KARL MARX: A REFUTATION

KARL MARX:  A REFUTATION                                            

            The rumor that Paul, the general manager, hired a monkey to be a server persisted all week.  Not one employee could verify the fact or had seen a monkey in the restaurant of late.  Paul deflected questions and merely stated, “Karl starts on Friday.”  Paul refused to give further details, which led to much speculation.  Some wondered if Paul hired a real life monkey or indeed made some sort of statement about the general quality of new hires in recent months.

            Scott arrived early for his shift that Friday night, not wanting to miss the arrival of the monkey, Karl.  He placed his bag on the employee bench and went to make himself a coffee.  A few coworkers stood round the coffee station chatting and enjoying the free moments before the dinner rush.  In the group he saw Kim, one of his least favorites, talking as usual, and the others listening with less than perfect attention.

            “I wonder if Karl has worked in a restaurant before now.”  Kim said.  Scott remained silent and eyed her, watching as she ran her fingers through her hair, thick and blonde.

            “A monkey in a restaurant?”  Asked another.  Scott smiled at the brunette, his favorite female co-worker.  She smiled back at him, full lips and pretty brown eyes.  He reached out his hand and squeezed her arm, running his fingers over her tanned smooth skin.

            “I think it has something to do with quotas.” Scott said, a few laughs from the workers, who as a whole seemed rather nervous.

            “I don’t want to work with a monkey.” Kim said, shaking her hair back and forth, in obvious displeasure.  Murmurs of agreement from the workers were heard.

            “Why not?”  A voice said.

            “Huh?”  Kim responded, turning to answer.

            A monkey stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a head taller than the countertop, which is to say, a little over three feet in height.  He waited for a response, one leg tapping on the tile floor, his arms behind his back, the red of the uniform a striking contrast to his black fur and brown ears.  Scott thought him to be the ugliest monkey he had ever laid eyes on, with his eyes set too far into his skull, which gave him a sinister look when he smiled.

            “I’ve never worked with a monkey.” Kim managed to say.

            “Sure you have.” Karl said, winking at her, to the delight of the workers, smiles all around. 

            “I’m Kim.”  She extended her hand towards the monkey.”

            “Call me Karl, Karl Marx.”

            Scott blinked and looked around, but nobody seemed to think strange of a monkey being named Marx.  He wondered if they knew that Karl Marx wrote the communist manifesto.  He walked away, coffee in hand as his co-workers questioned Karl.  He heard laughter and looked in time to see the monkey pinch Kim on her backside.  Scott shook his head in dismay and walked towards the side door, which gave a view of the highway.  He looked out, watching the cars passing and honking and entering the parking lot.  He sipped his coffee in silence for a few minutes, the sounds of laughter from his co-workers mixing with the sounds of traffic coming through the open windows.

            He felt someone next to him.  He turned and saw Melissa, close to him, her scent pleasing and inviting.

            “It’s odd.”  She said.

            “What’s that?”  Scott asked her.  He put his arms around her, pulling her against him.

            “Karl is a writer.”

            Scott thought for a moment.  He rested his cheek against her forehead and sighed.  His stomach felt tight and full of nerves.

            “What does he write?”  Scott asked.

            “He said he wrote a fantasy novel.”

            Scott laughed and kissed her cheek, feeling better.

            “What can one expect from a monkey?”  He asked, laughing.

            Scott saw little of Karl during the monkey’s first week of employment.  The two shifts he worked with him, Karl was surrounded by the female workers, who generally thought highly of him.  Karl basked in the glow of his popularity and indeed, the fact that he liked to party after his evening shifts made him an instant success.  Scott heard from Kim that she spent a rather entertaining evening with him outside work.

            “What do you mean entertaining?”  Scott asked her.

            “He is just a funny monkey, that’s all.”  She answered, secrets hidden in her smile as she played with her hair.

            Scott wanted to talk with Karl himself, but didn’t get that chance until a week later, on a Monday afternoon.  He sat at a table near the kitchen, eating a hamburger before his evening shift, when Karl walked in the front door.  None of the other servers had arrived yet and as there was nobody else to talk with, Karl made his way over to Scott.  He hopped into the booth across from him and took a French fry off of Scott’s plate.

            Scott stared at him, not amused.  Karl smiled as he chewed and took yet another French fry.

            “It’s okay, I wasn’t eating those.”  Scott said, not attempting to hide the contempt in his voice.

            “You don’t like me, do you?”  Karl asked him.

            Scott didn’t answer and grabbed the newspaper off the seat.  He began to read, hoping Karl might just leave him in peace to eat his meal.

            “I hear you are a writer.” Karl said.

            Scott put down the paper and folded his hands across his lap. 

            “Yes, I am.”  He said.

            “I wrote a novel myself.”  Karl said.

            “Congratulations.”

            Karl either didn’t notice the tone or chose to ignore it, for he thanked Scott.

            “I want to be a bestseller one day, like Stephen King.  Although, I don’t write horror, I write fantasy.”

            “Same difference.”  Scott replied.

            “Really?  What type of books do you write?”  Karl asked, smiling once again.

            Scott sighed and did not answer.  “Do I have to get into this discussion with yet another writer?” he whispered to himself.

            “Well?”  Karl asked.

            “I write literary fiction.”  He answered.

            Karl whistled and clapped his hands together in excitement.

            “You are an elitist.”  Karl said, laughing.

            “I write for myself, without worrying about the issue of selling books.”  Scott said, annoyed.

            “An elitist.”  Karl repeated.

            “As you wish.”  Scott said.

            “Don’t you want to make money?”  Karl asked him.

            “I want to write what I feel in my heart.  If that sells, so be it, but money isn’t why I write.”

            “Liar!”  Karl exclaimed, pointing his finger.

            “It isn’t always about the money.” 

            “Yes, it is always about the money.  All writers want to be on the best sellers list, make a load of money; some are just honest and admit it.”

            “I don’t care about money.”

            “Liar!”  Karl said again.

            Scott sighed once more and felt his anger rising.  He gripped his fingers together, tightly, his fingertips white, red from the pressure.

            “You are a capitalist pig.”  Scott said.

            “No, I am a monkey.”  Karl said, as he walked into the kitchen, laughing.

            Scott kept to himself that night, watching Karl flirt and joke and clown his way through the shift.  He remained the center of attention for the ladies and took liberties with this attention.  He watched at Karl groped nearly every female worker, and far from being reprimanded for such behavior, he seemed to be of great amusement.

            “This monkey does not work.”  Scott said to Tim, the shift manager.

            Tim shook his head in agreement and pointed at Karl, who, a towel in hand, was chasing females round the kitchen.  He caught Kim and whacked her on the backside with the towel, great fits of laughter from the workers.

            “He doesn’t have time.”  Tim said as he walked away, shutting himself in the office.

            Scott began setting a tray of food, putting the plates down with a bang.  He saw Karl rubbing his hands on Kris’s back, whose job it was to set food on trays, the monkey’s hands moving down and resting on her ass.

            “I have to set my own trays now so you two can have more time to grope each other, is that it?”  Scott said.

            “You’re just jealous.”  Karl said, sticking out his tongue.

            Scott carried his food out into the dining room, angry.  When he returned, he saw Karl pushing himself against Melissa.  Karl looked at him and laughed as his hands came to a rest on her shirt.  He squeezed Melissa’s breasts and jumped back, howling with laughter, his eyes remaining on Scott.

            “Hey!”  Melissa said.  She laughed and shrugged her shoulders.  Scott gnashed his teeth together and took a step towards Karl.

            “You’re disgusting.”  Scott said.

            “I don’t see her complaining.”  The monkey responded.  Scott threw up his hands and went towards the back for a smoke.  He sat down and lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag to settle his nerves.  He exhaled through his nose, slowly and took another drag.  He leaned his head on his hand and sighed, rubbing his temples with his fingers.

            “Don’t let him get to you.”  He heard a voice say.  He looked up to see Dave, one of the cooks.

            “Hey, Dave.”

            Dave rubbed his hand on his shirt, which was soiled with food and grease and patted Scott on the shoulder.

            “The ones that count know.”  Dave said.

            “Thanks.”  Scott answered.

            Dave lit a cigarette and sat down beside him.

            “He is taunting me.”

            “When?”  Dave asked.

            “Just now, with Melissa.  I’m sure someone told him I have it bad for that girl.”

            Dave nodded and patted his shoulder again.

            “Don’t worry.  Melissa likes you.”

            Scott sighed and took a drag from his cigarette.  He pushed his cigarette around in the astray for a moment, making patterns with ash.

            “You should ask her on a date.”  Dave said.

            “Maybe.”  Scott answered.  He snubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray and stood, fixing his apron before he returned to the front.  He heard the servers talking about their plans following the shift.

            “Are you going out tonight, Karl?”  Kris asked.  Scott looked at her; hair dark brown, which flowed over her shoulders, pale skin and thin lips and thought, ‘You can have the monkey.’

            “Count on it.”  Karl said.  He heard a cheer from the workers.

            “You can always count on Karl to party.”  Kim said as she twirled blonde hair between her fingers.

            Scott ignored them and began counting his money in silence.  They were making plans and he wished to be invited.  It had been a long time since he’d been invited to join the workers for drinks.

            “It’s all about the writing.”  He said to himself.  He looked at his money, sixty three dollars for himself after a tip for the bartender, and shook his head.

            “I can’t afford it anyway.”  He said.

            “Can’t afford what?”  Melissa asked.

            “A drink.”

            “Come on, you can afford to have one drink, it won’t kill you.”  She said, putting her hand on his shoulder.  He smiled and squeezed her hand with his own.

            “I have to write...” He began to say, but she interrupted him.

            “Nonsense.  You can’t say no to me.  You’re going out tonight and that’s all there is to it.”  She slapped his arm playfully as he pinched her side.

            “Bad boy.”  She said, smiling.  “Don’t pinch my fat.”

            “For the last time, you’re not fat.”  He answered.  “You beautiful and you know it.”

            She smiled and hugged him, reaching up and kissing him on the cheek.

            “I’ll see you there.”  She said.

            He squeezed her hand before walking towards the office.

            Scott stopped at his apartment to shave and shower, which is why most of his co-workers were already at the bar when he arrived.  He entered the front door and saw Kim, Kris and others talking in a group.  He waved hello to them, a greeting not returned, and continued on to where Dave and Melissa sat, Dave’s arm around her shoulders.

            “Scott!”  Dave extended his hand.

            “Dave.”  He said, sitting next to him.  He winked at Melissa as he signaled to the bartender.

            “The usual?”  The bartender asked.

            “You remember?”  Scott laughed.  “You are a credit to the profession.”

            Scott lit a cigarette and looked around the bar, which indeed was Friday night crowded.

            “I saved you a seat.” Dave said.  He clapped Scott on the back and lit a cigarette of his own.

            “Cheers.”  Scott raised he glass and gave Dave a nod.

            “It’s good to see you out again.” Melissa said.  He reached over Dave and squeezed her hand. 

            “I needed a break from writing.” 

            She looked at him and smiled; her brown eyes pretty and framed lightly with mascara, dark brown hair, almost black, on her forehead, which she brushed away with her fingers.  She leaned towards him and touched glasses, giving him a view of a black bra and beautiful tanned breasts.  His eyes met hers and he smiled again, warmth spreading in his stomach. 

            “I’m glad to be here.”  Scott said, as Kylie, Dave’s girl, walked in the front door.  Dave got off his stool and walked over to meet her, leaving him alone with Melissa.

            “Tell me something.”  She said, taking Dave’s stool.  She smelled like flowers and the touch of her arm against his made him feel dizzy.  He wanted to say many things:  how often he wrote about her, how often he imagined her naked, her skin, perfect and golden next to his own, but he said.

            “The novel isn’t going well.”

            “I see.”  She leaned back on the stool and watched him.  She seemed disappointed, but Scott, nerves in his stomach, concentrated more on his fingernails.  He picked at them, peeling away his cuticles.

            “I am writing about outcast man and how society attempts to squelch individuality and personal freedom.”

            “Sounds fun.”  She said.

            Scott looked down into his beer, his eyes narrowed.  He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth.  ‘Tell her you love her.’  He heard a voice say.  He spun his head round, but saw nothing.  He looked at her, a feeling of desperation settling over him.  He ran a hand over his hair and took a deep breath.  She remained quiet and watched him, her eyes intense, maybe a little angry.

            “What do you want out of life?”  He asked her.  She sipped at her drink, her eyes upon his.

            “I guess what everybody else wants, to be happy, secure, to have a nice family.” She said.  He nodded his head in understanding, but inside he wanted to ask what she meant by being happy.  ‘Don’t ask that, tell her you love her.’  He heard the voice say again.  He didn’t look this time and instead drank his beer.

            “What about you?”  She asked.

            “I want to be a published writer.”  He said.  He thought he’d captured it well with that statement and leaned back on his stool, crossing his arms.

            “That’s all?”  She asked.  She seemed confused and leaned towards him, as if she hadn’t heard him correctly.

            “Nothing else will make me happy.”  He said.

            She shook her head in displeasure, but didn’t respond.  She looked across the bar, her fingers holding her glass tightly, at a loss for words.  At that moment Scott heard a cheer.

            “Karl!”  From the workers.

            He watched and saw the greetings, hugs, kisses, heard their laughter over the music.  Karl pushed through to the bar and looked at Scott.  With a grin spread wide over his monkey face, he called out to all around him.

            “Who wants a shot?” 

            A loud cheer from the workers.

            “I’ll take one.”  Melissa yelled, getting up to join the others.  At that moment, Dave took his seat once again, with Kylie at his side.  Without asking, Dave ordered shots from the bartender, which they drank off in silence.  Scott closed his eyes, but still heard the chorus of laughing from the workers.  He looked up to see Karl dancing on a table, kicking his furry legs high in the air.  Karl executed a back flip, sending a roar of approval through the bar.  The bartender rang the bell and pushed a shot towards the monkey.

            “On the house!”

            “He is nothing save a showboat.”  Scott said his anger palpable.

            “Agreed.”  Dave said, lighting a cigarette.

            “The damned monkey is a fantasy writer!”  Scott said, as if that statement explained it all.  He watched Karl, anger in his eyes.  He remained silent for a moment, watching and grinding his teeth.  He his hands over his hair and finished his beer.  Scott stood and put on his jacket, and took his keys from his pocket.

            “Are you leaving?”  Dave asked.

            “I can’t watch this.”  Scott said.  He saw Karl talking with Melissa and felt the desire to put his fingers around Karl’s neck.  Scott walked towards the door, ignoring Dave’s farewell. 

            Later that night, Scott lay awake, deep in thought.  He attempted to write in his journal, but failed.  After an hour of staring at blank white, lined with blue, the one sentence he wrote displeased him.

            ‘We must fight to retain our individuality in the face of attempts by society to homogenize its citizens into well behaved lemmings.’

            He stared at the ceiling, motionless, silent.  He resisted the urge to light a cigarette and continued to stare at the ceiling, making shaped of shadows cast by moonlight peaking at him through the blinds.  He closed his eyes, his thoughts centered on the monkey.

            “He is everything I am not.”  Scott said to himself, shocked at how thin his voice sounded.  He sighed and rolled onto his stomach, waiting for sleep.

            Weeks passed without change.  Karl remained popular, spending what seemed to be almost every night partying.  Scott grew more bitter and angry as time passed, separating himself from his co-workers.  His writing did not improve and his efforts weren’t helped by news that Karl’s agent might soon sell his novel, which after asking, Scott discovered to be the only work Karl had produced.

            Scott arrived at work for his Friday shift, almost two months after he met Karl, to find the workers filled with excitement.  He saw the ladies talking by the coffee station, in loud voices.  He heard Karl’s name and walked over to discover the news.

            “Karl gave his notice.”  Kim told him.

            “He’s quitting?”  He said to himself.  He felt a surge of joy and laughed the end of his relations with the monkey in sight.

            “Why?”  Scott asked.

            “Haven’t you heard?”  Kim said, looking confused, her fingers once more twirling thick blonde hair.

            Scott stared at her, his heart skipping, his palms sweating, suddenly.  From the bottom of his soul, he wanted to scream, but instead, he attempted to gather himself.

            “I haven’t worked the past couple of days, what is the news?”

            Kim clapped her hands together, as Karl often did, happy to share the news with him.

            “A publisher accepted Karl’s book.’

            Scott blinked, his knees feeling weak beneath him.

            “It can’t be true.  He finished that book less than six months ago.  He couldn’t have sold it this fast.”

            The room seemed to dim and Scott struggled to focus on Kim.  He heard the words, but it took him a few moments to understand.

            “He called to tell me.”  Kim said.  And at that moment, it all seemed to make sense to Scott.

            He leaned upon the counter for support.  The room spun under his feet and he felt cold, very cold.  The floor seemed closer, closer, until he felt his cheek pressed against the tile, which was cool and comfortable against his skin.

            At that moment, Karl entered the kitchen to a cheer from the workers.  Karl stood near the spot Scott lay prone on the floor, close enough to see the pink skin below his monkey fur, all the while the co-workers chanted

            Karl, Karl, Karl

            He heard their voice, which sounded distant, as if under water.  He struggled to raise himself, but lacked the strength; his arm fell useless at his side.  He looked up to see Melissa kiss Karl’s cheek and to see her lips form

            Congratulations

            Scott felt consciousness slipping, to the sounds of...

            Karl, Karl, Karl

                        

ROSE

CHAPTER 9

ROSE

I

            The music pumped into the empty club as the lights flashed neon fun for those not present.  Three young women dressed in glittered tops and thong underwear huddled at the bar watching the television, the sound loud enough to be heard over the music.  The woman in the middle with straight, jet black hair that fell onto pale bare shoulders watched the television with intensity as the other two chattered and stammered over and around her. 

            “I can’t believe Frank made us come to work today with all that’s going on in the city.”  A young Asian girl with bright colored tattoos covering almost every inch of her skin said to the black girl opposite her. 

            “It’s a job, get over it.”  The girl in the middle said as she watched the television.  She grabbed the remote control from the bar and increased the volume.

            The violence has shaken city residents and tourists alike, with no explanation or arrests.  City hall has not given an official statement, but sources tell us the Mayor will give a press conference in the next few hours. 

            “Might as well put Metro on the case.”  The girl said with a sneer. 

            “You are so cynical, Rose.”  The Asian girl replied. 

            Rose smiled and ran a painted pale hand through jet black hair, still keeping her eyes upon the television. 

            “Thank you for the compliment, Kat.”  Rose said without turning towards her. 

            Kat tapped Rose on the shoulder to get her attention and pointed towards the main entrance, where three men in suits stood waiting.  Rose hopped off the bar stool, steadied herself upon the thin tall spiked pumps and strode to meet the first arrivals of the afternoon.  The men all wore plain gray identical suits and held black leather briefcases.  A tall thin man wearing a blue sports jacket and tan dress slacks joined Rose at the front to meet the men. 

            “Welcome to ____.”  The thin man said.

            “Hello.”  Rose said and led the men into a private room, sitting in a plush red chair with high arm rests while the three of them remained standing. 

            The man in the middle with curled blonde hair stepped forward and took a seat opposite Rose. 

            “Everything is proceeding as planned.”  The man said to her, placing the briefcase on the table.  He opened it and removed two items:  a cellphone with several cracks on the shiny black surface and a tablet computer, the sides charred and melted. 

            “Has he cooperated?”  Rose asked, taking the phone in her hand. 

            “As of yet, he has not.”  The man responded. 

            “I see.”  She said as she tapped the screen with her fingers, looking through the information. 

            “It may be easier to kill him.”  The man stated as she worked the phone. 

            She shook her head in the negative and shook her finger to accentuate her disagreement with his words. 

            “Who is ‘the girl’?”  She asked, her voice rising in sudden anger.

            “An actress.”  The man answered, sounding nervous. 

            “We shall see.”  Rose said, pressing a button and putting the phone to her ear.  The phone rang three times before going to voicemail.  She ended the call and dialed the number again. 

II

            An old man with thin gray receding hair and red cheeks sat in silence sipping a martini while several people talked at the round table.  The woman to his right, a middle aged woman with blonde curls and wearing glasses, gestured for silence. 

            “We need to show leadership in this crisis, even if we do not understand every nuance of what has happened.  The people of this city look to city hall in times of peril.”  She said with passion.

            “We need to declare a state of emergency and let the feds take control of this situation.  There are rumors that last night was a planned terrorist attack.  We are not equipped to deal with that type of threat.”  A man responded from across the table. 

            “I will not hand over control of the city on the basis of rumors.  Last night’s events, though tragic, were nothing more than the violence sometimes seen in cities all across this great land.  We shall increase the police presence to quell the looting and restore order to the city.  Leadership starts with me.”  She said, tapping her index finger on the table in front of her for emphasis.

            “I understand, Mayor, but who shall address the people?”  The man asked after a few moments.

            People cast glances at one another, as if weighing the options.  The man seemed as if he wanted to say something, but did not speak.  The woman watched the others, her hand swirling the red wine in front of her.  She seemed to be waiting for someone other than herself to say what needed to be done.   

            “I will speak to the people.”  The old man said, rising to his feet.  “This is still my city and the people will expect me to be a visible force in the coming days.” 

            “I am the mayor now.”  The woman said.  “I will speak for the city.  Please schedule the press conference for me.”  

            The old man sighed and sat, returning to his martini.  The rest of the room cleared, leaving the man and woman alone. 

            “This is my time.”  She said to him, placing her hand upon his.  “You will stand by my side as I face the press, won’t you?” 

            “Of course, my love.”  He said and finished his drink.    

III

            Ella reclined on her elbow upon the blanket, watching Mary chase Princess about the dog park, never coming close to catching her and shrieking with delight the entire time.  Ella put a grape in her mouth and chewed with pleasure, closing her eyes for a moment and enjoying the warmth of mid-afternoon.  She felt the phone vibrating in her pocket, but made no motion to answer. 

            Mary collapsed on to the blanket, puffing hard from chasing Princess.  The dog curled into a ball next to Ella after taking a small sip of water. 

            “She doesn’t drink much, does she?”  Ella remarked.

            “No.”  Mary replied.  “Let’s eat something, I’m famished. 

            Mary began removing sandwiches from the basket packed earlier and put one on a plate for each of them.  She placed a bag of chips on the blanket and began eating, all the while watching Ella.  Ella didn’t seem to have much of an appetite and picked at the food rather than eating. 

She poured a glass of water for herself and took small sips as Ella’s phone buzzed again. 

“You promised no cell phone today, remember.” 

            “I know, I haven’t answered it.  It keeps buzzing and buzzing.  Can I please look to see who is calling me so many times?”

            “You called your agent and your mother, so there is no reason to talk to anyone else.  We are safer talking to nobody.”

            Ella sighed and they lapsed into silence, eating grapes and sipping cool water while her phone buzzed again and again. 

            “What if it is Ray?”  Ella said in a low voice. 

            Mary bit her lip, caught in thought and extended her hand.  Ella at once pulled the phone from her pocket and slapped it onto Mary’s palm.  Mary looked through the call history let out a whistle.

            “Ray called you ten times today.”  Mary said her eyes wide with surprise. 

            Ella grabbed the phone and looked for herself, feeling a sense of panic rush over her.  The phone buzzed again and Ella saw his name on the screen.  Without thinking, she clicked the button and put the phone to her ear. 

            “Ray!”  Ella said.

IV

            Rose dialed the number every few minutes and after her latest attempt went to voice mail, she placed the phone back on the table and turned to the blonde haired man, who sat alone across from her.  She walked over to him, placed a plump pale leg under each arm and sat on his lap.  She nestled against his neck and nibbled his ear.

            “We have to dance or my boss will poke his beak into our business.”  She whispered as she began a slow grind upon him, moving herself tight against his body, pressing her breasts against his suit.  “What is your name?” 

            “Call me Jaime.”  He said.  He sat still, his hands on the arm rests instead of touching exposed flesh.  Rose reached over her shoulder and in one motion, pulled the string of her top free, which fell from her chest.  She pressed her full, firm breasts against him, continuing to grind in slow circles on his lap.

            She leaned back, her arms behind his neck, letting him look at her, the glitter on her breasts shining in the glowing light.

            “You can touch me.”  She whispered to him. 

            “Perhaps another time.”  He said, pushing her off him.  He adjusted his suit and walked towards the door.

            “Are you forgetting something?”  She said. 

            Jaime shrugged and took a money clip from his pocket.  He threw a thick wad of bills onto the chair.

            “That should be enough to pay for…your services.”  He said with a sneer. 

            Rose gathered the money in anger and sat in the other chair, grabbing the phone.  She dialed once more, ready to leave a message if necessary. 

            “Ray!”  Rose heard a girl exclaim. 

            “Hello.  This is Rose.  To whom am I speaking?”  Rose said in a slow emotionless tone. 

            She heard a gasp on the other end followed by a long silence.  She could hear heavy breathing and hushed whispers of her name. 

            “I am Ella.”  The girl answered after a long silence. 

            “I’d say I’m happy to talk to you, but I gave up lying for Lent.”  Rose said in the same cold voice.

            “I can’t believe you are real.”  Ella said. 

            Rose laughed and crossed her legs.  She opened the draw in the table and removed a pack of cigarettes.  She lit one and took a deep drag before speaking.

            “I can assure you I am real.  My question for you:  what do you want with my husband?”   

            Silence returned and Rose waited; smoking and tapping her foot against the table. 

            “I love him.”  Ella said. 

            Rose choked on the fumes of her cigarette and struggled for air.  She slapped her chest with her hand, taking a few moments to regain her composure. 

            “You met him a week ago.  You don’t even know him.”  Rose snapped.

            “I do know him.  I feel like I’ve known him all my life.” 

            Rose laughed and smiled, shaking her head at the girl’s innocence. 

            “You do not know the first thing about Ray.”  Rose said. 

            “I know he loves me.”  Ella responded. 

Rose stopped smiling and growled into the phone.  She stamped out her cigarette, stood and began pacing. 

“You’re just a kid and you don’t know shit.  You had best stay out of this or you might get hurt.” 

“You don’t scare me.  You are mad because Ray doesn’t love you anymore.” 

The line went dead and Rose screamed, throwing the phone onto the chair.  She ran from the room and to the bar, grabbing her own phone.  She dialed a number and waiting as the line rang. 

“Yes, Rose?”  A male voice said. 

“I want her dead, Peter.”  Rose screamed. 

   

DAY ADVENTURE WITH MONKEY

                                                Day Adventure with Monkey

            Jack woke to a headache that morning and to a feeling, which grew by the moment that the day promised disaster.  He felt it, as if crawling down his spine as he dressed and saw it shine dull and limp through his parted blinds.  He looked into the street, part of which lay hidden inside dense fog and wondered whether he should pass on his weekly trip about town.  He shook his head in displeasure and closed the blinds.  He walked to the bathroom, his legs wobble and stiff below him, hoping to chase his mood with a bath, but as he let the water run, steam filling the stale bathroom air, he knew it to be a futile effort.  He rubbed his face with a cloth, in quick hard strokes and shut off the water.  He decided against the bath, leaving the water and the tub and his bath for later.

            He grabbed his backpack, prepared the previous night as per usual; the contents fresh in his mind:  one notebook, three pens, a copy of The Metamorphosis, dutifully well worn, marked by dirt and sweat, and a half pack of cigarettes, one of which he lit as he closed the door behind him.  He made his way down the stairs, his legs still stiff from sleep and long hours at work the previous day, and thought to himself just as he emerged from the entryway into the cool mist, “I should have stayed in bed.”

            He shook his head, again and not for the last time that day, as he walked the length of the driveway and disappeared into the fog.

            “Crossing guard, check.  Construction workers, check.  Will they ever finish remodeling that bar?”  He said to himself as he walked, not in any apparent hurry towards the bus stop.  He turned his head and watched a car appear out of the fog and glide past him, the thought that he would not see the bus coming occurred to him.  He stood for a moment staring into the fog and made a decision about buying cigarettes at that moment or to wait until he arrived downtown.

            “Will the bus be early?”  He asked himself.

            He answered the question and stepped from the curb, making his way towards the store.  He kept an eye out for the 56, but he knew his decision to be final.  He walked inside the store and without a further thought on the matter took his place in line.

            “What will I work on today?”  He mumbled to himself.  He fingered the change in his pocket, impatient, struggling to grasp hold of a thought, which amounted to pulling a thread, the correct thread from a piece of cloth.  The thought ran from him, laughing, laughing and laughing.

            “Can I help you sir?”

            He looked up to see the clerk, a short fat woman with thinning hair forcing a smile at him through chubby red cheeks. 

            “Sorry.”  He said.  He paid for the cigarettes and left the store.

            He walked into the fog, which seemed to grow thicker by the moment, with a smile upon his face as he saw a lady waiting, huddled out of the mist under the stop.  At that very moment he heard the bus, not yet visible, coming loud and quick towards him.  His legs moved as his lips formed into a circle.

            “Damn.”  He said as he leapt from the curb into the street.  The bus emerged from the fog and for a moment, he ran parallel, each second losing ground, his lungs protesting the sudden demand for oxygen.  He looked up and with confusion on his face, came to a halt, right there in the middle of the street.

            “Did I really see that?”  He said, ignoring or maybe not hearing the car horn blaring as its driver waited for him to move.

            “Did I just see a monkey on the 56 bus?”

            He arrived downtown some fifteen minutes later, out of breathe and the beginnings of a foul mood creeping over him.  He made his way through the crowd of the plaza and sat in front of Post 25, in need of rest and a moment to think.  He looked around at those waiting, those emerging from buses and exhaled deep the anxiety he felt, the light mist falling steady and quiet over his eyes.

            “Today feels wrong.”  He said.  He closed his eyes and once again tried to catch runaway thoughts, ones which always seemed to escape his grasp.  He saw for a moment an image, one of a woman he once knew, talking, but he could not hear the words, could not see to whom she spoke.  The image slipped away into the pool, into the deep, gone to join all the other lost scraps, scenes, bits of ideas.  His mind centered upon the routine of the day.  He saw all those things; lunch with the hot dog man, and hour or two writing at the arcade, a visit to the bookstore and ending at the bar, where he rewarded himself with a pint, and smiled.  The routine provided comfort. 

            He began to walk, passing through the plaza once more, without a glance at the financial buildings to his left side, and up to the traffic light.  The arcade lay to his left and the spot the hot dog vender set up his cart lay to the right.  He watched traffic crawl through the intersection, impatient for an opening, the beginnings of hunger passing over him.  The light turned red and he crossed, almost at a run to the other side, rounding the corner to a familiar sight:  the silver gray metal of Bob’s cart, shielded from the elements by a large dotted umbrella.  His spirits rose as he approached, the routine set to begin taking shape, not disturbed by missing the 56, and that damned business with the monkey.

            “Hey Jack, you’re a little late today.”  Bob said as he neared the stand.

            “I missed the 56.”  Jack said, laying his hand on one of the wheels.

            “The busses are never on schedule.”  Bob said.

            “Tell me about it.”  Jack said.  He reached into his pocket, a reassurance to feel the crisp dryness of folded money against his hand, for not matter how careful he seemed to be, he never lost his paranoia of forgetting lunch money at school all those years earlier.

            “What will it be today, Jack?”

            “I’ll take two with mustard and a soda.”

            “Coming right up.”  Bob busied himself with Jack’s order.  Jack watched him for a moment, watching a craftsman, always surprised at the pleasure Bob seemed to take in his work, deft and sure and meticulous.  First the bun, placed on a piece of foil, opened with tongs; then another set of tongs to place the hot dog inside, followed by a swipe of mustard.  Bob wrapped the two with another piece of foil, gentle as to not rub off the mustard, and place both inside a paper bag.

            “How is business today?”  Jack asked.

            “Oh, the usual I guess, except for the monkey.”  Bob said.  He betrayed not a bit of surprise or shock in his voice, not the slightest sign that what he said might be unusual.

            “A monkey?”  Jack asked, suddenly not feeling well.

            “Sure.  About ten minutes ago.  Bought two dogs with mustard.  Left me a nice tip too if I may say so.”

            “Really.”  Jack said.  He felt the blood drain out of his face.

            “Sure thing.”

            Jack turned and walked towards the arcade.  His mind raced, but he could not begin to say what he felt.  “That damned monkey again.”  He thought over and over.  He walked without looking across the intersection, not a care for oncoming traffic, lost in his thoughts.

             He stood, the stairs dark, beckoning to his right, and let the noises of the street wash over him for a moment before he climbed the stairs.  He placed a foot on the first stair and hesitated, fillied with a feeling he could not explain, and as he stood there holding his warm paper bag, he knew.  He knew but did not want to admit to himself what he knew to be true, not even at he rounded the corner, bringing into the view the balcony he knew so well.  He stepped out onto the balcony to see the monkey, looking up at him, traces of mustard on its mouth.

            Jack stood silent, realizing at once that the monkey sat in his usual seat and wondered to himself, “Can this be a coincidence?”  He shook his head, knowing.  Had he not known after the business with the bus and with Bob?  Had he not known the very moment he woke that morning with an inexplicable feeling of dread?  He walked to the other side of the balcony, away from the monkey.  He sat down, not in his usual seat he reminded himself, all the while watching the small animal sitting in the spot he called his own for a year.

            He unwrapped his lunch, still watching; seeing black fur surrounding tan face, eyes large, furtive and black, the mouth still chewing upon lunch, small human like hands scratching a spot behind large ears.  The eyes bothered Jack, every few moments locking with his own, blank and empty eyes.

            “What?”  Jack said.

            Silence.  The monkey kept scratching.

            “You’re sitting in my seat, ruining my day.  You should at least have something to say for yourself.”

            Further silence, the only response the honking of horns from the street below, the squeal of brakes.

            ‘Say something.”  Jack felt anger rising, hot and fast over his face.  He finished his lunch and threw the remains, brown bag and foil wrappers, into his backpack.  He rose, not knowing or thinking what to do, but once on his feet, he ran, with loud slapping steps, towards the monkey.  The monkey jumped up and over the balcony; onto the street below before he covered half the distance between them.  He stood for a moment in silence, not seeing the young woman who watched him from the stairway.

            “Who are you talking to?”  She asked.

            He looked at her, confused.  She looked young, hair bleached blonde and cascading over her shoulders, her blue eyes gazing up at him in awe.

            “Why, I was speaking with that damn monkey.”  He said, looking at the place the monkey jumped, nimble and sure, from the balcony.

            “What monkey?”  She asked.

            His mind spun and he pushed by her, ran down the stairs and out into the street.  He fought to settle himself, mumbling obscenities under his breath as he walked on, without realizing, towards the bookstore.

            “This can’t be happening.”  He said to himself, over and over again, the entire walk, falling silent as he arrived upon the corner, the bookstore to his left, the bar straight in front of him.

            “Decisions.”  He said.  He thought to himself, all the while scratching his head, whether to visit the bookstore first or to buy himself a pint. 

            “What will the monkey do?”

            He looked up at the bookstore, but saw nothing.  He made a guess and went into the bar.

            Once inside, he saw no sign of the monkey.  He smiled as he sat; knowing he’d bested the beast. 

            “Just change your routine a small amount, do not worry.”  He said to himself.

            He ordered a pint and for a while, settled into thoughts that did not include the monkey.

           

            He left the bar in good spirits, happy with himself.  ‘No monkey can ruin my day.”  He said as he opened the door, which led to a flight of stairs, which in turn led to the bookstore.  He bounded up the stairs two at a time.  He entered the store, placed his backpack with the cashier as required, and at once spotted a volume he found to his liking.  He approached and took the book, a complete volume of Kafka’s short stories, from the shelf.  The volume, a well-worn hardcover, felt good in his hands, firm and sure. 

            “Look at what we have here.”  He said.  He set the book back on the shelf.  “I’ll get that before I leave.”

            He walked down the aisle, rounding the corner and went into the bathroom.

            “I’ll buy that book, and then I’ll take a trolley over to east side.  Maybe I’ll get a coffee or cappuccino.”

            He left the bathroom relieved, always preferring to have a plan set, and his day on a definite course.  He rounded the corner to see the monkey, standing in the spot he stood a few moments before, holding the same said volume of Kafka in his paws.  The monkey looked at him, teeth showing, and laughed.  The monkey, with the volume in his grasp, jumped and scratched and laughed, high pitched shrieking laughter.

            “No!” Jack yelled.  No longer able to brook the monkey’s taunts, he lunged at him.  The two rolled on the floor, wrestling for the volume, books and shelves falling in their wake.

            “Give me the book.”  He screamed, feeling the fur between his fingers.

            (“Sir!”)

            “What do you want with it?  Haven’t you done enough today?”  Jack yelled his grip on the book slipping.

            (“Sir!”)

            “Why?”  He yelled.

            (“Sir!”)

            SIR!

            Jack stopped.  He looked up and saw the clerk, her eyes brown and beady looking down upon him.  He turned his head, seeing the store in shambles, bookcases overturned, pages ripped from volumes strewn about the aisle.  In his hands he felt the same sure firm solidity of Kafka and around him he saw nothing of the monkey amongst the ruins.