Sheep's Clothing

“Sheeps Clothing”

There’s a man named Daniel who lives in a small patch of woods about forty yards from my house. Daniel is completely crazy and often screams at trees, and squirrels, and the ground, and anything else he can to demonstrate his craziness. Many times I hear him screaming, “Wake up Wake the fuck up, god dammit ”. I imagine he’s changing from one personality to another during these occasions. He seems to have many personalities, but he’s good about leaving the violent and nasty ones at home when he goes about his daily begging.
Daniel does his begging in a very workman like way. He emerges on the block early with the college students and bus commuters and perches himself on various stoops and benches around the neighborhood. He never discriminates to whom he begs from. All of societies categories are equally solicited. His only variance from his plea for cigarettes and spare change is this; every man is referred to as brother, and every woman as beautiful. Everyone gets a god-bless-you whether they have contributed or not.

I was waiting on a bus one day, when he sauntered over and plopped down on the bench next to me and took his shoes off. They were old worn leather hiking boots with the classic bum holes in the toes. His feet were rugged. They looked like how Fred Flintstone’s feet would have actually looked if he drove his car in that famous Fred Flintstone kind of way. They were black and mangled with blisters and sores and gross amber colored toe nails. He rubbed them a while without looking up, then focused his attention on a tall can of St. Ides malt liquor wrapped in a crusty paper bag. He cracked the top open and took a long drink with his eyes closed. He burped and waved his hand in front of his face like a karate expert, only drunker. He peeked out of one eye lid and turned to look at me.
“Hey brother,” he said with his coarse, raspy voice. “You wouldn’t have a cigarette on ya, would ya?”
“I don’t smoke, Daniel.”
He never registers the fact I call him by name.
“You wouldn’t happen to have a spare change, would ya brother?”
“Just bus money, Daniel.”
“God bless ya brother.”
He lifted his can to his mouth but stopped short and turned to me again.
“Say brother, what’s your name?”
“Bryan”
“Bryan, you ever been around sheeps before?”
“Sheeps?”
“Yeah. White fluffy things. They’re bigger than dogs. You know godammit, sheeps ”
“Okay, sheeps. Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em.”
“But have you been around them? Could you touch ‘em?”
“No, I guess not.”
“I hate those fuckers They made me all fucked up like this,” he knocked on his head to demonstrate. A random college guy walked past.
“Hey brother, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra cigarette on you, would ya brother? You wouldn’t have a spare change?”
The college guy never turned to look, but patted his pockets as a sign that he was broke too.
“Damn sheeps kicked me right in the head once,” he continued. “I was in a hospital for nine months, knocked out the whole time.” He took care of the remaining beer with another big swig. He hit up a man and a woman, professors maybe, who kept talking and ignored him altogether. He rubbed his feet again and tilted his head back. It looked like he might fall asleep, but I was intrigued.
“How’d it happen?” I asked.
“Huh? Hey brother, you wouldn’t...”
“The sheeps,” I said impatiently. “How’d a sheeps kick you in the head?”
“Aw shit,” he grumbled. “I was at a buddy of mine’s house, way the fuck out there in the country. There was a bunch of us there and we were sittin’ around a fire drinking and smoking and shit,” he did the motions of drinking and smoking as he listed them off. A guy on a bike rolled by and Daniel asked him for a cigarette or a spare change. The guy told him not today and called him ‘buddy’ as he rolled away. Daniel focused on his aching feet again. He seemed to forget about the story.
“And?” I tried jogging his feeble memory.
“Hey brother,” he said to me, prepared to ask me the same question again.
“The sheeps. You were smoking and drinking around the fire and...?”
“Hey man. You’re funny. You remember that story?”
“No I don’t remember. How’s it go again?”
“We were out in the country, man.”
“I know, and you were sitting around the fire.”
“Yeah man. And this big muthafucker comes outta no where with these big fuckin’ dogs. Don’t nobody know this muthafucker and he just sits down and grabs a beer. His dogs go runnin’ off somewhere and were all like ‘Who the fuck are you man?’ This big muthafucker stands up and says he’s the devil. We all start laughin’ at this crazy fucker and he starts laughin’ too, when all of a sudden we hear his dogs barkin’. He stopped laughin’ and he looked around. I sat there wonderin’ what the hell was goin’ on when I looked over and all these sheeps came runnin’ right at us. I was just startin’ to think about gettin’ up when a sheeps tried to jump over where I was sittin’. Fucker didn’t make it and kicked me square in the head,” he pulled back some of his long, matted hair to show me the nasty scar the sheeps made.
It appeared he had more to tell, when a very old man pushed a rusty shopping cart past us, filled with aluminum cans.
“Hey brother, you wouldn’t happen to have a cigarette or a spare change, would ya brother?”
The old man murmured something under his breath and trudged along. Daniel went for another drink, but shook it to show me it was empty. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled dollar bill and some loose change. He held it in his hand and closed his eyes as if he were weighing the money. He suddenly popped his eyes open and snatched his empty beer can. The old man with the cart had made it to the crosswalk and Daniel went running after him, hollering at him as he approached.
“Here ya go brother I gotta can for ya.”
The old man turned to identify the commotion running his way and began to panic as he saw Daniel running at him. He tried to make a break across the street but he moved slower than even he expected and was smashed by a speeding, beat-up Buick Century. His frail body blasted into the windshield, then went flying off as the driver slammed on the brakes. The cans spewed all over the intersection and the shopping cart became mangled under the Buick. The horrified driver jumped out of the car and raced over to the crumpled body in the street. He and Daniel leaned over the dead man silently, and then looked at each other. Daniel tossed his empty can among the others in the street and asked the driver if he had a cigarette or a spare change. The stunned driver made no acknowledgment to him so Daniel stumbled back to the bench I was still sitting in. He picked up his old hiking boots and began to slowly walk off.
“God bless ya, brother,” he said to me as he walked away barefoot.

Tycho's Ghetto

Tycho dribbled his basketball on the linoleum kitchen floor. Between his legs, around the back. He had serious handles for a nine-year-old. His Mama was yelling at him.
"Tycho, I swear to God if you don't stop bouncing that ball...Tycho!" She swatted the ball against the dish-drainer causing a plate to fall onto the floor. "Oh my God. Lord, please give me the patients to not strangle my son at this hour. I beg you. He's driving me crazy, Lord."
"Sorry, Mama."
"No you ain't son. No you ain't. Cause if you was sorry, you woulda put that muthafuckin' ball up a long time ago, and taken your ass to school, like I told you to."
"Mama, I don't need school. My game is nice."
"His game is nice," added Polly, his older brother.
"Boy, mind your business. And turn that T.V. down. Don't nobody give a damn about the evenin' news anyhow."
"Grandpa Jessup said he can't hear it low. Beside, they talkin' about the vote."
"You vote?" Grandpa Jessup asked Polly.
"I'm only seventeen, pops. One more year. I prolly wouldn'ta voted anyway."
"You right," Grandpa shrugged. "Don't matter even if you do. Black man got no chance as it is. Don't need a vote to find that out. Turn it up a little, boy."
"...the outcome of yesterdays vote has been called unspeakably inhumane by many foreign leaders, and has received heavy criticism by many Republicans and Democrats, alike. Yet the fact remains that Black neighborhoods simply could not turn out enough voters to prevent the proposed constitutional amendment. The proposal will bar African-Americans from voting on anything governmentally instituted again, effective immediately. How about some weather, Tina?..."
"Don't matter to me. My customers still be lining up on the block," gloated Polly, flashing a wad of cash.
"Polly! I told you I don't wanta hear that shit in front of Tycho. I lost you, I ain't losing him too."
"You ain't lost me Mama, I'm right here." Polly demonstrated by tugging on his throwback Nuggets jersey, causing his oversized gold chains and medallions to thrash about.
"Yeah, Mama. You don't gotta worry about me. I won't need to sell drugs, when I'm in the NBA," said Tycho pirouetting as he dribbled again through his legs.
"You just better be at school in the morning. You here?"
"Yes Mama."

Tycho decided it was best to avoid his mother's wrath, so he dressed for school. White shirt, black pants, black shoes. He pulled his I.D. card out of his clear plastic school bag and hung it around his neck. He dribbled from his apartment 5-13, down the five floors of stairs to a small bulletproof glass booth. He showed the policeman inside the booth his I.D.,and wrote his name on the form attached to a clipboard hanging in air by a thin chain, spinning in circles.. He found his friend Lloyd outside, past the high razor-wire fence.
"Your Mama makin' you go, ain't she?"
Tycho nodded, dribbling mechanically.
"We got a Social Studies test today. Civil War. Abe Lincoln and all that."
"Let me copy. Write real big, alright."
Lloyd shrugged. "I guess, man. But I don't like doin' that. If I get caught, I get an 'F' too. Us little guys ain't goin' pro like you."
"You could rap."
"C'mon man. You gotta be cool to be rapper."
"Oh! I know. A DJ. Most people don't even see them dudes."
"That might be alright," Lloyd said, smiling.
The two boys strolled to school walking in the middle of the street. They passed a twenty-foot long Buick, rusted and dented, with shinny chrome hub-cap rims. Then a police car. Then an old hatchback Honda with a plastic bag taped over the passenger window. Then a police car.
The sidewalks were crowded but not active. People stood or sat, or both, in groups talking or watching the other stagnant pockets of people across the street from them. Most people moving around were the many police officers monitoring the days activities, strolling in pairs.
"How about 'DJ Omega Fats'. Yeah, that sound tight," Lloyd daydreamed aloud. "Hey, ain't that your bother?" He pointed a stubby finger toward a white policewoman crashing Polly against the hood of the police car.
"Polly!" Tycho screamed, and ran toward the scene, dribbling subconsciously the whole way. "That's my brother let him go. Please?"
"Go away kid. Don't make me tell you again," the lady cop said, struggling with Polly.
"What he do?" inquired Lloyd.
"Let's just say he wasn't spending his time the right way. Now get outta here, both of you."
She wrangled Polly into the back of the squad car, deliberately smashing his head on the top of the car. She wiggled a small plastic bag with her thumb and index finger, and slid it into her back pocket.
As she drove away, she stuck her head out of the window. "Go do something useful for a change."
Tycho stopped dribbling and looked at Lloyd.
"I gotta go, Lloyd. You heard her, I gotta work on my jumper. Mama can't have both of us locked up. I gotta go pro, if I'm a make it."
"I'm goin' to school. You should to."
"Man, that don't make no sense. Why go to school, if I already know what I'm good at? I'm a baller, always will be. You can go to school. I'm a play."
Lloyd shrugged and trudged off to school. He listened to the ball bounce away, farther and farther. It became a faint thud, like the heartbeat of the ghetto, pulsating under the sirens and yells.

Tycho's Ghetto

Flypaper

Flypaper:
I watched her lace up her roller skates from across the rink. I had always silently admired her style and demeanor, but that night, I saw her as something special. Her dark hair and eyes, and her easy smile, discouraged me to look elsewhere.
She’s come into my store before. I’ve served her coffee. I’ve also seen her at some random social functions and bars. I vaguely remember seeing her with someone. Presumably a boyfriend. She was with a group of women that night. They had gathered around a table off to the side of the rink.
“C’mon let’s get our skates,” a friend of mine said.
“Apparently, their all out of size elevens.” That was a lie. The truth is I never learned to master pretty much anything with wheels. Bikes, skates, skateboards. I like to think growing up with scoliosis prevented me form having those types of fun, but at some point I know I was just being a pussy. I’m obviously still ashamed of it.
The group I was with all found their sizes. I had hoped at least one of them hadn’t planned on skating, but no. I sat quietly and watched people I know acknowledge me by dancing a little as they skated by. They cycled around over and over doing the same thing. I felt like a mom, whose kids wave to her every time they pass. But then she rolled past.
She wore knee high red and white striped socks, little red seventies athletic shorts, a brown sweater, and a fluffy white scarf. A random assortment of garments, orchestrated perfectly. I began to create personal attributes for her. First, I decided, she isn’t conventional or boring. She’s obviously a unique, charismatic woman, and probably has a keen intuition of people. Quirky, with a certain zest to life. I bet she’s pretty smart. She had already been smiling, when she noticed me ever so briefly. A look of distant recognition, I hoped.
After a few songs, she disappeared from the floor. I felt I couldn’t wave to my friends anymore, so I occupied myself with the claw-game. You know, you maneuver the claw around a glass case and hope the claw grabs some cheap stuffed-animal, which never actually happens. Yeah, that one. I had wasted a couple of dollars on it, when I saw her skate over my way. She waved to me, smiling.
“Hey, you work at that coffee shop, right?” She was a little out of breath.
“Yeah, I remember seeing you there. How have you been?” I never really know what to say.
“Good thanks. Listen, you know Mitchell Baines, right?”
“Sure, I’ve known Mitchell for along time. He hangs out at the store a lot. Good guy.”
“Do you know his number by chance?”
Dammit.
“No, sorry. I believe he said his service was turned off right now.” The truth. “I could tell him to call you if I see him.” A lie.
“Nah, that’s okay. I was just curious if he was going to the after party tonight. Oh, well. See ya.” she rolled away.

The next night I sat at work, reading. It was dusk and it was raining, and the combination made everything outside look a different shade of blue. A flare of a bright-red felt overcoat, cut through the evening mist, and into the shop. It was her. She held a wet newspaper over her head as she entered. She lifted her soft brown eyes, and grinned slyly. She was beautiful.
I wanted to ask her to live with me far from there, where we would grow old together, nestled next to the thousand fires I would build for her. But, unprepared, I only muttered “Hi there.”
“Hello.”
“How was the after party?” I asked.
“I didn’t actually go in. The bar was really crowded, so my friends and I found Mitchell and took off.”
“I see. So you found him after all.” I tried hard to mask my disappointment.
“Yeah. He’ll be here any minute. We’re going to have dinner at the new restaurant down the street.”
I nodded, resisting all temptations to manipulate her opinion of Mitchell. He was a good guy. And I wouldn’t want that done to me. I offered to make her something while she waited. She declined, and I returned to my book. A few minutes later Mitchell burst in from the rain.
“Hey,” he panted to her. “You ready, I got the car running, let’s go. See ya B.” He waved to me as they shuffled out the door.

Later that night, I closed the store and went to the backroom to count the money. Shortly into it, a knock sounded at the front door. Normally, it’s usually a friend or a desperate coffee drinker, but again it was her.
I let her in and asked how I could help her. She looked like she’d been crying.
“Can I use the phone? That asshole left me stranded at the restaurant, can you believe that?”
Thank you, lord.
“Terrible,” I shook my head. “I’m sorry. Here, sit down.” I handed her the phone and prepared some calming tea for her as she dialed.
“Mitchell, you prick! That’s it! Never call me again! You bastard!” She slammed the phone upon the tabletop.
I brought over the tea and sat across from her. She looked at me.
“You’re awfully nice. What’s your name, anyway?”
We talked there for a long time. Over an hour, easy. The tea had calmed her, and my line of questioning successfully steered her clear of any memory of the suddenly wicked Mitchell.
“Would you mind walking me home? It’s not far.”
Are you kidding me?
“Of course,” I said lovingly. I had gained confidence.
We strolled slowly, neither of us in a rush to end our unintended evening together. Finally, we arrived at her apartment. She looked away and grinned.
“I have some old sci-fi movies I was going to watch. You interested?”
Eureka!!!
“Absolutely. I love sci-fi movies.” The truth.
We watched movies for about a half-an-hour, and then began to speak softly to each other about the ironic destiny our evening had taken. The rest of the night was magic.

In the morning we lazed about in bed, thinking aloud of how perfect it felt to be there. She said she felt freer than ever, and wanted to do something new, with me. I asked if she’d been to the new playhouse in town.
“No, silly. I mean something big. Life changing, you know?”
“What did you have in mind.”
She smiled broadly, “Let’s go away together, to Sicily. I have family there. I’d been thinking of going for awhile, but now I’m convinced I should go, with you. How about it?”
I nearly choked. “Are you serious? But, you just met...this is a big thing, I mean...okay lets do it.”
She hugged me around the neck. Her body radiated beauty in the yellow morning sunshine. My mind was made up. Try and stop me, I thought.
My friends and family were understandably confused. Who? What? Where? It sounded more and more Disney like each time I explained it. We were leaving in a week. I was busy throughout, quitting my job, selling any possession worth anything at all, and cashing in on favors from everybody who owed them. I racked up just enough to make it happen, and said my arrivederci’. The plan was to meet her at the airport, where she had our tickets. It seemed unreal how easy it had all unfolded. My wife took the news the worst.
I waited with bursting excitement at the gate where we were to meet. My newfound love and I, braving a new world together, leaving behind a wasteland, starting life over again. I wanted to shout just thinking about it.
I became nervous when our ETD came closer. I stared at the run way, figuring a watched pot never boils. Someone said my name, and it damn sure wasn’t her. I turned, and felt my heart sink.
“Mitchell?”
“Hey, buddy. Are you excited about our trip?”
“Our trip?” I could feel the blood drain out of my head and I became a little woozy.
“Yeah, Josephine said she couldn’t make it, so she gave me her ticket. Here’s yours. Me and you buddy. Italy here we come! We might never come back.”
“No. Wait. What? She couldn’t make it? What happened? I thought she hated you? Wait.” My mind was spinning out of control.
“Doesn’t matter, dude. We’re freaking going. Yeah boy!” He pumped his fist.
“I don’t want to go with you.” Mitchell leaned in as I said this.
“What’s that?”
“I said, I don’t want to go with you. I want to go with her. I don’t want this ticket if she’s not going. Besides, this one has your name on it.” I was breaking down. I handed the ticket back to him, and began to trudge away, horrified.. I heard her laugh behind me. I spun around, and swear I saw her for just a second, holding Mitchell’s arm as they walked into the corridor leading to the plane. I swear I saw her.
The airline had no record of me owning a ticket, and wasn’t giving me any money back.
“How about Mitchell Baines?” I whimpered to the old lady behind the glass.
“Mr. Baines purchased two one-way tickets to Palermo three months ago. There’s nothing we can do sir, I’m sorry.”
I walked, as in a trance, all the way home that day, to a house that had been sold to strangers. The whole way, I repeated aloud to myself over and over again, “she’ll be back.”

Roman Holiday

Roman Holiday:

A beam of sunlight split through the blinds and illuminated Alister’s sleeping face. The air in the shadowed room smelled stale and unpleasant. Layers of nicotine coated the once white walls, staining them a sickly yellowish color. Dirty, wrinkled clothes matted into each other on the floor, unintentionally serving as a carpet.
Aside from the futon Alister slept on, the only furniture in the room was an old wardrobe , and a large office desk awkwardly tucked into a corner. The wardrobe was shabby, with drawers opened and collapsing at the seams from the growing piles of clothing he loaded on top of them. A thick layer of white dust, like powdered sugar, coated every unused surface in the room. The desk’s surface looked the most used. A large glass ashtray sat on top and looked like a chia-pet of cigarette butts, sprouting out in all directions. Whiskey bottles lined the edges of the desk forming a little glass fence. Worn notebooks were sprawled here and there, with bizarre scribbles of strange sayings in strange languages. Stacks of thick books with broken binds were plopped around on the desk’s surface. One was opened, and in it showed an old creepy ink drawing of demons on horseback dragging screaming souls into a fiery cave. A rather stock picture from an old book dealing with the occult.
He stirred a little. The terrible taste in his mouth jarred him back to consciousness. His head throbbed, and his stomach felt like it’d been tied into a boy scout knot. He struggled raising from bed, and steadied himself against the wall nearby when he stood. He stumbled into his small, unkept bathroom, and seated himself appropriately in front of the toilet. This was his daily routine, vomiting for the first ten minutes or so of his day.
In the shower, he could feel his liver groan and turn green from it’s constant poisoning. His lungs shivered and forced out loose pieces of themselves. He rubbed his aching neck and coughed. His head pounded as it released a gradual eruption of snot from his nose. He thought of going to work and nearly fell through the shower curtain. Not today, I’d rather die in an alley then go to work today, he thought. But it was the thirty-first, and he knew he needed the hours. He screamed, angry at his responsibilities.

He waited at the bus stop in the freezing morning. His hands were pink and stung from the fierce winter breeze as he smoked. His long black overcoat brushed the littered cement while he sat on the bench. A teenaged fat girl sat next to him, yelling into her cell phone, and sucking down a huge plastic cup of soda pop. She tried swapping the two items in her hands, but fumbled and dropped her soda in front of them. Small, brown streams of cola, raced down the sidewalk and soaked the ends of Alister’s coat. The fat girl watched unconcerned. “My bad,” she said with little feeling. He continued his cigarette, looking at her annoyed, but not saying anything.
“What you gotta problem about it? I said I was sorry.” Her eyes bugged out when she said it, and she moved her head left to right, like some exotic yard bird.
“No you didn’t. You said ‘my bad’. That’s not an apology at all.”
“Whatever, freak. Your jacket’s all stained and shit anyway, freak”
He closed his eyes and concentrated on the curse he had memorized the night before. He mumbled something under his breath and did little hand movements toward the girl. He opened his eyes and waited for the curse to take hold of her. She rolled her eyes at him, and returned to yelling into her cell phone.
The crowded bus arrived, and Alister was forced to ride standing. On the way to his job, he wondered why his curses and spells never worked. He had read over his books carefully, again and again, worried he was missing some vital information. He practiced the sayings aloud at his apartment, and silently at work in his dish tank. Once at work, he cursed his boss Jacqueline, and seconds later she fell into some stock shelves. He knew it was mostly due to the fact she drank heavily at lunch and not because of the curse, but he still found it encouraging.
He tiptoed his way off the bus and trudged through the doors of “Pete’s Pizza”. Jacqueline was the first to greet him.
“You know, a lot of people have jobs in this world. A lot of people.” She sneered at him condescendingly. “But nobody gets paid for being late, and neither do you. Chump.” She hurled his greasy rolled up apron at him, which smacked his glasses off.
“Hah! You guys see that? Right between the eyes.” The few line cooks who saw it, bellowed their laughter throughout the kitchen. Jacqueline howled above them all with her raspy smoker’s laugh. Alister walked away and cursed under his breath, in English not Aramaic.
Alister kept his dish tank immaculate. At the end of every night, he would polish the stainless steel tubs and counters until they looked like new. He would go on and on to the owner of Pete’s Pizza about how much pride he takes in his job during the six-month evaluations. The truth is, Alister had somehow been there ten years and had received a thirty-five cents raise every six months. He was up to fourteen dollars an hour and often needed to use the sympathy card to keep his job, “Sir, letting me go for thirty-five cents would be an injustice to that dish tank and you know it.” Money wasn’t the issue. He didn’t spend his money on much. Whiskey, smokes, an occasional lap dance, books, toilet paper, peanut butter, rent. Alister loved the invisibility a dishwasher accomplishes the moment the hairnet goes on. Give me the plate and look away, he would think to himself when a server wanted to get chatty.
Pink soap bubbles splashed over the rim of the gigantic sink, as Alister situated his bus tubs, and silverware containers for the upcoming battle with the dishes. He could hear the radio again, sounding in the next door at the cell phone store on the other side of the wall. Everyday for the last few weeks they left a radio blaring horse races. All through the shift, horse racing.
“...Chocolate Thunder has the lead by a length, but here comes Sugar Cane. Sugar Cane coming up hard on Chocolate Thunder. On the Rocks is third followed by Santa Maria, and Jericho...”
Two days ago, he had enough and stormed next door. The sales rep must have turned it down the moment Alister arrived, then acted like he knew nothing about a radio in the back room. And as soon as he returned to the dish tank, the racing was back on.
He felt determined to block out the noise and tackle the task at hand. The tubs started filling up with dirty dishes and Alister furiously cleaned each one. He was always a good dishwasher, but the motivation to block the radio from his mind inspired him to dishwashing levels previously unknown to human kind. The dinner rush came on like a tidal wave of half eaten pizza crusts and brown, ranched-out lettuce fragments. Normally, Alister would have fallen behind at some point, but not then. It was if he was operating with a couple more arms, with more fingers on each hand. As spectacular of a performance it was, he was too distracted by the annoyance of the radio next door to appreciate it himself.
“...by two lengths now. Lung Butter running out of gas, falls to third, as Wolverine moves ahead...”
He stared off wildly as he gobbled up sections of the ever growing dish pile. Servers and line cooks began to marvel at what was taking place. Even Jacqueline felt vaguely impressed. Good thing the owner wasn’t here to see that, she thought. He’d never let her fire him then.
“Damn boy! You really got it working’ tonight, Al,” one of the servers yelled.
A bowl placed haphazardly on the edge of the bus tub gave way and crashed upon the floor. Alister stopped sharply and stared not quite at it, but around it. The noise was getting louder, and it was driving him crazy.
“Is anybody else gonna do something about that fucking radio?” he pleaded loudly.
The busy kitchen paused to listen to the strange dishwasher speak. It was a rare occurrence.
“Was’up Al? You don’t like Snoop or something?” a husky cook asked, referring to the cd player the line cooks listened to.
“Not that. Next door. The horse racing. You hear it don’t you? It’s so loud.” He was answered by blank faces.
“Well I can’t handle it anymore,” he tore off his apron and stormed towards the back exit.
“If you leave during your shift, don’t come back. You hear that punk?” Jacqueline called after him, as he slipped out the door.

When Alister was a kid, he was regularly visited by a spirit named Toki. Toki would appear while Alister was in the bath, and tell him stories about the mountain animals of the Himalayas surviving in the higher altitudes. He remembered how the hair on the back of his neck stood up whenever Toki emerged out of thin air. He would shiver from the goose bumps, and Toki would laugh and say he looked like a duck. Once Alister’s mother was institutionalized for drugs, he was moved into a foster home and never saw Toki, or any other spirit again. He had dedicated much of his adult life to summoning another spirit, but with no success. On this day, however, his hair once again stood up, and he shivered all over.
Alister intended on storming into the cell phone store, head straight for the back room, and smash the hell out of the radio blasting the incessant horse racing. But once he stepped out of the back door of “Pete’s Pizza”, he wasn’t standing in the employee parking lot like he expected. Instead he was standing on grass. Finely trimmed grass. And directly in front of him was a white wooden railing running horizontally in both directions. Beyond the railing was a wide loose-dirt path, followed by a long row of hedges. A low rumble sounded off in the distance, and Alister immediately detected the odor of animal manure.
(It seems where Alister had failed at his summoning attempts and curses aimed at individuals, he had unknowingly succeeded in projecting his own spirit back in time. Because he couldn’t really pronounce the ancient Aramaic dialect, he produced the opposite effect intended. It really isn’t that unusual of an occurrence when dabbling in the spirit world. I mean, how many people speak fluid ancient Aramaic these days?)
A familiar voice crackled through a loud speaker behind him.
“....Roman Holiday out to a big early lead, followed by Pound Cake, Better Make it Two, and Phlopper in fourth...”
He turned around to see behind him, but was distracted by a group of large horses, with small colorful riders barreling around the track toward his direction. His eyes followed them approaching, and the first horse, Roman Holiday, went by him just a few feet away. He could have reached out and touched it. In the moment of passing Alister, the horse caught a quick glimpse of him, and thought about what it had just seen. It ran thirty more yards before it deduced it indeed had just seen something that didn’t belong there, and decided it had to go back and look again just to make sure. As it slammed on it’s brakes, the other horses chasing it slammed into one another trying to brake as well. Riders went flying off the backs, and the horses writhed around in a mangled horse heap. Ole’ Roman escaped unscathed though, and darted the opposite way down the track.
Alister turned all the way around and saw a large wooden grandstand packed with horrified spectators. Everyone was standing and looking on in an astonished hush at the pile of broken horses and riders. Above the grandstand, was a press box with a large window covering the front, and two big loudspeakers mounted on top. Two men stood inside and one broadcasted what he was seeing.
“....utter chaos. Horse and rider alike are lying in pain all over the track. It’s a bad scene folks. Never before...What? I know they can see that for themselves, but I’m the announcer. That’s what I’m paid to do, Jim. Don’t talk to me about being insensitive...wait, what’s this? Roman Holiday is up and running the opposite direction....”
Alister turned back around to face the track and could feel Roman Holiday’s hooves pound the earth as it ran back toward him. It stopped about ten feet from Alister and stared at him through it’s large black eye on the side of it’s head. It kicked it’s back legs and snorted loudly. Alister attempted to make sense of the situation, but failed to find anything rational to calm down about. To make matters worse, a woman in the crowd suddenly noticed Alister standing next to the track, and like Roman Holiday, she felt he didn’t belong there.
“A ghost!” she shrieked, and pointed to Alister before fainting all over the gentleman next to her.
“Ghost?” he asked himself aloud. He looked at himself and noticed there did appear to be some thing strange going on with his clothes and skin. He was a bit translucent, and had a strange mist which surrounded him. “Wait. How did I...?”
The crowd erupted in panic, bumping into each other as they all scrambled for the exits. Roman Holiday stood motionless staring intently at Alister. He suddenly felt he was in danger, and he was right. The horse instantly leaped the railing and exploded after him. Alister scrambled away faster than he ever thought he could move, climbed the grandstand and worked his way up the rows of bleachers. Roman Holiday jumped into the grandstand and galloped up the bleachers after him.
Alister ran along the concourse above the bleachers past the refreshment set-ups and the bathrooms. He could hear the thunderous clatter of Roman Holiday closing in behind him. The exit was in sight, but it seemed too far to escape, thought Alister. Closer than the exit was the ticket booth where folks would place their bets. He spotted the door to the booth and ducked inside just before the hooves of the giant animal ran him down

He closed the door quickly behind him, and sighed with relief. His heart raced and his face was pale and sweaty. He listened for the horse on the other side but heard nothing. He looked up and saw his greasy dishwashing apron being hurled at him. It again smacked off his glasses.
“Two in one day! How you like that. You see that one boys. Damn I’m good,” Jacqueline tried to laugh at her success but could only manage a smoker’s cough instead. “Get back to your doghouse, dish-dog. That’s strike two for leaving during your shift. One more fuck-up today,...” she finished her sentence with the throat-slashing motion.
The rest of the kitchen carried on with business as usual. No one indicated they knew of what just happened to Alister. Befuddled, he resumed his position at his dish-tank. He moved slowly, as if in a trance. What just happened, he wondered? Was that a nervous breakdown, an acid flashback, a product of alcoholism, what? He decided to try and relax a moment. He appeared physically intact again, and everything seemed normal. A few deep breaths later, he felt okay about washing some dishes. He emptied his dirty water, and started to fill up the sink again with pink soap and hot water. He tried blocking out of his consciousness whatever had just occurred. “That wasn’t real,” he giggled to himself.
“Dammit Alister. How many times have I told you, close the goddamn door all the way behind you,” Jacqueline opened it a crack to throw out her finished cigarette. As she did, a long brown snout poked through the door.
“What the fu..?” is all she got out before the door barreled open and two giant hooves slammed her to the ground. One of the back ones crushed her head, as Roman Holiday thrashed about the kitchen. Stock shelves toppled, bus trays spewed dishes everywhere, and a few servers were trampled by the giant, furious beast sprinting wildly around.
The horse stopped abruptly when it arrived at Alister’s dish tank. The remaining personnel fled in horror out of the front the restaurant. Alister was trapped. There was one way out of the surrounding chrome counters of the dish tank, and Roman Holiday was staring down at him in that direction. He closed his eyes and prepared for a hoof to crush him.
While he waited for such a gruesome death, something clicked in his mind and it became clear to him what was happening. The picture in the old book he’d been practicing with had tricked him. The screaming faces being dragged away on horseback were not the ones who the curse had been intended to harm. No, sir. Those faces belonged to the administers themselves. It was now Alister’s turn to join that picture.
He opened his eyes and their was Roman Holiday kneeling in front of the dish tank. Alister dropped his apron in the pink soapy water, and climbed up into the saddle. Since this was it, thought Alister, he slapped the horse’s hide and yelled, “Hyah!” Roman Holiday added a fitting neigh, and for effect, actually rose up a bit on it’s hind legs before it barreled out of the back door.