chocolate milk, please

Louise was quickly becoming irritated. It was the usual mid-day rush in the deli, and here stood a man of indecision, holding up a line of impatient customers.

"Sir," she inquired, "what can I get for you?"

"Uh . . . ," he replied.

Charles was a stocky man in his late thirties, though his features would fool anyone to believe him a man amidst a mid-life crisis.

"I will have . . . um . . . a chocolate milk?" His inflection was of doubt.

"A chocolate milk?"

"Uh, yeah . . . just a chocolate milk." Charles become more confident of his decision the more he said it. "Chocolate milk would be lovely."

With no attempt to hide the look of confusion on her face, Louise turned from the counter to grab a pint of browned milk from the mini-fridge behind her. With unspoken frustration, she placed the milk on the counter, looking past Charles at the aggitated customer next in line.

Charles quickly whisked the milk from the counter and scurried to a small table in the corner, head hung in shame. This wasn't the first moment of indecision in his life, and it certainly wouldn't be the last.

Bouncing Bush

Today, I've decided to post a swf file I created. Hope it inspires.

Vince and the Crack Addict

Vince, a middle-aged Italian man who wore nothing but jogging outfits and owned a dry-cleaning place downtown, sat in Central Park jabbering to a crack addict about the time he met Warren Buffet. It was the middle of May, and Vince and the crack addict, Simon, sat across from each other at a stone table playing Chess.

“So, Buffet lays his suit jacket on the counter, and says, ‘How long till this is ready?’ There was a big mustard stain across the left lapel, but I knew that I could get it out. I could have gotten it done that afternoon, but I told him it ‘Not till tomorrow, sir’. Not till tomorrow, sir! I lied to Warren Buffet! Anyway, real nice guy that Warren Buffet. Real nice guy.” Vince looked pretty pleased with himself.

Simon the crack addict pointed to the chess clock, which sat next to the board and let the players know how much time was left. They were playing a 25 dollar, 10-minute speed-game of chess, and Simon the crack addict needed the money for his afternoon fix. He would win, of course, because Vince was a lousy player, especially when the game was timed. He spent too much time yakking. During a speed game, players have seconds to make their moves, creating 10 minutes of pure instinct and routine, leaving little time for carefule, methodical playing. Some of the players at other tables were standing up, both from the pace of the speed-games and in the attempt to somehow intimidate the other players. Vince’s slow, half-hearted playing was expensive in this group of sharks. He would’ve been better suited in the one of the chess clubs downtown.

The two guys at the table beside Vince and Simon the crack addict started raising their voices, but most of the other players didn’t turn their heads. It was the O’Rourke brothers, two loud-mouthed Irish who spent most afternoons arguing about chess and getting drunk. They were a regular fixture in the park.

Calvin, the older, but short brother, had his finger in his brother’s face. “No, you drunk, Kasparov is dumbass, and I don’t give a damn what he thinks about gambits!”

Thomas, the younger, shoved Calvin’s finger away, the two started shoving each other, and both ended up falling onto Vince and Simon the crack addict’s board, knocking the pieces, the Italian, and the crack addict onto the stone pavement.

Very large spitter

The audience was bored by the speaker. He was an old Texas man who drew out every word of his speech, an unbearable habit for the audience. Unfortunately, everyone had to be in attendance.

“And…so…life…cycle…is…the…paradigm…” The old man wore a thin, beige short-sleeve button down and neck-tie and his sweat-stained white tank-top showed clean through. His top lip was always pulled up toward his nose, and when he talked, his teeth would snap together like a horse chewing hay.

Tom, one of the other engineers in the auditorium, leaned over to Alex and whispered, “I’m gonna go.” Tom was sweating pretty heavily. He had told Alex before that he didn’t handle groups well, that being with them made him anxious. Tom usually left early at the meetings.

When Tom stood up to make his exit, the five people between Tom and his target aisle had to stand up to let him through: he was a heavy guy. When he finally made it out of the auditorium, the man sitting to the left of Alex said to no one in particular, “If he’s gonna leave early every time, why doesn’t he sit on the end?” Someone behind shushed the man. “I was just saying,” he whispered before getting shushed again. The first shhh didn’t bother Alex, because the guy next to him always made stupid comments, but the second shhh had some spit attached to it, and it landed on the back of Alex’s neck.

Alex turned around. “Dickhead, you spit on my neck.” Alex immediately regretted his outburst when he saw just how big the shusher was. The seats on each side of the man were unoccupied, because no one would have been able fit in the two-inch space available. The man wasn’t fat, just big. When Alex noticed his brown-rimmed glasses, though, he began grinning uncontrollably at thought of anyone being fooled into thinking this man was a geek.

The very large spitter did the most unlikely thing possible. He apologized to Alex and offered him his handkerchief. Alex felt embarrassed and turned back around.

Hookah Bar

The hookah bar smelled of roses and dead animals. Michael had been trailing the terrorist for nearly the entire morning, and now he found that it was quite impossible to remain conspicuous in a room full of Arabs. Not that it mattered. His orders were to make contact eventually.

Michael sat patiently as the man with coals placed them carefully upon the top of his hookah and explained to him how to properly use the instrument. Michael had quit smoking nearly a decade ago, so he thought the drags would be pretty hard on the lungs. He was surprised at the smoothness of the inhale.

The tables were full of men eating together, now that the sun had set, because it was two weeks into the month of Ramadan, the month when Muslims fasted from food and water from sunrise to sunset. Plates were covered with hummus, pitas, lamb, and vegetable dishes, and the men were constantly reaching across the table to grab helpings of whatever dish they wanted next. Michael sat in the only vacant table in the hookah bar, nestled in the corner just inside the entrance.

During Michael’s next drag of the pipe, he watched as his mark looked directly at him and whispered something to the young Arab at the mark’s table. Then, the mark stood up and weaved around the cluster of tables, making his way to Michael.

“Hello, Mr. Government Man. May I?” He gestured toward the open chair on the other side of the table. Michael responded by extending his hand, bidding the mark to sit. The mark sat and inquired to the flavor of tobacco in the hookah. Michael told him it was mint.

“Not a very popular flavor in my country. It seems more of an American favorite. Much like the fortune cookie. You have been following me all day, Mr. Government Man. May I ask why?”

Tomas

Tomas had never been in love, but he had watched his dad beat his mother to death, so he knew what hate was.

Mystical

This story is like a mystical experience I had once. It was, I was to learn later, a moment that was to change my life, a sort of perpetual spinning that would put in motion one of the greatest events in the history of mankind, the universe, and all that is beyond. It begins in the heart of one young boy, and it ends in tragedy. There i was, drunk out of my mind and faced with a decision, a decision that had an impact not only on finding another beer as much as finding my way back home from wherever i happened to be. But first, more tequila.

Welcome

The purpose of this blog is for writers to contribute to ongoing stories in a sort of collaborative way. If you would like to be a contributing author, feel free to contact me.

Happy Reading,

aaron nordyke