101 Words

The kitchen was plagued by a series of unfortunate mistakes that couldn’t be traced to a source: an extra dash of nutmeg, an overly vigorous squeeze of lemon, a lukewarm serving of soup.

One night, at the end of Cam’s shift, she watched as the head chef stormed out of the kitchen.

“Good luck, sweetheart,” he growled.

His apron landed in a pile at Cam’s feet. She didn’t care that he barely looked at her as he stormed past, despite the fact that they’d worked together for months.

After all, Cam understood that all idols must be toppled. (Post-study, of course.)

Tonight my family is at our favorite pizza place, the first time we’ve eaten dinner together in three weeks. Once the server takes our order, I’m ready to talk about my neat science experiments. Mostly I want someone to listen to me.

Before I can open my mouth, Mom and Dad pull out their phones and begin texting. Oh, no. What could be so important? Gossip? Sports? Work stuff? Both laugh and quickly reply, not just once. My brother and sister do the same. Some family night out.

I sit alone and lonely. I hate smart phones. They make me invisible.

Near the Hiroshima terminal there’s an alley. It avoids most light beneath its canopy of torn awnings. At the edge is a brightly colored soda machine, nearby are businesses shuttered against daylight, and deeper is a tiny traditionally decorated bar. Beyond, the alley connects to others. Something is there, something not for you.

Later at night you remember the alley with regret. You remember ignoring the tug to explore. Whatever happens there, it’s happening now. You stood near the city soul stripped bare…and walked away.

Weeks later and you’re hunting that alley everywhere you go. You’ll find it again, somewhere.

He won the lottery. Seven million dollars. Taxes took a chunk. Dreams of retirement filled his head. No more going to work every day. A life of leisure. Travel…first class, of course. New cars…whatever he wanted. New house in the best neighborhood. What is this? Hands out. Relatives. Friends. Charities. People he didn’t even know. Gimme. Gimme. Gimme. Now many disagreements with his wife. How to spend it. How to invest it. Who to share it with. Who to leave it to. Estate planning. Attorney fees. Too much to think about. Driving him crazy. Seven million headaches. Take it back, please.

Nothing much happened in class today except when the girl from Pakistan walked in, just beating the tardy bell. She’s been here for three months but for the first time she had no head-cover. No hijab. We all stared, even the teacher, breathless and silent. She bypassed her second row desk to sit next to the tall boy from Peru who always sits by himself against the back wall. She took the chair tucked in the far corner between the file cabinets and the teacher’s desk. She took the chair and she took his hand. Oh, yes, his name is Jesus.

In those days we all drank too much, too heedlessly, as though there could be no consequences. In that awkward space of being no longer young yet not quite middle-aged, we all lived with the nagging fear that what little we had accomplished to that point might in fact be it, forever, for the rest of our lives. And so we drank, and laughed too hard, and made careless, undemanding love to each other’s wives and husbands. And for a time, at least, we pretended we were wiser than we were and assumed a happiness we would never truly know again.