The Rusty Nail, February 2013
WEDDINGS, FUNERALS Of eight sisters, only Sandy had any mercy in her chest. She was good to everyone, even to the seven sisters who had pummeled her physically and emotionally throughout her entire childhood. One winter they had locked her in the attic. She survived for two weeks on the leather of an old jacket and on the rainwater that leaked in through the roof. She kicked her way out, crawled down the stairs, emaciated into the kitchen where she drank the near-expired milk. Sandy’s mother could never explain how one of her daughters turned out so different from the others. She said, “She’s an odd one. Might have something to do with how she was conceived, under the boardwalk at Wildwood. That’s why I named her Sandy anyhow.” Once Sandy was of age, she moved to Los Angeles, far away from her family and she intended to only see them again at weddings and funerals. She started dating a struggling comedian named Wally Sifters who worked beside her at a small Jewish delicatessen. Wally was a very good man and he treated Sandy better than anyone ever had. He listened to her every night as she told of the atrocities her family had done to her. He soon began to write down these memories and turned them into part of his act, which made him a lot funnier. He gained a small following and eventually found work writing for a sitcom, which gave him enough money to marry Sandy, to buy a home, and to afford all the plane tickets for every time one of her eight sisters got married or died.
Going Down To Wall Street by Phillip Larrea Pigs and sheep jostle Shoulder to shoulder. Electrical prod In cramped subway cars Feted for what waits. Inexorable, this Block by block decline. Eighteenth Street. Fourteenth, Eighth, Fourth, gate by gate ‘Til they hit the Wall.
No Team In I by Phillip Larrea I was on a team once. We had uniforms. We had equipment. We sure as heck kept score. We didn’t like each other much. The best player whined a lot. The consistent ones fumed. And damn those who saved their best for last.
TOW-TRUCK DRIVER Jason painted his tow-truck with flames, and skulls, and snakes coming out of the skull’s eyes. It was strange to see him step from his truck, because he was only five foot one. He’d jump down from the driver’s seat and his face would always have this constant look of war on it. Because of his small size and his demeanor it was rumored that he had been raised by Chihuahuas. Jason made a decent living but was desperate for money because his son had been arrested for charges of sexual assault and Jason’s wife insisted they hire a very expensive lawyer. To get the money Jason began to tow twice as many cars a night, some of which were not even parked illegally. One day his boss called him and he assumed he was caught, but his boss only congratulated him for his hard work and gave him a large raise. With the extra money from the raise Jason paid the lawyer’s monthly bills, purchased a small pool for the backyard, got his ears pierced, bought his wife the inflatable butt push-ups she wanted, got a black light for his truck’s dashboard, chrome skull caps for the wheels, and a year’s worth of watermelon-scented air freshener for the rear-view mirror. His son was acquitted of all charges, despite his guilt.
We won most of the time. May I say, none too graciously. We behaved despicably in defeat. We had what is known as ‘team chemistry’. I wasn’t happy then but, I love my trophy now. I savor my immutable victory and gloat. There is no team in I.
• • • Phillip Larrea is a syndicated columnist and wealth adviser in Sacramento, CA., U.S.A. His poems have recently appeared internationally in Outburst Magazine, The Poetry Bus Magazine and thefirstcut #7 from Issuu. In the U.S., Phillip has been recently published in Decade Review, FourPlay, Nostrovia To Writing, and the Brooklyn Voice.
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