a day before the invitation arrived that he wasn’t sure if he loved her anymore.

How do you explain to the intimidating, volatile boss of your new dream job that his invitation is appreciated, but due to a little domestic disturbance, a little bump in the road, we must pass?

He called again and told her he hadn’t moved an inch in twenty minutes.

She changed her dress to something less formal. She looked at herself in the mirror and thought that she looked desperate and calculating and put the formal dress back on. He would say that she looked good in either dress. That’s what he always said. He said to her what he thought she wanted to hear.

He ran into the bathroom to pee and yelled that he was sorry he was late and that traffic in Seattle was horrible and that he just needed a minute to wash up and change and he would be right out. She didn’t say anything.

He drove their SUV through the narrow streets of Queen Anne searching for a place to park. It was 7:42 and she told him to park anywhere, it didn’t matter now, but he insisted he could get closer if she would just relax.

There was a spot. Right in front of the boss’s house. He pulled in and saw the fire hydrant and said that they don’t patrol these streets so it’s okay. She said its illegal but she’s not driving, so whatever. He got out and looked at how close he was to the hydrant and determined that it was almost a car’s length.

“We’re fine,” he said.

She got out and they walked up the steps to the boss’s front door and knocked.

Iris On My Parking Strip, 2009

Terry and Brutus

2009-05-25T12:37:00.001-07:00

Koi Pond, Volunteer Park, 2009

Someone told Terry that his older brother, Dave, had died of a heart attack.

It saddened Terry, a little. But he hadn’t spoken to or seen Dave in about fifteen years and they had never been close. He hopped a Greyhound and hoped he would make it to central Idaho in time for the funeral.

Terry was twenty-seven but hardly looked it. He was scrawny, scarred and balding and had a voice that sounded like he had swallowed a spoonful of nuts and bolts coated in chili pepper sauce. He drank heavily and had a difficult time holding onto a job. He was pretty skilled with his hands but suffered from some disorder he couldn’t name that caused him to lose focus on any task which demanded a level of concentration greater than the time it took to lift a bottle to his mouth.

By all accounts, Terry was what society deemed a loser, a nuisance. He didn’t think of himself in those terms, but why would he have? He wouldn’t know opportunity if it slapped him in the face. Terry had spent his entire life in motion, avoiding trouble but getting into more of it, from the time he was dropped off at an aunt’s doorstep at the age of four by parents whom he hadn’t seen since. He spent his childhood bouncing from one distant relative to another, from a friend of a friend to another friend of a friend, to a foster home, and finally, at eighteen, to a shelter for men in Seattle.

Koi Pond #2, 2009

It turns out Dave lived with a pet in the Idaho wilderness, a big, unruly Rottweiler/poodle mix named Brutus that the local sheriff was holding in a cell at the jail. He had planned to put the dog down the afternoon Terry arrived. When Terry was spotted by a neighbor scrounging around Dave’s trailer, the sheriff pulled up in his cruiser with the dog secured in the back seat and said, “You got two choices: One, you can take this dog off my hands and get outta town before sunset. Or, two, I can handcuff you and take you in for trespassing.”

That evening Terry convinced a sympathetic clerk at the Greyhound depot, a woman named Dottie, that his dog would not be a problem on the eight hour ride to Seattle. The pair sat in the very back of the dark bus on plush lavender seats. Brutus got situated and rested his head on Terry’s lap. Terry fingered the mutt’s ample scruff and softly hummed heavy metal tunes. The hills of eastern Washington rolled by. Rain fell. The driver occasionally announced landmarks to the disinterested few on board. The two misbegotten strangers decided to put their faith in one another. That’s all they had, really. Faith. They soon slept.

Terry was back in Seattle, but no longer unfettered. “A pair of orphans, that’s what we are,” he told Brutus, as they walked the streets of the University District under the light of the bright new moon.

Koi Pond #3, 2009

Terry was atop a skateboard, holding onto a length of rope, the other end which was tied to Brutus’ collar. “Come on, kid. Go! Go!” Brutus bolted like he had been waiting for this command his whole life. Terry lost his balance and fell off the board. Brutus kept running, with the riderless skateboard trailing, its wheels spinning and rattling over the blacktop. Brutus raced through the thin strip of a parking lot at Volunteer Park, dodging cars and pedestrians, and all Terry could do was watch in awe from his seat on the lawn near the Conservatory.

“Brutus!“ Terry finally yelled.

Brutus abruptly stopped, but the skateboard did not, until it crashed into the poor dog’s hind legs and sent him tumbling into the koi pond. He recovered quickly and got back on all fours but not before snaring one of the large fish, trapping it in his jaws.

Terry ran to scene, waving his arms wildly and screaming at his friend, “No, Brutus, no!” Brutus turned and saw Terry approaching and released his catch. The fish swam away unharmed, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it had just come face to face with a most violent death.

Terry grabbed hold of the rope and led his companion away. “Good boy, Brutus, good boy.”

The skateboard floated among water lilies, duckweed, fairy moss and lotus briefly, then sank to the bottom of the pond.

Koi Pond #4, 2009

Everything

2009-05-22T20:16:00.000-07:00

Entry, 4500 NW Leary, 2009

He decided to do it as he was shaving last night . He would put every last piece of his collection in the back of the truck and do what he had been considering for the last couple of years.

He got out of bed without disturbing his wife, put on his clothes, and went to the garage. He skipped the coffee this morning. Any more time to contemplate at the kitchen table and he might just change his mind. He would have a cup of coffee after it was over.

His wife wouldn’t even care. She hadn’t asked about his things in ages. Perhaps she had grown tired of it all, tired of him.

Methodically, piece by piece, he loaded his things in the truck, careful not to startle the dog and set him howling. He leaned a large piece of plywood against the tailgate and pushed the heavier items in that way.

Every last article, from the pipes to the pistons to the bolts and barstools, all would be gone from his life in a matter of a few hours.

It made him more sentimental than he had thought. These clips and wrenches and sheets of cheap metal and canisters and molding and rods and filters and tubes and casings and…well, these were his things. His. And they would have eventually been used, by him or someone else. Eventually.

But, no. He stopped this thinking, and proceeded with the job that had to be done.

Children's Pool, Leary Way NW, 2009

He loaded the last piece in and threw the tarp over the lot. There, almost done. The dog walked over to him and sat, puzzled. He took his seat in the truck and beckoned the dog in. The dog hesitated, as if he knew something was not right, but loyalty forced him up and in.

From Kent, he headed north up to Seattle on a nearly empty I-5. The tarp was flapping violently but held steady. His goods were well protected and secure, at least for the time being.

He pulled his truck up onto the curb in front of the Leary Way building. The proprietor pushed a rusty sheet of corrugated aluminum out of his way and stepped up to the truck. “What do ya got?” he asked.

“Everything," he said, and instinctively grabbed a hold of his dog’s collar.

“I’m sorry, but we’re not taking anything. Seems the owner’s selling the place. We‘re closing up here on Saturday. You and your Everything are out of luck.”

He drove away, but not home. He got back on I-5 and headed north ,to where he knew not.

Alarmed, 4500 NW Leary Way, 2009

We've Had This Conversation A Thousand Times

2009-05-19T19:40:00.000-07:00

Golden Gardens, 2009

He slammed both of his fists against the table and screamed , “Stop it!”

And in that very instant he knew that he had crossed a boundary. He had betrayed his own sense of propriety, but more importantly, he had betrayed the trust of the woman he loved. Yet, he said nothing more. He just looked at her, defiantly.

She stood before him, stunned, her palms pressed to her chest, her knees buckling. She let out an audible breath, finally, then calmly turned and walked out the kitchen door and into the backyard.

He watched her exit and head toward the garage. Every impulse told him to get up and go after her and apologize and beg for her forgiveness. But he denied the impulse. He would not go. He sat there at the kitchen table, gripped his coffee cup, and considered, instead, what would happen if he let this anger sit for a while. He was shaken, but part of him liked this feeling, this adrenalin rush. He had finally been heard, been taken seriously. In that horrible moment he had gotten through to her, and by God she heard it. Didn’t she?

She pulled open the door and stepped inside the cool darkness of the garage. His car was there with the keys in the ignition, as usual. Behind the car she spied the old push mower. She dragged it out onto the driveway, then the lawn. She studied the handles, took hold of them, and began awkwardly pushing the mower across the grass. It was heavier and bulkier than she had expected, but she handled the machine well enough. This is simple, she thought. She remembered all of the times he would come into the house sweating and puffing and complaining about this old mower. She found her rhythm. The click-click-click of the blades, the turning and rotating metal blades, slashing the damp grass, tossing it every which way, pleased her, satisfied her.

His last sip of coffee was cold and he walked over to the sink and spat it out. He rinsed the cup and placed it in the drainer. He noticed her tea cup and the dish on which she had placed her toast were in the sink. He looked at them and thought about her, about how she drinks the same kind of tea, Earl Grey, out of the same cup every morning at the same time. He picked up her cup and slowly ran his finger across the flowers painted on it. He poured the last of her tea down the drain. He picked up the dish and ran water over it to remove the few crumbs of bread on it and placed it gently in the drainer. He turned and looked to see if she was coming back in.

She mowed a portion of the lawn, then abruptly stopped. She wiped the sweat from her hands and pushed the hair out of her eyes and took a deep breath. She noticed that the sweet peas he had planted were flowering and that the tomato plants were wilting. His garden always looked slightly neglected, overgrown, but he didn’t see it that way. He just enjoyed being outside, working, seeing things grow. She walked over to the plot and straightened a tomato cage and plucked off a few dead leaves here and there. She pulled out a carrot, no thicker than a nail, and wondered why he never thinned the plants. She rubbed the dirt off the carrot, and took a bite. It tasted sweet.

Gas Works Park, 2009

Estonia

2009-05-15T21:58:00.000-07:00

He fell in love with her the very first time he saw her. It was a Wednesday morning in February, three years ago, when she walked into the staff lounge, her first day on the job.

Someone introduced her to him and he had told her his name was William, though everyone else had always known him as Bill. He had always referred to himself as Bill as far back as he could remember. But today, at this moment, with this glorious woman, he had been reborn, knighting himself William III, as his parents intended.

She worked in the same department as his and shared some of the same responsibilities, it turned out. They quickly became friendly co-workers, cordial associates. They had an easy rapport. She always called him William (the others still called him Bill) and this pleased him immensely.

A week into the job, she disclosed to him in a casual conversation that she was meeting her boyfriend, Rick, somewhere after work. This did not please him. But what was he to do? Of course she has a boyfriend, he thought. Why wouldn’t a beautiful, intelligent, funny woman like this have a boyfriend? He was crestfallen, but still his love for her did not diminish. He would love her from afar.

He was fifty-eight and twice divorced. Childless. He had a few friends, but mostly stayed to himself. He had been single for almost six years when she walked into his life. No woman had looked at him like her, paid as much attention to him as she had, laughed at his jokes and admired his insights as she did, in a long time. Her smile was warm and sincere. She was kind to everyone. He couldn’t wait to get to work each day to see her and talk with her, spending any time he could in her presence.

And so on it went, for three years, a love unspoken, not acted upon, shared with no one but himself. He dated a few women briefly, but none captivated him as she did.

One day he overheard her mention to another worker that she was going birding on Saturday, specifically to watch the barn swallows which had recently migrated from Mexico. He heard no mention of Rick going birding. As a matter of fact, he hadn’t heard her bring up Rick’s name in quite a while. He wondered.

When he got home he did some research. He knew nothing of birds, really, other than crows annoyed him and that starlings or sparrows or something nested in his neighbor’s attic. If it’s birds she’s interested in, than so am I, he determined. That night he immersed himself in the study of the barn swallow, subspecies H. r. erythrogaster.

He arrived at the office before her the next morning, carrying an atlas. He placed the atlas on his desk, opened to the page featuring the map of Estonia.

“What are you looking at?” she asked him later that morning.

“This? Oh, it’s a map of Estonia. I’m thinking of vacationing there this fall.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Yeah. It seems like an interesting place, lots of history, a rich culture.”

“Huh, “she said.

“witt-witt...witt-witt...splee-plink!”

“What?” she laughed.

“Oh....That’s the call of the barn swallow, Estonia’s national bird,” he said with his eyes focused on the atlas. "I'm all about Estonia, these days, you know. Excuse me for that."

She didn't say anything. She folded her arms as if she were cold and walked back to her desk.

Swallow on Wire, NW 44th Street, 2009

Fifteen Miles

2009-05-08T22:46:00.000-07:00

Blue Truck, Industrial Area South of Downtown, 2009

The three men sat side by side in the small cab of the truck.

The driver cleared his throat and asked the other two if there was a particular radio station they wanted to listen to. The man in the middle, a Mexican immigrant, shook his head no and the man in the passenger seat, brand new on the job, said he didn’t care. So the driver chose one of those “Morning Zoo” type stations that played songs intermittently between funny chat and commercials.

They pulled out onto the road and headed for the work site, fifteen miles away.

The driver couldn't stop himself from thinking about the Mexican man’s shoulder pressed against his. He was not accustomed to this kind of intimacy with a man. He had nothing against this man personally, they had never had a disagreement and had worked together well enough on a couple of other projects, and he knew there was nothing inherently wrong with two men's bodies touching like this, yet he couldn't help but feel disturbed by it. And it bothered him that he was disturbed by it. He wondered if there was something wrong with him, if he was homophobic. He kept his eyes on the road, his arms rigid, hands grasped firmly around the wheel. He forced a chuckle when one of the Zoo personalities made a comment about some celebrity's breasts.

The Mexican man looked straight ahead and fought off the discomfort of this awkward arrangement. The new kid should be here, wedged in the middle, not him. But he couldn't find the English to say it. Language had put him here. He hated that aspect of his life in the United States, this compromising all the time. He wanted to maneuver his pinched buttocks into a more comfortable position, but knew this was impossible. He was trapped here between these two seats, these two men, and there was nothing he could do but bear the pain and consider the indignity. He distracted himself by rubbing his nose, examining his fingernails, running his tongue across his lips and mustache, visualizing his girlfriend, their daughter. For a moment he closed his eyes, feigning sleep.

The third man pressed his shoulder against the passenger door, allowing for as much space as possible between himself and the Mexican man. Still, their arms touched, if just barely. Their four booted feet all but supported one another crammed against lunch buckets, a cooler and a tool box. His pale, freckled hand sat stiff on his calf, within inches of the Mexican man’s caramel brown hand. He looked at the Mexican man's wide, gold ring and saw a small, abstract reflection of himself in it. He felt an impulse to touch the ring, but he chose stillness. He wanted to ask the driver if it would be all right to turn off the radio, the loud Zoo personalities, but he chose deference. He wanted to engage them both in some light conversation, some friendly banter, but he chose silence.

He determined that the best way to be accepted and liked by the other men was to do as they did.

Ten Minutes, Industrial Area South of Downtown, 2009

That Boy

2009-05-05T21:43:00.000-07:00

Fishermen's Terminal, 2009

His mother passed away when he was twenty-two and still living at home. Fatherless, and with no other family, he was for the first time in his life truly alone. There was no one to cook his meals, wash his clothes, remind him to shower and brush his teeth, give him money for the bus, take him to the aquarium. No one to play card games with, or watch tv. No one to comfort him and hold him when he felt sad.

He had to make his own way now.

A heart attack took his mother, his only support, his only real friend. She bore him late in life, an accident, and it had been a difficult birth. Born two months premature, he had suffered brain damage when the umbilical chord got wrapped around his neck. His mother had only scant health insurance and finding the proper medical care for her troubled boy was never easy. But they had overcome much in twenty-two years and despite the hardships loved each with a passion more powerful than all the saints and sinners combined.

She worked as a cook on board fishing vessels for most of her life, a career that did not sit well with her family, from whom she was estranged. She was always considered unconventional, a little abrasive by some, who took her sharp wit, loose tongue and independence the wrong way. She was, however, respected and admired by those who mattered most to her: the men on the boats. She was their mom, their sister, their best friend. Many fell in love with her. One impregnated her, but did not stay around to meet his child.

Caring for the boy meant she couldn’t work on the boats anymore. She found a job tending bar at the terminal's one tavern. Her boy slept and cried and fidgeted at her knees behind the bar while she poured drinks, cooked and sent drunken men home before they got out of hand. Men came back from sea and regaled her with their tales of bravery and heroism and danger and idiocy, all of which she was very familiar. They flirted with her, acted too familiar around her, gave her attention. She listened to them, served them cold beer and warm meals, and longed to be back on the water with them. And she raised a boy, a troubled child, by herself, as best she could.

When she died, the men granted her last request and buried her at sea.

He moved from boat to boat now. The men would find something for him to do, something menial, but mostly they wanted him out of the way. He was not a difficult person to be around , but since he was not handy or skilled at much of anything, his presence on the boats was, frankly, an inconvenience for men who had difficult, often dangerous, work to do. But the men promised his mother before she died that they would look after her boy. And they kept their promise. He was taken care of, protected. When one ship came back to shore, the men would pass him off to another boat on its way out.

His home was the sea now, near his mother, where he felt best.

At Rest

2009-05-02T14:29:00.000-07:00

Elliot Bay Public Fishing Pier, 2009

No one wants to fish today. It is too cold, too windy.

The lone soul on the fishing pier today is man who is napping on an unforgiving wooden bench in one of the small shelters. Beside the man is a large duffel bag and a radio, which is on and broadcasting news and sports updates to no one and everyone. A paperback novel is resting on the man's belly, anchored there, tenderly, by his large, swollen hands.

No one will disturb him from this rest today. He is safe here, but for his dreams.

A Good Seat, Elliot Bay Public Fishing Pier, 2009

Not Mentioned

2009-05-02T14:24:00.000-07:00

An associate of Walrus, but hardly a friend, approached him one day at the shop and said someone had deposited an old railroad car at a salvage yard and that he could deliver it to Walrus for a small price. Walrus considered the offer. A railroad car would provide much needed storage for many of the odd machine parts which he had acquired over the years and were now taking over his shop. After some haggling over the fee, Walrus agreed to the associate's offer.

The associate delivered the railroad car, as promised, the following Saturday, and Walrus paid him in cash for his services.

Twelve years later, the railroad car still sits on the lot, unused. The associate failed to mention that the container had no gate, no door, no access at all to the inside. It was inexplicably welded shut. Calls to the associate went unanswered and he was never heard from again. Walrus could have drilled through the thick metal panels, he had the tools and the know-how, but never bothered.

Along Leary Way, 2009

The Failed Thing

2009-05-02T14:22:00.001-07:00

Skills Inc., 2009

It just never picked up like he imagined it would.

Yes, he was aware that there were several well-established outfits offering the same services in the area, but he just knew, just knew, that he could succeed. He had a way of doing business that people would really appreciate, be drawn to. He was honest, smart, and he worked hard. He looked you in the eye when he talked. He listened.

It was slow for the first few months, very slow. But he wasn't surprised by that. It would take some time to get established, to build up a customer base, to have his name recognized. He knew this.

He reluctantly let go of his one employee. He felt bad for the man, a recovering alcoholic who was struggling to put his life back together, and was reliable. But he had no choice. The money just wasn't coming in. It was all on his shoulders now.

His father phoned and told him that he couldn't justify supporting him anymore. His father told him that he was proud of him but that he should reconsider his plans and find a suitable partner, someone with deep pockets. He scoffed at his father's advice.

He sold his car. He started working part-time, evenings and weekends, at a restaurant. He took out an ad in a neighborhood newspaper. He sent out a mass email offering free services to new customers.

Salvaged, 2009

The quiet, long days weighed on him now. He saw no friends. He paced.

He woke up one morning and didn't get out of bed. A crow screamed, relentlessly, outside of his bedroom window. A large delivery truck sped by and carelessly stripped off the lowest braches of a plum tree. He heard a woman imploring her toddler to wave bye-bye to her daddy.

He turned his head away from the window. Then, finally, allowed himself the luxury of crying.

The Business, 2009

Losing Her

2009-04-26T17:56:00.000-07:00

Contained In Any Case, Industrial Area South of Downtown, 2009

He was losing her and he knew it. She didn't express it in so many words that she was discontented or bored with him, but he could sense it. And he felt powerless to do anything about it. In fact, he was scared that if he asked about her behaviour or attitude, it would seal his fate. So, he waited. He waited for her to change. He waited for her to fall back in love with him.

She didn't touch him casually anymore, or compliment him on his looks, or call him at work for no reason. Meals were silent affairs now, both of them eating in front of magazines or laptops instead of each other. A kiss felt mechanical, a smile forced. Weekends had become unbearable. Two days together felt like more work than being at work.

Four months they had been a couple and he had never felt this kind of love before and was sure that it would last forever. She was so easy to talk to, so funny, irreverent. She was up for anything, anytime. She was curious about his work and his family. She encouraged him to try new things and explore new places. And he did, for a while.

He was driving to a warehouse to pick up the new couch, the couch she professed to desire, when he saw her kiss the man. He was rugged and handsome and dressed in some industrial one-piece jumper and wore black boots. She held his head tenderly, like she used to his, and kissed him again. They seemed oblivious to the noise and traffic and smells and dirt around them.

He pulled to the side of the road and turned off the engine and wondered what he should do. The semi-trucks rumbled by and sprayed gravel and dust and exhaust at him. He coughed and rubbed his eyes. He gripped the steering wheel's rubber casing and twisted it back and forth, back and forth.

Yellow Barrel on Blue, Industrial Area South of Downtown, 2009

Pioneer Square Beauty

2009-04-04T16:39:00.000-07:00

The five story Mottman Building (307 3rd Ave. South) in Seattle's historic Pioneer Square neighborhood was built by the architects Charles Saunders and George Lawton in 1906. When I visited the building in the middle of the afternoon, most of the gorgeous Beaux-Arts sculptural elements were contained in shade, so I walked down the alley on the building's west side where the sun still held some sway.

Mottman #1, 2009

Mottman #2, 2009

Mottman #3, 2009