Breadcrumb #160
SUSAN CLARKSON MOORHEAD
The girl is behind the dumpsters, she’s feeding the cats again. Sammy can’t stand the cats, the way they fight at night with themselves or with the raccoons trying to steal their food, those screeching yowls that tear through his sleep, make him sit up in bed shaking off a dream, trying to remember who he is. Where he is. Until he sees the glow of the giant neon sign that flashes Niagra Falls Car Wash next to his window, the misspelled name in vivid orange over an ever flowing blue and white cascade of electric water.
His brother, Mike, he has a friend who works there, wiping the wet off of the cars after they come through, shining up the chrome. Mike's friend said the owner boasts that he spelled it that way on purpose so he couldn’t get sued by the real Niagara Falls and that it was not a problem because no one can spell for shit anyway. Maybe so, but Sammy wonders who owns the real Niagara Falls and could they really sue considering they are a waterfall? Sure, said Mike, anyone can sue about anything. Well, maybe we could sue them because they never turn off that sign and no curtain has been made that is thick enough to hide the glare. His mother just sighs and says he complains too much for a young man and at least he doesn’t have to pee all the time like she does hearing all the sloshing water hitting the cars day and night.
Right now Sammy is standing at the kitchen window, raising the spoon again to his mouth, the cereal he’s eating for dinner the last in the box until his mother goes shopping. Mike is at his after school job so Sammy’s heated up a frozen dinner for his grandma, she is on the front porch where she likes her tray to be set up in good weather. She likes to watch the cars. Back when she was a girl, she says, you were lucky if you saw three cars an hour going down this road. Now it’s a nonstop rolling show except for the deepest part of night where there is finally a little peace. Until the damn cats yowl him awake.
The girl is opening cans and setting them down in a row. She’s pouring water into some of the empty cans. He has walked over there after she’s left previous nights, watched the cats, feral and spooky, make grinding noises in their throats as he nears, ears back but not running unless he throws something at them. She sits two rows over from him in English, never talking, her thumbs sticking out from holes she has cut at the end of each sleeve of her hoodie. It’s too big for her and she keeps the hood up over her hair unless the teacher says something about lowering it so she can tell if her students are awake. He’s watched her thumbs worry the black frayed fabric. She bites her nails. The few times she has looked up, he has liked her eyes. Blue.
Today, because he wants to, he adds his empty bowl to the dirty pile in the sink, opens the back door and steps off the last step to the one foot of lawn before the parking lot starts. The last thing his Dad did, before he went off to who the hell cares where, was to sell their back yard to the mini strip mall for extra parking. A CVS. a take-out Chinese, a nail salon, a pizza joint, all like little satellites off a big Staples and the big trucks unloading crap, and the side yard went to the genius who built the car wash. Now their house is perched on the smallest piece of dirt possible, just a few feet from the back steps and he’s in the parking lot.
She doesn’t hear him coming until he’s almost there and when she sees him she has that same look the cats get. If she could lay her ears flat on her head and hiss at him, she would.
“Hey,” he says.
She looks at him, looks down. She has only opened four little cans, he knows she’s got five or six to go. She’s debating leaving but the cats win, and she reaches into her backpack and takes out another can. “Hey, yourself.”
“You’re in class with me,” he says, feeling stupid saying it but he can’t think of anything else.
“I know.”
“You like cats, huh.”
She actually laughs at this, not a mean laugh though, and her face looks like someone turned on a light until she lowers her head and her brown hair slides in front of it, closing her expression off to him. He’s afraid of the cats, if the truth be known. He and his brother, Mike, have come out here and messed with them in the past, thrown their cans towards the bushes they hide in, tried to chase them away with a bucket of soapy water. He worries they have long memories.
“There’s a mommy cat I’m worried about,” she says. “She’s blind and I haven’t seen her for three days.”
He considers this, a blind stray cat, decides not to mention the dogs that run through the parking lot, not to mention the raccoons, the random coyote, boys like he used to be before he started watching the girl who feeds cats.
“Do you think I could get more water from your house? I only have the one bottle cause the other one leaked in my backpack.” She has shaken back her hair again, those blue eyes looking at him.
He thinks of the kitchen, the way Grandma can’t bend to clean so everything from waist down is filthy. It’s supposed to be Mike and him helping out especially after Mom took on the second job, but he’s been slacking lately, bad enough he’s got to take care of Grandma himself with Mike getting that after school job. And what if Grandma hears her, tries to come in the kitchen and talk.
“Sorry, we’ve got a dog.”
She looks at him. “Just because I like cats doesn’t mean I don’t like dogs.”
“You wouldn’t like this one. He bites. He’s totally crazy.”
The girl just stares at him and he wants to take it all back, but she’s opened her last can and placed it down, and is standing up, ready to go. “Maybe you could bring some water out later, you know, when your dog doesn’t want to bite anybody, and put some water in those empty cans.”
“The girl just stares at him and he wants to take it all back, but she’s opened her last can and placed it down, and is standing up, ready to go.”
He toes the ground with his sneaker. He knows she knows there is no dog. “Yeah, I could do that.”
“Thanks,” she says, walking away.
He feels the space between them lengthening, about to turn to empty and gone, and he calls after her, “I’ll keep an eye out for that blind cat,” hears what he has just said and shakes his head. He looks up to the sound of her laugh.
“That was awful.”
“I know. As soon as I said it.”
She smiles, and he can breathe again. “See you tomorrow.”
On the front porch, Grandma wakes from a half doze as he picks up her fork and balled up napkin, the empty TV dinner. She looks confused, and he sits in the creaky wicker chair across from her, the faded floral cushions smelling of mildew. Maybe he’ll scrub the kitchen down, pick up a bit, between now and later when he’ll go and pour water into the little crusted tin cans, hope no crazy cat will jump at him.
“They say the Canadian side of the Niagara Falls is nicer than the New York side,” Grandma says, her voice sounds like she is auditioning for the role of calm grandma but there is still a little panic around her eyes.
“Maybe we’ll go there, see for ourselves,” Sammy says. “You and me and Mom and Mike in the car, we'll drive up there and stand on either side, we could make it a contest, you know, vote on it.”
She shakes her head, herself again in her smile and the ease in her face. They watch a blue van nearly collide with a speeding Subaru, a blaring honk, an angry gesture. By the side of the house, a Toyota spits out of the mouth of the car wash, sleek with water, and the towel guys start drying it off. “Think of it,“ he says, “Winner buys dinner.” And she laughs.
Breadcrumb #159
JEN WINSTON
You’re inside me and it feels like warm lightning. I’ve wanted this for six months — 180 sets of 24 hours that have felt somewhere in the range of 15 years — though I don’t dare say those numbers out loud. I don’t dare say anything, even though I can tell you’ve wanted this, too. And I can tell you’ve wanted this because you do dare say something.
“Monica,” you moan, grabbing my face. “I can’t believe it’s really you.”
I can’t believe it’s me either, here under you. Under the boy in the blue sweater, the boy I know I first saw on a Tuesday because that’s the day of the week our new employees start. You were dressed too casually for your first day, and so you sunk into yourself ever-so-slightly, standing in the supply room with your supervisor, Ray —tall, lanky, and very married Ray, whom I’d written off a long time ago. You were looking at office supplies, nodding, and I imagined you were plotting which ones you would steal and take home, because I imagined you were a rebel. Tonight, when I saw those ballpoint BIC pens on your dresser, I smiled. Though I would have preferred you steal non-BIC pens, at least they meant that I was right.
We talked that one time in the elevator, and then that other time in the kitchen. I thought we were flirting but could never be sure — in the office, who’s to tell what’s a flirt and what’s a small talk? With you, to me, “how was your weekend” never meant “how was your weekend.” It meant take me now, I need you, and yes, fuck, yes, let’s both feel less alone.
I never go to coworkers’ birthday parties, but I went to Ray’s. So did you. Jungle juice is holy water for the horny.
“What are you doing for Thanksgiving?” you ask me when we’re done, my arm lying across your chest like an L, the best Tetris piece. It feels funny to make small talk with you in this context, the naked context, but I tell you: I’m going home.
“I didn’t know you were from Utah,” you say, and look deep into me. There’s a lot you don’t know, I think to myself. I see you five days a week, but somehow, I feel mysterious.
_____
My mom picks me up from the airport, as she always does when I come home for the holidays. I want to tell her about you, but know that would be dumb.
“I had very good sex last night, mom.”
“That’s great, honey! With whom?”
“With a coworker.”
“Naughty girl! Tsk-tsk. How’s Applebee’s for dinner?”
We are home together for three days before Grandpa dies. It’s not a surprise — he was very old — but no one thought he was mortal. My mom cries more than any of us expect her to.
“I didn’t know I’d be this sad,” even she says, blowing her nose. “It’s selfish of me, really. He was here for 94 years and I still wanted him to hang around.”
I skip two days of work. Family first, sure, but I also kind of want to be having sex with you. I draft you an email.
Subject line: “Did you know the office supply room has a door?”
Body: “And it locks.”
I feel a hiccup between my legs. Then my mom walks in, not a trace of mascara on her eyes, which strikes me as sadder than smeared makeup would be. She wants us to go clean out grandpa’s house.
“Right now?” I ask, annoyed, then realize I should have nothing better to do. I hit discard.
_____
When I’m back at the office, I avoid you. Not because I don’t want to see you, but because my grandpa keeps popping into my head, and also it’s even trickier now, making the flirting vs. small talk distinction. Do you want it to happen again? Do you want to learn more secrets about me, and give me some of yours? I’m chill either way, I’ll say. We have to play the game.
“Do you want to learn more secrets about me, and give me some of yours?”
The next day you wear the blue sweater, as if to bribe me into talking to you. It works. Thanks to free pizza, we run into each other in the kitchen, and the sweater is such a trigger for me that I say “Hi” at you with disdain in my voice. You notice it, and look at me surprised. Y u mad tho? I’m not sure. I think it’s because I’m thinking of my mom, and then I feel guilty about wanting you to bend me over against the counter. But is it really my fault? I wonder. In spite of mom’s thin, pale eyelashes, you are still wearing that sweater.
The next night, I talk to my mom on the phone for an hour and a half. It isn’t fun, but I can tell it helps her, and that curbs my guilt. I did what I could, at least for today, so now I can be selfish.
When I text you, you say you’ll be free to hang out in two hours, at 11:30. I have an early morning spin class, and if I miss it, they’ll charge me $30.
“Cool,” I say, even though it isn’t, really.
Breadcrumb #157
ZEF ÇOTA
“Consciousness is a flowing stream,” said Freddy.
I didn’t respond I just kept driving the van. It was dark out and it was rainy, I had to keep my eyes on the road...and I sure as hell couldn’t risk getting pulled over. Way too much at stake right now.
“Everything in the Universe is either flourishing...or it’s decaying- there’s no in between”.
“Ya know, Freddy, your liver is going to be decaying faster than it should, if you keep drinking that brandy. Maybe you should ease up on the booze.”
“It calms my nerves...I just put two shots in my tea. That’s all. You should try it.”
“Two shots huh, Freddy?...I’m sure Nino would love it we got locked up for DWI. We’re driving away from a fucking jewelry heist. Think. ”
Freddy didn’t respond. He just kept silent for once, and stared out the window. Finally some quiet. I turned up the radio, just a couple of notches, but the music was still pretty soft. I liked to hear the sound of the rain.
In a way I didn’t blame him for drinking...confidence was everything, in this kind of a situation. He wasn’t the driver though, I was.
“ I turned up the radio, just a couple of notches, but the music was still pretty soft. I liked to hear the sound of the rain.”
There’s something about the rain after doing a job that puts your mind at ease. At least it does for me. Now that Freddy wasn’t talking....I could actually enjoy it, and unwind from the tension of robbing a hundred and eighty grand from a safe that was cracked by my idiot savant of a partner. Freddy’s the best safe cracker in the East Coast- but a lousy drunk that looks like he can’t even tie his own shoes together.
It’s not that he’s a complete idiot, he’s just definitely one of these guys that you think, how the hell did he end up doing this? He could have been a master locksmith or a welding ironworker making $40-$50 an hour....what makes him an idiot is that he chooses this instead.
I mean for me it’s different. I’m 44 years old, and I’m an ex-con. I made some bad mistakes when I was younger and that’s it - good luck finding a 9 to 5 when you put down you’re a convicted felon. So then this is what it is.
I ain’t happy about it. I would’ve liked a wife, some kids...that ship sailed though. We pulled up to the General’s office. It’s an office above a welding shop in The Bronx. I call Nino, “The General”, because he has this type of Napoleon complex. He’s a bit of a ballbuster, and he’s cheap as fuck, and he always makes you feel guilty when he’s paying you the money that you worked for.
Instead of paying us both at the same time, he makes us go in one by one for some reason.
Freddy was in the office first. I always let Freddy go in first. For him, I think it means something. For me, I don’t give a shit...I just want to get paid. Plus the outcome is still the same anyways.
Sitting in the waiting area outside the office, I could hear them through the walls. Nino is saying his same old “I’m not making enough money anymore on these kind of jobs...It’s not like the old days type of bullshit”.
Freddy responding with the usual, “I know Nino...I understand...but I got a family to support.”
Makes me sick.
I just don’t get it. The numbers were talked about in advance. He’s paying me forty-five, Freddy’s getting forty-five...and he’s still going to pocket the rest, which is about ninety-
grand. Works out well for Nino.
I have to make this $45k last me for the next year, because these kinds of jobs are few and far between. All the rest is just chump change. Now I’m getting pissed off thinking about this. Nino always pulls this shit. I mean never mind that he’s getting half...but the thing I get pissed off about is that he makes you feel guilty for the little bit that you are getting.
Who else but Freddy and I can be trusted with this type of job nowadays? No one.
Before exiting the door, I hear Freddy saying, “Okay thanks, Nino”.
Now it’s my turn.
I enter the room. Linoleum tiled floor, fluorescent lighting, and wallpaper that makes the place look like a time warp from the 1970’s.
Nino starts talking about his failing health- another thing he does. He has this mug with hot water, and a giant mint leaf in it. It looks like some old world homeopathic type of remedy, that may or may not even do anything.
“Ohh the doctor’s say...it’s no good. Forty freaken grand I’m paying to these doctors. Just for these pieces of chit to say it’s not-a-looking good for me.”
When I first started working for Nino, ten years ago- he used to eat nothing but fast food, and smoked cigarettes down to the filter, sitting in his office all day. What does he expect, of course they’re going to say he’s not doing good?!
“I’m sorry to hear that Nino”.
“Here’s your pay”.
I quickly thumb through, and count the money.
“Nino...c’mon. You paid me five grand less than what we agreed to. What’s going on here?”
“Hey...I’m losing money....on these jewels. I’m not making any money.”
“Look...this is not right Nino. I busted my ass to pull this whole thing off for you. I cased the place for months.”
“I’M THE ONE THAT HAS TO NOW TAKE THE HEAT. If the cops come to me, then I’ma screwed. It’s not like old days.”
Jesus. Here we go.
“Nino...I gave you my word, that I’d deliver. You gave me yours that I’d get paid, today. It’s simple. Please let’s just cut the shit, and stick to that.”
With an angry grandfatherly look...Nino pulls out another five thousand and gives it to me.
“Because I think of you like a son...I’m going to give this to you. But just know I’m losing money on this job.”
“Thank you Nino. Take care”.
We leave and go walk over to my car where I left it, underneath the elevated tracks of the 2 train. I get in the car with Freddy.
“Did he try to screw you out of your pay?” I ask Freddy.
“No he gave me the full forty”.
He did screw him. Typical Nino. I didn’t even bother to say anything because it’s already done.
Driving down the road. All of a sudden I see sirens in my rear view. For some reason all I could think of was, “Fuckin’ Nino”.