Show

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“It sounded good tonight,” Matt called.

The figure loading gear into van froze. An over the shoulder glare. Foster hopped out of the back and hefted another speaker. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good crowd too.”

Foster set the speaker down roughly. “Look,” he said, “if you’re trying to rub it in, you’ve made your point.”

“I’m not,” Matt insisted, bending down to pick up the amp. “I mean it. It was a good show.”

“Give me that,” Foster grunted, sagging as he snatched the amp away. Matt backed off, arms raised. Foster almost rented, but his pride wouldn’t let him. “It is possible to play good music in a bar or at a house show.”

“I know that,” Matt said. “I know.”

Foster slammed the van doors and turned to face his former band-mate. “Just not good enough for you.”

Matt’s voice faltered. “I never said – I wasn’t trying to…” Foster just folded his arms and waited. “I miss it, you know?”

“Yeah,” Foster said. “Me too.”

Matt shrugged, nearly ready to give up. But he stayed. “I thought, maybe we could…”

The two young men stood in silence behind the bar, wounded, wary, waiting.

“Maybe we could play together sometime?”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (XII.i)

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“This could get ugly,” Sam cautioned as they climbed out of the squad car.

“Don’t need to tell me twice,” Kit replied, hand on her belt, near her taser but distinctly not touching it.

They walked with a practiced stride, calm and confident, slow and steady, hopefully both authoritative and nonthreatening. It was a fine line, especially given the reason they were here. These sorts of confrontations were never simple, but Sam felt even more uneasy than usual.

“Here they come!” a man called out ahead of them. “Didn’t I tell you?”

The few pedestrians nearby mostly tried to continue on their way without looking, but Sam still clocked one person nearby stop and pull out a cell phone. Two white police officers approaching two young black men in the midst of a protest. Sam hated that he felt himself tense up at the sight of that phone. It shouldn’t have changed anything – he already had a body cam on, but he couldn’t help feeling that the situation had become just a little more hostile.

Sam flashed back to the moment just a couple nights before when a black youth had been caught in his headlights. Sam’s hand had been on his gun. The kid had begged not to be shot. Sam took a breath. Exhaled slowly. He kept his hands off his belt. And then he addressed the two men. “What’s your business here?”

“Can’t you tell?” the first man asked

“Education,” the other said.

“We’re doing a public service. And we don’t even need twenty percent of the city’s budget to do it, unlike some people here.”

“You call this education?” Kit said, face scrunched up in discomfort as she examined the posters the two men had on display, one propped up on an easel, the other laid out on the ground, both covered with printouts of newspaper headlines, historical photos, and more. Sam clenched his jaw, feeling the knot in his belly twist even further. He tried not to fixate on the chaotic collages.

Scarred backs and hollow eyes
Christ on the cross
Smoking buildings
Millions kneeling during Hajj
Panicked faces and vicious dogs
Illuminated manuscripts
White hoods and burning crosses
Broken chains
Hanging bodies
“Am I not a man and a brother?”

The men were grinning confidently apparently satisfied as much by Kit’s fascination with the images as with Sam’s determination to avoid looking at them. “I call this truth,” the first man said.

“Undeniable,” the second said, “indefatigable, irrepressible.”

It was already going sideways. Sam needed to get this back on track quickly. “We’ve received some complaints,” he said bluntly.

“The truth is uncomfortable.”

“Do not think that I came to bring peace on earth,” the second man quoted. “I did not come to bring peace but a sword.”

“We’re told you were accosting children.”

“For I have come to set a man against his father, a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law,” he continued.

Don’t engage, Sam thought. “A father reported that you told his son that his daddy was a racist and his ancestors killed black people.”

“And a man’s enemies will be those of his own household.”

“All white folks in this country benefit from the inherent privilege of a society built on the backs of slaves,” the first declared, voice getting louder. “Our bones and our blood are the bricks and mortar of this country.”

“That’s very true,” Sam said, hoping his agreement would undercut the escalating soapboxing. “And you have a right to be angry about that history.”

“Damn right.”

“But you can’t be harassing children on the street.”

“The kid was disrespectful. He was walking all over our poster, and the dad didn’t even try to stop him.”

“The poster you put on the ground,” Kit asked sardonically, still distracted by the strange collages.

“If I put a Bible on the ground, does that mean you’re gonna walk on it?”

“The kid was four years old,” Sam said, voice heavy.

The first man set his jaw. Calm and confident, he looked Sam square in the eye. “Guess how old I was when the cops shot my daddy?”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Mac

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Noodles swirled and squelched as the yellow powder dissolved into something resembling cheese. Nathan stirred, barely paying attention to the task as he stared into that mac and cheese abyss.

His sister was asleep on the basement couch after another messy breakup. She had arrived late last night, full of rage and tears and tequila, and had shattered on their kitchen floor. Once again it was his job to clean up the mess. But every time the pieces got smaller.

Meanwhile, his hangry kids were screaming upstairs, the audit at work was starting Monday, his car was making a weird noise, and then there was the state of the entire world . . . On top of all that, even cooking up some macaroni felt daunting.

He just wanted his sister to know he loved her.

He just wanted his sister to love herself.

How long had he been stirring?

“Is that blue box?” a raw voice croaked.

Nathan didn’t see the red eyes, the unkempt hair, not even the scars, both old and new. He saw the smile, struggling to break free at the corner of his sister’s mouth. “I know it’s your favorite,” he said, “so I made a double batch.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo credit: freefoodphotos.com

Pouring

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The screaming of panic in Javi’s ears was almost as loud as the roar of the pouring rain. He hadn’t been able to beat the rain to the laundromat, and he hadn’t been able to wait out the storm either.

“You need a lift?”

Javi barely noticed the words as the blurred and warped in the falling sheets of water. What was he going to do?

“Hey 5G!” Javi started, suddenly able to focus on the truck idling at the curb. “Hop in,” the driver said. Javi recognized the silver-haired woman as someone who lived down the hall from him, but he still hesitated.

Electric purple radiance.

A breath.

BOOOOM!

It was barely six paces to the door of the waiting vehicle, but he was still soaked by the time he was sitting in the truck.

“Crazy shit, eh?” she said with a squinty smile. And then they were driving.

“Thanks . . . uh . . .”

“Valerie.”

“Valerie. I’m Javi.”

The cab of the truck smelled like cats and cigarettes. Javi held his laundry bag close, feeling intensely uncomfortable. But then he heard the words coming through the stereo:

“My gift is my song, and this one’s for you.”

“My sister loves this song,” he said.

“No shit?” Vallerie answered genially. “And I thought kids these days hated the oldies.”

“Some.”

“This is my wedding playlist,” she explained. “I play it every year on my anniversary.”

“Oh,” Javi said. Then, when he realized what an inadequate response that was, he added, “Congratulations.”

“For what? Oh, you mean the— Well thanks, but the sunovabitch died twenty years ago, so it’s not exactly a confetti and streamers sort of day, you know?”

Rain pounded on the roof of the car. Javi clenched his teeth. Elton John crooned. Javi wanted to be anywhere else in the world.

“I hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind . . .”

It was only another minute before they pulled into the apartment lot, splashing through potholes. “Thank you for the ride,” Javi said, hand already on the door handle.

“Of course!” Valerie said brightly. “And listen, I’m always happy to help a neighbor, so feel free to ask anytime you need a lift.”

“Sure,” Javi said, with no intention of ever getting into this truck again.

Valerie eased the car into a parking spot, but just before coming to a stop, she said, “And Javi.”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.” He blinked. Valerie flashed another squinty smile at his confusion. “I know I’m just some crazy old lady. And like I said, this is a complicated day for me. But it always helps to talk to folks, remind myself that there are people out there other than me. And here you are! 5G is an actual person, with laundry and a sister and everything.” She looked up at the building they both called home. “There’s a whole lot of life out there. And that really is worth celebrating.”

Radiance.

A breath.

The world shook.

“How wonderful life is, now you’re in the world.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Cheek

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Music, lights, a warm smile: the moment was right, he was certain. Felix cupped Madison’s cheek, leaned forward, and—

She jumped, eyes wide, and squawked like a chicken.

“Uh . . . what?”

“Sorry,” she said, forcing a chuckle. “Er . . . what were you just doing?”

“I thought . . .” He hesitated, wondering how he had misread things so badly, “I was going to kiss you?”

“Oh, that makes sense.”

“Is that okay?”

She tried to nod, tried to smile, but couldn’t quite do either. “It’s just . . . you didn’t eat the garlic bread.”

Felix glanced over at his plate of cold bread, and his face grew red. “I . . . well I was worried about my breath.”

“Right,” she said. “Of course.”

“Can we try again?”

Madison nodded with a smile that seemed completely genuine. Once more Felix leaned in, reached toward her face and—

“Don’t touch my neck, hellspawn!”

Felix nearly fell backward in his chair, arms raised in alarm. Yes, he had definitely misread this whole situation.

“Oh god,” she groaned, flush with embarrassment. “You’re not a vampire.”

“No?”

Madison winced.

“Look, maybe another time we can—”

SMACK!

Felix reached up to the red handprint on his cheek.”

“Had to make sure you weren’t a ghost.”

* * *

Dream

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I stand in a long dark shadow, giant novelty scissors clutched in my hand. The fake gold plating is cold in my grip. I’m pretending to be happy.

“What do you see?” my father asked.

“A . . . hole?” I was used to these sorts of visual lessons and knew he would get to the point eventually.

For his part, my father barely seemed to register the sarcasm. “It’s a beginning,” he declared proudly. “Someday people will stand here beneath the gaze of a dream made real.”

“Okay,”

“Never stop dreaming, son,” he said clapping my shoulder. I was staring at a hole. He was staring at the sky.

“It’s so tall!” I declared a year later.

My father wore a sly smile. “It’s only half way up.”

“Dad, you made this?”

“Well, I designed it,” he said. It was a modest statement, but I could tell he was proud. “Remember what I said, son. Never stop dreaming.”

I cut the ribbon as cameras flashed. Polite applause. Handshakes.

It’s all wrong.

Above me stands a monolith of concrete, metal, and glass: the dream my father made real, but never got to see. And no dream of mine can ever bring him back.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Escape

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“Cait is coming into town this weekend,” Aria said, hoping she sounded casual. “So, I was going to get dinner with her Friday or Saturday.”

“That’s short notice,” Erik said. “What about the kids?”

Aria felt a pressure in her chest, heard a ringing in her ears. She swallowed, and the sensations receded. “I think they’d be alright for one night,” she said. Erik grunted. “It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen Cait,” Aria said brightly, like she was introducing an entirely new topic.

“She really should have given you more of a warning,” Erik said.

“About two years.”

“I guess that’s how she’s always been though,” he said with a shrug. “Only thinking of herself.”

The pressure returned. A deep breath. “I want to go.” She hated that it came out sounding like a question.

“You’re putting me in a really hard spot here.”

“I’m sorry,” she said automatically.

Her face must have betrayed some emotion, because Erik suddenly spoke gently, “I’m just trying to think of the kids.”

Shrill noise, burning in her ears. The pressure in her chest rose, swelled, erupted. The noise kept getting louder. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe. Her scream had escaped.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (XI)

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“This was a stupid idea.” Sam only realized he had made the declaration out loud when the man at the other end of the aisle looked up sharply then walked quickly away. “Great,” Sam muttered, “as if I didn’t feel ridiculous enough already.”

At least now he was alone. Just him and an entire wall of underwear, each plastic sealed package printed with a picture of, well, a package. Men with single digit body fat and glossy six pack posed on each one. Sam worked hard to keep in shape, but he knew that he looked nothing like any of these models. He briefly started to speculate on how he measured up to them in other areas, but quickly decided not to dwell on it. He was already thinking far too much about underwear – better to stick with color and style than to think about how it shaped his own package.

“Not that anyone is going to see it anyway,” he grumbled.

The other customer, who had apparently been lingering at the endcap, peaked around the corner to see what was really going on with the strange man talking to himself in the underwear aisle. Perhaps it was when he saw the sidearm at Sam’s hip that he decided it really wasn’t the best time to pick out new underwear and nearly ran to the other end of the store.

Sam barely noticed him. He was too busy trying to figure out whether it was significant that the model on the package of boxers had a beard. Were boxers more rugged? His department still didn’t allow full beards, but maybe he could grow a mustache – something he had always resisted before. Mustache’s seemed to scream either hipster or cop. He definitely didn’t feel like a hipster, and while he wasn’t ashamed of being a police officer, but he also didn’t like broadcasting “cop” to the world these days.

He shuffled down the aisle, checking what other offerings were available. Here he was right at home with the boxer briefs he always bought. He almost involuntarily reached for the same pack of grays he typically bought. It was almost impossible to reconcile the image of the sculpted glutes on the packaging with pudgy middle aged form he had found dead on a living room floor. But it was the same underwear, and it was the same he was wearing now. He adjusted his motion, picking up a set of black underwear instead. Would changing the color of his underwear change him? Would it change him enough just to change the color? Did he even want to change? Sam put the underwear back and continued down the aisle.

Briefs: what he had warn as a child and stopped wearing in middle school because of the chaffing. It was what Kit thought he should wear for some reason. What reason, was it sexy? Hadn’t he read an article about it being too restrictive? Maybe even lowering his sperm count? But why did THAT even matter?

Printed boxers: Weren’t cartoon underpants for kids? He had never had a pair of Superman underwear like one of his friends in first grade, but he had never felt like he was missing anything either. Now he could get any number of superheroes. Also donuts, sloths, galaxies, rainbows, paisley, and more. A deep part of him cringed away from the flashy images. Even if no one would ever see this, he worried he would feel uncomfortable with so much color.It’s just underwear, right?

Why do we need so many choices?

Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked and saw that his father was calling. The phone continued to buzz in his palm as he red the name “Dad” over and over. Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He knew what his dad would have to say, and it wouldn’t make him feel any better. Worse, he didn’t want to answer the questions his father would ask.

So, Sam turned back to the wall of cotton and nylon. “Fine,” he muttered. “One of each.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Leaves

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“It’s the worst,” Penny groaned. “His lectures just go on and, oh—”

Shade crept over their table as a slender tree stomped up beside them. “You ordered the tea?” a low, creaking voice asked.

“Yes,” Shay answered. Then to Penny, “So are you going to drop the class?”

Meanwhile, a branch reached over, set a steaming teapot onto the table and delicately lifted the lid. A cluster of green leaves shriveled and dried out, then fell gently into the water.

Penny shrugged. “I don’t know how else to get my transmutation requirement before graduation.”

A small mint shrub clambered up the tea plant and onto the table, then shook xirself so that a few green leaves fell into the pot as well.

“Give that four minutes,” the tea tree said, “and it will be perfect.”

“Cheers,” Shay replied.

But their servers did not leave immediately. Instead, the leaves rustled like a whisper and fanned out, like a curtain of discretion. “Pardon my eavesdropping,” that woody voice said, “but Ms. Delvaux, sometimes does independent studies for transmutation students.”

“The shop owner?” Penny replied, “Really?”

The plants nodded together enthusiastically.. “She’s very good,” the tea tree said. “After all, she made us!”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

By Franz Eugen Köhler, Köhler’s Medizinal-Pflanzen – List of Koehler Images, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=255290

Reliability

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Doug marveled.

No one would have described Doug as artistic. Very few would have described him at all. The former mechanic was an oddity at the theater where he worked, if only because he was so mundane. But avant-garde dance and eclectic productions of Shakespeare still need someone to raise the curtain. Doug had strong arms, deft hands, and never missed a cue.

Reliability can be easy to overlook.

Doug was there for every show. From his post at the fly rail, far from the stage lights, Doug watched. Doug listened. Doug saw.

No one would have described Mazie as a star. Few would have described her either. But every night, Mazie found a fresh rose at her place in the dressing room. She was just the understudy. But soon she had more flowers than she knew what to do with.

Sometimes, reliability means everything.

When Mazie took a bow her first night in the lead role, Doug marveled at how the light danced around her face. From his spot off stage, he whispered, “Oh, that I were a glove upon that hand that I might touch that cheek.”

Then Mazie turned to look at him and blew a kiss.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Photo by Emily C. Fox