by John Grey
I’ve never seen a man
standing on the ledge
just outside the window
of a tall, tall building,
threatening to jump.
Sure, in old movies,
I’ve watched that scene
a hundred times
but, in real life, never.
People still contemplate
the pluses and minuses
of doing away with themselves,
but in private,
not in front of a crowd.
And a gun or a razor
is the usual weapon of choice,
not a freefall
and a bust-up on the concrete
three hundred feet below.
And yet, I often look up
at ledges, marvel at their emptiness,
ask myself, what if?
Would I scream “Jump!”
Would I cover my face and pray?
I’ve never had to answer.
That question’s a ledge
and I’d hate to look down.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in International Poetry Review, Chrysalis and the science fiction anthology, “Futuredaze” with work upcoming in Potomac Review, Sanskrit and Fox Cry Review.
by Kayleigh Wanzer
When we talked a week later,
back Upstate, in a cafe,
with lukewarm coffee,
You told me California made
you love being sober.
It was easier, the best you’ve ever felt
and I should have been happy for you.
But it was not meant to be this way.
Your mouth still watered
when I mentioned whiskey.
And anyway, I prefer you
drunk and dangerous,
strange and vulnerable.
Walking up my stairs at one in the morning,
dressed in all black, cigarette smoking
making me promise I wouldn’t tell,
and I wondered, which part?
I write down a list of everything that could kill me.
I write your name twice,
for cadence’s sake, not danger’s.
This is for how it sounds
not for how much you mean to me.
It was Fall when we first met,
it should have already been winter.
I remember walking with you and thinking:
this ground should be frozen.
Kayleigh Wanzer is a graduate student in English Literature and Creative Writing at Binghamton University. I am the co-editor of Creative Nonfiction at Harpur Palate.
by Erik Noonan
If art were part
one more item
in the epic catalog
& life were
a super art
then the poem
would be realia
you could pair
with any other
choice at table
for a dash
That bland flavor
is an acquired taste
like the emotion
of another person
& also like them
is a function
of the mutation
give off an affect
brands and sells
there are people
who call that trade
as if people
who have survived
into old age
& still bother
because it goes
with gourmet food
& fine wine
in a poem
pain & pleasure
will mind their own business
with distinct contours
rather than bleary
the thwarted half-measures
Erik Noonan is a San Francisco-based author.
by Donal Mahoney
Opal Ruff, at the age of 83, had been sitting in the same corner of the red vinyl couch in the tiny lobby of the New Morse Hotel almost every day for the last three years. Her eldest son, Herman, a bachelor in his sixties, had brought her to the hotel shortly after her husband, Noah, had died of a heart attack on Christmas Day, 1969.
“I don’t want to go there,” Mrs. Ruff protested at the time, but Herman had responsibilities of his own and insisted that she pack up and move into the hotel.
The New Morse was more of a warehouse for the aged than a hotel. It was not the kind of place Mrs. Ruff would have selected for herself had she been able to get around without a walker. Old folks signed in and many of them never signed out. Funeral home attendants would carry them out. Relatives of the deceased would come by and carry out their belongings in brown paper bags.
It’s not that Mrs. Ruff thought she was too good for the New Morse Hotel. It took a couple of months but eventually she adjusted to her new environment. Now she lived with ash trays in the lobby rather than doilies in her living room.
The other residents, most of them elderly males, had gotten used to seeing her on the couch two hours in the morning and two hours in the afternoon. She would sit in her corner of the couch saying the rosary in silence, lips moving, her hair in a tidy bun, her long dress down to her ankles. She could easily have passed for the mother or grandmother of the woman in the painting, “American Gothic.”
While Mrs. Ruff said her rosary, the male residents would take turns sitting in the uncomfortable easy chairs, reminiscing and trading tales about when they were young and randy and not limited to the lobby of the New Morse Hotel.
Considering the nature of the men’s conversation, it was fortunate Mrs. Ruff was deaf and never wore her hearing aids in the lobby. She had worn them in her first few months but now she left them in her tiny room so she could pray and not have to hear the men discuss their lives in pursuit of women. Mrs. Ruff had nothing against sex. In fact, she had presented Mr. Ruff with eight children, four boys and four girls. All of them lived in other states now, except for Herman, who was busy rearing six children of his own without the help of his wife who, for some reason Mrs. Ruff didn’t understand, had committed suicide.
“Noah and I had a good marriage,” Mrs. Ruff would occasionally say if someone inquired politely about her life before moving into the New Morse Hotel. “He was very healthy for his age and no one expected him to have a heart attack. But he hit the floor with a thump and never moved. I knew he was gone when he wet himself and it soaked the living room rug.”
Poverty was the one thing most of the men who lived in the hotel had in common. But there were also a few retired gentlemen who had small pensions as well as Social Security checks they could count on. They chose to live in the New Morse because they appreciated the Ashkenaz Restaurant, which was located on the floor beneath the hotel and was known throughout Chicago for its Jewish cuisine. Most of the dishes were favorites of the Ashkenazi and Sephardic Jews who lived in the neighborhood, some of them survivors of Auschwitz and Buchenwald as tattooed numbers on their forearms would always attest.
Harris Cohen didn’t have a tattoo. He had been born eight decades ago in America. He liked the matzoh ball soup and the knishes and kishke that he could order at Ashkenaz. Every month, on the day he received his retirement check, he would celebrate with a pastrami sandwich on rye, loaded with mustard.
“I have never eaten better pastrami,” Harris would often say, “not even in New York.”
He had eaten these specialties all his life and that is why, after retiring from the railroad where he had worked 40 years as a conductor, he chose the New Morse Hotel as his residence. Every morning, unlike most of the other men, he would shave, put on his short-sleeved white shirt, a nice tie, and the navy blue pants he saved from his days on the Century Limited, where he had patrolled the aisles making certain the needs of the passengers were met in a timely fashion. He usually worked the trips from Chicago to New York and back again, which took 16 hours each way and involved sleeping berths for some and at least two meals per trip for everyone on the train. Passengers expected good service for their money and Harris provided it, not because of the occasional tip he would receive but because he liked to do a good job.
“No one ever had a complaint in one of my cars,” Harris would announce in the lobby at least once a week. And no one ever bothered to argue with him.
Harris Cohen treated Mrs. Ruff with great respect. Although he was unfamiliar with the rosary, he knew from his own religion, Judaism, that prayer beads, as he called them, were important. That is why he would never interrupt Mrs. Ruff while she was praying. But as soon as he saw her make the final Sign of the Cross, he would ask after her well-being. She would always assure him that she was fine and then inquire about him. Harris and Mrs. Ruff had mastered the art of pleasantries and each was very polite in dealing with the other.
In fact, Harris often sat at one end of the couch and Mrs. Ruff at the other. After he had paid his respects to Mrs. Ruff, he was free to read his newspaper and strike up conversations with the other men who took a seat in the lobby while waiting for the clerk of the day to materialize behind the desk and give them their mail. Sometimes they had to wait until the ancient switchboard lit up with a call. If no clerk was available, Ralph Doogan, the manager, would come roaring out of his office behind the board to find out what had interrupted his day. Often he had the remains of a gigantic ham sandwich in his hand. Every once in awhile, Doogan would offer Harris Cohen a bite of his ham sandwich and Cohen would always decline. He was not a religious man, but he had been bar mitzvahed as a young man and he did not want to give Doogan the satisfaction of getting him to eat something forbidden to the Jewish people.
“Doogan can keep his ham, ” Harris was known to say. “I like my pastrami.”
The hotel had only one maid, Rozelle Johnson, who took care of 16 rooms on the second floor and another 16 on the third floor. Her rounds took all day. A good Baptist, and a lovely woman in her early forties, Rozelle had long ago put the lechers in the lobby firmly in their place. They knew she was not available at any price.
“Leave that woman alone,” long-term residents would advise any new man who checked in, and they levied that warning with good reason. One of their own a few years back, big Bruno, had paid a great price for grabbing Rozelle’s buttocks as she wheeled her cart down the narrow hall. She hit him with her dustpan on the top of his bald head and then whacked him across the face, breaking his nose. There was blood everywhere. None of the men of the New Morse Hotel tried to get next to Rozelle after that.
As a result of this incident, Rozelle talked regularly with only two residents among those she encountered on her daily rounds. She spoke with Mrs. Ruff when she was in her room and had her hearing aids in place. She admired the spirituality of Mrs. Ruff even if she wasn’t a Baptist like Rozelle. She knew that Mrs. Ruff had accepted Jesus the way Catholics do and if that was good enough for Jesus, it was good enough for her.
She also liked to talk with Harris Cohen, not because he tipped her a dollar a week but because the man was always clean and well-shaven and wore a tie. In the lobby, Harris had the good sense to modify his language when Rozelle was passing through. When she wasn’t there, however, he would advise the other men who sat down what it was like during the Depression. According to Harris, the going price for the company of a woman as fetching as Rozelle was $2.00, not a penny more.
“The ladies were happy to get the money,” Harris would say, “and I was happy to help out. Times were tough.”
Not knowing Harris and his attitude toward women, Rozelle always thought she might be able to fix him up with Mrs. Ruff despite their religious differences. She thought the two of them might be able to keep each other company. And if they eventually got married, the hotel did have a few apartment suites that Rozelle thought would suit them as a couple. Whenever one of these little suites, as the hotel called them, became available, Rozelle would amplify her praise of Harris while cleaning Mrs. Ruff’s room. For months, Mrs. Ruff listened politely and agreed that Harris seemed to be a gentleman. After all, she had never heard his tales of feminine conquests in the lobby because she sat there without her hearing aids, quietly saying her rosary.
One day, however, Rozelle’s lobbying in behalf of Harris got to be too much for Mrs. Ruff. After making the bed, her final duty in the room, Rozelle was preparing to leave when she decided to take a chance and tell Mrs. Ruff that she thought Harris might like to take her to lunch in the restaurant downstairs. Rozelle didn’t know that Harris Cohen, despite being the same age as Mrs. Ruff, had always liked younger women and had savored enough of them over the years, especially when times were tough. Mrs. Ruff, on the other hand, had loved her husband throughout her marriage and had no interest in any other man. But Rozelle had a point to make.
“Mrs. Ruff,” she said, “I wouldn’t suggest you having lunch with Harris if I didn’t think he was a gentleman. He might even ask you to marry him at some point.”
Tired of Rozelle’s efforts in behalf in Harris, Mrs. Ruff moved a little in her chair, put her rosary down, looked Rozelle in the eye, and said,
“And if I married him, what would I do–lift him on and lift him off?”
Rozelle never mentioned Harris Cohen to Mrs. Ruff again. Six months later, she found another job in a much better hotel.
Nominated for Best of the Net and Pushcart prizes, Donal Mahoney has had work published in a variety of print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa. Some of his work can be found here.
by Benjamin Joseph Biesek
Look ahead at fake Pompeii
Look ahead at the Negro ballplayer
Look behind me now
Look at the windows
Of the closed shops
And just about scream bloody murder
And that’s how they like it
Me – you – all of us
A piggy with ballplayers on her mind
A man at 4 a.m. as the sheep get
Slaughtered – but wide awake
But is just a word? And how high was?
And what was prison like for Nelson?
Some people said that he enjoyed it.
Benjamin Joseph Biesek currently writes for Mirrors Magazine, film reviews and poetry.