Jewelry box

I polished your cufflinks –

the ones in onyx, with BW in script,

knight heads in helmets, and peridot chips.

Did mom ever take a toothbrush to your tie bars,

or breathe on your bracelet and buff it

then hand to you to wear it?

They’re shiny, now.

I did them.

They were so dusty I swear I could smell it.

I’ll bet you’d laugh at what I was doing

since men don’t pierce double-windsors with pins anymore,

wear tiger-eye rings or keep a pocket-knife handy.

They’re drying on a towel in the kitchen.

Your box was so musty that sunlight wouldn’t cure it,

so I had to pitch it.

I guess it’s time for a new one, now

for someone else to rattle someday, look inside,

turn the tap and rinse away the grime.

Streetsweeper

“I heard you last night, I guess it was around 12:15. It was like the loneliest sound in the world, coming up, whoooozzzzshh then fading into the distance.”

Arty looked a little wild-eyed today. “Hmmm. Two coffees. You want Bailey’s in yours? What?”

The barista reiterated that it was a coffee shop, not a bar, and scratched his beard. Scruffy, Missy thought. Nasty. “The bar next door opens at noon.”

“OK, hellwithit, just two coffees. You got a paper?”

“I see one on the table over there some guy just left.”

A brief wrinkle of displeasure flickered across Missy’s face, and she wondered if Arty was still looking for a different job. Not that she cared; she was just about through with him. Missy believed that men were like a series of interesting occupations you experienced in your salad days, before life catches up and you discover you’ve been a street sweeper for 6 years. Like Arty.

“I started to go out and shout at you from the fire escape.”

“Wouldn’t have heard you, that thing’s noisy, I told you.”

“I like the wavy pattern it leaves on the street from going in and out of the parked cars. The first time I saw it one morning, it took me a few minutes to figure that out. That thing just moves the dust around. Why do they even bother?”

“Has a vacuum, but some of it just sticks. That’s what you’re seeing.”

They went over to the table where The Dromedary was open to the want ads just as Bill walked by. He looked woozy. Bill was another guy in Public Works with Arty, Backpack Bill everyone called him, but it was really a sleeping bag he carried around. “Sleeping Bag Bill” obviously didn’t have the same ring, Missy thought. She could relate: everyone called her “Spike,” a stupid nickname she’d never discouraged. Like giving plasma for coffee money or sleeping with Arty these last two weeks, having nicknames was another thing to experience, something for the journal she’d eventually get around to starting, the book she’d never write.

The door glass rattled violently as Arty bolted out after Bill. “Bastard owes me twenty dollars!”

Right then the thought flashed that maybe this was the time to just fade out the back. The barista had already turned away, and Bill was not going to have the twenty bucks. He’d obviously slept at the bar next door. Maybe he was onto something, wandering around with that sleeping bag. Except she liked showers, and a mirror to do her eye makeup in the morning. There were always public restrooms, though, and Arty wasn’t nearly as interesting as she’d thought he’d be. She’d imagined a lone wolf swirling dust under the streetlights of Salemtown, full of hard, gritty philosophies born while brushing curbs and polishing painted arrows. What she wound up with was a guy with dirt in the folds of his yellowed briefs who grumbled in his sleep. Yep. Time to go.

As she picked up the paper, she noticed two things: her nail polish on her left thumb was shot, and there was a magic marker circle around an ad for internet courses promising “exciting careers in technology, forensics, and municipal engineering. Financial assistance available.”

A teardrop gently tapped, and bled into the newsprint.

She dropped The Dromedary back onto the table, glanced up and said to no one in particular, “Guess I better go help poor Bill,” just as Arty slammed into him from behind.

I’m kidd redd.

You’ve happened on my personal writings, which is OK. But if you are looking for my professional stuff, this isn’t it. Hop on over to kiddredd.com, where I carry on about web marketing content and other loosely related topics. The things you’ll read here are random as my footwear collection.

Goldfish

She said on the phone as we made the impromptu appointment, “I’m feeling like hell, and looking it.” She seemed bubbly enough to me.

The art was good. There was a very nice painting of goldfish. Another of birds. I liked both, the birds more. She liked the goldfish more, so I bought it.

The venue was a part of town over near the baseball stadium. There’s a great old warehouse-y type building next door. We walked over because she wanted me to see it. There was an old rack where workers once put their timecards. Each slot had a little card with its number printed on it, all yellowed and faded like manila. She gave me number 2444.

The night was warm and fine, with a glow from the stadium lights nearby. We hung out by the railroad tracks and talked while she smoked. Her bare midriff looked great. I wanted to kiss her hipbones.

It’s a grand thing, to just enjoy being with a person. I must learn to accept the gift without binding a bagful of expectations to it, or trying to tie it to the rails and while I listen for a warning whistle. I must stop doing what my shrink calls “magical thinking.” It’s not magic; it’s timeless as moonlight, and as natural. It’s just two people sharing some time: no ticket, no train. And maybe some baggage we can each leave behind, if we stay in the moment.