Gaffe

Gaffe watched the young couple that met every night across the way from his fry truck, in the gazebo near the poplar tree. They were sneaking around, he had seen enough to know that, the way the man looked over her shoulder and how she took his hand low and hidden. Children chased balloons and parents pushed strollers, sullen teenagers loped in groups loitering free and loose on a weeknight, so happy to not be home doing homework they were pleased to do nothing at all. The weather came up an opened over the fair, a sudden downpour falling from one end of the grounds to the other like a curtain, everyone ran and the ground was instantly roiling pebbles churning steam from the summer baked tar walks. Suddenly Gaffe had nothing but time.

The gray scraggle on his face crept down his neck like moss on a rock, his beat black cap was pulled down on his eyes, and the fat drops pinged off of the steel awning of the truck. In his twenties Gaffe wandered from place to place, they called him Richie before age thinned and bent his frame. He sheered sheep and picked vegetables, painted houses and cut lawns, always gravitating towards the transient work that would keep him moving, seasonal that would keep him changing, and never anyone who would ask you what he did with his paycheck. He couldn't find anything to satisfy him so he kept trying new things. These days he worked out of York for awhile, jumped over to Gainesville, or Knoxville and everyone who saw him called "Hey, Gaffe," he wasn't young Dickie anymore. He had nothing but time and wondered if anything could satisfy him.

Noah

The fair had closed its' last day in town, and at 3 a.m. the skeletal machines lay on the ground like sleeping dragons, their bright plumage subdued and cygnet wings laid low to Earth in a deathly slumber. Will o'the wisp lights in red and green flickered in the uneven distance that sloped away from Noah, pooling roundly like the small of her back before rising up again and running on. He came back here instead of the long walk home expecting some bustle, not realizing how late it was, hoping to fight off his doubts for another night. But in this diminished state the fair was worse even than dark and empty lanes. Half broken and littering neon judgment spread before him, Noah sucked in breath and the full measure descended on him. The air was cool but humid, it clung damply to him, and an unsettling breeze stirred the fairground trash.

They had spent the night in a field beneath a migration of smoky clouds, and made love under mist in the witness of chirping crickets. All week long had been a flirtation, brewed from the discontent of her with her husband and him with himself. Their innocent sympathy grew bolder and they had carefree fun together, the balm of companionship voicelessly growing closer, ignoring the warnings of building momentum and the inappropriateness of their intimacy. When there were shards of panic and jagged doubt the sounds of the calliope were enough of a distraction, and they lied to each other that there was nothing wrong.

Without words, hand in inevitable hand, on the last raucous night of bedlam, they went off together and the instant it was over they knew they had to confront now what they had maintained there was no cause to confront in the past. Noah didn't say anything and neither did she, but there was a tremble in her hand when he let it go and she ran in the direction of her uncertain home. "Who was lying to who?" he asked himself. Was he just an act of sabotage, or did she need him more than he was worth? It was a terrible and sudden vexation he was ordained to carry over the far ocean. A low rumble of thunder rolled over the bones of the fair, Noah thought of rough sea on the side of a ship.

Jane

The bell above the door in The Artisan's Cafe gave a cheery jingle of hello as Jane let it close behind her. Dale was behind the counter and she gave a wide mascot's wave from the end of the long room. He had seen her every morning that week and she was up only slightly later on the drizzly Saturday. "Hi Jane, what'll it be today?"

Her hair hung long in a mess of curls, hiding the arms of her round tortoise shell glasses, and she wore chunky ethnic jewelry laying in the deep v neck of her simple, white knit sweater. She tilted her head all the way to one side and a curtain of spiraling tendrils climbed down her shoulder like pea shoots. "I need some caffeine today," she said, wilting limply to show how she was dragging. "I gotta get going," and she popped back upright like someone remembered to water her.

"Coffee then? Latte?" Dale didn't understand why he had to drag orders out of people but he was practiced pleasant.

Jane liked when Dale asked her questions in his easy, casual way. He didn't ask for her order in the commercial sense, Jane knew he was more asking about her day, how this first decision would set her on her way, inform her actions, reveal her expectations. "How about some tea?" She could take her time this morning and sip, she wanted the nice smooth momentum of a boat and not the bumpy dirt bike jitters she chased all week. "Do you have green tea? I want to wake up and relax at the same time." Jane had a bright, white smile and she flashed it now. Her eyes were soft brown and her skin clear, unspoiled like the air after a downpour.

"Of course we have green tea," he said thinking 'who doesn't.' He produced the carousel bending to set it down for inspection, Jane took it as a bow and giggled. She thought he had the perfect indie coffee shop persona. He obviously had eschewed a traditional career, he moved with artisinal care but obviously dismissive of authority, he served the tea at his genuine pleasure, and his soul patch was so cute. Jane had been coming in every day since she decided this, slowly insinuating a warmth in their relationship. "We have green ginger melon, green mint, lemongrass herb..."

"Do you have just regular green?" He nodded in a funny way. "I'm just plain Jane" she said, pronouncing her name like 'Jay-ane' and holding out her hands to illustrate the same, laughing again. He smiled benignly. "Is it organic?"

"Yup." He had no idea. "Milk, sugar, honey?"

"Nope," she smiled to show how easily pleased she was. "I brought my own soy."

"We have soy."

"I like my soy better." Jane was pleased with how that went. She turned to discover a small line had formed behind her.

Helmut Bangs!

"When you introduce me you will say 'Ladies and Gentlemen. Pause. Presented for your Amazement. Pause. The Fabulous. Pause. Helmut Bangs!' and you must pop Bangs, excite the audience. If you make me limp the performance will be limp, and then we all suffer, okay?" The emcee nodded but Helmut had no confidence, here was a chubby man in a tight tuxedo with a brushy little mustache, he didn't know anything about being mysterious, he couldn't thrill or intrigue. Helmut himself had hypnotic eyes garrisoned below a thick black brow that burned with the ancestral pain of Eastern Europe. He brushed his eyelashes through with mascara and claimed Egyption blood, his long hair of orangey blond tumbled mountainously beyond his shoulders in wild churning swells, he whipped it around himself creating misdirection. Bang' s came from the open collar, bare chest school of magic, leaving behind the formal maitre'd technicians but refusing to slip all the way to the alt college acts. His cuffs were French and turned up like dramatic gauntlets highlighting his powerful, practiced wrists. The magic he did had a pantherous sexuality, muscular but bendable, with sparkling lights and throbbing bass.

He wrinkled his push broom mustache, such a custodian. "Ladies and Gentlemen." Pause. "Presented for your Amazement." Pause. "The Fabulous" Pause. "Helmut Bangs!" Explosions lit the stage and Helmut appeared in a fog of tinsel. 'Pop you pig dog.' he thought throwing a lacquered glance off stage at the failed Robert Goulet. He performed The Camel Train from Agra and then Spiked Suacy Pineapple. The Visiting Stranger went off without a hitch and a slick confidence grew in Helmut, he was dripping the salty liquor of magic, he was sure the smell intoxicated the audience making them susceptible to his will. Posing with his hands framing his face he began The Cairo Lotus and helped a volunteer onto the stage. Helmut always selected beautiful leggy blonds, their slim length helped to frame the illusion and were his personal preference besides. He did some close up tricks, making a dollar bill materialize in her balled up fist, when she let it bloom from her hand to thunderous applause she saw it had a phone number written on it. Helmut game her a sly wink, then made her disappear.

Backstage Helmut blotted his waxed chest with a purple silk kerchief. "Thank you so much for helping me make my illusion," he snapped his fingers and an assistant brought two glasses of Chardonnay on a small tray. Helmut took up his glass and sipped, "I trust you enjoyed yourself?"

"Yes," she said. "It was very fun, thank you." She did not touch the wine.

"Did you notice my gift?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't."

Helmut did not put down his wine but showed his empty hand front and back in a casual way, and with a pop and bunnytail tuft of smoke was holding the dollar bill with the phone number. "That is, of course, my personal cell. I hope you will call me anytime."

Her hand reached to her face with defensive embarrassment. "Oh no, I really couldn't.."

"But you must." Helmut leaned in and a rose snapped into space between his fingers. "You've been a flirt."

"No," she said with astonishment, "I didn't flirt."

"Of course you did, you did the trick, you magic flirted."

Benray

The firemen were standing around chatting and laughing in small groups, having taken off their helmets and heavy yellow coats, looking strangely off balance in their sooty, over sized pants and blue t shirts. They hung around the shade of the firetruck talking baseball, the oily water at their feet throwing off a fish scale rainbow, with Benray pacing nearby in front of the smoking hulk that was his car, hands covering his eyes in a martyr's pose and muttering loudly to himself. People were looking, they were streaming out of the Acme to find the nineteen year old kid who had just bagged their groceries with quavering water in his eyes walking around shaking his head like a Quaker, occasionally stopping stock still to punch the air and yell profanity. Usually Benray liked standing out, he had golden eyes and stilt legs, he bumped his bass up and bullshitted every girl he met, but this was embarrassing. He wished the firemen would turn off the red blinkers on top of their truck, it was like a klaxon calling the prayerful to worship at his stupidity. Benray looked at the naked guts of the engine, blackened to brittle and brimstone scorch marks licking all around the hood, he crossed his arms and stuck out a pouting lip far enough for a crow to land on. The firemen started mounting the truck and the oldest one who seemed to be in charge came over and clapped him on the shoulder. "Well son..." Benray dared him with his hardest look, knowing that no wisdom in the world would penetrate, and this man looked like his father except white. His father always wanted to share some philosophy that wasn't a bit of help and Benray just didn't want to hear it right then. The old man took his hand back in no hurry and showed a crooked smile. "Tough shit, kid."

For 17 years and 364 days his father had been reminding him that he wasn't an adult yet, and that he would respect the rules of his house, so on his 18th birthday Benray moved out. He borrowed some money from a friend and bought the car, a 1987 BMW M3, which was five years older than he was and had a blowing exhaust that sounded like a lawn mower running over a golf ball. Benray admired the stubbornness of the car, which always almost refused to kick over, he loved the aggressive stance and the stout wing at the back. It was cherry red, a color that broke his heart to see blistered with ugly welts. He gripped his cell phone like he was going to throw it, he thought about calling his father but he couldn't stand another lesson right now. His half brother worked on cars, he would know what to do.

"Maxroy? It's Benny."

"Bee. What's up man? You talked to Pop?" His older brother was always trying to put Benray and their father in touch.

"My car burnt up."

"What?"

"My car. Burnt. Up."

"What happened?"

Benray shook his phone like he was throttling his brother's neck, he was sure he was being willfully difficult not instantly understanding the pain this had caused. "I drove to work this morning and it smelled kinda funny, but it always does something funny, but it wasn't leakin' anything new underneath. Little later some blue hair comes into the store says she called 911 'cus some flashy car is on fire outside."

"It was your car?" Benray's hand tensed into a talon so sharp he cut his ear. "What do you need?"

"What can I do?"

"About what?"

"What d'you think, man! What can I do about my car, do you think you can fix it?"

"Benny, it burnt up."

"I know that, I seen it, everyone just loves to keep telling me my damn car burnt up, I dont need another person tellin' me that Maxroy. I need someone to tell me what I can do."

"It already caught fire, everything you could do is done, more than done, five steps after done. Like you're in results time, man. The car burnt up, that's the last thing that happens to a car. No one says 'my car was on fire last week but it's running pretty good now.' Just let it go."

He was crushed. "You don't understand."

"I understand you bought a 20 some year old car with a few hundred thousand miles on it and drove it around like it was new. C'mon, you cant be losin' that much money on it."

"I still owe money on it."

"Shit, don't tell dad that."

"You don't tell dad."

"I don't tell dad everything about you. You think that just because I'm grown up and moved out and not you that I don't occasionally get my ass chewed out by proxy for some shit you pull? Why do you think I'm always tellin' you to call him, so you can get at least a little of what's due before he tires himself out yelling at me. Call him, he'll feel sorry for you, the old man loves cars."

"He'll just tell me he was right."

"Jesus Christ, Benray, Wasn't he?"

Tom

Tom was basically a good guy, but when he saw an attractive girl on the street he had to fight off the urge to lean out of his car window and yelp "Owww!" in a crescent shaped howl. He was perfectly aware it wasn't appropriate, or ever well received, and Tom wasn't even sexist, but still he didn't quite understand why. He didn't mean it as objectification or embarrassment, he didn't expect the girl to come running just because he showed interest, after all Tom believed that every girl that falls for a guy who demonstrates no value in a movie was seriously misogynistic. He was willing to prove himself, to get to know her and to admit when his snap judgment was wrong and the content of her character wasn't nearly attractive enough to warrant his superficial hooting. Tom wasn't confined to traditionally pretty women, he wanted to catcall the big noses and long faces, hippy girls and punk girls, girls he was pretty sure were lesbians.

"Birds did it!" he would argue and he envied their crystal clear intentions written in plumage and whistles. Tom yearned for a concise bypass to the fumbling nonsense that had to start these relationships. Wasn't it more adult, more respectful to just declare his interest? It didn't make him some uncontrollable maniac girls had to fear, all of his shirts had their sleeves, he was civilized. It was warm spring in the city, all the girls were in sandals and long skirts. One of them stepped out in front of him, walking up the sidewalk just a few paces ahead, wearing a hemp necklace and fine blond dreadlocks pulled into pom poms on either side of her head, and it took every ounce of restraint for Tom not to go "psst psst psst hey baby."

Paul

It was windless and early, the papery film of pollen lay undisturbed on everything, a mild scum on the sidewalk and a thick line gathered by dry windshield wipers, like a powdery green worm ready to sun itself. Paul's eyes were always a simmering red, no discernible bloodshot but a seeping diffusion which tinted the whites an ugly brown/maroon. He walked with a rustle, shaking the morning form his legs, because his pockets were filled with notes. Reaching in for them he would extract his hand covered in yellow post-its and blue stickies, scraps of notebook paper and envelopes, like a bear assaulting a beehive and regarding his furry paw plastered with tasty honey and angry bees. Paul's mitt was just as indistinguishable, the useful information mixed in with the obsolete and irrelevant. His notes were directions, suggestions, reminders, congratulations, coupons, receipts, follow-ups, phone numbers and doodles. They had no uniformity, one side a list of bands to download and the other the time of his dentist appointment, and by the time he used them they needed excavation, rescue from his impenetrable hand writing, esoteric contexts and general degradation in the recesses of his pants. The paper rubbed shiny and the pen faded like an old tattoo, Paul would have to put his nose nearly to the paper like a Medieval monk copying the scripture by candle light, people would laugh and tell him he was going to ruin his eyes.

On the steering wheel of his car was a yellow tab with "reports" written in pen, reminding him to pull his monthly performance numbers when he got to the office. He flicked it with a satisfying "swack" and the paper corkscrewed to the floor mat, turning quickly like a helicoptering leaf before joining the trampled and forgotten reminders in a litter collage that could've been wheat pasted to a city wall.

Paul had free time in the afternoon when he had closed the book on one month but not yet opened it for another. He was purging the foliage of sticky notes that canopied his desk and turned his monitor into a strutting turkey. Frank came in to bullshit for awhile, Paul put his feet up, feigning a big shot to make Frank laugh. "Reports," Frank said, pointing at the bottom of Paul's shoe. "Haven't pulled mine yet, but I see your "shoeberry" reminded you." He laughed again on his way out, the door clicking softly behind him.

On the bottom of Paul's shoe was the note he flicked from his steering wheel that morning. "Isn't that strange," he thought. He was always picking up notes like ticks, tracking them around stickier than mud, but this one had persisted nearly eight hours stowaway, up and down stairs, hallways, lunchrooms, men's rooms. His itchy eyes flared with superstition. Secretly Paul thought of his horde as a kind of universal rolodex, the undeniable physicality of the notes proving more valuable and permenant than anything electronic. It was an analog solution but his first instinct when confronted with an issue was to sift through his papers to find the evidence that anchored him to the problem. Paul refused to be taken to task through some machine's ghost's mischief, without a note he was happy to believe in an alternate reality or doppleganger. He peeled it off his shoe and looked at it, "reports" had no meaning beyond "reports," he was sure of it. Paul turned to throw the trash out but something tugged the strings of hesitation, the note had hunted him ominously all day and to just throw it out flew in the face of his system. Every other note had stayed in his car, why had this one not?

He stuck the post-it to his desk and leaned in to stare at it, but he couldn't make it mean anything. Suddenly struck with how silly he was being he bolted back, peeled the note off of his desk and turned it over, slapping his hand on top with a great bang like the closing of a cell door, locking the sudden stupidity away. He shook his head blushing slightly, took his hand off the desk to rub his bald pate. The color drained out of his face and he looked down and the square, written on the back, older than the pen on the other side, undeniably in his scratchy hand and subtly slipping away to time, was the word "Judgment." He took a trembling breath, the air conditioning turned on in the office and an Autumn of notes sprinkled down all around him, like the thick descending morning pollen.