Wipers and Water Worms

Water worms

wriggle up

from a wet

shark fin. They're

cut down quick

at every

1 2 3

seconds, and

try again.

The rain slows and

gently taps the

window as I

set my heavy

head on a cold

interior

and sleep.

This is

Frank

What’s today? Sunday? Goddamn. No, it’s gotta be Monday. Chili today. Or is that a Sunday thing? I sure as hell ain’t going to church. June 15^th, 1952. Molly looked absolutely stunning. Blonde curls, those eyes. Never forget those. That was a church. Sure was a beauty. And all those people there just for us. Agh, damn it. This damn thing. Best scooter my ass. Gonna get the last of the goddamn chili now. Come on! Ah, there we go. This goddamn thing. July 21^st, 1952. What a gorgeous church that was. Molly, standing there staring at me with those eyes. And that smile. All those teeth lined up so neat. Prettiest thing I ever saw. Goddamn, it is Sunday. Chili is good though.

“Hi Mr. Holcomb, what can I get for you today?”

“Chili…and a beer.”

“Ha, I think I can only get you that chili. How’re you feeling today sir?”

“Still kickin’ boy.”

I miss Molly. January 13th, 1993. Goddamn ugly church. Dark and black and cold. And all those goddamn people with their handkerchiefs and those looks. I was the only one there. Really there. Her eyes were closed but I still saw them. No one else. Chili is shit today.

This goddamn thing.

“Hi Mr. Holcomb. Need a little help there?”

“Goddamn it. This thing’s quittin’ on me.”

“Not a problem sir. Need me to push you?”

“No…thanks. It'll start up again.”

“Are you sure you don't need some help, that's why I'm here."

"I'm fine."

"Have a good da—.“

Smug little snot. Goddamn it. I need my legs again. Need my strength. Need my ring. Today Monday? Sunday? Yeah Sunday, chili. These little punks running around here. October 18^th, 1974. That one was a screamer. Came right out though. All covered in goo. William. Good day. Downhill from there. Something wrong with that kid. Shoulda had another. Shoulda tried again. Or maybe not even tried at all. Didn’t need him. Molly was mine. Didn’t need him. Never once been here. Don’t know what it was. Didn’t turn out. I’m sleepy.

“Hi, Mr. Holcomb. Anything I can get for you?”

“No. Going to my room.”

“Want me to walk with you?”

“No.”

“How’s your day going?”

“Hrrm. Fine. I’m tired.”

“You should take a nap sir.”

“Thanks, didn’t think of that. Jesus. What’s your name?”

“William. I just started here. Just got out of school and—“

“William eh? Why don't you go by Will or Bill then?"

"I don't know, never thought to I guess. "

"Well you should think about it."

"You know someone named Will or Bill?"

"Not really. Bye kid."

Goddamn kid. I’m not a damn fool. Can do it myself. Don't need him. Not at all. Goddamn long way from the dining hall. Too many people use hallways. And the echo. Rattlin’ around my ears. Every sound off every wall. Sounds busy. Crowd. Church. Shit. Earl.

“Howdy Fritz.”

“Hey Earl, it’s Frank.”

“How the hell are ya? Didn’t see you at Bingo. Thought the worst.”

“I never go to Bingo. And I’m still here.”

“Well you should join us. It’s getting sparse on Saturday nights.”

“Yeah. I’ll think bout it.”

“You hear? Last week Carl passed. Right bout a month after little ol’ June went. He always fancied her I think. And Ruth and Edna are both coming down with something. And Merv—.“

“Well aren’t you just a ray of goddamn sunshine.”

“Sorry, just saying it’s getting sparse.”

“Don’t think I don’t know it. I’m tired. See you Earl.”

“Bye Fred. See you at Bingo.”

No quiet in this place. Cold too. Thank God the door locks, they’d probably be talking to me in my sleep. Sleep. No bother. None at all. February 13th, 1993. She looked so peaceful. Made me mad. How could she go, and look like that? She missed me. But that look. Blank. Not letting me see those eyes. Not even upset. No remorse. Just left. Kid was there. He didn’t care. Didn’t need to come. She was mine. Left me with him. His loud house. Always people. His doors didn’t lock. Goddamn it. People coming and going. Now, here. Quieter at least. Bed next to the window. That goddamn guy down there. Think I’ve seen him before. Out there with his beard and shaggy clothes. Get a goddamn shave and a job. Worked 47 years at that mill. Hard goddamn work. Gave Molly a good life. Worth it. Can’t be happy without good work and a good wife. Can’t be happy with a son like that. Didn't need him. 49 goddamn years I worked there. Now, here. Cold.

“Mr. Holcomb, you in there?”

“No.”

“Sir, it’s time for your medicine.”

“Goddamn it. Come in.”

“Here ya go sir. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Yes. Leave.”

“Oh. Ok. See ya Mr. Holcomb.”

“Hey, shut the door!”

Just standing there. Dirty bum. There’s JoAnn. And that big gaudy church right across the street. Goddamn bright in here. And cold. Goin' to sleep.

Scott

Two bucks. The bus pretty much takes you anywhere in the city. It’s a good deal. Only 40 cans. Not bad. Warm too. Get to sit with people. Get to talk. I like the bus. It’s family. People see the beard, the tangles, the rips. There’re no straight paths. There’s a bubble round me. But the bus is family. Has to be. Today was a good day. Got 94 cans. That’s...four dollars and...70 cents. Good day. Ow, nice lookin lady there. Red dress. Open seat next to me. Over here. Come on. Over here. Tough luck. 94 cans though. Good day. Something about the sound of the bus door opening. It’s like Christmas. Pair of socks or a lady in a red dress. Always exciting. Stop. Man. Nothing special. Socks. Love the bus at sunset. It’s a good one today. Feels clean. Warm. Cold today, but the sun is good. And this sunset. Pink, red, yellow. Best time to ride. Pretty full today. No one next to me. Still some company though. The noise, the bustle. Stop. Business man. Better than socks. Across from me. Odd that he’s here.

“Hello there. How’s your day going?”

“Fine.”

“That’s good. How bout that sunset eh?”

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t want to talk. I’ll break him.

“So what brings you to the bus?”

“Nothing.”

“Oh so you do it all the time?”

“No. I…my car got impounded.”

“Ah, that’s tough. How come?”

“I have business to do.”

"Oh."

That’s a nice briefcase. Lots of papers in there. Phone, notepad, folders. Flask. Ah. Poor guy. Nice of him to talk to me. Better than yesterday. Today Sunday? The 15th. Wow, 2 years now. Good choice. It was good. Pretty good. I think so. Didn't want that life. Didn't mean to hurt her. Had to go. Had to. Right? Wanted a kid. I didn't. Wanted a home. Not a house. A home. Don't think I did. But first birthday, baseball games, all that. Hands are cold. Coulda been nice. I think. She was great. Warm. Wasn't for me. She could do better anyway. Can I? Needed out. Too far out now. But free. Wife, kid, home. I don't know. Happy now but...Stop. Old woman. Better than socks. Next to me. Smells like cinnamon.

“Hello.”

“Hi, how’re you today?”

“I’m lovely. And you?

“Good day today. Loving the sunset. It’s a good one. Where're you headed?”

“Oh my, yes. Absolutely gorgeous. Just heading home. How about you son?”

“Home. Ha, yeah home I guess.”

“What’s your name dear?”

“Scott. You?

“JoAnn McCarthy. Pleased to meet you. "

Stop.

“Well this is my stop.”

“Me too actually.”

She’s nice. Bet she lives in the retirement home. Probably nice in there. Bet it’s full of nice people. All as nice as her. Not too bad out here though.

“You seem like a nice young man. Here.”

“I can’t accept that. I like to earn my money. Gotta have something to do.”

"If you don't mind me asking son, how'd you get to be...here?"

"That's a tough one. By choice. I can tell you that. I...yeah."

"You alright?"

"We'll see. How about you?"

"We'll see. Ha. Well, good-bye dear. Good luck.”

“Thanks. You too.”

Looks nice in there. Warm. Second story. Old man. Bet he’s nice. Blinds close. Time to go home. Home. The church is dark. Light enough though. Beautiful in the morning. Light coming through the stained glass. Bright. Warm. I’m going to sleep.

Frank

Cold. Quiet. Done.

Scott

Cold night. Might be cloudy today. Ah yep, sure is. Something happening across the street. White coats, ambulance. What's this? Cart. White sheet. Still. Body. Another one gone. Hope they were happy. Time. Second story window. Blinds still closed. Cloudy today. About time for some clouds anyway. Cold.

Departure

"Hello,"

"Hi dear, its mom. How's everything going?"

"Hi mom. Things are fine."

"That's good. What's new? How're classes? How's Amber? Is that her name? How is she?"

"Nothing new. Classes are fine. Yeah that's her name, and I'm sure she's fine."

"Oh good. Are you ok? We never hear from you dear."

"Yeah, everything's ok. Nothing wrong."

"Well ok. Your father and I were just talking the other day and--."

"Mom I gotta go. I'll talk to you later."

"Oh ok, well b--" He hung up as he rounded the corner.

He generally enjoyed these walks to the coffee shop. To anywhere, really. It wasn’t so much the destination that he fancied, but to merely escape from the blatantly white walls of his studio apartment. This day was an exception. He would have very much enjoyed to stay home and stare at his ceiling, and he couldn’t help but wince as a glance up from the sidewalk informed him that he was a mere two minutes from his dreaded destination.

The cause for his unease on this day was a phone call he had foolishly answered the day before. Amber was upset, which was often the case, and had called to inform him of the abhorrent activities of so-and-so with somebody, and how this person told this girl some things that he really didn’t care about. Although he tried to listen, and care, and do things a boyfriend should do, he inevitably drifted into his own thoughts. What most would consider falling, he embraced as flying. From and to where, he couldn’t tell. There was no ledge, no ground; there was just the wind rushing through his hair, washing over his body. It was per—.

“Are you listening to me?” Amber said, and he was sucked back.

“Sure.” was the only response he found.

“Sure? I’m sick of this. You always do this. You never care about what I have to say. I’ll be back in town tomorrow. We need to talk, so let’s meet somewhere.”

“Ok. Coffee shop.” he replied blankly, and hung up.

It was the words “we need to talk” that caused his distaste of the meeting that he was shortly to attend. Particularly, it was the word “talk” that caused the tingle in his stomach as he looked up to find himself a matter of steps from his destination. There wasn't much weight in the things that were going to be said.

He was a few minutes early, and odds are she would be late, so he took a seat on a bench out front. The sign above him read, “To Bean, or Not to Bean! ” in letters of varying size and personality, and the smell of coffee was being gently wafted from the nearby door. Despite what surely was to come, he was at that moment content--sitting alone, watching each cog move precisely as it should. Though just about every moment of happiness—including this one—that he’d encountered in the past three years had come with a vicious, erosive undercurrent.

He had outwardly gone to college because it was the next step in his life. His first year of school was new and exciting. He was going to make fifty-seven friends, have several girlfriends, join every club he could, and maintain the highest grades he could manage. And for a month or two, that seemed to be true. He’d made a few friends on the first day, joined a couple of clubs, and maintained above average grades. But slowly, his situation deteriorated. More time spent with these friends revealed them to basic and consistent. The clubs weren’t really appealing after a few weeks of inefficient meetings and what he deemed to be useless event planning. And his grades slowly declined to a level best described as “good enough.” His girlfriends during these years in no way stimulated his early ambitions, but he had nothing else to cling to and could not bring himself to jump ship. And so the next three years continued in the same way, and he was left with what friends and family whispered to be—“a lack of motivation.”

But there was no denying he was doing what he should do. He was going to college to get a good education to get a good career to pay for his good education and a good suburban life he was going to fit so well into. And he could think of nothing more terrifying. There were few times that he was entirely happy, and equally few times that he was ever sad. Why should he be? He had the promise of a good career after school, and a chance to begin a life. But it wasn’t his life he seemed to be preparing for.

“Hey,” said a voice he recognized to be Amber’s.

“Hey.”

“Wanna go inside?”

“Yeah, sure.”

There was a reasonable amount of bustle as they made their way to a table that seemed to be the most secluded, in the back corner of the room. The coffee shop’s commotion pleased him, and he couldn’t help but briefly imagine himself in the midst of a busy city. Someplace foreign. He was tempted to get a cup of hot chamomile tea (with a touch of lemon), but decided that they were probably not here for any form of enjoyment. They sat there for an uncomfortable length of time, Amber tapping her fake nails on the table between them. He was waiting for her to speak first, as he had nothing to say. Her face told him that she was trying to find the correct combination of words. He hated her for this.

“How are you?” she said

“I’m fine.”

"That's good." He could tell that she wanted him to ask her about her conference over the weekend. She had joined the college's Business Leaders of America club and had gone to a conference. He didn't feel that there was much more to know.

"So, the conference was like sooo much fun. And we...." She continued talking but he couldn't bring himself to listen. He knew that the only reason she was telling him this was to get to her golden question. After several minutes of an account of the weekend activities she asked him the question he'd be dodging for three years.

"So how's the job hunt going?" she asked with her familiar veil of cordiality

"I don't know. Not really looking right now"

"I told you to drop off some applications this weekend."

"Can't see any reason why I should."

"No reason? Your future! You don't have that long, you know. You're gonna start a career after school right?"

"Career? No, I don't really think so. "

Irritation was building on her plastic face. “This…I don’t know about this anymore.” Her considerable emphasis on each “this” made him think of a snake and it took a bit of effort for him to reel his mind in from the jungle scene it so wished to enter.

“Ok. Why’s that?” he replied. He was neither shocked nor angry, but legitimately curious.

“You don’t seem to care about—about anything. I can barely get you out of your apartment, you don’t have any friends, you refuse to get a job and I can’t seem to get you to do anything!” She paused. “It’s just a wonder I’ve stayed with you this long.” ‘There it is,’ he thought. He’d known she’d been longing to say something more cutting and he couldn’t help dawn a modest grin at her release of it.

“Well?” she said.

“That seems about right to me. Anything else?” He knew she needed him to care.

“What? That’s all you’ve got to say!" He nodded, letting her continue.

"Of course that’s it. I shouldn’t have expected anything else. I’m leaving. We're done.” And she turned and stamped out of the room with an irritated sigh and a flip of her hair. He sat for a bit, enjoying the coffee shop with a look that said 'Hi' in a cheery tone. He then got his tea and a perfectly moist lemon poppy seed scone, and made his way to the park down the road.

There, in the park, was a bench that overlooked a playground. To his right, and down a slight slope ran a tranquil river. It was there that he sat to think. Not of what had just occurred—as he had been expecting and wanting that episode to play out for some time—but of his current surroundings. Directly ahead, several children were running and screaming among the jungle of bars, slides, spinny-things, and things-that-made-noise. He watched them for several minutes

"I'm a fireman!"

"Well I'm an astronaut!"

There had always been that question looming. "What do you want to be when you grow up?" “Be” seemed at fault—obsolete. He was already doing that. There was something wrong with this question. It was the next two words that came to him that seemed magnificently appealing. “Do. Go,” he mused grinning. There was a slight breeze and the quivering leaves rustled above. He closed his eyes, and lay on the beach, the waves gently crashing…

"Wooooo ah wooooo ah!" cried one of the children sprinting by

He opened his eyes. At his feet he noticed a worm on the drying sidewalk before him. It was not yet dead, but close. As he looked more intently he noticed that it was inching its way not toward the moist grass behind, but toward the dry, golden bark chips of the playground. His eyes were securely fixed to this spot of life or death. He had an impulse to change its direction, but this moment passed and he realized the error.

The next day, Joe got a job and a suitcase.

The Heist

Approximately seventeen leaves and two acorns fell from the large oak standing across the street from Edward’s bank from the time he strolled through the front doors until the moment he burst out of them in a wonderfully thrilling escape. It was an extraordinary day. Unlike most of the days preceding it.

Edward was born under mundane circumstances to a less-than-exciting set of parents. The father worked 9-5 at a medium-sized office that sold a variety of office supplies: paper and paper shredders; pencils and erasers; pens and whiteout; envelopes and letter openers, and even highlighters. He made mid-level income and the family lived a middle-class life. Situated neatly in the heart of this humdrum life sat Edward’s mother. She stayed at home and did the chores of the house among other run-of-the-mill motherly duties. I wish there was something exciting to say about Edward’s parents, but there really isn’t.

And so Edward grew—not too quickly, but not too slowly—into a life that is best described as grey. He went through school with reasonable grades, went to community college for some time and neither succeeded or failed. Shortly thereafter he replaced his recently retired father at Dull’s paper supply at the age of 22. We join Edward now at the age of 31 and he still works there—content—making his weekly check and coming home to his neat, but not overly neat, apartment three blocks away from the aforementioned bank. Three blocks is not that far to run.

Just as Edward rounded the corner toward his bank, leaf number one of seventeen quivered gently; like an anxious thumb on an expectant stopwatch. Walking at a medium pace, Edward, paycheck in pocket, pushed his way through the bank’s double doors as a shockingly red oak leaf made its departure to the awaiting blades of freshly mowed grass. Edward liked the bank. It was organized, with a touch of disorder; quiet with a hint of bustle; louder than a library, but quieter than the surrounding city. Feet tapped and voices spoke, all at a reasonable volume. More than anything in the world Edward enjoyed the smell of a bank. It had the odd ability to smell both new and used simultaneously. The same could be said of money. It is for this very reason that Edward enjoyed these Friday excursions. Not only was he able to relish the bank environment, but he was also able to cash his usual check for the usual sum and leave with his usual number of pieces of paper. He didn’t value money for its ability to buy something new, but for its ability to remain constant. Three dollars will always be three dollars, and he loved that he could depend on that fact for years to come. It was the fruit of his consistency.

As he walked up to the square table that housed pens and envelopes he noticed an elderly security guard walking slowly toward his chair near an American flag on a long golden rod. Edward then reached into his right jacket pocket for his customary check, which he found. But as his fingers prepared to leave his jacket pocket they felt something out of place. Curiosity was unlike Edward, but things were rarely out of place in his world. More out of his fingers’ curiosity than his own, Edward grasped both his check and the mystery item. Out with the check came a fluorescent pink highlighter ($4.80 for a pack of 4. Standard). Being that Edward worked in an office supply store, this was not an extremely unusual find, but it was unusual enough.

Edward then put the item in his right jacket pocket and proceeded to sign his checks before entering line number three of five. Generally Edward would wait silently in line with the occasional nod “Hello” to the occasional passerby. But today there were two distractions. The first was the intrusive pink highlighter poised and ready in Edward’s right jacket pocket. The second was a young woman. There were several descriptive words that entered Edward’s brain but none of them seemed worthy so he settled on a stare of enthrallment. In many ways she looked as though she had dressed up in order to go to the bank, but this was false on all counts. She was simply the kind of woman that could casually throw on a dress out of a thrift store bin and make it a stunning extension of herself any day or any hour of the week. She could be wearing a bathrobe and a poncho and you may still wonder if she was dressing up to go the bank. Instead of a bathrobe and poncho she was wearing a fantastically blue dress. She was in the fourth line, on Edward’s right. To his left sat the security guard, nearly nodding off to sleep. In front of him was a line of equally bored bank patrons. Behind Edward was a young boy of five or six playing with a handheld gaming device and getting exceedingly upset at the game, his mother, and the line in which he was currently stuck. In Edward’s right jacket pocket sat a loaded highlighter. Within Edward’s head was a notion and a memory.

There had been another day in Edward’s life almost as extraordinary as this one at the bank. He had been five years old, and was at his father’s office. It is almost impossible to be bored at the age of five and Edward was playing with a rocket ship. To most people it was a pink fluorescent highlighter; to five-year old Edward it was a rocket ship. Or a car. Or a snake. Or even a gun. And so he flew through space, shooting down alien cruisers and making a fair amount of noise in a reasonably quiet office. His father marched over to him.

“Son, you need to stop. That is not a toy. It is a highlighter, and should only be used to highlight,” his father had told him nervously. “Now give me that, and go sit quietly.” Edward handed it to him, and sat quietly.

As Edward recalled this distant memory his fingers slowly wrapped around the perfectly round form of a pink highlighter in his right jacket pocket and everything seemed to fall perfectly in to place. The boy behind Edward suddenly threw his game down in fury. Pieces burst in every direction and the bank’s medium level of quiet hit both ends of the spectrum. Following the initial embarrassed quiet that filled the bank lobby there was singular yelled command: “Everybody on the ground!” The bank goers paused, unsure of the shouter’s sincerity. “This is a bank robbery! I’ve got a gun!” the robber yelled in order to clear up the apparent confusion. At the word “gun”, all but two people in the lobby fell to the floor with shortened gasps and looks of terror. The first was the elderly security guard who was forced to awake and climb out of his chair. Too old to really care, he lay down quietly and slid his gun away as though this was customary procedure. The gun slid smoothly across the floor and stopped just short of the feet of the only person standing. The robber. Edward. He glanced down at the gun, but was content with the one he was pretending to hold in his right jacket pocket. He smiled a smile so big his face could barely handle it after decades of pleasant grinning. He rushed to the bank teller, leaping over arms and legs and torsos.

“Cash this check please! I want it in hundreds! Thanks!” Edward yelled. Each sentence sounded as if he were talking to a deaf person, not a frightened bank teller in the midst of a robbery. Confused, the bank teller stood staring blankly at Edward’s expectant face. She took the check, opened the cash register and took out $503.65—five hundreds, three ones, six dimes, and a nickel. More confused than frightened, she handed it to Edward. He took the change first and threw it in the air as if he was releasing a dove. He then took the hundreds, examined them for a second and immediately tore them up and released them in the same elaborate manor. The crowd in the bank sat both curious and frightened as to what would happen next. This man was clearly mad. Edward then turned, spotted the woman in the stellar blue dress and shouted “You! Blue dress woman! Stand up! Err…please!” She did so as Edward, standing a bit taller, strolled briskly over to her.

“What’s your name?”

“Robin.”

He nodded. “I’m Eddy” he replied as he grabbed her by the waist and gave her a kiss that bank patrons still talk (and fantasize) about to this day. She stood stunned, blushing. He ran to and seized the flag on its pole. Then, still leaping over frightened bodies, he bounded to the front door, stopped, and twirled to face his curious audience.

“Everyone have a splendid day!” he shouted and burst out the doors, flagpole in hand. He turned and closed the doors behind him, shoving the flagpole through the handles so as to avoid any attempts at capture. He turned around and took a deep breath as the last of seventeen leaves fell to the ground. As he sprinted down the street he flew through space, shooting down alien cruisers and making a fair amount of noise on a reasonably quiet street.