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Issue 36 Contents Editor’s Note………………………………………………………………………..…………………………………...4 About Us…………………………………………………………………………………………………...……………...5 Sumbit……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………....6 Holly Day
Old School……………………………...……………………………………………………………………..9 These Days………………………………………………...………………………………………………..10 Black and White……………………………………………………………...…………………………….11
S. Marlowe For Lynne……………………………………………………………………………………………………...13 Thin Man Blues .……………………………………………………………………………………………14 When in Denver…………………...……………………………………………………………………….15 Beth Escott Newcomer No One Is Fat in Taiwan………………………………………………………………………………..17 Meghan Louise Wagner Sunday Donuts …………………………………………………………………………………………….24 Contributors Notes ………………………………………………………………………………………………….33 3
Welcome to Issue 36 of U mbrella Factory Magazine. As always, it's good to see you and we thank you for stopping by. We're privileged to curate yet another issue of our online literary rag. Our focus, of course is fiction, nonfiction and poetry, although we occasionally dabble in art. It is our sincerest mission to connect well developed readers to the best writing available. Try as we might, we are not really manufacturing anything, and since we live in the sunniest place on Earth, none of us even own umbrellas. Our business, if we can call it that, has always been about operating a platform for our poets, writers and artists. Occasionally, I get emails from people in the industrial sector. These emails are mostly solicitations from people who want to somehow revolutionize our factory and production processes. Sometimes the emails offer to take our umbrella manufacturing facility offshore. And my favorite emails come from sales professionals who have training and quality improvement programs to increase the production in our plant. When willing to entertain such queries, I can continue conversations for several emails before someone realizes that Umbrella Factory Magazine is just a magazine. The only thing we manufacture is the ephemerality of the modern online literary magazine. In this issue, poets Holly Day and S. Marlowe. New fiction from Beth Escott Newcomer and Meghan Louise Wagner. Happy reading. Read. Submit. Comment. Tell everyone you know. Anthony ILacqua 4
Umbrella Factory isn’t just a magazine, it’s a community project that includes writers, readers, poets, essayists, filmmakers and anyone doing something especially cool. The scope is rather large but rather simple. We want to establish a community–virtual and actual–where great readers and writers and artists can come together and do their thing, whatever that thing may be. In the smallest sense, we are an online literary magazine. In the broadest sense, the scope of the project includes Umbrella Factory small press publications, workshops, reading series, community events and (in the long haul) a home-base, independent bookstore where we can centralize our most heady aspirations. We want young writers to come to school in Denver because of the Umbrella Factory. We want visiting writers to put us on their must-see list. We want to publish the next crop of authors who make us say, “I wish I’d written that.” We want you at the Factory. Maybe our M ission Statement says it best: We are a small press determined to connect well-developed readers to intelligent writers and poets through virtual means, printed journals, and books. We believe in making an honest living providing the best writers and poets a forum for their work. We love what we have here and we want you to love it equally as much. That’s why we need your writing, your participation, your involvement and your enthusiasm. We need your voice. Tell everyone you know. Tell everyone who’s interested, everyone who’s not interested, tell your parents and your kids, your students and your teachers. Tell them the Umbrella Factory is open for business. Remember, it’s raining words. Stay dry. 5
Submit Yes, we respond to all submissions. The turn-around takes about three to six weeks. Be patient. We are hardworking people who will get back to you. We consider ourselves at Umbrella Factory Magazine as a cooperative forum to connect readers to the best writing available. All writers and poets retain all rights to their work. fiction Sized between 1,000 and 5,000 words. Any writer wishing to submit fiction in an excess of 5,000 words, please query first. Please double space. Please wait for a reply before submitting your next piece. In the body of your email please include: a short bio—who you are, what you do, hope to be. Include any great life revelations, education and your favorite novel. Your work has to be previously unpublished. We encourage you to submit your piece everywhere, but please withdraw your piece if gets published elsewhere. poetry We accept submissions of three (no more and no less) poems. Please submit only previously unpublished work. We do not accept multiple submissions; please wait to hear back from us regarding your initial submission before sending another. Simultaneous submissions are accepted, but please withdraw your piece immediately if it is accepted elsewhere. All poetry submissions must be accompanied by a cover letter that includes a two to four sentence bio in the third person. This bio will be used if we accept your work for publication. art Accepting submissions for the next cover of Umbrella Factory Magazine. We would like to incorporate images with the theme of umbrellas, factories and/or workers. Feel free to use one or all of these concepts. Image size should be 980×700 pixels, .jpeg or .gif file format. Provide a place for the magazine title at the top and article links. We also accept small portfolios of photography and digitally rendered artwork. We accept six pieces (no more and no less) along with an artist’s statement and a third person bio. 6
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Holly Day 8
Old School When we are gone, will our appliances wear our clothes, put on hats and wigs try on our shoes? Will all the improvements made on these machines, enhanced intelligence make them more or less than we were? Will they mourn the days of serving us, or rejoice in their sudden freedoms? 9
These Days there are too many black people in t.v. says my grandfather as he as he cuts more and more things out of his realm of experience: the news, his walks through the park anywhere he might see black people. his whole world is Fred Astaire, Roy Rogers, Elizabeth Taylor, polka records from his childhood in Canada white. I busy myself scouting out nursing homes struggle to find ways to ask the staff how many black people live there if there’s some way we can keep him away from the real world. 10
Black and White my body is too small to take your words anymore scream myself awake to putrid memories of you your anticipation festers inside of me I am not your handpuppet, mister last night I dreamed about your fingers on my flesh the linoleum pattern of the laundryroom I wish I wasn’t as stupid as you think 11
S. Marlowe 12
For Lynne When Lynne loved it wasn't in earnest but I took it anyway rainy night old world Denver wine in the park and puking on the stairs of an adulthood which seemed trickier rather than better 13
Thin Man Blues her lips were wet but cold, very cold when I kissed her memories of death surfaced I hadn't lived long enough but the days spun by ripped records on the turntable faster and faster still round and round and round it wasn't so much that we were getting laid but getting laid too much not so much that we drank but didn't drink enough not so much misspent youth but no youth at all we had no past no future until morality changes 14
When in Denver When in Denver it's best to forget about everything else or you'll liable to get depressed 15
Beth Escott Newcomer 16
NO ONE IS FAT IN TAIWAN The saleswoman came out of nowhere. At that moment, and for the last several minutes, Tommy had been standing near the back wall of the Nordstrom’s nearly deserted lingerie department, fondling the empty cups of the largest bra in the display. He had it off its little hanger and was pinching and pulling at the lacy fabric with his eyes closed. He thought he was alone; he wasn’t even trying to hide what he was up to. It’s hard to say which of the two of them was more startled. “May I help you?” she said with a gasp when she saw what Tommy was doing. “Nope,” said Tommy to the saleswoman, and he threw the Sevilla Semi Demi Underwire Size 48DDD at her as he fled the department, ran down the escalator, out the wide doors, and did not stop until he was a block away. Out on Wilshire, at the bus stop, still recovering from his close shave, Tommy put in his earbuds and for the umpteenth time, listened to his cousin Dino belt out a nearly accent-free rendition of “My Way.” It was a recording Dino had made a few nights ago in that karaoke bar in Koreatown—the one that looks like a ship’s galley inside. The place still stinks like cigarettes, fifteen years after smoking was banned indoors, but it’s packed every night with a lively hipster crowd who enjoy slumming. That night Tommy had felt nauseous from the closeness and the smells and had gone home early—alone, as usual—to their “swanky bachelor pad.” That’s what Dino called their place—even though it was really the guesthouse behind their rich uncle’s place in San Marino. Dino was always working on his idiomatic expressions. According to Dino, Tommy was a “dweeb.” Like Tommy, his cousin was brand-new to America—fresh from Taipei. But that’s where the resemblance ended. From Day One, Dino exuded a sense of confidence and style that drew cute American girls to him like moths to a flame. Dino could barely speak English, yet when he sang, he sounded like Sinatra. He curled his lip like Elvis. He kept his face open and boyish like Brad Pitt. He sported two-tone shoes and a stylish, angular 17
haircut. Dino couldn’t wait to get out of Taiwan, where everything is so clean and neat and regulated. He told Tommy it didn’t seem human to him, that he welcomed the “walk on the wild side” that America would bring. It was the opposite for Tommy. He missed his native country. It w as clean and neat. Back home there seemed to be no choice but to be tidy. In Taiwan it was always clear what the right thing was. No one is fat in Taiwan. No one wears DDD bras with shameful pink lace cups so big he could lay his whole head inside. He hadn’t even known such things existed when he arrived in Los Angeles two years before. Nothing here was clean or neat, inside or out. America made him hate himself. He was dogged by shame— of his obsession, of his loneliness, of his alienness. The only girls he liked were the big ones no one else would touch. The fatter, the better. It was so embarrassing, so wrong. Wrong in his native culture and wrong in his adopted one. In public he wore his earbuds and his Ray-Ban shades like a uniform— maybe to keep some distance between himself and the chaotic American landscape, or maybe so he could stare at its garish and fleshy sights in anonymity. He tried not to look at the women on the streets, in the markets, at the department stores and shopping malls, with their glorious stomachs and voluptuous breasts straining the fabric of their blouses, tight jeans framing luscious camel-toe. He tried not to think of the humid place where their sweet, ample thighs rubbed together. He looked away and tried not to notice the sweet smell of their sweat or the sensual sound of their short mouth-breaths of exertion as they hoisted themselves up into the bus. Yes, he tried, but often failed to block the persistent daydreams of their deep, fleshy folds, their great, soft rolls, and when he did, such thoughts made him stiffen. Tommy got off the bus at Westwood and sprinted toward the gym, quickly changed, then punished himself with a run on the treadmill at the steepest incline, made himself go until he was nauseous. Why couldn’t he be like a regular man? Why couldn’t he go for a nice, trim Asian or American girl with a Size 4 figure? God knows there were plenty of them in Los Angeles. Why couldn’t he be normal, confident, and fun-loving like his cousin Dino? Tommy loved his cousin but didn’t dare mention his unusual preferences. Dino 18
would never understand. Dino had been generous and supportive, setting up opportunities for Tommy to hook up, who, in turn, politely passed on most fix-ups that had come his way. His ideal woman was not likely to turn up among the party girls orbiting around Dino. People said Tommy was good-looking. He was compact, anyway—short by American standards—and he worked hard to stay fit. Everyone probably thought he was gay. Maybe it would be more socially acceptable to love men than big, fluffy women. He went to the weight room and looked around. There were some gay men in there. When he made eye contact, one of them smiled, but it was just a polite how-do-you-do smile. He could see they all knew he wasn’t one of them. He showered and left the gym, heading for a noodle shop he knew nearby. The food in LA was 99% horrible, but there were a few places where he could find a decent lunch. He sat at the counter and sipped a glass of water while he waited for his beef noodle with bird’s nest fern. He kept his earbuds in but could no longer bear the music he’d loaded—the swagger and innuendo in the songs only made him feel worse. So instead he bobbed his head in time to no music at all, drumming his fingers lightly on the Formica countertop, laying down a backbeat behind the ambient hum of the noodle shop’s lunch-hour rush. He heard her before he saw her. “Okay. If that’s how you feel...” she said softly. “Goodbye.” At first he thought the woman was chuckling to herself, but soon realized that she was quietly sobbing in a booth behind him. Tommy dropped a chopstick on the floor and leaned down to pick it up so he could catch a sidelong glimpse of the woman. He stifled a gasp. She was perfect. An enormous Madonna encased in exquisitely smooth, slightly transparent pale flesh. Her face was beatific, her eyes were big and round, light blue like a baby’s—though red-rimmed and full of tears at the moment. Thick, blond hair swirled down her back and over her shoulders with one well-kept wave brought to the front, brushing, caressing her collarbone, seeming to gesture at the expanse of her ample chest. His eyes landed on her hand resting gently on top of her phone. Shell-pink nails
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at the end of long, plump fingers. He should take that hand in his. Her hand: his all- consuming goal. If he could just touch its soft white skin, hold it for a few minutes, maybe she would exhale and let her belly out, let it settle around her like an inner tube, like a life preserver he could hold on to, a safety net of flesh. Would he allow himself to make such a bold move? The moment to act was slipping away. He was frozen in the strange posture he’d assumed to pick up the chopstick. She caught him looking up at her and turned away to gaze out the window. He quickly sat up, twisted around on the stool, and tried to make a mental inventory of the teacups and rice bowls lined up behind the counter. But his mind kept returning to her—how to introduce himself, how to make a move, what to say. He had nothing to say. He was repulsive. Certainly she would prefer a tall man, an all-American man. His beef noodle arrived. He hunched over the bowl and tried to disappear into the steam. After a few minutes, she said aloud, maybe to Tommy, maybe to the room at large, “That was my boyfriend, or at least, I thought he was my boyfriend.” Tommy removed his earbuds turned on his stool to face her, and was surprised to hear his own voice saying, with a certain savoir-faire he did not recognize, “Either way, he was a very lucky man.” It was as though he had left his body. He watched himself pick up his glass of water and walk to her booth. “May I join you?” he heard himself ask. She sniffed a little and dabbed at her eye with a napkin, then motioned for him to sit down, which he did. He laid his sunglasses on the table in front of him, put his earbuds in his pocket, collected himself, and looked up. They both started talking at once. He said, “My name is Tommy—well actually, my name is Huang Chih-ming, it means ‘to have a clear goal in life.’ Which is funny because life seems pretty cloudy to me. I’m all over the place. And besides, ‘Tommy’ is easier to say. Like Tommy Lee Jones.” Who was this outgoing person telling the story of his life? He had not shared his given name with anyone in LA other than his employer, where it had been required by Law. “Tommy,” she said and smiled. “Well, I’m Wendy. Wendy Winslow. You know, from the morning show on KRG-FM? I read the news and some of the commercials...” 20
Tommy was mesmerized, staring, transformed, silent. Too much time went by. Wendy continued, flustered, “You probably don’t listen to that station. I’m so embarrassed. Or I don’t know why I said that. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I moved to LA to be with Larry, but now Larry doesn’t want me anymore. But I guess that’s okay because he got me a decent job at the radio station and I’m here now...” Her voice had started out smooth, deep, intoxicating, professional somehow, but was now uncertain, cracking. “You know, Tommy, I wasn’t always this fat...but I was never that thin either. At the beginning, Larry didn’t seem to care, but...well, I guess I didn’t realize how much it bothered him...” She let out a gasp, a hiccup, a cross between a laugh and a sob. Tommy touched her perfect hand and said, “It doesn’t matter to me.” He handed her a clean napkin. “But you can tell me about it anyway.” She exhaled, blew her nose in short, dainty bursts, then smiled at him and began to tell him a long, detailed story about growing up on a farm in the Midwest and something about the difference between Chicago and LA and how it felt like there was no center. It didn’t seem necessary for Tommy to say anything. He wasn’t listening. He was nodding and watching her mouth move, her watery eyes, her hands gesturing in the air, smoothing her blouse, touching her hair, folded on the table. He’d let her talk as long as she liked. She was his queen. But suddenly she was saying something about being on her lunch break and how she had to get back to the station. It seemed the conversation had only just begun. Before panic could squash the impulse, he asked, “Saturday? Same time, same place?” and she agreed. It was as if he asked a goddess on a date everyday after lunch. Later, on the bus heading east, he struggled to remember specifics, but only the smallest shreds of her story remained. What was the name of the radio station where she worked? Where was she from? Indiana, maybe? She had a brother, or was it a sister? What else had she said? Oh God, he was such an idiot. He would have to be a better listener next time. All the way back to Hollywood, he held her phone number as if it was a priceless relic. On the torn corner of a paper placemat, in her perfect penmanship, she’d written 21
the digits in blue ink, and put “Call me! Your friend, Wendy,” underneath. Maybe on Saturday, after lunch, they could take a walk on the pier, maybe go for a ride on the Ferris wheel. He could not sleep that night. He whispered her name into the darkness—Wendy Winslow, Wendy Winslow, Wendy Winslow. With his index finger, he idly drew circles on his own flat belly and pictured the roundness of her. 22
Meghan Louise Wagner 23
Sunday Donuts I sat up in bed and wanted to murder the day. Emily’s ass was warm but there was frost on the windowpanes. It was the time of year its always dark when you wake up. The alarm on my phone went off a second time. Emily grabbed it and said, “why are you up so early?” “Going to work,” I said and put a hoodie on over my chef’s coat. Why do they always make you work Sunday?” I walked over and grabbed my phone from her. The screen was cracked in a spiderweb of fine lines. I’d fix it after we caught up on rent. “The brunch shift’s not so bad,” I said, slipping the phone into the front pocket of the hoodie. “At least it’s busy.” Now that I was out of bed, she bunched the covers up and around her like a majestic ice queen. Just her pink face and messy brown hair poked out from the cowl. It was that cold. The landlord was waiting for us to pay the last two month’s rent before he fixed the furnace. We got close to catching up before Emily quit her job at Captain Cutts. She didn’t go to hair school to trim the heads of little brats all day, she said. “Are you gonna make it to my mom’s birthday?” she said from a tightly wound cocoon of sheets and comforters. Her pink cheeks glowed as if she had some extra magical source of warmth beneath there. I took another hoodie from the top of the dresser. Beneath it, Emily had a bundle of unopened cosmetology school letters, credit card statements and travel magazines that still came to her parents’ address with her maiden name on them. She kept saying she was gonna change her legal address once we got caught up on rent. I put the second hoodie on over my first and felt like a blown-up mummy in all those layers. “I’ll catch the bus out there after work,” I said, dipping down to kiss her forehead. My lips touched heat against her skin and I wished I was back in that safe warm space with her. “And, babe?” she said on my way out the door. “My dad wants you to bring some of those fancy donuts. The lavender-raspberry and green tea ones my mom likes. He said he’ll pay for them.” The hallway was even colder than our room. I felt a blast of frosty air against the back of my legs as I stood talking to her. “Your dad doesn’t have to pay me for them,” I said. “He says he’s got it. He just wants to make sure you bring—“ “I’ll take care of it,” I said. “Babe, my dad knows they’re like sixty bucks a dozen so—“ 24
“I told you,” I said, “I’ll take care of it.” * “I’ll catch the bus out there after work,” I said, dipping down to kiss her forehead. My lips touched heat against her skin and I wished I was back in that safe warm space with her. “And, babe?” she said on my way out the door. “My dad wants you to bring some of those fancy donuts. The lavender-raspberry and green tea ones my mom likes. He said he’ll pay for them.” The hallway was even colder than our room. I felt a blast of frosty air against the back of my legs as I stood talking to her. “Your dad doesn’t have to pay me for them,” I said. “He says he’s got it. He just wants to make sure you bring—“ “I’ll take care of it,” I said. “Babe, my dad knows they’re like sixty bucks a dozen so—“ “I told you,” I said, “I’ll take care of it.” * Emily didn’t know about the Sunday donuts. The owners of Selina’s Bistro were a married couple with three young kids so they hardly ever came in Sundays. Each week me and my co-workers took turns bribing the head baker to save us a dozen donuts that we hid from the customers. It was a surprise I’d been keeping from Emily for months. My week was actually supposed to be two weeks ago but I traded with one of the cooks so I could have today. I was gonna show up at her mom’s birthday party with a full box of her mom’s favorite fancy ass donuts and impress the shit out of everyone. Let her sister’s husband make those stupid jokes about me going to culinary school just to be a breakfast cook. Let her Dad try to lend us money. Finally, he’ll see we don’t need it. There was no bus line that went by Selina’s Bistro on Sunday mornings so I had to get off at the stop half a mile away. I was sure it was below fifteen degrees out. Maybe colder. The slush in the gutters was frozen solid. Selina’s was in a shopping plaza next to a Pilates studio and an upscale bike shop. Across the street was a Whole Foods, a doggy daycare, and a gas station that had little tv sets over the pumps that played commercials. The plaza parking lot was empty when I got there at seven, but soon it would be filled with SUVs and luxury cars. The only people at Selina’s this early were the workers. The manager, Eddie, was a bearded red haired Viking of a guy dressed in a green and black checkered flannel over jeans. He lit the eight-burner range with a long red torch. The servers, two cute white girls, were taking chairs off tables and talking about their hangovers. Neither of them were in their Selina’s t-shirts yet. Allison looked like she was still in pajamas, wearing billowy pink pants and an oversized white sweatshirt with rainbows and unicorns on it, while Deanna wore a black mini-skirt over shredded black tights and knee high boots. The baker, a petite, chubby Puerto Rican 25
woman with dyed pink hair named Luz, was icing the donuts at a cluttered stainless steel table in the back. She wore a black t-shirt over a ribbed long sleeved undershirt shirt that read “Eff your Beauty Standards” across her chest. “Morning, Caleb,” Luz said to me as I unzipped my layers of hoodies. She dipped freshly fried donuts into a bowl of silky pink glaze and then sprinkled them with tiny purple lavender buds. Most people had to stop and watch her work when they walked through the bakery to the kitchen. She was an artist with all her different bowls of shimmering glazes and tinted frostings. Plastic canisters from the craft store were filled with edible gold flakes, tiny silver sugar pearls, and rainbow sprinkles. Her gourmet donuts made Selina’s a brunch destination. Even though the Sunday donuts were five bucks each, we almost always sold out. “It’s your turn this week, right?” she said and lifted a full-sheet tray of pink and lavender topped donuts onto the multi-tiered speed rack beside the prep table. “Got any requests?” I warmed my hands over the crackling oil in the deep fryer behind her. “Yeah,” I said. “It’s my mother-in-law’s birthday. She likes those raspberry-lavender ones. And the green-tea ones.” Luz nodded and took a tray of puffed up dough from a lower rack. She carried it over to the prep table next to the deep fryer. “Okay,” she said, smiling at me. “I got you, Caleb. You just remember to fuck up an eggs benedict with extra crispy potatoes for me later, alright?” “Alright,” I said and stepped away from the deep fryer so she could start dropping circles of dough into the shimmering oil. “I got you, Luz.” * Sundays got busy right when we opened at nine and stayed busy until we closed at two. I worked the line with two other cooks, a short, skinny black guy named Poe who wore a backwards Chicago Cubs hat, and a fifties-something white lady named Charlotte who always had her dark brown hair in a severe bun like a ballerina. Everyone at Selina’s joked that Charlotte was probably pretty hot when she was young and Poe would say, “shit, she looks good now.” Charlotte was a pro at flipping eggs so she worked sauté. I was on grill and Poe moved between us on fry and the hot wells. Eddie worked the expo station like a coach on the sidelines, yelling at the servers to take food from the window and yelling at us to keep up on the tickets. After an hour, I got so hot standing over the sizzling meats and pancakes on the grill that my face broke out in a permanent sheen of sweat. I tried not to think about having four more hours to go before I’d be scraping the shit out of that grill and scrubbing the floors with the stiff deck brush. I thought about Emily warm in bed tonight, hugging me tight and squealing, “and did you see the look on my mom’s face when you brought the donuts? And my dad when you didn’t take his cash?” 26
Making breakfast for Luz in the middle of the rush was tricky but we had a system. Midway through a full rack of customer tickets, I set a buttered English muffin, grilled ham and crispy potatoes aside. Then Charlotte slid me two perfectly poached eggs between orders and I managed to slip past Poe to sauce up the plate with yolky yellow hollandaise from the hot well. Iran with the platter past bus boys carting tubs of clinking glasses and swerved to avoid Allison carrying a full silverware caddy from the dishwasher. Luz was at her prep table, now polished and sparkling, with a rag in her hand and a smile on her face. “Here you go,” I said, handing her the eggs benedict. “Extra crispy potatoes.” “Thanks, Caleb,” she said and took the plate. She nodded her pink head in the direction of an unmarked white pastry box sitting on the edge of the speed rack. “There’s your donuts. I made extra matcha cream ones just for you.” “You rock,” I said and ran back to the line, seeing a new barrage of tickets waiting to be made. But my team had my back. Even Eddie waved his hand at me in acknowledgment. It was my turn for the Sunday donuts and we all knew the deal. I had covered for them and now they were covering for me. Next week, I’d be covering for someone else. We were a well-oiled machine and we took care of each other. * One p.m. was the start of the homestretch. The tickets kept coming so I knew I wasn’t going anywhere soon. Poe jumped off the line to take a smoke break and Charlotte was up next. I’d power through until it was time to close. I plated an order of biscuits and foie gras and Charlotte folded a French omelet into a tube. Eddie waited with his arms folded over the line, his foot probably tapping on the tile. I heard Deanna’s high-pitched voice over the clattering dishes. “Shit, shit, shit,” she said. “What’s wrong, Dee?” Eddie asked. Deanna pushed her hand to her forehead. The bottom of her smoky eyes were dark like that hangover was really catching up to her. “Allison sold the last donuts to some guy without telling me,” she said, “and now my table is pissed because they ordered six to go when they put their food in and now I don’t have any.” “Why didn’t you box them up when they first ordered them?” “Because I was fucking busy, Eddie.” “Fine. Then tell ‘em tough shit,” Eddie said. “They’re being assholes about it,” she said. “I’m getting a bad yelp vibe from them.” I placed the shortcakes and omelet in the window. “Does it matter what flavor?” I asked. “I’ve got some stashed in the back.” “You do?” Deanna never said more than two words to me before that. 27
“If you only need six,” I said, nodding my head in the direction of the bakery. “Just take them. They’re in the box on the rack.” “Awesome,” she said and rushed off. Eddie smacked the edges of the plates. “You got hot food here, Dee!” he called to her. Charlotte shook her head and oiled a pan. “You’re a better man than me, Caleb,” she said through the side of her mouth. “I can spare six donuts,” I said. “My mother-in-law will still get half a dozen.” “Still.” Charlotte shrugged at me and cracked an egg. * Once the open sign got flipped around, the music cranked up. Poe threw a bucket of sudsy water onto the hot grill, making it foam over like a bubble bath. Charlotte got to work on wrapping the leftover food on the line and I was on floor duty. Through the dining room windows, the sky was silver and pink like it often is on winter afternoons. We’d be out before dark. I was sure. Allison and Deanna sprinted through the kitchen with full bus tubs and Eddie, with a pencil tucked behind his ear, carried a crayon-blue deposit bag beneath his arm. Once I finished scrubbing the kitchen floors, I saw that the dining room was still a mess. I took my broom out there. “You don’t have to do that,” Allison said and set an upside-down chair on top of a table. “I don’t mind,” I said, sweeping past her feet. When the bristles went over her toes of her black non-slip shoes, she giggled. I headed back through the kitchen to the mop sink and filled a bucket with acrid smelling green floor cleaner and water. As the faucet ran, I checked my cell phone. There were messages rom Emily. I didn’t have to read them all. I quickly wrote back: closing now, see you soon, with >donut emojis<. Her response was instant. >kissy face emoji< and >heart-eyed emoji<. I tucked the phone into my back pocket and turned off the water. I carted the mop bucket and deck brush into the kitchen. Poe had the grill almost the shade of stainless steel and Charlotte was sealing the sandwich fridge with plastic wrap. It wasn’t even three-thirty. Not a bad close for a busy Sunday. The deck brush and I glided over the kitchen tile. I imagined showing up at Emily’s parents’ house in half an hour, holding the pastry box out for her Mom. The baker , I would say, made them special just for you, Sylvia.
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Once I finished scrubbing, all I had to do was go over the floor with a dry mop. Poe and Charlotte passed by me, he with a fresh cigarette behind his ear and she with her tight bun loosened into a ponytail. “You want me to finish that?” Poe asked, rubbing his fingers over the spotted tan filter of his Newport. “So you can get to your party?” “Nah, I got it,” I said, making my last pass around the perimeter of the kitchen. “You guys get out.” “Don’t have to tell me twice,” Charlotte said, tipping her fingers to her forehead like a salute. “Later, Caleb.” “Peace,” Poe reached his hand out to fist bump mine, that universal back of house send-off that ensures no one dirties their clean hands with a shake. They left and finished the floor. Eddie tiptoed over the clean tile with a full deposit bag and a clipboard holding the inventory forms. Allison and Deanna were almost done with the dining room and the dishwashers were sending the last of the silverware through the machines. Eddie shut the music off and the restaurant was gloriously quiet with the only noise being the buzz of the refrigerators and freezers. Hum. The back door cracked and footsteps pounded like erratic drum beats. Children’s voices followed, high pitched and squealing. Before I knew it, two blond and blue eyed blurs streaked past me. Sludgy shoes ran right over my clean kitchen floor. “Forest!” yelled a male voice. “MacQuensie!” “Hold on, hold on,” a female voice said, “I’m getting the baby.” I froze with the wooden mop handle splintered to my palms. Then I saw the owners of Selina’s. Toby and Trishelle, looking like weekend warriors. Toby was trying to look cool in overpriced flannel and khaki and Trishelle showed off her yoga thighs in white leggings and knee high black boots. She had a peach fuzz headed baby slung around her hip who was wearing puffy pink earmuffs and a dazed expression. Trishelle ignored me like always and looked at Toby. “Can you get them?” “They’re fine,” he said and waved his hand. “Hey, Caleb.” “Hi,” I said, my eyes dragging over the accumulating lines of dirty footsteps that followed their bratty kids through the kitchen. Eddie popped his Viking head out of the office. “What are you guys doing here?” he said, blinking. “We came to grab something to eat,” Trishelle said, sashaying with the baby. “We’ve been out hiking with the kids all day.” Eddie smiled in that affable, managerial way he had about him. “You must be hungry,” he said, “it’s a chilly day for a hike.” 29
“Don’t mind us,” Toby said, pushing past me to get to the walk-in refrigerator. “We’re gonna grab some stuff to take home and cook. Keep on closing.” He disappeared behind the thick metal door and I quickly glanced at Eddie and the dishwasher. Whenever the owners unexpectedly stopped by at closing time, it always added at least ten minutes to our schedule, and those messy kids were probably gonna add another twenty. I felt for the cell phone in my back pocket and tried to think of a way to let Emily know I’d be late. The kids ran past me into the dish area. I took the opportunity to run the dry mop over their footsteps and return the tile to the sparkling tone it was before they arrived. I heard the walk-in fridge door open and seal behind Toby. Then Trishelle asked him, “is that the chicken noodle soup or the chicken dumplings?” “I don’t know,” he said dryly. “It’s got chicken in it.” “I don’t like dumplings,” she said. I was almost done with my second pass of the kitchen when the kids ran back in. The boy was a little bigger than the girl and I always mixed up their names. I think the boy was MacQuensie and the girl was Forest. I suppose it made just as much sense the other way around. “Who’s your boss?” the boy asked. I leaned on the mop, praying that they stayed on the edge of the kitchen. “Your parents,” I said. “No,” the girl said, looking up at me with fair, pink cheeks. “Who’s your boss?” I wished I had Eddie’s gift of bullshit. “Your mommy,” I said, “and your daddy.” “No,” the boy said, pointing at himself. “I’m your boss.” “And I’m your boss,” the girl said, bouncing on her toes. The kids scrambled off and I glanced at the clock on the wall above the office. Outside, the sky was darkening with shades of violet and navy. The warm air in the kitchen suffocated me and I wished I was at the bus stop feeling a cold snap on my face. “Yuck!” the boy said. “I don’t like this!” I kept mopping and heard the girl. “I don’t want this, Mommy.” “Okay,” Trishelle said, “you guys don’t have to finish them.” “I think they’re okay,” Toby said. “Funny aftertaste, though.” “Why does Luz keep making weird flavors?” Trishelle asked. “Can’t she just do normal ones for a change?” I dropped the mop and walked into the bakery from the kitchen. The four of them stood around Luz’s formerly pristine prep table with the white pastry box wide open. 30
Broken lavender-raspberry and matcha-cream filled donuts littered the surface and floor surrounding it. The kids both reached for the last donuts in the box and tore them in half for the fun of it. “They’re weird,” the girl said. “It tastes like soap,” the boy said. “I know,” Toby said, pitching a donut with only one bite taken from it into the trash. “They’re not very good. No wonder Luz had all these left over.” * I sat at the bus stop and fiddled with my phone. The sky was black and each breath I took made a cloud of smoke. After thumbing the cracked screen of my phone in the frigid air, I sent Emily the message. >On my way. I couldn’t get the donuts. Something happened.< Her answer wasn’t immediate. It wasn’t until I was on the frosty bus, twenty-five minutes into the half-hour ride to her parents, that my phone buzzed with her response. The road rumbled beneath me and I jostled in the cold plastic seat. The other people on the bus were dead eyed and frozen. A middle-aged black man with a lazy eye drank a tall-boy from a paper bag, an obese red haired white woman with slits for eyes had garbage bags filled with clothes on both sides of her, and the dude next to me smelled like a clogged urinal. I read Emily’s message behind the fine spiderweb of cracked glass. >Don’t worry<, she wrote, >my dad figured that would happen so he went up there and bought some himself. He said you were busy and he got the last ones.<Insert s miley face emoji. The bus went past the stop for Emily’s parents’ house and I kept riding. My thumb hovered over the base of my broken phone. I looked outside and saw a fluorescent pink posterboard tacked onto a telephone pole with words written out in thick magic marker: Looking to make $$$? It looked out of place in the fancy neighborhood. The seat rattled beneath me and street lights flashed through the windows as we passed by three story houses and luxury condominium complexes. My broken phone buzzed in my hand but I didn’t look at it. I just rode and wondered what it was like to be safe and warm in one of those homes for the night. *** 31
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Contributor's Notes Holly Day’s poetry has recently appeared in The Cape Rock, New Ohio Review, and Gargoyle. Her newest poetry collections are A Perfect Day for Semaphore (Finishing Line Press), In This Place, She Is Her Own (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press), A Wall to Protect Your Eyes (Pski’s Porch Publishing), I'm in a Place Where Reason Went Missing (Main Street Rag Publishing Co.), and The Yellow Dot of a Daisy (Alien Buddha Press).
S. Marlowe hung around the streets of Denver from birth to death. Posthumously, this is S. Marlowe's first publication.
Beth Escott Newcomer grew up on Normal Avenue in Normal, Illinois, came of age in Chicago, was chewed up and spit out by New York City, licked her wounds in Los Angeles, and now lives a quiet life with her husband and a pack of dogs in rural Fallbrook, California. Meghan Louise Wagner is a fiction writer and professional chef from Cleveland, OH. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing from Cleveland State University. Her fiction has appeared in places such as Flash Fiction Magazine, 101 Words a nd Literally Stories. 33
Stay dry
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