Have a NYC 3 Read online

  HAVE A NYC 3

  New York Short Stories

  Peter Carlaftes & Kat Georges

  EDITORS

  THREE ROOMS PRESS

  New York, NY

  Have a NYC 3

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced without permission of the publisher, except for brief quotes for review purposes. For permissions, please write to [email protected].

  First Edition

  ISBN 978-1-941110-15-7

  ISSN 2333-1291

  Copyright © 2014 by Three Rooms Press

  All rights revert to Authors upon publication

  Editors: Peter Carlaftes & Kat Georges

  Cover and Interior Design:

  KG Design International

  katgeorges.com

  Published by

  Three Rooms Press, New York, NY

  threeroomspress.com

  To the memory of

  Philip Seymour Hoffman

  INTRODUCTION

  Think you are ready to take on these streets?

  New York City breathes life into millions of people. Sends them off at different times of day and night to jobs and hopes and crimes and heart.

  The City takes your breath away. Sometimes forever.

  But its memory is short. That’s your only edge. To take it on with all your might. Dreams die hard or they never get born.

  Nothing lasts as long as the City itself, and its tales which begin on the streets.

  CONTENTS

  OUT WITH THE TRASH | Kat Georges

  MEMORY THE NEXT | Bonny Finberg

  LUSTRUM AT THE FLUSHING RKO | Kirpal Gordon

  NAMOR | J. Anthony Roman

  THE CLEANING LADY | Gil Fagiani

  HOOK | Ron Kolm

  UPPER WEST TO LOWER EAST | Michael Gatlin

  IMITATIONS OF CHRIST | Peter Marra

  COMPASSION | Joanie Hieger Fritz Zosike

  A PARK BENCH FOR TWO | Paul Sohar

  WAR, SEX, MONEY | Nina Zivancevic

  A CLOWN A DAY | Angela Sloan

  THE REAL NORTH EIGHTH STREET ROMANCE | Richard Vetere

  DANGEROUS GIRL | Liz Axelrod

  MISSING DAUGHTER | Chera Thompson

  A MOMENT OF WRONG THINKING A Matthew Scudder Story | Lawrence Block

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  OUT WITH THE TRASH

  BY KAT GEORGES

  “I don’t care what you say—I’m not going!” Andrew hissed. He’d said the same thing for the past three weeks, ever since news came about the move.

  The other garden gnomes—nineteen of them— stopped paying attention to him days ago. And now, with moving day finally here, most of them were smiling with anticipation, thrilled at the idea of relocating.

  When you’re a gnome, it doesn’t happen often.

  Some of the gnomes had been on this West Village rooftop more than twelve years—part of a growing collection of Jemi and Aaron, the apartment’s tenants. Jemi—short for Jemina—was a part-time musician who bragged to friends at her summer barbecues that the gnomes were a source of inspiration. Otherwise, she ignored them. Aaron had a real passion for gnomes. He had built this collection carefully over the years and arranged the gnomes in a semi-circle on a rectangular raised area of the black tar-covered roof, facing toward the back sliding glass door of the apartment, facing away from a carefully tended garden of assorted potted plants.

  Most were “authentic” gnomes, crafted in the Austrian-Germanic style: just over a foot tall, sporting tall pointy hats over bearded faces, belted tunics, and short baggy trousers tucked into tiny boots. A few were Disney aberrations: barbarized clones of the commercial version of Snow White’s seven dwarves, or cute knockoffs sporting Yankees logos. Errant gifts from well-meaning friends.

  Without Aaron, all of the gnomes would have been thrown out years ago. Jemi tolerated gnomes the way vegans tolerate vegetarians. She put up with them. But since she started packing, she secretly wanted them gone.

  The news about the move first came to light when the gnomes overheard Jemi making a few phone calls three weeks ago, while she lounged on an outdoor chair on an unseasonably warm January weekend. A few days later, Aaron confirmed, shouting to Jemi from the roof that they would just leave most of the potted plants.

  “And the gnomes, too,” Jemi yelled back. “Get rid of them, right?”

  “No,” Aaron shouted, his voice uncharacteristically firm and commanding. “We’re definitely bringing our gnomes.”

  Soon, rumors about the new pad ran rampant as details were picked up here and there in overheard snippets of conversation. It was in Washington Heights; it had a great view of the George Washington bridge; it was much larger and—best of all—it came with a beautiful, giant outdoor terrace. A perfect new home.

  Most of the gnomes were excited about going. Today, at sunrise, they toasted each other with dew. To travelling! To adventure! To getting the hell out of the West Village—It lost its soul years ago.

  “Now, it used to be the best part of New York,” reminisced Douglas, a gentle-looking bearded gnome with a faded blue coat and pale teal pointed hat. “I should know—I’ve been here longer than any of you.” Which was almost true.

  Douglas was one of three gnomes—Andrew among them—who had been at the Bleecker Street apartment from the beginning.

  “I remember back in the Sixties,” Douglas continued, “when Dylan was just starting out—“

  “Bullshit!” screamed Andrew. “Stop saying you were here in the Sixties. You weren’t even born then.”

  “Well, shortly thereafter . . .”

  “Geez!” Happy exclaimed. “There they go again— same argument since the day I arrived.”

  “Shut up, you Disney faker,” Andrew shouted, “I’ll knock you over and bust you into a thousand pebbles.”

  Berndt sighed, “Guys, Beruhigen Sie sich! Calm down! Moving is stressig enough without petty name-calling and die Worte des Ängers.” An even-tempered authentic Austrian gnome carefully selected by Aaron on a long-ago trip to Graz, Berndt kept his hands forever locked behind his back, revealing a pale green belted tunic over dark baggy pants tucked into his worn boots. His bearded face revealed wizened eyes under a pointed red cone hat.

  Douglas agreed. “There’s really nothing we can do so let’s just stay cool and go with the flow.”

  “Go with the flow?” Andrew laughed. “Don’t tell me to go with the flow. Someone has to take a stand.”

  “You’ve got no choice,” Douglas said. “You’re just a gnome.”

  “I’m not going,” Andrew said. And this time, no one argued.

  For a week, boxes had been piling up inside the apartment. The gnomes watched from the rooftop as dishes were carefully wrapped in newspaper, clothes stuffed into large plastic bags, furniture turned on end, bookshelves dismantled.

  The books. Andrew noticed a few days ago. The other gnomes must have seen, but pretended nothing was wrong. Typical. The books were not being carefully packed into boxes. They were being thrown into bags, carelessly. Pages tore. Bindings broke. He could hear Jemi occasionally exclaim, “I’m so glad to be lightening up!”

  “Lightening up” meant getting rid of things. Treating books like trash. Throwing them away. And it wasn’t just a few outdated self-help books. Jemi threw out almost all of the books that she and Aaron had collected over the years. “These are so heavy! Thank god we don’t have to move them!”

  For hours, Andrew watched Jemi maniacally shove book after book into heavy green plastic trash bags, which she later instructed Aaron to take out to the sidewalk with the rest of the garbage. “I’ve got the ones I want on Kindle,” she stated coldly, when Aaron started to pull a few out of the bags. “In a month or so, we’ll forget we even
had them. Starting clean. It’s all good.”

  Andrew thought hard. The books were so easy to get rid of. What about him and the other gnomes? Aaron had said he was taking them all to the new pad, but Jemi was the real ruler of this household. One flip of her henna-dyed hair and a stern look and Aaron complied with her every demand. Andrew knew, that if the gnomes made it all the way to the new apartment, chances were that Jemi would decide that they just didn’t fit in.

  Andrew suddenly felt tired and old. He glanced over at the other gnomes. Berndt with his wise face; Douglas with the blue hat and droopy eyes; the three Disney faux gnome copies who didn’t really belong— Happy, Dopey and Doc—yeah, sure—get rid of them. Then again—no. Even the faux gnomes deserved continued existence. If one was tossed, they all would be, sooner or later.

  Before long, the packing of the gnomes began. Aaron came out with a pile of newspapers and two large moving boxes. Jemi carried out some more newspaper and sat it down next to Aaron. “I’m going to miss this roof, this garden,” she sighed.

  “Well, at least you won’t have to miss these little guys,” Aaron smiled, nodding toward Andrew and the others. Jemi scowled. “Let’s get them packed up nice so we don’t break anyone,” Aaron whispered.

  On cue, Jemi’s smart phone buzzed and she hopped up and rushed into the apartment. “Be right back,” she swore.

  “Yeah, right,” Andrew scoffed.

  Aaron started at the far end. He gently picked up Berndt, laid him on a few sheets of spread out newspaper, rolled him in it, and sealed the ends with tape. Then he carefully placed Berndt in the box.

  Andrew heard Berndt’s muffled gnome farewell, “Auf Wiedersehen, meinen Herren! See you uptown!”

  Andrew shouted, “Not me! I’m not going!”

  The faux gnomes giggled, “Yes, you are! Yes, you are!”

  Aaron began wrapping the next gnome, a faded orange fellow from Berlin.

  One by one, each gnome was packed. When Aaron was halfway through, Jemi came back and looked at the remaining gnomes distastefully. “Do we really have to take them all?” she asked. “They’re dirty and old. We don’t really need to cart them all with us—right?”

  On any other subject, Aaron would have reluctantly agreed. But the gnomes were his.

  “Sorry,” he said flatly. “Can’t leave them here— collector’s items.”

  Andrew sniffed. “Collector’s item, indeed. Is that what you call something that’s been around for awhile? Yo, Aaron—maybe you should call your old lady a collector’s item—right?”

  “Cool it, Andrew,” Douglas snapped. “I’m stressed out enough. Chill out.”

  “He can’t hear me. And I’m not going,” Andrew snapped.

  Douglas sighed. “I heard you the first thousand times. Pipe down.”

  Aaron stood and stretched, and asked Jemi, “Babe, can you help me tape up the first box?”

  “Sure, babe.”

  “Wanna get these in the moving van first so they don’t get damaged,” Aaron said. “They say that first in is the best place for your breakables.”

  “I’ll put the dishes there too, then” Jemi said.

  Andrew smirked. “Such brilliant conversationalists! Enjoy them uptown, with your freakin’ view of the GW Bridge! Makes me crumble, just thinking about it.”

  Aaron and Jemi carried the gnome-filled box inside the apartment.

  “Like it or not—you’re coming, too,” Douglas insisted.

  Aaron came back and with a heavy sigh, sat down, and began wrapping again. Ten gnomes left. Eight. Five. Now only Andrew and Douglas remained.

  “Not going. Not going,” Andrew chanted.

  Aaron grabbed Douglas, who shouted, “See you on the other end of the city!” before he was rolled in the newspaper and placed in the box.

  “Jemi!” Aaron shouted. “Help me tape this box.”

  All the other gnomes were gone, and there was no more room in the box for him. Maybe . . . maybe . . . maybe his wish would come true.

  Jemi pranced out of the apartment and knelt near the box. “Aw, look,” she said, sarcastically. “One of them didn’t fit.”

  “We’ll carry it in the cab,” Aaron said, running the tape across the box top.

  “Geez, Aaron!” Jemi whined. “Don’t you have enough? I mean—can’t we just forget about one of them? Grow up!” She stomped back into the apartment.

  Aaron followed her inside with the second box of gnomes. Andrew heard muffled yelling. A door slammed. Someone stomped down the stairs. Then—silence. A few minutes later, Aaron came back outside, eyes a bit glazed. Stoner, Andrew sniffed.

  Aaron lifted Andrew gently. “Well, old buddy—” he sniffed. “Guess the ol’ lady gets her way—this time.”

  Try—every time, Andrew thought.

  Aaron carried Andrew to the furthest corner of the rooftop and sat him down. “Here you go, buddy. Best view in the place,” Aaron said. “Maybe they’ll just let you stay here forever.” He turned quickly, and stumbled back into the apartment. By sunset, he and Jemi and everything they owned were gone.

  “Wow!” Andrew sang, glancing around. “I did it! I’m really not going! Whoo-hoo! . . . ”

  For two days, Andrew had the roof to himself. “This is living!” he exclaimed. “I hate roommates! Never again! Never again . . .”

  Just after dawn on the third day, a crew of six young dark-skinned workers arrived. Andrew watched as they shoved the remaining potted plants into trash cans and carted them off the roof. In the apartment, they threw away a few remaining items: old ice cube trays, a poster of some Irish band, two boxes of books that never made it to the curb. They vacuumed inside and swept outside. They emptied the refrigerator, polished countertops, scrubbed the stove, cleaned the oven, replaced light bulbs, dusted walls, washed windows. After a few hours, they sat down on the little wall surrounding the rooftop, sipped coffee and relaxed.

  An older man, with thinning white hair, dressed in a tailored blue suit showed up in the apartment and began inspecting their work. He opened cabinets and drawers, ran a finger across the stove top and sniffed it, made sure the windows were clean. Then he sauntered onto the rooftop. The six workers stood up.

  “That’s all right . . . Sit down, boys—go on,” the older man said. “Siéntense, por favor.”

  They sat down, keeping their eyes on him.

  The man examined the rooftop carefully, thoroughly, without moving far from the entrance to the apartment. He was just about to turn away when something caught his eye.

  “What’s that?” he asked, pointing. “That—over there.”

  Andrew knew he had been spotted. The leader of the work crew got up and walked quickly over to him, as another explained to the man that they were sorry for not seeing it earlier. The worker grabbed Andrew and rushed him back over to the man.

  “No sé lo que es,” the crew chief spewed. “Lo siento, es basura.”

  “Wait.”

  The old man lifted Andrew out of the worker’s hands.

  “A gnome?” he asked, to no one in particular. “What the hell is a gnome doing in Manhattan?”

  He tucked Andrew under his arm and reached into his pocket, extracted an envelope and gave it to the crew chief. “Here’s your pay—nice work boys. You can go. Call you again soon. Adios.”

  The workers left, and the man held Andrew up and examined him closely: his faded red cone cap topping his weathered, bearded face; the belted yellow jacket over faded black pants tucked into worn boots. The man seemed to be remembering something from long ago.

  Andrew glanced at his face and knew: The man was remembering that the West Village used to be filled with oddities just like him: handmade sculptures, handmade people, people who didn’t mind having rooftop gardens filled with gnomes. Music in the air, ideas flowing in coffee houses, creation, plans, dreams. Rent that people could afford, without roommates. Stores that sold handmade jewelry, fruit, knickknacks. No chain stores! No frozen yogurt stands! No artisanal pizza! N
o gastro pubs! No foodies! Andrew gazed at the man, hopeful at last.

  The man tucked Andrew under his arm and strode back into the apartment, locking the sliding door behind him.

  “Well, little fellow—time to go. No place for you here anymore.”

  “What?!” Andrew screamed. “Wait, buddy! I belong here! Let me go!”

  The man left Andrew on the curb with the other trash.

  A few days later, far uptown, Aaron wore a mischievous smile. Jemi finally noticed. “What are you so happy about?” she pried. “Is the cable guy coming over today—or what?”

  “Nope. Better.” He spilled. “Remember that gnome? The one you made me leave downtown?”

  “I should have made you leave all of them.”

  “Look!” He proudly held his iPad toward her. “Found this on Facebook.”

  Jemi grabbed the iPad, swiped a few times, then handed it back. “Don’t get it.”

  “It’s him. That gnome? The one we left? He has his own Facebook page!” Aaron beamed. “Apparently the landlord threw him out with the trash, but someone down there must’ve found him and now he’s like some kind of mascot—taking photos—he calls them selfies, haha!—at all kinds of cool places downtown!”

  “Cute,” Jemi sighed.

  “Don’t you see? He’s still happening, he’s around. And he looks happy! He’s got 10,000 followers already.”

  “That’s more than me.” Jemi said flatly. “Total bullshit. Damn . . . ”

  Out on the large terrace, nineteen gnomes giggled.

  “Did you hear that?” Douglas beamed. “Our pal Andrew! He’s famous! I knew he’d make it! Here’s to Andrew—the greatest of us all! A new legend is born!”

  The gnomes cheered in unison. Then, together, they stared back toward the George Washington Bridge, and enjoyed the final moments of a gorgeous sunset.

  MEMORY THE NEXT

  BY BONNY FINBERG

  He’d been forgetting where he put things—if they were merely misplaced or lost for good. Today was especially bad. He’d paid for his lunch and left the table carrying the empty water glass. He hadn’t discovered it until he was at the door of the restaurant. He’d joked with the cashier as he handed it to her, saying something about the drawbacks of cutting out coffee. She’d laughed politely and said not to worry.