Yinzer Yarnz by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Yinzer Yarnz

a dectet of short stories from Pittsburgh and vicinity by Mike Bozart

© 2022 Mike Bozart

Table of Contents

i

Shadyside

ii

Bon Air

iii Seldom Seen

iv The Chat

v The Tray

vi The Delirious Cynics

vii The 3 Coins

viii Mysterieau Resurfaces

vix

Dormont Park

x

Windgap

Shadyside by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | January 2021

© 2021 Mike Bozart

“I even went to some of the early-round matches involving the minnows,” the caffeine-alert, mid-20-something, slightly-shorter-than-the-current-Caucasian-American-standing-average, dark-haired, bearded worker stated as he spread the vegetable cream cheese on the longitudinally sliced plain bagel. He seemed to be pondering something. Wonder where in the hell this 50-something, red-haired guy is from.

Why would a tourist come to Pittsburgh in the winter, and especially right now, when the Covid-19 numbers are spiking again? Bet he got a cheap-ass flight back in June.

“Where were these soccer matches played?” I enquired as I looked to my left at the vacant corner of Oliver Avenue and Grant Street on an ash-gray, damp-cold, low-cloud-capped, sporadic-patches-of-recent-snow-on-the-morning-sidewalks Sunday (December 20, 2020).

“These virtual matches were played in neighborhood pubs.

Afterwards, a few pints were intended to be consumed.

However, Covid killed that.” Inside a pub? Was it some miniaturized futbol game? A foosball tourney?

I offered up a puzzled expression.

“Each of the 68 teams were from neighborhoods in the Steel City,” he informed unfazed with civic pride. “Some of the really small ones were combined. For example, there is no Hayes – Homestead neighborhood; those are two separate neighborhoods in the southeast area. Pittsburgh actually has between 89 and 93 neighborhoods, depending on whom you ask, or what website you go to.” Very interesting. Will definitely have to write this up when I get back home.

“I see. Did these virtual matches take two hours like real soccer matches?” He is so clueless.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “The whole game session could be wrapped-up in under ten minutes. The matches themselves were very short – just two to three minutes – with seven or eight minutes of recording and result-uploading.”

“Oh, ok. So, how does it work?” I was hooked.

“First, seven numbers are picked by an online random number generator, an RNG, between 1 and 90, inclusive.”

“Ninety? Why not 100?” And why seven numbers?

“Ninety for the 90 minutes in a regulation match, me thinks,”

he said while scratching the right side of his schnoz.

“I got ya. Oh, make my three bagels rosemary – olive oil.”

And Popeye?

“Are you sure? The everything bagels are the same price.”

“Yeah, final answer,” I announced. “Those little, black, round poppy seeds get stuck between my teeth, and then I look like a meth-head.”

There was a slight chuckle from the bagelmeister.

“So, we have these seven randomly selected numbers, then what?” Will this guy steal our game and then run a league in his hometown? Guess it’s public domain.

“They are checked against a team’s slate of numbers,” he informed. “If they are a home team, they have between 17

and 30 numbers, depending on the round; away teams have between 13 and 21 numbers. Each matching number is worth a single goal, but some – not all – prime numbers are worth two goals. It’s a single-elimination tournament – kinda like [NCAA] March Madness [the popular men’s college basketball tournament] – with seeding.”

“How is/was the seeding determined?” I was intrigued.

“Well, since last fall was the first-ever tournament, we all agreed – well, let me take that back now – most of us agreed, that is, to use the average position of six ‘best Pittsburgh neighborhoods’ polls. Some not-so-popular neighborhoods strongly objected, at least initially, but eventually all signed on after getting food/drink discounts from taverns in the top-ranked ‘hoods. You know how it is, everyone has their price in the end.”

“For sure,” I concurred. “So, it was a lose-one-and-you’re-done tournament with 68 teams. I guess there was a play-in mini-round, and then a 64 – 32 – 16 – 8 – 4 – 2 – 1

reduction. Was that how the bracketing worked?”

“Not quite; it was somewhat unique. There were seven matches in each of the first six rounds, with the seven winners then becoming the away teams to the next-seven-best seeds. Rounds 7 through 9 had six matches. Round 10

– the Elite Eight – had only four. Round 11 was the

semifinals. And Round 12 was the championship final, which was held just last week.”

“Oh, wow. Which neighborhood team won?”

“Shadyside!” he exclaimed with verve as he showed me some boxed line scores on his large Samsung smartphone.

I’ve heard of that one. But, where exactly is it? Hmmm …

“Where is Shadyside?” I then asked.

“It’s in the East End, only a few miles northeast of here; it’s where I live. Some days – when it’s warmer – I ride my bike to work. It’s a pretty decent neighborhood. It’s in the top 5 in most every poll.” Must have been a single-digit seed.

“And, what did you guys win?” A gold coin? Now, why’d I think of that?

“Oh, nothing much really – mainly bragging rights. We did get a nice flag and a cool banner.”

“I see,” I affirmed.

“Not sure where we plan to put them, maybe somewhere inside the tavern. So, where are you from?”

“North Carolina – Charlotte,” I replied.

“Oh, Carolina. Got a shitload of buddies scattered down there. I go to Myrtle Beach at least twice a summer. I love that place.” Really?

“How long is the flight from PIT to MYR?” Bet it’s about two hours.

“Oh, no; I never fly – I just drive it.” Sheez! I would never drive that far anymore.

“Wow! How much mileage is that?” [693 miles; 1115 km]

“A lot. But, I really don’t mind it. Did you drive here from Charlotte?”

“No, we flew in. I can’t do long-distance car travel anymore.”

Wonder why. Bad back?

“I can’t quite make the whole stretch in one day. So, I stop in Benson [NC] at a Days Inn just off I-95, which leaves a relatively short drive the next day.”

“I see. Are the Steelers home today?”

“No, they play in Cincinnati tomorrow night. If they were playing at Heinz Field later today, this place would be packed right now – or at least if it were pre-Covid-19. You see, the Steelers stay in the [William Penn] hotel that engulfs this bagel shop.”

“Oh, ok. Think they’ll make a Super Bowl run?”

“Sincerely doubt it,” he opined. “I don’t believe that they’re as good as their 11-2 record. They’ve lost their last two, and I think they may lose more. Ben [Roethlisberger] got old. Fast.

And the defense is spotty. What about your [4-9] Panthers?”

My Panthers?

“No comment.” I chuckled.

“Ok, that will be $7.89. Cash or card?”

“Debit card.”

I paid, grabbed the brown paper bag, thanked him for the chat, said goodbye, and slid out as a young couple moseyed on in to the all-tables-cordoned-off, take-out-only, national-chain restaurant. I began walking back to our temporary one-room abode. There were still not that many people outside.

Eight minutes later, I was back in our 3rd-floor flat at the more-than-a-century-old-though-nicely-refurbished, tongue-in-cheek-artsy, major-discount-package-priced, four-star inn.

“Did you have to wait for it to open?” Carmel-to-maroon-streaked-black-haired Monique asked from the small desk on the window-side of the room.

“No, hon,” I answered next to the bedside, kitschy, birdcaged chandelier. “And, I got just what you wanted: a plain bagel with veggie cream cheese.” Yes! / Hmmm … They should have placed a stuffed bird in there. A parrot, perhaps. Maybe they did. And some guest took it.

“Yey-hey! I am so hungry. How many people were in there?

Was it crowded? You were gone a while.” Was I? Talked too much, I guess.

“It was just me and the sole employee, Agent 32.” Agent 32?

Hmmm … I bet he is recording right now. The sneaky kano.

[Filipino slang for American]

“A woman or a man?” Monique demanded to know.

“A guy in his 20s,” I replied. “We got into a bit of a conversation.” A bit?

“About what?” She’s like a prosecutor today.

“Well, he’s a big fan of Myrtle Beach. He drives there every summer.” What?! Why in the world were they talking about a beach in South Carolina?

“Drives? From here? No way!”

“Yeah, I know, hon. That’s quite a long haul. Well, he also mentioned some bizarre, computer-based, virtual soccer league,

consisting

of

teams

from

the

Pittsburgh

neighborhoods. It sounded kind of interesting.” Only hubby would find such interesting.

“A virtual soccer league? Yeah, that’s right up your alley, Dodoy.” [one of Monique’s many nicknames for me]

“Yeah, it really is, 32. He showed me some of the results of the virtual matches. I was genuinely intrigued.”

“I’m sure you were. I’m sure you were.” Echo mode?

“Repetition will get you knowhere [ sic] in half the allotted time, Monique.”

“Knowhere with a silent k?”

“Yeppers.”

Monique then started to devour her torus. I chewed at my still-mildly-warm, soft-but-dense, delicious bagel while looking out the window. My mind began to meander. Did I just see some snowflakes? Don’t think snow is predicted today. Maybe just some straggler-crystals. Would love to check out the Shadyside neighborhood. Not sure if Monique will want to go. She seems content in this warm hotel room with her smartphone. She sure loves that Visayan bayot

[gay] comedian.

“Hon, want to hop on a city bus and check out the eastside of town?” I enquired.

“Nah, you go ahead. It’s a little too chilly-willy for me. Just bring me back a pineapple drink. Is there a Trader Joe’s

where you are going? I like theirs best; it’s from the ‘pinas.”

[Philippines]

“Yes, in fact, there is, 32.” Hubby is definitely recording. It’s obvious now. Wonder if he will let me review the final draft before he publishes it online, and shares it on Facebook. He has been bypassing me as of late.

“Yey!” she exclaimed.

“I should be back in two hours. Lock the dead-bolt. If anyone knocks, look out the peephole before opening.”

“Yes, yes; I know, darling.”

“Just a friendly reminder from Mr. Health & Safety.”

“Ok, 33. Be safe, too. Don’t talk to anyone.” Yep, she knows that this will be part of a future short story.

“But, I won’t have much of a story then, 32,” I protested. Why does he feel compelled to talk to complete strangers? We don’t know a soul in this city.

“Ok, just get going.” What a send-off. Guess the honeymoon is over.

I caught the P1 bus on Grant Street at Steel Plaza. The sparsely occupied bus was soon whizzing along on an auto-traffic-restricted two-lane road: the MLK East Busway. I pulled the stop-request cable and got off at the below-Negley Avenue platform.

After walking south for three long blocks, I arrived at Walnut Street. I turned right. At first, nothing special, but after the fourth block, a sub-district of boutique shops and trendy restaurants arose. Looks like a nice, up-and-coming, re-imagined old neighborhood. Wonder if the bagel dude lives around here.

Once across quietly deserted Filbert Street, a two-second mutual glance with a young Asian lady, who appeared to be drinking coffee, or perhaps hot green tea, alone beside a picture window in an above-retail apartment. My mind raced back to 1978. Wonder what Monica [a grade-lower-at-a-small-single-cloister-parochial-school-in-east-Charlotte, of-Chinese-ancestry student] is thinking right now – at this exact moment. ‘Need to buy that nice sweater at Nordstrom before someone else does’? Or, back then on that backyard

slope, now a few degrees less steep from four decades of so-slow-as-to-be-imperceptible-at-a-quick-glance, invisibly

incremental, between-the-grass-roots erosion. ‘Oh, Mike, you will forever be a strange one.’ [internal chuckle] Such an odd life. Is there a clearinghouse of thoughts? Some-meta-where?

My reverie was broken by a car horn. Someone was slow to accelerate from a green light. Maybe an all-nighter? Or, are they smack-whacked, [high on heroin] and passed-out?

I then turned right onto Bellefonte Street. Soon I was passing the brick-and-mortar-walled William Penn Tavern. Is this the official PNSL [Pittsburgh Neighborhood Soccer League] pub for Shadyside. Well, can’t ask; it’s closed and vacated.

I eventually turned right onto Elmer Street. I walked with my toboggan-capped head down: a burst of graupel. Still alone on the residential lane, I crossed College Street, and then was on Spahr Street, heading northeast. Then, a right on Ellsworth Avenue. Finally, a cut-through of the Giant Eagle –

Family Dollar parking lot, and I was on Penn Avenue. I saw the Trader Joe’s sign on the left. Soon I was in a long queue (store occupancy restricted due to Covid-19). Jeez! This line is worse than the usual line at the Metropolitan – Midtown store. [Charlotte]

I exited the store, descended some nearby steps, and soon boarded the P1 at the East Liberty stop. Once again, there was hardly anyone on the bus. One benefit of this pandemic: uncrowded buses and trains.

Upon opening the hotel room: “What took you so long?”

Bon Air by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | July 2021

© 2021 Mike Bozart

Forty-and-a-shade-or-two-more, maritime Southeast Asian Monique intently studies a colorful, previously unretouched, glossy, tri-fold brochure that she snagged the day before from an information kiosk at PIT (Pittsburgh International Airport). She is seated in front of me (nebulous Agent 33) on the right side of an almost-vacant-due-to-the-Covid-19-pandemic T light-rail car. As the northbound Blue Line train slows for the next station – Denise – on a chilly-but-calm, overcast, mid-to-late December afternoon (2020), she suddenly twists her Filipina head around.

“Why does Pittsburgh end with an h, but all of the other burgs in the [United] States end with a g? What’s the deal with that, bana?” [husband in Cebuano] Bergelsburgher. [sic]

Whence that boroughsome [sic] neologism cometh a-burrowing? Why does my crenulated clump oft repeat it?

[internal chuckle]

“Actually, Agent 32, [Monique’s psecret psociety agent no.]

the Steel City had no letter h from 1891 through 1911; Pittsburgh [pronounced with an aridly affected stress on the gh] went two decades without that distinctive, semi-muted

‘huh’ on the end.” Agent 32? Semi-muted ‘huh’? Bet he’s recording again. He’s so desperate for short-story material these days. My dodoy [Monique’s Visayan-based, self-concocted nickname for me] will toss a pebble into any pond just to see the ripples diffract around a turtle’s head.

“You’re being overdramatic for your hidden microphone.

Nobody says ‘Pittsburgh’ like that, 33. No one. What an outrageous mispronunciation.” She whips her head back around. Wonder if he took any mind-melding substances in that mall food-court restroom? [at South Hills Village] Such a sneaky kano. [very common Filipino slang for American] /

Wonder if that cute, thirty-ish Latina maid [who we saw earlier in the hotel elevator] is cleaning our room right now.

At this very moment. Has she noticed the $12 tip on the table? Sure hope so. Such hard, back-breaking toil.

[Monique was a hotel housekeeper for a spell at the Ritz-Carlton in uptown Charlotte.] Though, we left the room in pretty good shape. She won’t have much tidying to do. Just a change of sheets. Maybe replace a couple of towels. An easy room to dispatch from her to-do list. Hmmm … What will she think of my non-business card? Will she play along?

Nah. Probably already trashed it. No time for such nonpaying Anglo-centric frivolity. Three more rooms – or is it four? – to clean by 2:55. [PM] It’s going to be close. Down to the bare-copper lamp wire. [observed in a motel room in

Carolina Beach in 2016] Will she make it? ‘Hustle! Hustle it!’

Bet the supervisor’s voice grates her nerves. Probably wishing she called in sick. Again. Got off neural track. 6a.

The fey way. Always anticipating the improbable: the low-rent, highly spent story of my shunt-extended life. Proved to be a losing stratagem. Hmmm … These culture wars. Quite amusing. And so tragic at the same time. What a ‘lovely’

overrated species. Babbling baboons bipedaling towards the precipice. ‘I must be the first billionaire ego in outer space!’

Vain priorities. Bet this ‘great’ ape race is smoldering burnt toast by 2121. Or maybe 2071. [internal groan] Wonder what Agent 66 is doing right now in Morganton. [NC] Screen-printing cosmic clues? Onto old shoes? In faded hues? Why couldn’t it have worked out? Stuck in Charlotte: a bastion of bore-ons. [sic] Bleh. What a feckless fate.

Two Caucasian passengers, a presumed mother and daughter board the articulated Siemens SD-400. A few seconds later the train is moving again. The twin-rail-guided coach smoothly passes over a closed-off, disused-and-devoid-of-autos, apparently-no-longer-necessary, bordering-on-petite parking pot. A rather steep, densely wooded hillside on the right arrests my attention: an assortment of leafless, gray-barked deciduous trees on a white carpet of fallen-three-days-ago snow. My mind meanders with the passing, dormant, sylvan scene. An exemplarily perfect early winter day in eastern North America. When did I last think that? Or, have I pondered such before? Memory not so sharp anymore. This part of Pittsburgh is very much Appalachia. Could pass for anywhere on the ancient spine between southern Maine and northern Georgia, give or take a few tree species. Almost like the suburbs of Asheville. [NC]

Or that sinuous freight railroad between Old Fort and Black Mountain. [NC] Wonder what kind of mischief has taken place in those woods during the warmer months. Was a valuable object ever lost over there? A ring? A necklace? An auspice. Or a …

“Bon Air Station,” the monotone announcement states as the train decelerates. “Exit to the right. Please watch your step.”

As the train approaches the platform, Monique and I notice a middle-aged,

average-build,

black-beanie-capped

man

running up the angled concrete ramp from the station towards the isolated, eponymous, single-family-home neighborhood high above. Wonder why he’s in such a rush on a lazy, languid, lead-headed Sunday afternoon. Mantality

[sic] sports? Ha! What is it with that non-word? Need to give

it a rest. Is he cold? His coat looks wholly adequate, and adequately hole-free. Has something adverse happened back at his domicile? An emergency of some sort? Has the teenage son passed-out from an inadvertent – or advertent –

fentanyl overdose? Or, has the pre-teen daughter locked herself in her bedroom and won’t respond? Sheez! What grim thoughts. Or, is he just getting in a good calorie-burn?

Need to start riding the [single-speed] bike again. The beltline circumference is going in the wrong direction; becoming the bulgeline. [sic] Pants getting tight. Not good. /

Wonder if hubby is wondering why that man is running. Bet his wife told him to ‘get your ass back home now!’ Probably something like that. Was probably watching [NFL] football and drinking beer. Too much beer, I bet. Getting silly. Too silly. Got drunk. ‘I’ll quickly sober up by running up this hill.’

Crazy male mentality. Hmmm … Or, is he fleeing a crime scene? Did he rob someone? Where is the victim? A woman? How bad is she hurt? Need to cut down on the real-crime TV. So addictive, though. Those horrible events really happened. Not made-up stories. 100% true. Not partially fictitious, like hubby’s. Whew! America has more sadists and murders than I ever imagined. Hope we get back to the hotel before dark. Don’t want to be traipsing around an unfamiliar American city at dusk. Scary. Just never know what might happen. Most likely not good. Time to check Facebook. That bayot [gay in Cebuano] comedian will ease my mind. He’s so darn funny! Hee-hee.

The train rolls out of the unpretentious station as the running man disappears up a narrow, vehicle-traffic-long-ago-barred, old-asphalt-lane, pipe-handrailed Clanton Street. The slender coach double-lurches, but is soon smoothly slope-sailing, paralleling sparsely trafficked Saw Mill Run Boulevard. As Boggs Station nears, everyone aboard is drowsily silent. The train is tight-lipped, too.

My mind meanders yet again on the descent to the Monongahela River. That last Bruegger’s rosemary – olive oil bagel sure will be nice later. That’s really all I need for the remainder of the day. Enough carbs to barble [sic] a balrus.

[sic] What ridiculous nonsense I thinketh of late. Wow! Now, we’re in a tunnel. Wonder what Monique wants for dinner.

Probably Chinese takeout. Was that joint on Smithfield Street? Could walk there. / Getting hungry again. Will need some rice soon. Wonder what hubby is thinking about.

Probably wants more dark beer. Yuck! Wish he would stop.

His gut can’t take alcohol anymore. IBS. Bleeding ulcers.

Tomorrow will be ruined. Or, is he still thinking about that

running man? There really is no telling. Until he writes it up.

Will he remain completely honest with his thoughts – and mine – in the final draft? Will he let me review it this time?

Hmmm …

Back in his modest, two-bedrooms-over-a-single-car-garage, asbestos-sided home on Institute Street in the Bon Air neighborhood, the man seen running, 38-year-old Melvin Mortensuhmohr, excitedly turns on his computer on his red-maple dining table. He quickly has Google Maps occupying his rectangular screen. After switching from aerial view to street view on the corner of Conniston Avenue and Drycove Street (not too far from his house), he zooms in on the woods beyond the short, vertical-slat fence (installed in 1994

per then-mayor Tom Murphy’s Project Picket Fence for vacant lots). Now, where did she go? She was right there on Bill’s [a longtime friend and Duquesne University maintenance employee in Uptown] computer. Surely there is only one version of street view at a time for a specific intersection. What the heck is going on? Was it updated while I was jogging back home? Sincerely doubt that. Or is there a separate version for Apple devices? [Melvin was on an HP laptop] Hmmm … She sure looked like Dorothea. [his ex-girlfriend] The medium-length dark hair with those unmistakable highlighted bangs – her bangs! The clothing –

that was her lime-green blouse! That tan Colombian face –

even though slightly blurred – was hers! Why would she be wandering around my neighborhood? If one does not live in Bon Air, there aint no reason to come up here. The air may be better than below, but it’s not ‘that’ remarkable. Those smoky steel mills are long gone now. Let’s see … Hmmm …

Was she spying on me? Why? Has she not moved on and met someone? Yet? Un hombre rico? [‘a rich man’ in Spanish] Has another Joe-to-blow not availed an opening by now. By now? Maybe so. Wake up, you idiot! It has been three months – at least – since that shadowy photo was taken by a mapmobile. [sic] Ah, let me twist the angle a little.

Voilá! There she is again! Cunning Miss Dorothea Lopez.

And judging by the leaves, was probably late summer.

Maybe very early fall. Would bet it was the last third of September. We had been apart for how long then? Hmmm

… Let’s see … Six weeks. August 8th. [2020] That was the last Saturday she was in this house. What a ‘glorious’ day that was. [internal moan] Would we have stayed together if there were no Covid-19? Got engaged – instead of enraged

– and got married? Who knows? Hmmm … Really need to replace that ancient furnace. Maybe next fall. So damn expensive. Think it can make it through one more winter.

Hope so. Savings dwindling fast. Wonder how many Americans realize that the pied piper has nothing to do with pie. No pie-in-the-face gag. No mawkish meringue. Rats, then children, being led astray by a flautist. ‘Pay up or else.

Last chance. Not joking!’ Widespread fear of the plague in Lower Saxony. 1313 in Hamelin. Uneasy times in the Germanic village. Probably a growing cluster of suspicion.

‘Does that kid have it?’ ‘Avoid the Steinhausers at all costs!’

Yeah, the Covid-19 pandemic of their time. But, you can’t usher an airborne virus out of town. This damn coronavirus is so evil – so insidious. From a lab? Hmmm … Would Dorothea and I have had a kid if we stayed together? The things that one will never know. Wonder who’s slipping her the Kielbasa? Now.

The fairly clean, perhaps-damp-mopped-two-hours-ago, light-rail car remains quiet as we come into an elevated station – the first one on the north side of the north-northwest-flowing river: First Avenue. Two 40-something, scarfed, faux-fur-glove-donning African American women get on and no one gets off. We are soon rolling again. Such light volume due to Covidium. [sic] Well, Sundays are light for mass transit in any U.S. city. But, this is unusually light, I’m sure. So many have died during this wicked pandemic. Not a surprise if you are old and morbidly obese, but those seemingly healthy teenagers who have died … Bet they never saw that coming. Tragic young deaths. Wow! Thirty years – three whole decades almost to the exact day – since attractive, extreme-blonde-haired, busty, Buffalo-born Jill [a friend from Charlotte] blew her head off with a shotgun.

Whew! Must have been an über-epic, cocaine-laced argument. Would hate to have been the one to have discovered that bloody mess. And explain it to her mom. And to the authorities. Exactly how many Americans died on that Sunday in December of 1990? Of trivial import? ‘A palindromic 6006 for the win, Alex!’ Madness.

Soon the train is entering an underground passageway. And soon after that we are rolling into the Steel Plaza Station. I notice only a few seemingly-thinking-of-the-not-too-distant-future, stray, singular souls on the well-swept, flush-seamed, stone-tiled platforms. We are soon disembarking. Do we have everything? Sure would hate to leave my wallet on this train. Tourist paranoia.

We begin the trek back to our temporary abode via Oliver Avenue. Mellon Place is disserted. Moreover, the street scene on William Penn Place is very subdued. Almost like

the city is in an eerie, invisible-threat-present, sci-fi movie.

‘Venture out in public at your own risk!’ These times are out of a science fiction novel. A collapsing waveform every day/way.

Monique then spies the conspicuously three-dimensional Hotel Monaco sign on the corner of the tan-stone-sided edifice. “Yey! We’re back. I’m tired, but sooooo hungry! I need to lie down. Could you be a kind bana and get me some Asian food?” Knew that was coming. An exploratory walk will be nice, though. Everything is new to ‘mine eyes have never seen’.

“Certainly, hon,” I reply. “No problem, asawa.” [wife in Cebauano]

I walk her back to the hotel entrance, see her safely inside, watch her wave her access key-card, and then set off to find some Chinese chow. I would eventually stumble upon Mandarin Gourmet at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Wood Street. Open. Takeout only. This will do the trick.

Eleven minutes later I am back at our hotel room with the rice-bedded grub. Monique immediately begins to devour the sesame chicken with a white plastic fork.

“You didn’t get anything for yourself?” She is surprised.

“No, I still have that bagel.” Maybe eat it in an hour. Or two.

I get our cheapo laptop going while seated in the armchair next to the bed. Being a geo-freak, I am soon on Google Maps looking at the streets of downtown Pittsburgh, trying to memorize which ones intersect and which ones run (somewhat) parallel. Then I shift down south. I zoom in on the Bon Air Station area. And then I zoom in some more, switching to aerial view. I soon notice that the zigzagging ramps where the man was running is more of a letter M than a Z. And then I notice that my little card with the single question is gone. Guess it’s in a plastic trash bag in a dumpster below. Oh, well. That’s how it goes. Foolish all the way to the biodegradable grave.

“Hon, did you happen to see that little card that I placed on the nightstand before we left?” I enquire.

“I sure did, bana. And I saved it. It’s in my purse now.” Wow!

The maid didn’t trash it after all. Probably just ignored it.

[Monique had told me a few years ago that hotel housekeepers are trained not to disturb papers, cards, etc.]

“Was there any writing on the back of it, astute agent 32? A certain English-alphabet letter by chance?”

“What letter were you hoping for, Agent 33?” she asks between chomps.

“Not any one letter in particular; was just hoping for a letter,”

I respond.

“Seeking sublime significance in a feared-to-be-ultimately-inconsequential existence. Did I get that right?”

“Yeah, you sure did, mahal.” [love in Cebuano] I sigh.

“That query with directions: ‘What is the first initial of whom you are thinking about at this moment? Please answer on reverse.’ Only you would ask such a question.”

“Well, Agent 32, was there, or wasn’t there, a letter on the card’s backside?”

“Em-possible.” [ sic]

Seldom Seen by Mike Bozart (Agent 33 ) | August 2021

© 2021 Mike Bozart

Single-dingle, black-denim-clad, chestnut-hiking-booted, still-teenage-slim, light-brown-haired Nigel L. Legin pauses next to the dry-spell-shallow, rock-strewn creek (Sawmill Run on the south side of Pittsburgh) just before a railroad overpass.

A faltering beam of low-angle sunlight passes through the fading-green-with-abstract-yellow-blots leaves, which are still being ever so lightly retained by the maple branches on a mild, dry, first-day-of-October, advanced Saturday afternoon.

The 44-year-old Amerasian begins to reminisce. Wow.

Twenty years. Yep, ‘twas 20 years ago. Two whole decades.

Have evanesced. Have completely vanished. Into thin air.

Very thin air. Thinner than that vacated spider’s web-anchoring filament. Amazing how the time has flown. ‘Bye.’

And why, it seems like just last year when Kahia [a Shawnee Native American lady] and I were here on that fabulous fall day. Such similar weather. Wonder what became of her. Bet she married that bizarre-as-a-sleety-day-in-hell, snow-white, albino dude who lived in Lawrenceville. [an East End Pittsburgh neighborhood] Oh, what was his name? Higgins the hipster! Yeah, that was his moniker. That white-collared hamster crawling on his shoulder. With that miniature bright red tie. What an unforgettable sight. So whacked. Too much glue-sniffing, I bet. Wonder if they had any kids. Hell, they probably broke up within the first month. Or second. Hmmm

… Said she saw a slew of clear, thin-edged, hexagonal shapes in the air on that auspicious autumn day. Were they refractions from an angular shard of glass? Somewhere.

Seldom seen. And then that freight train passing overhead.

That sudden loud horn. Can still see her running under the bridge, and then turning and screaming: ‘It’s so heavy, man; it could crush us in an instant!’ That maniacal facial expression. Where did she pick up such odd programming?

From a pipe? Or pills?

Nigel then looks down at the creek. The water is sediment-settled clear. A lone minnow darts by. And then disappears into a shadowy section of undercut bank. What’s chasing it?

Or, is it chasing something smaller? Or, is both occurring? Is it predatory? Or sexual? Or both? Screw and devour? What a ridiculous thought. Sure is a divine day. Well, guess it’s time to head back to the old half-flat. [his small, bordering-on-cramped, one-bedroom apartment in the Beechview neighborhood] Yeah, time to get moving along. Moving along this conveyor belt of life. Hoping for a smooth off-ramp. With all my accrued leave, only five years away from a pension.

Though, it won’t be a whole lot. But, I’m sure it would be enough to live somewhere in rural Southeast Asia. Maybe somewhere up in the mountains with an island goddess and

her ladyboy brother. A two-for-one. [internal chuckle] Hmmm

… Wonder if a Walloon woman and a Flemish gent ever had an eye-rolling, exasperation-infused, Dutch-to-French-to-broken-English encounter right here. What would be the odds of that? Hmmm … Was the spider eaten? By a bird? A lizard? A centipede? Or was it stung, paralyzed, and hauled off by a certain species of wasp? Or, did it just drop out of its web from boredom. ‘I’m done with this.’ <sploosh> [internal chuckle] Such a strange existence.

Three hundred and sixty-five days later, October 1, 2017, forty-three-year-old, cycling-spandex-attired, svelte Kahia stops her silver, 11-year-old, 7-speed bicycle and dismounts very close to where Nigel was the previous year. She looks at the same railroad bridge. She takes a deep early-Sunday-evening breath. And exhales. Slowly. A light southwesterly gust blows her sable bangs. Woah! How long ago was it?

Was it 1996? Yeah, that was the year. Was that when Monica [Lewinsky] nobble-dong-gobbled [President] Bill?

[Clinton] Seems about right. So, that outing was 21 years ago. Strangely shy Nigel. Though, I was strange, too, back then. What an awkward day-date that was. Never got a feel for what was on his mind. Did he want to have sex with me?

Too timid to make the first move? What in the world is he doing now? Probably stroking his sausage to some internet porn. [internal chuckle] Bet he’s living alone in some obscure place. Or, is he happily married? With kids? Or, did he turn out to be gay? Or, did he die from some rare illness? Why did I think that? Shame on me. Did he strike it rich? A Bitcoin billionaire? Ha! Would just be my luck. Should have slyly asked him out on a fourth date. A final chance. Before it became too late. Nah, we were not a match. Would have never worked out. Or, would it have? Will never know now.

Was that a snake in the water?! Yikes!

A large hawk circling overhead catches Kahia’s eye. She muses as it descends. Must be closing in for the kill. Maybe why the water snake hightailed it for that clump of weeds.

Or, maybe the hawk spotted a mouse or rat. A rat? That would be Marty. Why did I ever stay with him for so long?

Should have cut it off years ago. More interested in pet rodents than me. Almost as bad as Higgins. Wonder what became of that odd duck? Are all relationships doomed to imbalance? Hmmm … And dear Janet? What became of her? She was the girl most like Nigel. Someone should have forced a date on them. But, life goes on. Regardless. A succession of forks on one’s path. And after 21 years, there’s been a whole lotta forks. ‘For fork’s sake!’ Should jot

that down. Post it on my [Days in the life of a 40-something, semi-ordinary, female Pittsburgher] blog later. Will need to change it to ‘50-something’ in 79 months. The big 5-oh is creeping closer. Oh, the joy. Not. Wonder if I can stay active? Stay somewhat fit. Sure hope so. Margie [a close friend] is quite the slender long-distance runner at 47. Not an ounce of belly fat. The years sure pass quickly now. Just like mom and dad said they would. Sure do miss them. Why’d they have to get on that airplane on that icy morning?

Because they were determined to get to Fort Myers [FL] to escape the January chill. That’s why. Wish they would have cancelled that flight. [internal groan] Hope the new guy can do the work satisfactorily. And isn’t a perv. Like the last one.

Should I join a free dating site? Or, a pay one? Michelle [a semi-close friend] said the pay ones are better: no cheapskate flakes. Hmmm … Am I really ready to date again? Kinda nice not having to worry about the rage from a male’s bad day at work. And my studio apartment sure is quiet. Spooky quiet. Solitary Lisa [a coworker-friend] said that one gets used to it. Maybe call her later. Here come a pack of teenage boys. They look kinda rough. Time to get moving along. Let’s not become another crime statistic. Am I becoming paranoid in my middle age? Better safe than sorry. Poor Julie. [an acquaintance] Run over by a texting driver. Cell phones: a convenience and a curse. Glad I added this mirror to the [left-side] handlebar. Well, time to get going. Time to roll on back to the abode. [in Pittsburgh’s Duquesne Heights neighborhood]

Nigel begins to warm a small, rectangular, frozen cheese pizza in his almost-ancient, 825-watt microwave oven. The sash of the screened kitchen window is open slightly. The mild fall air wafts in. He hears some kids playing kickball three stories below. His mind wanders back to a September day in Westwood [a West End Pittsburgh neighborhood] 34

years ago. The summer of ’83. Those kickball games at the park. Left-footed Larry slicing that over-inflated, mauve-colored, bouncing ball. Badly. Immediately going foul, looping over the 3rd-base line, and just above the [chain-link]

fence. Took so long to find it. Stuck in the crotch of a birch tree. ‘Look, there it is!’ Keen-eyed Chris. Yeah, he spotted it first. But, the ball sure didn’t last long. Popped the next day.

Wonder what became of Chris. Seems someone said that he went to Carnegie Mellon. [University] Probably rolling in dough. Sharp dude. <ding> Dinnertime! How many of these

‘gourmet’ pizzas have I now eaten? There is an exact number. Hiding. Somewhere. Seldom seen.

At 9:59 PM, after an hour of apartment-cleaning, Nigel flips on the flat screen TV in the compact, hardly-living room. The local news begins. The lead story is about a missing woman.

A bicycle lying on a paved path is zoomed in on. The bike has a flat front tire.

[TV audio, a 30-something male reporter’s voice] “The missing lady’s name is Kahia Aihak. Her driver’s license and other ID cards were found nearby. She appears to have suffered an inner-tube puncture while riding her bike on the Seldom Seen Greenway. Foul play has not been ruled out by the police. If you have any credible information, please call 414-713-XXXX. A reward is being set up.”

Just before breaking away from the onsite Caucasian reporter, there is a split-second hexagonal light refraction on the camera lens.

The Chat by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | Sept. 2021

© 2021 Mike Bozart

Wil Orwilnaught flips on his laptop computer on a cool but autumnally inviting Sunday evening (October 25, 2020).

Ashen clouds from northeastern Ohio, including a radar-evading roof-scraper out of East Liverpool, have now settled over Regent Square (an East End Pittsburgh neighborhood).

The brown-haired Caucasian gent gazes over his detached, front-yard-occupying, cinder-block-walled garage on narrow, storm-grate-side-pocket-less Billiard Way. The late-20-something neighbors across the street are merrily drinking hard seltzer and sparkling wine atop their wrought-iron-railed, flat-topped, curbside, cauliflower-white-painted, two-car garage. The forty-seven-year-old Steel City native becomes lost in thought in the dying gloaming. Those millennials sure seem to be having a jolly old time over there. Again. Wonder who the guests are tonight. Some in-laws? Out-of-town friends? Across-town friends? Nearby friends? Nearly nearby friends? Nearby nearly friends?

[internal chuckle] Maybe I’m envious. Ah, to be 29 again …

<beep> The silver-cased computer prompts for a password to continue the startup process. Wil enters an arcane 13-letter phrase. Soon he is logging onto the popular Reddit website. A message alert is immediately observed. He clicks on the icon and quietly reads:

Hello there, Wil, Mr. super-cool middle-age dude! I’d really like to know more about you, you handsome savant, you. Are you single again by chance? I get that impression from many of your posts and comments.

Hey, could we chat on Google? I would really like to get to know you, word by typed word. I am fascinated with you, Wil the wordsmith – the smither

[ sic] of malleable-alloy mots. Now, I’m typing like you! You’ve invaded my brain! Well, I don’t know how to explain my supreme infatuation with you.

Anyway, my email address is a#%^*~z@gmail.com. Oh, here’s my pic below. [a quite attractive, mid-30-ish, somewhat-Latina-looking, buxom, flannel-shirted, ebony-haired lady] Hope you approve. Fingers crossed.

Wil sighs. ‘Mr. super-cool middle-age dude’ [internal chuckle]

‘handsome savant’ Oh, puh-lease. ‘I am fascinated with you.’

Really? With average Joe Schmo me? These scammers never stop. Always one more gullible schmuck to be fleeced.

Time to report and block this hustler. No, wait. Let’s just string him/her/it – well, it could be AI [artificial intelligence] –

along. Got nothing else to do tonight. I’ll make a game out of it. This is going to be fun. I’ll tell ‘her’ that I’m a self-made internet millionaire. [internal chortle] Yeah, tell ‘her’ that I have wads of cash to quickly disperse to a receptive female.

Next, Wil is logging in to his Gmail account. Soon the chat box pops up. After inserting the e-mail address, he enters some introductory text:

Hello there, sexy thirty-something-so-sweet-and-so-fine! Sure, we can chat here. You want to know something about me: I’m a man who has gotten everything that he has ever wanted in life, and my bank accounts are testament to that. Yes, you’re in luck: I’m single and available once again. So, what are the chances of me landing you, hot stuff?

Wil guffaws. That should send ‘her’ über-scheming algorithm into overdrive. Can already feel ‘her’ salivation for my wallet.

Well, enough for tonight. Let’s just sleep on it. Apparently

‘she’ is not online at the moment. Or, maybe ‘she’ is busy scamming some lonely widower in Florida. Or Arizona.

Maybe no reply. Ever. Maybe I went too over-the-top. Who knows? Eh, who cares? ‘Next.’ Big day at the office [in Bluff-Uptown] tomorrow. Must get in before the boss. And look busy. Hopefully that damn vendor has responded to last Friday morning’s e-mail. Need to go to bed. Soon. Get a good night’s sleep. Hmmm … Where did I leave that jar of melatonin? Oh yeah, on the other side of the dresser. When did I set it there? Can’t seem to remember.

Wil nods off during the weather segment of the 10 o’clock local news. He has a nice night of tranquil slumber. The neighbor’s rooftop shindig quietly ceases without incident at 10:41 PM.

At a foggy-in-the-valleys 7:43 AM the next morning, he is switching on the desktop computer in his modest, fifth-floor, older-but-recently-renovated, high-ceiling office. With a hot cup of cappuccino in his left hand, he right-index-finger-pecks the keys to get his Gmail account open. And there suddenly pops up the reply to his opening salvo: Wil, Wil the thrill. Will Wil just chill? Baby, I’m not a gold digger! Relax, I’m not after your money. Darling, that was insulting. I’m hurt. Feeling so sad.

Really, dear, I’m not that type. I would love you even if we were together in just a bare teepee (and service your bare teepee early and often). I am now laughing. ☺ If you want to call me to confirm that I am a real woman, and more specifically, that I am indeed the woman in that pic, here’s my cell no. 412-876-XXXX. Call me between 7 and 8 PM. Thanks in advance.

Your future wife, Suzi

Wil exhales, grins, sighs, and glances out the window at the grayish green Monongahela River. His mind meanders with the languid northwestward flow. ‘Your future wife’ [internal

chortle] Utterly hysterical. Why would an alluring sexpot like her want to get involved with a middle-income – make that lower-middle-income – average-looking guy like me? So crazy. Doesn’t add up. Though, ‘twould be great to meet her for coffee. Or a beer. Would love to give her the old piston service on the new mattress. Bet she can ball like a desperate, last-chance mistress. That bed hasn’t seen any action in nine months. Damn this Covid-19 pandemic! When will normalcy ever return? Wonder what Lily [his ex-girlfriend]

is doing now. Probably the [Pittsburgh] Steelers special teams unit. Becoming an expert in the recovery of onside dicks. [internal chortle] Should I type a reply? Or, should I just call later? Hmmm … Maybe both. Just keep it brief.

Yeah, keep it short and sweet.

I’ll call you this evening, Suzi. Have a nice day, dear. Stay safe. - Wil

The workday passes uneventfully for the most part, as the Slovenian American boss is in remote meetings all day with his door closed. Shanice, the mid-20-something African American receptionist, mentions a motor-vehicle incident in Allentown (a south-side Pittsburgh neighborhood), in which a lamppost was toppled. She tells Wil that a mother pushing her baby in a stroller was nearly struck by it. “It pays to be lucky,” she announces in closing.

Wil churns Shanice’s summarizing phrase in his mind the rest of the day . ‘It pays to be lucky.’ Certainly with games of chance. Like lotteries. And scratch-off tickets. And in casinos. Yessiree, it pays to be lucky. In life. In love. In sports. In jobs. Being good will get you a decent ways/raise.

But, if you are good AND Lady Luck smiles on you … Bingo!

Shazam! Cha-ching! Wonder what Miss Suzi is all about.

How long until she’s hitting me up for a gift card? [internal chuckle] That’s when I’ll say that I’m allergic to the plastic used to make them. ‘Dear, it makes my fingers break out in hives when I touch one.’ That should send ‘her’ well-honed procedure somersaulting. ‘Dear, just wear gloves.’

Wil remains in the office after everyone has left on his floor.

He eats the left-over portion of a turkey sub sandwich that he had for lunch as he watches the news on his monitor. At 7:04 PM, he dials Suzi’s 10-digit number from his desk phone. And after four rings, he hears:

“Hul-lo.” Not the voice I was expecting. Kind of hoarse and rough. Not exactly super-feminine like her photo. Her photo?

Doubt that.

“Hello, this is Wil from the chat box. Is this Suzi?”

“Oh, hi there, Wil. Thanks for calling me. So, how was your day, dear?” Weird. Her tone. Strangely aloof. Almost like I’m already an afterthought. Probably just prospect no. 17. Or 37? Probably already has me in the longshot file. ‘Don’t expend any more energy on this one.’

“It was ok. Just a get-through-it-without-a-meltdown Monday.

Uh, where are you now, Suzi? Are you in the city?” Bet she’s in Honduras or Guatemala. Area codes are easily spoofed.

“Are you horny, Wil? Is your crotch cramped and getting gooey? I would love for your male endowment to part my vulva tonight.” Wow! That was quick and direct. ‘Male endowment to part my vulva’? So freaking outrageous!

Some wry dude must have written that script for her. Bet all the ladies at this ‘organization’ say that to the prospective

‘clients’, Well, get ready, old boy … [drumroll] … here comes the expensive catch. ‘Wil, baby, I’m a little light in the purse tonight. Was wondering if you could …’ ‘Bye-bye, you swy

[sic] swindler!’

“I assumed that we were going to get to know each other first. I’m a man of principles.” [internal chuckle]

“Wil, are you playing hard to get? Why waste time beating around the bush? We know what we want.” She won’t tell me where she is. Something fishy going on here. Yep, this is Scamville Maximus. [sic] But, let’s play along. Awhile. Let out some more line. See where she takes it.

“Oh, I would never string you along, babe. Your time is way too valuable, sweetie. Say, could you take a pic of yourself under the nearest street sign?” Zing! Gotcha!

“I’m in Pittsburgh, babe. On the North Shore. The camera on my cell phone is broken. I dropped it the other day. It landed right on the lens. Cracked it. I hope to get a new one someday. Do you not trust me, Wil? I trust you; I trust you with my life.” Classic e-date hustle. Ah, but I know how to implode her ruse.

“So, what did you think of the weather today, Suzi?” Game, set, match. She’s probably scrambling to a weather website.

“Will, honey, you are breaking up. Bad reception in this basement apartment. Let’s continue on Google Chat at 9

o’clock. Love you, baby. Bye for now, dear.” She did sound a bit garbled. Was she telling the truth? Wouldn’t bet on it.

“Ok, goodbye.”

<click> Wil muses as he sees a T Red Line light-rail train crossing the bored-since-the-industrial-years river. She would not confirm her location, nor would she answer a simple question about today’s weather. A typical, modern-day, loot-hustling, internet-centric scheme. Preying on lonely males’ fantasies. Wonder what her batting average is. .333?

Maybe not that high. .222? Could play for the hapless

[Pittsburgh] Pirates. [internal chuckle] Maybe only .111. One in nine. Awful for a baseball hitter, but maybe good enough for such a scam. Wonder what the average haul is? $400?

$500? $600? What is the intake rate per hour? Oh, who knows? She seemed ready to ask me for several hundred dollars for a new cell phone. Hinted at it, but did not actually ask. Is she really in a subterranean location north of the Allegheny River? With bad cell reception? Long odds on that. 79 to 1? Pass. Though, where exactly is she? Overseas most likely. Maybe she’s forced to do this for some international scammage [sic] outfit. For some sociopathic sleazeball. Her photo … she could be Thai, Laotian, or a Filipina. But, I still don’t have any proof that that is her photo.

‘The camera on my cheap cell phone is broken.’ I’m so sure it is, honey. ‘It landed right on the lens.’ What are the odds of that? The lens is inset. Who in the world is she? Hard to tell.

Her accent actually sounded more Asian than Hispanic.

Does she have a daily quota? And if she doesn’t reel in enough credit card numbers and gift cards, is she punished by her sadistic overlord? What a grim thought. Hmmm …

Should I discontinue the correspondence now? Should I just stop wasting her time? And mine. This is not amusing anymore. I’m probably going to get her in trouble. ‘You spent how many hours on this American guy and got zero dollars?!’ Slap! Ouch. Awful. Enough. Need to tactfully, and nicely, end this at 9:00 tonight. Just tell her that my health is failing, and that death is imminent. Colon cancer. Yeah, that’s the ticket. Hope it’s not prophetic.

At 8:59, Wil’s Google Chat rectangle emerges on his laptop computer as he finishes a tasty bowl of bought-on-a-whim vegetarian chili. He reads, sometimes aloud:

Wil, are you there, babe? Think I’m a minute early. Better early than late, right, honey? I would never make you wait, sexy. You can have me tonight? Where do you live, dear? Are you ready to feel euphoric?

Wil’s mouth is agape. His breathing momentarily ceases.

She wants to meet me tonight? She must really be a woman.

But, is she that seductive woman in the photo? Her voice sure didn’t match that image. If we do meet for sex, am I going to get rolled by her goons? Will they emerge from the closet of her basement lair? And kill me? Hmmm … Need to make sure that the meeting place is on my turf – in my house. But then my address is forever known if things go sour. Would her ‘associates’ vandalize my property? Oh, jeez … getting way too paranoid. Just need to relax.

I am here, sexy. So, you want to come over and explore some romantic possibilities? Have you heard of Regent Square? I live on the west side of the neighborhood – the park side. In fact, I plan on doing a morning jog around Frick Park Hollow before work tomorrow. Oh, I live on Billiard Way.

Watch out for errant cue balls. Just joking, luscious. Call me when you’re on the street, and I’ll give you the house number. <> Wil then ponders what he has done. I’ve just opened myself up to all kinds of potential trouble. What the hell am I doing?

The fantasy is so strong, though. Banging the hell out of some strange, ultra-sexy, cryptic cyber-whore. The risk element heightens the desire. Can see how guys get taken to the cleaners by this kind of thing. Still haven’t given her anything – not even a 75-cent gift card. [internal chuckle]

Wow! Thanks, babe. I am going to do my best to come over tonight. I’ll call you when I am nearby. Mwah! Get ready for Suzi the cowgirl, an unforgettable experience, babe. I’m going to ride your saddle peg hard.

Oh, yes, I am! Grind it down to smoldering nub. Prepare for the orgasm you’ve never had, dear.

Wil looks at the digital clock on the nightstand. 9:06. Hmmm

… Lets’ see … I got some condoms in the drawer. Certainly don’t want to get an STD – which she could very easily have

– or initiate a pregnancy. Hell no! Thus, all good on the protection front. Should I take a shower? Is it really necessary? Never broke a sweat today. Don’t think I smell bad. If I take a shower, she could arrive while I’m in there.

And I may not hear the doorbell, as it’s not very loud. And if she knocks, I may not hear that, either. But, she said that she would call. But, I don’t like to have my cell phone in a steamy bathroom. Bad for the phone’s electronics. Guess I could just splash on some cologne. Yeah, that should be

fine. Whew! This sure isn’t my average Monday night.

Wonder how she is arriving. In her own car? Or, is she being dropped off? By whom? A rideshare? Or public transit? The closest bus stop is eight blocks away. Hope she’s not opting for that. Too sexy to be alone on that street at night. The neighborhood’s ok, but, still risky. Hmmm … time to reply.

I’m bracing for the sexy whirlwind that is Suzi. When can I expect you, sweetie? Got a ballpark time frame?

There is no reply. Ten o’clock comes and goes. At 10:15

PM, Wil twirls his narrow cell phone in his left hand. Should I just call her? No harm in that. Is there? Shouldn’t be. Well, here goes.

Wil’s call goes to voicemail. A generic, pre-programmed outgoing message prompts his short message.

“All good here, babe. Just waiting on you. Hope you are ok.

Maybe you are in transit. Can’t wait to meet you. Stay safe, sexy. Oh, knock three times.”

There would be no knocks on Wil’s front door, side door, or back door. There would be no phone call from Suzi. And there would be no chat message from the mysterious woman.

At 1:03 AM, after ingesting three melatonin tablets, Wil dejectedly nods off.

At 7:34 the next morning, a chastened Wil is sprinting down sylvan Tranquil Trail. He slows and turns right onto Fern Ravine Trail. He sees someone huddled under a brown parka, sitting under a shelter in the mid-40-degree-Fahrenheit, pre-dawn air. A dark-haired lady’s head pops out.

“They took my phone, babe, but I managed to escape!”

The Tray by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | October 2021

© 2021 Mike Bozart

A chilly-in-exposed-spots, nimbostratus-clouds-commencing-clearing, first-of-November (2019) Friday evening. In a third-floor Southside Flats (Pittsburgh) apartment, 37-year-old Finnish American Jennifer Nen Refinnej notices a slender rivulet of liquefied fat dripping into the narrow, black, plastic, molded-half-pod tray on her indigo-speckled faux-granite countertop. She is cooking a hamburger once again on her still-cherished George Foreman Electric Grill. Her consumer-product engineer’s mind begins to ponder the design. The slanted lower grill surface is ingenious: a no-additional-energy-required gravity drain. The dual heating surfaces –

both lower and upper – are, too. As is the floating hinge.

Keenly sharp. But that unmoored, completely detached, unsecured drip tray … Hmmm … Not so sure what the boys (and girls?) were thinking. Why not have it snap into place?

Or at the very least, slide into a slot. How many times has it been accidentally bumped and knocked out of position? Too many to count. Maybe Nestor [her newness-now-beginning-to-wear-off Amerasian boyfriend] knows. Or, thinks he does.

Bet he makes up a reason to impress me. Men are like that: always wanting to appear smart to the woman; always willing to spout off any perceived-to-be-clever thought that comes to mind. [internal chuckle]

Suddenly there’s a knock on the refinished front door. He’s already here? Bet he’s horny. Sex tonight? Guess I’m ok with that. Still six days in the clear.

“I’m coming, dear. Hold thy horses.” She sighs.

Soon the door is unlocked and opened. A slim, rusty-brown-haired, 41-year-old, business-casual-dressed gentleman enters, chewing gum. He promptly pecks her on the cheek.

“A little early, aren’t we?” Jennifer playfully asserts with a tinge of annoyance. “Or, is your phone clock running fast?”

Told him to wait until 7. Men!

“If I interrupted a task before completion, dear, continue like I wasn’t here,” Nestor states blithely as he offers her a stick of gum. He said that like I was doing something very personal –

something very private. Was he insinuating that I was using my vibrator? Well, two can play this game.

Jennifer accepts the thin, flat, foiled-wrapped rectangle, and is soon chewing away. She then looks at Nestor’s brown eyes. “So, did you stroke your sausage in the shower before

coming over here, dear? Tell me the truth, loverboy.” WTF!

Why in the world did she ask me that? This woman!

Nestor shrugs. Then laughs. “You just got yourself a yellow card, sexy butt. One more time and it’s red, and then it’s off to the bedroom.” He guffaws chaotically. Evasive answer.

I’m sure that he did. But, was he thinking of me? Hmmm …

Jennifer rolls her ice-blue eyes. “We shall see about that, mister.” Nestor sure is feeling bold and confident tonight.

What has got into him? He seems super-happy about something. Is he going to ask to move in? Not sure if I’m quite ready for that. Yet. Though, it would help with the expenses. Or, is he going to try to get me to move into his cramped apartment in Dormont? [an Allegheny County borough contiguously south of Pittsburgh] Hope not. Saw a roach in there last time. Will have to politely decline. Will that put a crimp on our budding relationship? Hope not.

“So, exactly what were you doing when I knocked, lovely?”

Nestor enquires. “Relax, there’s no wrong answer, princess.”

‘So, exactly what were you doing when I knocked, lovely?’

Exactly? ‘Relax, there’s no wrong answer, princess.’ Huh!

What in the world! Is he high on something? I don’t smell any marijuana or alcohol odor. Did he take some pills? Which ones? But, he’s not a pillhead. Something propitious has happened to him. Can sense it. Did he win the lottery? Or hit big on a scratch-off ticket? Would he tell me the exact amount if he did? Hmmm … I wonder.

“Did someone have a good day – make that a very good day

– at work? Might someone have received a raise today? Did I guess the source of your newfound bliss, boyfriend?” Bet so.

“You are the sole source of my bliss, babe. And, no, I didn’t get a raise today. Wish that I did, but nothing doing. So, where were you when I knocked, girlfriend?” Maybe she was on the pot taking a crap, and just doesn’t want to mention it.

Not a flattering circumstance to announce. Guess I should just let it go. But, Pete [an older office associate] will be let down when I see him next week. He’ll ask … and I won’t be able to add an anecdote for his dirigible-desire theory.

‘Positional Signalization Abstracts’ … What a preposterous title! No telling what he is on about. Poor old Pete seems to be going mad. Said that he couldn’t even tell if his book would be nonfiction or fiction. Though, his editor most assuredly will. Wonder how many pages he is shooting for.

Will he get it physically published? Kind of doubt that. But, maybe he has a well-heeled backer. Maybe he knows a publishing world insider. He just may. Said that he has family members living in Manhattan. $$$

“Ok, Inspector Clouseau, you want to know exactly where I was when you knocked: I was in my cozy kitchenette cooking a nice, big, juicy, all-American hamburger – a delicious burger which I will now re-warm and devour,”

Jennifer declares. And slinks off.

Nestor follows her. When at the passageway to the kitchenette, he glances out the parted-translucent-sienna-cloth-curtains window pane and sees a jam-packed Mexican restaurant at the corner of East Carson Street and South 26th Street. Maybe drift over there later for two veggie tacos.

That should hold me for the night. Just wait for it to thin out.

Don’t want to stand in line and look down at my cell phone like another robot. Though, I could scan the scene while waiting to order. What would I be looking for? Not another female. Jenny is so smart. And way sexy – more than I really deserve. And she will be anointed ‘the one and only’ after I convert her tonight. Hope it’s an easy conversion. Should be.

Fingers figuratively crossed.

“Next question: what is the overarching mentality of Southside Flats, dearest denizen of diniquity?” [ sic] Nestor boldly asks in an affected manner. Huh?! What did he just say? He must be zonked on something. Has to be. It’s so freaking obvious now.

“I didn’t know that diniquity was a word, Mr. Neologism,”

Jennifer retorts. How did that word enter my brain? Man, I’m zapped. Probably shouldn’t drive anywhere. Might stare at a green light. For seven seconds. Beep! Need to stay put; remain here. Not sure if sex-capable right now. But, sure would be nice if she licked the old lollipop.

“Well, for this momentous time and place, my love.”

‘Momentous’? It’s just another Friday night. Whoop-de-do!

‘My love’? Does he really love me enough to marry me?

Someday. Before 2022. If we live together, will he ever propose? Would he buy me a nice ring? Jane and Jim

[common friends] are still living together in unwed fashion after 11 years! Don’t want that to be us.

“And, what might diniquity mean, wordsmith for a day?”

Jennifer asks after a semi-awkward pause.

“The opposite of iniquity; it means fair, just, moral, rightful, and most certainly anti-wicked.”

“Hmmm … Overarching mentality? You ate some green

[THC-laced] cookies, didn’t you, Mr. Smooth-with-the-Sooth?”

“Only three gummie mini-cubes. Less calories than those large sugar cookies. And no egg content.” Oh, brother.

Going to have to endure his babble all night. Maybe put a sleeping pill in his drink. So tired. Don’t want to stay up all night listening to his gibberish. Why in the world did he decide to do this tonight? And without telling me beforehand.

Maybe he feared a stern lecture. Bet that was the reason.

Jennifer shakes her head and restarts the 110-volt grill.

Nestor watches Jennifer compress the handles of the red-topped, squarish, portable appliance. The drip tray catches his eye.

Jennifer notices Nestor staring at the low-rimmed accoutrement. “It arrested my attention earlier, too,” she states. “Seems like a design flaw, if you ask me.”

“What do you mean?” Nestor asks from behind Jennifer’s left shoulder.

“This drip tray isn’t positively attached in any way to the grill,”

she announces. Or negatively?

“Not even by way of a small magnet?” Nestor queries.

“That’s a great suggestion, my stoned-out-of-his-hollowed-gourd beau, but not even that. Now, why do you think that they left the tray with no real connection to the underside?

Got any ideas, Einstein?” Jennifer giggles.

“Babe, I’m light-years behind the great mind of Albert, but I think that it may be a safety issue that shot down an attachable grease-catcher design.”

“A safety hazard if the tray is attached? Are you sure you don’t have your poles reversed?”

Nestor is unfazed. “If one were to pull on a connected drip tray that didn’t release quickly and easily – possibly due to

dried-up grease acting as an adhesive – it could possibly lead to a very hot device coming toward the human operator

– or even a non-operator, such as a small child – and possibly falling off a slick countertop or nonporous-surfaced table, leading to severe burns and permanent scars.”

‘Human operator’? ‘Even a non-operator’? What the fock?!

Someone would pull the grill all the way off the countertop or

‘nonporous-surfaced’ table? That’s nuts! He’s already flying.

Yep, he’s really enjoying this, pulling my leg; seems convinced that he’s so ‘perspicacious’ to use Sally’s [a longtime friend from Chatham University in Pittsburgh’s Shadyside neighborhood] word.

“Nestor, I didn’t know that you worked for NIOSH [National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health] on the side.

How long have you been moonlighting remotely? Do you have any other secrets I should know?” Huh?

“Secrets? Jenny, you know that I’m an open book on an abandoned alley. And, you know what is another non-secret, babe?”

“No, what, Mr. High-Road-to-Glitter-Graphic-Redemption?”

Where’d that come from? Did he secretly dose me? How?

When? / From terpene mastication to neural saturation.

“Here’s what is no secret: that drip tray is an open casket of slaughtered-animal lipids.” Oh, no. This was all a setup.

“Don’t start with another you-need-to-go-vegan-now pontification. Not tonight, you plant-propelled cunt-licker!”

Oops.

The Delirious Cynics by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | Jan. 2022

© 2022 Mike Bozart

Sixty-one-year-old, bald-save-for-patchy-sideburns, semi-portly, Caucasian, retired industrial mechanic, childless-and-single-once-again-after-a-second-agonizing-divorce Donald O. Nald looks across the sluggishly-flowing-with-sporadic-wafer-thin-ice-sheets, gelid, southern passage of the Ohio River at a still-and-silent-as-if-in-suspended-electrification-animation Brunot Island from his hillside 2nd story apartment in the Sheraden neighborhood of northwestern Pittsburgh on an algid January Saturday morning in 2019. He muses as a flock of species-indiscernible, small, dark-winged birds fly southeastward (upstream, trending for the mouth of the Monongahela River) across the mostly cloudy northern sky.

Should I tell Margie [a 54-year-old widow who he met online five months prior] what I entered on that free-to-all encyclopedia website. Oh, I bet that it has already been deleted. Probably will lose my editing privileges. Bet there’s a warning waiting. Oh well, onto the next forum. Hmmm …

Will she think it to be funny? Somewhat amusing? Maybe.

Maybe not, though. Maybe I’m just reeking with defeatist snideness. Oh, what the hell. I’ll just e-mail her, as she may not be awake yet. Wonder if she would like to have some form of sex with me someday. Soon. Just a stroke-and-grope would be nice every 28 days. Bet she’s done with vaginal sex. Or, is she? Hmmm … Maybe a nice, long, little-blue-pill-extended 69 session. Yes! That would be so sweet.

Just one more tongue-first foray. Probably the last. [internal chuckle] I should probably be done with sex. Now. Maybe just buy a device like Doug [a former coworker] did. Damn male urge. Hardwired into this primatal bean. She sure has a wicked sense of humor. Almost as deplorable and depraved as mine. Well, here goes. Never up, never in.

Donald then pecks out the following e-mail message on his 4-year-old, near-bottom-of-the-line HP laptop:

Hello dear. How’s the queen of the East End? (S)well, I hope.

Cutting to the chase, and chasing to the cut … “Got a Band-Aid?”

Ok, enough silliness. Though, I did actually suffer a hurt-like-hell-for-44-seconds paper cut on my right ring-less finger yesterday. It goes with the territory when you still write with an ink pen on real sheets of paper. Ok, I digressed and regressed … back to the main idea. Which was? So easily bemused on these cold and bleak winter days.

Yes, I was bad again, dear. Went on that Wikipedia website late last night – and, yes, I had had a few – or possibly six – cognac concoctions, and entered this on the Los Angeles page at the

bottom of the last paragraph under the Arts and Culture subheading:

Many Angelenos genuinely feel that they are starring in a grand lifetime-length movie, in which myopic, casual-smugness-styled self-absorption and quasi-eternal happiness become melded together just around the corner of the omni-scanning billionaire director’s eye.

Snarky? Sick? Utterly pathetic? Loserville? Did I score any points?

Lunch later? The old boy is buying.

Stay safe.

Love,

Donald

p.s. Yes, I have strong – and growing stronger by the minute –

amorous feelings for you, Margie, but I’m a civilized gentleman.

He hits Send. Groans. Chuckles. And then burps. Shouldn’t have added that postscript remark. Well, too late now. ‘I’m a civilized gentleman.’ Jeez, what was I thinking to type such affected buffoonery? Wobbled. ‘Ritch waited in the ditch for the snitch.’ Must use that line in a poem someday. Why? It’s a silly nursery rhyme. The kind with plants. That grow.

Larger. Woah! That purple powder [Lavender Lava coffee enhancer] from Colorado has already kicked in. Should do something creative today. Maybe attempt an abstract painting. Just lay down the first color – the lightest one. Or, should I hold back on the lightest one to put it down later on black? Guess I’ll try to follow the twists and turns. And make adjustments. Along the way. Wow! My mind sure has gone astray. Somewhere faraway. Fey-a-way. [sic]

Sixty-two chilly minutes later, casually elegant, curvaceous, now-faded-blonde-haired Margie, a lady of Carpatho-Rusyn descent, checks her e-mail on her silver smartphone. She smiles and then giggles while reading Donald’s missive. So, my e-male [sic] is now taking on the whole Western notion of

‘cool’. That’s an endeavor set in quicksand. Need to reel him in before he sinks into the sinister, spinning-ever-faster center of circular shoot-myself-in-the-back madness.

She glances out the brown-splotched-sill kitchenette window of her small apartment in the Greenfield neighborhood. A trio of parka-clad teenage girls are passing by on the street.

Where will they be when they are my age? Will they be

content with how their lives have turned out? Whew! Where did that line of thinking come from? Seems the older I get, the stranger my thoughts become. Bet Donald wants to have an oral session. A slurp-slurp. [internal chuckle] Hmmm …

Maybe once, but only if he wears a condom. Hope it’s a strawberry-flavored one. The last time that I did that was …

When? 16 years ago with Bill – Bill the thrill. Hmmm …

Wonder if he’s still living in Crawford – Roberts [a central Pittsburgh neighborhood] with that coke [cocaine] whore.

What would the chances be? 4:1? Oh well, they truly deserved each other. What was I thinking while dating him?

Guess I was hoping he would change. They never do.

Permanently. That male brain is something else. So primitive in some ways. Should I tell Donald what I posted? Will he like it? Or find it to be petty and snippy? Think he’ll appreciate it. He seems to crave critiques of humanity, both male and female. Such an odd one, he is. And, I guess I’m not ‘Miss Normal’ myself. Well, let’s return some like-minded fire into his cage.

Hello Donald. How’s the sardonic king of the westside? Not pell-mell, I hope. Smoking another Pall-Mall? I know you are. And, yes, you know that you should quit. It’s never too late to chuck that ashtray and forsake that unhealthy habit. Lecture over, darling.

[I’m laughing.] Oh, did you know that Pall-Mall was a mallet-and-ball game? It was kind of like croquet, but played in an alleyway.

“Watch those basement windows!” It was a big hit in the 1680s in the Whitehall area of London. Or, so I am told.

So, you appended a little zinger-stinger on Wikipedia? I think that I get the gist of your succinct exegesis. Is it ‘I’m trendy, living near Hollywood, and feeling famous, yet no one realizes it, not the least my much-desired aloof Burbank bank teller’? Am I getting warm?

I feel warm again. Damn hot flashes. So annoying. Probably be freezing in bed at 3 AM. Am so over it.

Well, I got a little persnickety, too, Mr. Box-of-Unlimited-Joy-and-Eternal-77°-Fahrenheit-[25° Celsius]-sunny-tranquil-and-semiarid-Mediterranean-summer-days-reduced-to-gloom-and-doom. I was surveying this online female-only – no men allowed – forum.

Gender issues of course is a major topic in such cybertoriums. [ sic]

(So, did you like my neologism?) Anyway, there was this one particular thread, a discussion of strategies for dealing with husbands and boyfriends when everything seems to be going hunky-dory. Is that really a problem? Did you think that, too?

Well, I had to interject when Miss South Florida typed: Create some drama, girl, and put some doubt into his mind.

My rejoinder:

That’s just brilliant. Just what the world needs on top of all the real inescapable drama – manufactured drama. Bored with smooth-sailing bliss? Stage a domestic trainwreck. Such first-world excess. Just mail it in, dear.

Yeah, you scored some points with yours. Think I’ll rate it an 8.8.

So, what do you rate mine? Be honest. I can take any rating. I can take it or leave at this point (will tell you why later in person). If I didn’t type my rating, would you score mine differently? But, I guess you can’t unsee that 8.8. Ok, upon further review, I’ll give yours a solid 9 – a rock-solid 9-inch … [giggling like a schoolgirl]

Well, I’m free tomorrow for brunch. Want to meet at that same coffee shop in West Oakland? Their pastries are so good.

Ok, call me later.

Ciao!

Warm hugs,

Margie

Donald sees Margie’s e-mail reply at 9:39 AM on a gray, sunless Sunday. He re-reads it thrice, and then calls her.

“Hello Donald,” Margie greets. “Have you been a good boy?”

“Minimal collateral damage, dear,” Donald discloses.

“Though, I often feel that the finish line is perched atop a 505-foot-high [154 meters tall] precipice.” WTF! 505? Why?

“Are you taking those wacky supplements again?” Margie probes. Sure seems like it. Men always think they are slyer than they actually are.

“Um, can we go to the next question, lovely lady?” Huh?

‘Lovely lady’? Hmmm … A touchy topic it seems. But, he needs to be re-warned. It’s for his own mental health.

“You know what I’ve told you, Donald. You can never be completely sure as to what exactly is in those powder packets. A plant worker could have been having an FTS

[Fuck This Species] day and put rat poison in the hopper.

And, if that doesn’t immediately maim you, maybe it wreaks havoc on your mindset over time, leading you down to a

netherworld of unrelenting anguish and woe. Why ruin your retirement by going mad? All those years of factory toil, and you finally get your just-due reward, and toss it out the window.” Maybe that was too harsh. / Huh? What is she on about? I was just joking. Sheez! Women!

“Well, that’s a five-star, fine-print-on-back-of-bottle warning, Margie, but it’s just a coffee enhancer. It helps the caffeine out; gets it routed optimally.” Huh? What in the world did he just say?! He’s been hooked like a golly-gee gullible guppy.

“Did you read that script verbatim from the package label?”

“It’s very mild, dear. Trust me.” How many times has he done it? No, don’t even ask.

“Are you ok to drive?” Margie asks, fearing a high-speed collision on Interstate 376 in the offing. Hope I don’t see his mangled Mazda on the local news later.

“Relax, sweetness. Pilot Nald is all set for sedan-sail at a steady-and-safe fifty-five miles per hour. [88.5 km/h] Yours truly will stay in the right lane the whole way. Headlights will be on. Cell phone ringer will be off. Mirrors will constantly be checked. And re-checked. Music in the cockpit will be at low volume. Or, if you insist, I’ll keep the radio off and monitor the engine and chassis sounds.” Mechanical strains. Might need a new power steering pump. How much of a hit that will be? [internal groan]

“Ok, see you at 10:30? Is that good for you? I’m already dressed.” Dressed …and then to be undressed. Yeah! Let’s don’t screw this up. Let’s watch what we say.

“Perfect, dear. That will work just fine. I’ll throw on some of my new, high-dollar, mall-bought cologne. And then I’ll be on my merry way.” Why did he say that? To impress me? To show me how no-secrets-harbored honest he is. Hmmm …

What mall did he go to? When? He’s scheming for sex. I know exactly what he wants, too. Hope I’m up to this.

“Great. Drive safely. Don’t run over anyone. See you soon, my favorite delirious cynic.” She’s on the same ledger line as me. We are indeed a pair of delirious cynics.

Donald manages to avoid the orange-and-white-striped barrels and tall red cones, as well as the unmarked potholes on the light-to-moderate-trafficked freeway. Margie does just

fine on her somewhat shorter trek. They both meet by chance in the front foyer of their favorite java joint on Forbes Avenue at 10:29 AM. And both silently share the same line of thinking: Thought for sure that I would be here first.

Once seated at a round three-topper, Donald commences the conversation in bold fashion.

“Margie, what is something that you have never told any man until now?” What in the world? Bet he did a few shots of Irish cream liqueur before rolling out. Though, I don’t seem to smell any alcohol odor.

“What are you digging for, Señor Inquisadoro?” [ sic] Huh? Is she learning Spanish? Or, does she already know it. Or just dos centavos [two cents] of it. Hmmm … / Probably after some mythical female secret never to be revealed to a male.

What to say? Hmmm …

Donald looks into her hazel eyes, but remains mute.

“Ok, Detective Donald O. Nald, I have never told a man –

until right now – that postmenopause is liberating.” Is that a coded No response to sex later? Or a big Yes? Not sure how to read her response. And afraid to ask for clarity. / My answer seems to have shorted out some neural circuits in Donnie’s grey matter. He’s floundering for a channel buoy.

“Oh, ok. Yeah, I bet it is.” He’s guessing; has no idea. So profoundly lost. Oh, let’s rescue him before his psyche sinks.

“If you are wondering if we could have some intimate exploration today at my apartment, the answer is … Yes.

And, I also want you to see the new op-art creation that I just finished, and give me your honest critique. It’s a 24-inch [61

cm] by 36-inch [91 cm] canvas with a slanted series of segments, completely devoid of humanimality.” [ sic]

‘Humanimality’ … So disparagingly hilarious. What a one-of-a-kind woman! This is going to be a great afternoon. I’ll pop that [little blue] pill in the restroom before leaving.

“You know, I immensely love it when you use that ingenious, self-created word,” Donald divulges. “It’s one of my all-time faves, dear. A perfect 10.” Really? Bet he really thinks it’s only an 8.5. Maybe 8.8?

“Are you done eating that blueberry scone, dear?”

Donald grins and slides the plate over to her.

“Thanks, love.” ‘Love’? That’s a first. No doubt about it; it’s game-on in 30 minutes. Condoms in car? Check. Need to move one into front pocket. Two? Nah.

They both get up to leave. Donald arches his back. Margie notices.

“Are you ok?” she asks with overt concern.

“Yeah, just a preventive maneuver to prevent disc slippage later.” Disc slippage? Hope he doesn’t blow his back out during our ‘session’.

“Say, can you give me a ten-minute head start?” Margie requests. “That way I will have a chance to get ready and have

everything

prepared.”

Everything?

What

is

‘everything’? What am I in for? Please, no dripping hot wax.

Still have scars from 29 years ago.

“Sure, dear,” Donald replies. “I have to take a pee anyway.

Tell you what, I’ll raise it to thirteen minutes.” 13? He’s odd.

“Perfect. I’ll see you again shortly.” Margie smiles and heads for the door, but looks back at him before exiting. And then rubs her cotton-candy-pink tongue across her bright-red-lipsticked upper lip. Well, there’s the third and final green light. ‘We’re all clear for torque-off, [sic] folks. Please unfasten your pants, and secure all tray tables.’ This is going to be great. / Should I have done that? Did a customer see me? Sure hope not. What has come over me? Got carried away, I suppose. Whew!

Donald arrives at Margie’s apartment fourteen minutes after Margie’s safe-and-sound arrival. He parks next to her Audi in the surface lot. And then slowly marches up to the front door.

No one is in sight. He takes a deep breath and knocks on the moss-green, metal, windowless door three times. There is no answer. Hmmm … Maybe she’s on the crapper.

Donald clears his throat as a season-confused sparrow darts by. “Margie, it’s me – Donald. Are you ready to play?”

Should I have said ‘play’? Maybe a bad verb choice.

There is no reply. All is eerily quiet. Maybe she’s in the kitchen area. Making what? An erogenous-zone-stimulating tea infusion?

Donald knocks on the door again. Still, no opening, no sound of movement, nor any reply. He is perplexed. Did she attempt a seven-minute shower? No, women are not like that. What is going on? Is she laying out an assortment of elaborate sex toys? ‘Here, pick one.’

Donald turns the cold doorknob with his bare left hand.

Surprisingly, it is unlocked. He slowly opens the door. And promptly sees … unconscious Margie face-down and motionless on the caramel-brown living room carpet. Oh, no!

What in the world has happened to her?! Was she attacked?

Is the assailant in here right now? Must attend to Margie first before searching the apartment.

He rushes over to Margie and turns her pliable body over.

Her eyes are closed and her skin has a bluish tint. Margie’s mouth is agape, but she is not breathing. Holy shit! What should I do now? Think, Donald, think! CPR. Commence!

Donald frantically attempts to resuscitate Margie. But with no success after three interminable minutes, and now freaking out, he calls 9-1-1. Darn. Should have called them sooner.

Wasted precious time. Hope it wasn’t a crucial blunder.

Two EMS paramedics are in the room six minutes later, but it would be to no avail. She had already crossed over. The cause of Margie’s death: a sudden cervical hematoma from a triple dose of a now-recalled brand of horny goat weed.

As the paramedics wheel Margie’s corpse out to the rear-doors-wide-open ambulance and the male and female police officers enter, a predominantly-orange-hued-flattened-rod-shapes rectangular object catches Donald’s eye across the room: it is the very artwork that Margie had mentioned earlier.

Donald, still in shock, despondently walks over to it, studies it, picks it up, and turns it around. There is some black-marker text on top of the white canvas overwrap:

‘October Octaves’ [for Donald, my favorite cynic]

The 3 Coins by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | January 2022

© 2022 Mike Bozart

The Morningside neighborhood in Pittsburgh’s East End. It’s a sunny spring Sunday (May 30, 2021). The temperature is a cool-but-reinvigorating-while-walking 53° Fahrenheit (11.67°

Celsius) with a light northwest breeze at 1:51 PM. On executive-order-less President Way, at the elbow with all-lost-souls-still-silent Antietam Street, just inside the partial-chain-link-fenced, one-time basketball court at Natoli Field, there is a small, unpermitted-but-no-one-breaking-it-up-yet, flea-less flea market in progress, consisting of seven miscellaneous vendors and eleven potential customers.

A mid-30-ish, semi-stout, V-shape-bearded, dreadlocked Jamaican American barks to Stanley, a slender, 41-year-old, black-and-gold-Steelers-sweatshirted Polish American. “Hey mon, [ sic] could you use a half-dozen custom postcards on the cheap? Six for only ten bucks. That’s less than $2 each by my latest calculation. Folks file postcards away; they don’t throw them in the trash. Someone will read your message a century from now and wonder who you were. Yes, sir, they will be conversation-starting mementos someday. So, what do ya say, capitan?” [ sic] ‘Conversation-starting mementos’?

Whew! This damn Covid-19 pandemic sure is making people do strange things. Hawking postcards on a secluded residential overflow parking lot. Wow. How much could he even net in an hour? Dude must be high on something. I’m sure he smokes the spleef. [marijuana] Think I smell it. Yep.

He’s all toked-up with knowhere [sic] to go.

Gray-denim-panted Stanley advances closer to his setup: two, low-on-height, smallish, round tables and an easel. He studies some of the bizarre, quasi-surreal images on the rectangular cardstock. “Nice work. How do you create them?” From junk mail?

“They start as photos, and then I digitally alter them with online filters and effects. The last step is an overwash of glow-in-the-dark acrylic paint.” This wig is wholly wacked.

Ah, but let’s help him out.

“Ok, I’ll take six,” Stanley decides. “And you can pick them.”

Like the scratch-off tickets at the [Chislett] Food Mart.

“Thank you, kind sir. I’ll throw in three encrypto [ sic] coins as a bonus,” he trumpets. Encrypto? Not crypto? Weird.

“Cool deal.” Stanley coughs. “So, how much are they worth?” he enquires. 3₵?

“The value of each coin varies; each has a cipher to be followed/cracked; a lucky one can release you to the next realm,” the dark-skinned man informs with a wry grin and a raised right eyebrow.” Huh?! ‘The next realm’? WTF! Should I dig further? No, time to move on. Don’t want to get roped into some Bitcoin investment scam. Let’s just get the hell outta here. Now.

Stanley thanks the Rasta man and bids him farewell. Once back

in

his

upstairs,

southeast-facing,

quadraplex-

apartment-house bedroom, he begins to carefully study the all-cadmium-yellow,

inflexible-and-seemingly-brittle-plastic,

promotional-or-perhaps-novelty coins under an extendable-arm desk lap. He mutters the three-word directives that he discerns under an old magnifying glass.

“Circulate to extend.” WTF! Circulate what? Blood? To extend what? My dong? [internal chuckle]

He then moves on to coin no. 2. “Place in slot.” Which slot?

Sure would like to place Wally the wiener in Suzie’s [a coworker] slot. Nick [another coworker] said that she’s on the market again, and soon to be taking offers; broke up with her latest boyfriend last weekend. Someone was cheating.

Maybe both of them. Probably wouldn’t be long-term, but sure would like to date here for a while. Bet she can ball like no tomorrow. But I need an opportunity – a propitious chance occurrence. Can’t just walk up to her desk and say,

‘Hey, princess, I heard that you were unattached again, and, well, so am I. Fancy a date?’ Sure wish it were that easy.

Wait! Hold on. This coin is the icebreaker. I’ll give it to her, and then ask her if she knows what the phrase means.

Woah! Not this coin; its message is way too allusive to sex.

She would be offended. Might even report me to HR.

[Human Resources] And then I summarily get canned. No good. Must give her the first one. Yeah. Well, let’s see what’s on the third one. Maybe it will be ‘the one’.

Stanley then zooms in on the final coin. “Exit if desired.”

Sheez. Another cryptic gem. Exit? Why? If desired? WTF! Is the theater on fire? And some schlep wants to burn alive?

[internal chuckle] Who came up with the idea for these kooky coins? The dude’s probably in a mental ward somewhere chirping like a cricket. Guess I’ll go with coin no. 1 for Suzie.

And give coin no. 2 to whom? Hmmm … Save it for a prospect in that dive bar. [Kopy’s in South Side Flats]

The next day is Memorial Day. Stanley has the Monday holiday off. With nothing planned, and wanting to ask the postcard man some more questions about the three coins, he heads back, on foot, to the northeastern sector of Natoli Field. However, he is not there; in fact, no one is. Stanley stops and muses in the 66° Fahrenheit (18.89° Celsius) sunshine. The cops must have run them off after I left. Who would know anything about these coins? Could go to the

[nearby East Liberty] bank tomorrow. But if there’s something illicit about them, they will seize/report them. And interrogate me. No thanks. Sure would like to find out something about them today. Nothing on the internet.

Shazam! Think I just drew an ace – ACE [Cash Express (check cashing)] in Spring Garden [a North Side neighborhood]. Dave [another coworker] said that an old-timer named Pete Etep is a veritable numismatic maven – a man who knows virtually everything about coins and currencies, even crypto tokens. Yeah, let’s head over there now. Nothing else on the docket today. Hope they’re open.

[checks on his middle-of-the-line Samsung smartphone]

Good, they are. Hope old Pete is working today. Should I let him see all three? No, just one. But, which one? Coin no. 2

or coin no. 3? Hmmm … Must ponder this while making my way over there.

Stanley is parking his silver 2016 Ford Fusion sedan in the short-strip Spring Garden shopping center at 2:34 PM.

However, he doesn’t see an older gentleman behind the counter; thus, he turns to leave.

“Can I help you, sir?” a 30-something Asian American lady’s voice asks. Oh, what to say? Think fast.

Stanley stops, turns around, and then walks back up to the counter. “Is Pete working?”

“No, he has the day off,” the sexy, svelte, petite woman politely informs with a slight smile. Darn it. Wow. She’s super-hot. Wonder if she’s single. Don’t see a wedding ring.

Caution: Please refrain from saying something stupid.

“Oh … ok,” pecan-brown-haired Stanley utters. He seems to be up to something. Why does he want to only see Pete. Bet he has a special coin that he wants appraised. Think he just ogled my ass.

“Could I help you?” the short-smock-donning female employee asks. You sure could, princess. For about forty

minutes. Ok, maybe only twenty. Or perhaps just ten.

[internal chuckle]

“Well, um …” Oh jeez, what to say? Got myself into an awkward fix. Once again.

“Let me take a wild guess: You have a Spanish Galleon Doubloon you need to cash in. Am I warm?” I’m sure ‘it’ is, doll. I’m sure ‘it’ is.

“Oh, it’s just a promotional token, I think.” He thinks? Huh?

“Could I see it?” she asks. Oh, I would love to let you see ‘it’.

And hold ‘it’. And stroke ‘it’. Can’t let her see all 3 coins. And there’s no way to pick the right one from my pocket in her presence. Jeez, what to do? / Wonder how big his white-boy wonder worm is. 6”? [15.24 cm] or 7”? [17.78 cm] or … ?

He’s kinda handsome. Yet, there’s something odd about him. Like he’s up to something below-board. Something confidential. So secretive. Maybe I can get him to talk. I’ll put my boobs in his face. That works on most men.

“Let me go out to my car and retrieve it. I’ll be right back.”

Odd. He came in here without it? A fishy fellow.

Two minutes and change later, Stanley is placing coin no. 2

onto the glass countertop. The long-straight-jet-black-haired Asian American clerk begins to study it under a microscope.

She soon sees the short phrase. “Insert in slot,” she matter-of-factly announces. “Most likely intended for old vending machines. Someone just wants to keep a ruse going.”

‘Intended for old vending machines’? Huh? ‘Keep a ruse going’? What ruse? Why?

“Ok, thanks,” he responds, not sure what to do next.

“Do you have any more of them?” she quickly asks. Really don’t want to lie to her. What to do? Oh, heck, just show them to her. No harm. Or is there? What if she knows the dope on them, but feeds me false information? Just need to make sure that I leave with all 3 coins.

“I do,” Stanley divulges.

“Ok, let’s look at them in the back room to be safe. Maria, could you watch the front for fifteen minutes?”

“Sure,” a 20-something Latina employee’s voice responds out-of-view from twenty-three feet (7 meters) away. “I got it covered. Take your time, dear.” Take your time? How long will this take? Could it really take more than five minutes?

Once inside a gray-panel-walled, 8’ x 7’ (5.2 square meters), almost-completely-empty storeroom, after the door is closed, Stanley places the three coins onto a marble ledge. What have I got myself into? Feel like I’m digging my own grave.

But, she sure is a charmer. Boy, would be so nice to tap that.

“By the way, my name is Gina,” the Asian American lady states as she examines the other two coins. Gina Fina, my glimmer of hope. Don’t get carried away, pal. Calm down.

This still could end in double downfall: no money and no girl.

“My name is Stanley. I live over in Morningside.” He kind of looks like Nancy’s Stanley. [a friend’s fiancé]

“Ah, we may be neighbors,” Gina discloses after concluding her analysis. “I think these coins are just someone’s inside-out joke. I don’t think they’re worth anything more than the value of the recyclable plastic, which is probably a grand total of one cent. Say, are you single by chance?” Wow! How direct of her. How to answer? Truthfully. Her pronouncement on the coins’ value is most likely correct. Let’s now make her the desired treasure trove.

“Uh, yeah, I actually am,” Stanley reveals. Fingers crossed.

“I am, too. I dropped my boyfriend three weeks ago. Found out he was screwing my bestie – make that, former bestie.”

Where’s this going? Does she want to have some form of sex with me right now in this little room? There’s no bed or couch, not even a chair. A wall-banger? A stand-up hand-job? A blow-job? What exactly does she have in mind? Who else has a key to this room? This is madness. But I can’t/won’t stop it.

“Sorry about that, Gina.”

“It’s ok. He was low-rent scum. Stanley, would you like to search my person to make sure I don’t have a weapon?”

‘Search my person’?! Is this really happening?

Stanley commences a pat-down of Gina. They become aroused. As Gina repositions her left hand, she knocks coin no. 3 off the ledge. It fractures on the concrete-slab floor. A

luminous green gas suddenly streams upward, which they both inhale. They see the future of humankind. And then promptly lose consciousness. For the final time.

Mysterieau Resurfaces by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | Feb. 2022

© 2022 Mike Bozart

At a hole-in-the-trapdoor-spider-web-cracked-masonry-wall nightclub on Frankstown Avenue, party-walled betwixt in the Pittsburgh East End neighborhood of Larimer, on a chilly Tuesday night (February 1, 2022), an oddly costumed, lanky, no-skin-showing-whatsoever male individual billed as Mysterieau takes the low-rise stage. The two dozen or so patrons are not sure what to expect. Lilac-tinted handbills on the tables state that he is a meta-surrealist, a team sports skewer, a raccoonish raconteur, a laughter-optional comic, and a grade-ZZZ magician. (Note: This is the same character featured in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco and the short story Mysterieau Returns.) Quang Nguyen IX, the current titleholder of the purpularly

[ sic] perplexing Mysterieau persona, stumbled onto the stage in a lurid lavender, suit-sleeves-so-long-that-his-hands-were-entirely-hidden, neatly vested, solid-indigo-skull-masked outfit at 11:07 PM.

“Hello

Pittsburgh.

Hi-ya

there,

rusting-away-while-

maintaining-a-well-deserved-stoic-dignity-in-sullen-solemnity Steel City – the mongrel on the Monongahela, the analgesic of the Allegheny, the [a sudden pre-recorded-structure-collapsing sound] … Woah! Did another bridge just decide to lie down?” [The Forbes Avenue bridge over Fern Hollow Creek in Frick Park had collapsed only four days prior.]

There are no responses from the audience, except for a lone groan. A few summarily shake their heads. Many take another slug of their pilsner-pints-half-price-tonight beer. The attractive, mid-30-ish, slender, seductive African American female bartender rolls her eyes beneath some extra-long lash extensions.

“Ahem. [clears throat thrice] Checking on one. Checking on two. Checking on all three of you in the front row. All looking good. And all so darn-good-looking. Who am I? Why, I’m the latest incarnation of Mysterieau, the creation – or abomination – that the late, great, interestingly intestate Galerie Parcoeur laid the groundwork for. And I’m the one who got asked to leave the main bus station last week in Cincinnati. Any Bengals fans in the house tonight?” Bengals fans? WTF?! Is he just some downriver provocateur?

The audience immediately starts booing.

“They’ll bungle it again!” an already-sauced, bald, rotund, white-as-kindergarten-paste male barks. How dare this whacked-out bum come to our town and talk about ‘them’.

“Yes, we’re going to have fun tonight, goddamit, and fun will have a fun time funning with us. ‘Funny we should think that.’

Yes, I can read every eleventh thought in this den of dissolution. Can feel the seething unrest and hear your mentality crackling under the flaking lead-based paint. Yes, I now feel like I’ve been genuinely welcomed to Yinzerville.

[ sic] Thanks for the warm, heartfelt greeting. Oh, the name.

What’s with that name, you ask at an imperceptible, not-even-as-much-as-a-murmur

volume.

Well,

Mysterieau

derives from that mysterious water-like fluid siphoned from the brains of the body-dead. Hey, sometimes you just have borrow past script.” Oh, dear God, how long will this go on?

An unseen man coughs.

“Folks, I’m a soft-shoed hard hustler, though I more often than knots get hustled hard. I’m a friend of your enemy’s long-lost foe. Which one? Seems we might need a diagram.

I may be spaced-out, but I know that the Ohio River initially flows that-a-way. [points northwestward] Ok, we’re just getting started. A lot of barbs to twist back onto the fence wire. This can go as pleasantly, or as unpleasantly, as you so choose. I’m not going to ram any dogma down anyone’s throat. I’m no teleflagellist. [ sic] Well, not without an approved lubricant, which no-good Ol’ Osteen swiped in Houston.” How vile! What a depraved creep!

“You are flat-out disgusting,” a rotund, mid-to-late-20-ish, Caucasian female shouts from the 2nd row of tables. “You’re nothing but an offensive, bargain-basement, Halloween-holdover pervert! I’m leaving!” She re-dons her jacket and does just that.

“Walk-outs and walk-offs. While I prefer the latter, we must occasionally anticipate the former. Occasionally being the adverb that we shall let remain un-enumerated. Ok, moving right along. Pittsburgh loves its pro sports teams, right?”

“Hell yeah!” a 30-something, burly, Penguins-jerseyed man blasts from the 3rd row. “Support all three, or support none and move the fock away!” Damn straight! You tell him, bro!

“That then includes the Pirates, too, right?” Mysterieau sardonically queries.

More booing ensues. The patrons aren’t feeling the lewd violet-hued dude; many suspect him to be an instigator.

Though, an elderly, slight, Caucasian gentleman in the back quietly chuckles and rubs the gray stubble on his oval chin,

and chirps: “Yep, yep, yep.” Ah, Malloy [a lottery winner from 1991 or thereabouts, who is mentioned in several titles]

made it. Wonder how he got here. Via bus?

“Oh, I know, that was a low blow. Hey, long live the ’79

World Series. We are family. Willie Stargell and Sister Sledge. Like gliding downhill on a wedge-shaped sled. Or, maybe the reverse. Yes, I watched it on YouTube in my 1.875-star hotel room this morning. It’s good stuff that’s held up quite well. A special moment in the forward-looking nation’s old pastime. Winning game 7 in Baltimore after a must-win game 6, which was preceded by a must-win game 5 at old Three Rivers. [Stadium] Yes, I even put on my duct-taped disco Depends®.” Ew. Yuck. Just freakin’ awful. Who booked this demented loon? And why?

“You’re just effing gross,” a late-30-ish, blonde-haired lady boldly broadcasts. “You have no talent – none at all. You’re a yapping purple turd. You are neither funny, nor interesting.

Basically, you suck moose cock, night and day!” She grabs her purse in a huff and promptly exits with a glare that incrementally becomes a scowl. Can’t win ‘em all. Though, certainly can lose them all.

“Ok, ok, we’re not doing too well with the females tonight. By the long and winding way of chance, is this ‘ladies’ night’?”

“No, that’s Thursday night,” a 20-something, portly, short-haired, white-T-shirted Latino answers. Bet he’s here every Thursday hoping to score. But goes home sausage-handed.

I remember those days.

“Thanks for that info, kind sir. You’ll be getting a unique gift later. A gift that could change your life’s trajectory. Though, if you’re fine with how your life is going, you could give it to a prospective princess on the aforementioned, much-ballyhooed ‘nuit de femmes’. [‘ladies’ night’ in French] Of course, you’d be obligated to relay disclaimer to desired damsel.”

“Yeah, whatever, man,” the Hispanic guy retorts. “You’re about as appealing as an intermittently agonizing carcinoid-class-tumor death.” Is he a med student at Pitt? [University of Pittsburgh]

“Yes, mortality is nothing to take lightly. However, being one of 163,361 daily high-end hominid deaths does bring a palindromic sparkle to my glazed-over star-eyes.” Huh? Has he a death wish? Is his gift cyanide-laced Kool-Aid?

A mixed group of four stand up, shake their heads, and slowly march out of the back room. History retreats.

“Guess I’m not the pride of Ballerton. Maybe it’s the new before-grave after-shave. Why, you get what you pay for, and this show is free. So, yes, you’re free to leave at any time. It doesn’t bother me anymore. Really, not much of anything does. Now, do you want to hear a strange story?”

No reply from the 17 remaining attendees. Malloy just nods.

“Alright, I will take that as a ‘proceed with caution’. Ok, commencing chapter one now. There was this adult male, and there was this adult female. Humans, that is. Yes, imagine that. Convexity conjoining concavity was the leitmotif. Please do stop me if you’ve heard this sordid saga before. I am desperately trying not to repeat myself so much.

Sew much?” None of them got the intentional punny [sic]

spelling. Or, did that lady in black in the back? In the blackness of the backness. [sic] Wish I could see her back.

On back-to-backs. Why are [sic] I so wack? Overdid something. Somewhere. Back there.

Again no reaction from the bewildered, motionless patrons.

An ambulance siren fills the speechless gap.

Mysterieau suddenly flaps his hands-unseen sleeves. “Ok, you’ve heard about men and women, right? Namely, the things that they like to do to each other.” Mysterieau then tilts his garish mask towards a 40-ish, silver-necklaced, low-neckline, maraschino-cherry-red-dressed, high-end-salon-dye-assisted-blonde lady in the first row. And stops.

An awkward six-second pause ensues. Oh, please, no.

“What the hell are you staring at, Mister Skull-skulker?” the upwardly mobile businesswoman demands. “Listen, I don’t want to have sex with you tonight! Or ever!” A plant?

Malloy shakes his head. “Yep, yep, yep; I evenhandedly picked a damn-good, odds-on-odd night,” he informs the bemused, breasty, luscious-caramel-complexion bartender.

“You know him?” Miyah enquires. What a weird night.

“Just the shtick,” Malloy quietly informs chocolate-eyed Miyah. “He’s not the first embodiment of that ridiculously rogue routine.” ‘Ridiculously rogue routine’? Why did I choose to work tonight? Ughhh …

“Ahem, hello, am I bothering you two?” Mysterieau gruffs towards Malloy and Miyah.

Malloy just grins. Miyah is a bit embarrassed, turns away, and walks down the bar to check on an empty-steined, middle-aged, ball-capped Caucasian customer.

“Everyone likes a unique and mutually beneficial mind game, correct?” Mysterieau probes. [three seconds of near-silence]

“Once again, I will assume that was a ‘proceed with caution.’

But this time, let’s throw caution to the quasi-straight-line wind. We reserve that right, right? Is there reverb on his microphone?”

Malloy nods. “Yep, yep, yep,” he concurs in typical fashion.

Mysterieau then plucks a brand-new, ghost-white, standard-size American golf ball from his left suit pocket and displays it like a never-seen-before object of intense desire. “Three hundred thirty-six dimples on this spherical, never-met-a-club-face beauty. Here’s where our show gets interactive, folks. I’m going to pass this virginal golf ball around with a Sharpie® fine-point marker. If each of you would be so kind as to shade one dimple each, that would be great for extending this charitable charade. But wait, there’s a catch.

Isn’t there always a catch in this tease-and-release existence? Relax. It’s a manageable issue. The sole game rule: You can’t shade a dimple that is immediately adjacent to a previously shaded dimple. Now, maybe you are now wondering what exactly is ‘immediately adjacent’? Well, before someone yells ‘that’s just semantic frivolity’, let’s just say that ‘next to’ is close enough. How many rounds do you think yinze [ sic] can go? Care to place a sager wager?”

“There are sixteen of us remaining,” an Amerasian lad dryly announces. “You say the golf ball has 336 dimples. The calculator on my phone shows that 336 divided by 16 equals 21, exactly. Twenty-one rounds would shade every dimple.

Given the concentric-rings dimple pattern, I’ll go with 5¼

rounds; 84 shaded dimples if we all play it smart.”

“I must tell you, über-keen one, I am most magnificently impressed with that answer,” Mysterieau declares. “But now, we will put a wrinkle into this contest of incontiguous recesses.” A right hand then emerges out of the long purple sleeve, which plucks a felt-tip marker from the upper-left vest pocket. Mysterieau begins to shade in some dimples on the golf ball. And then recaps the gray-cased marker. “I just shaded three dimples at random. The over/under number is 47. Who is going high, and who is going low?”

The crowd is stunned. No one answers. 47 is just less than 3

rounds. Should I go with over? Hmmm … why did he pick 47? Is that the actual best possible number? Hmmm …

What an odd game. What a weird ‘performance’.

“I’ll go with the over for $100,” a cocky white dude blasts from a semi-distant table.

Mysterieau nods to acknowledge the bet. “Ok, you can lead off the crater colorations,” the static-mouth mask states. “I’ll toss you the marker first, and then the golf ball.”

The somewhat-sloshed man who placed the C-note wager catches the Sharpie® pen without a problem. However, when the lobbed golf ball comes his way, it rebounds off the marker that is still retained by his right hand. The white orb bounces and then rolls along the flat-black-painted concrete-slab floor. It passes under some chair legs and some human legs. Its speed slows as it approaches the base of the stage, where it suddenly disappears. Huh? Where did it go?

Mysterieau advances to the very front of the mini-stage and looks down. “Ah, the one that got away. Looks like we scored a hole-in-one into an ungrated floor drain. Yes, our prized 1.68” [42.67 mm] sphere of happenstance is now tumbling and bumbling down a narrow PVC pipe, headed for certain oblivion. These things happen in life. A lot of expectation for a certain result, and then something unforeseen occurs. Fret not, though; we can still manage a late rally; we can still salvage this night. I believe in magic!”

Malloy turns, shields his mouth with his gaunt right hand, and whispers to Miyah: “This is going to be good. Yep, yep, yep.”

Mysterieau continues. “If I asked all of you to empty your pockets, wallets and purses of all currency, including coins, what do you think the total amount would be? I know that cash is not carried as much in this debit/credit-card era and smartphone-pay epoch. I will start the pass-around of this inverted top hat. If you could kindly deposit aforesaid items, such would be much appreciated. Please remember what you deposited; it shall be returned in due time. So, let’s set the over/under amount at $555.55. Any takers?”

“Sir, step down from the stage. Now! You’re under arrest.”

Dormont Park by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | March 2022

© 2022 Mike Bozart

Pencil-mustachioed Thaddeus von Deusdaht diagonally parks his speckled-from-solar-oxidation, non-sparkling-finish silver sedan near the trailhead in the Dormont Park (vicinal to the southern Pittsburgh neighborhood of Banksville) surface lot along Annapolis Avenue. The a-tad-old-but-still-humming-along-satisfactorily Audi A4 is the seventh vehicle resting on the modest, asphalt-with-a-street-facing-concrete-section, guardrail-back-wrapped apron.

The sprightly, early-40-something, interracial couple grabs their chrome thermos-insulated coffees and commences their usual Sunday morning trek. The March 8th (2015) air is chilly (39° F; 4° C) and the sky is overcast at 9:45 AM.

“Shall we jog-run-walk?” athletically fit, spandex-legging-clad African American Jolene J. Jacksone asks her German American beau. Bet he wants to start out walking.

“How about the reverse, girlfriend?” Thad counters as he zips on a black-and-gold-with-variegated-sleeves Steelers windbreaker. Knew it. Is he partially hungover? Never replied to my texts. [last night] Was he in some sleazy bar scoping young sluts? Must not think like that. But can’t seem to stop.

Why? Innately ingrained?

“So, you’re becoming slow to get going, loverboy?” I’ll show her that I’m nowhere near ‘slow to get going’ back at the apartment. Going to wear her out today. Those pills from Alvin [a coworker] are incredible. She’s going to be begging me to stop after her third orgasm.

“Never argue with your woman on the weekend; it makes for an awful week. My [deceased six years prior] dad told me that when I was only 19. Thus, you win, sexy lady; we’ll start out at a mild jogging pace.” Mild? He’s already getting middle-age soft.

“No pain, no gain, boyfriend. Catch me if you can.” And with that Jolene darts off on the trail into the still-leafless, ash-gray-trunked, decidedly deciduous copse.

Thad gives chase. Jolene lets him catch up. Soon they are jogging side by side with visibly condensed exhalations.

Their bodies quickly warm and the chill fades. They both then notice an older Asian American couple on a bench overlooking the deserted Pop Murray Baseball Field. Could we be like that in three decades? Still going to the park together. Still enjoying an ordinary day. Still relishing each other’s company. Will he ever propose to me? What’s he

afraid of? The wedding expense? But, I told him that we could keep it simple and very small. Is it his family? No, they’re all socially liberal. Extremely so. Is a sibling a latent racist/ultra-traditionalist? Hmmm ... Sincerely doubt it. Jack

[Thad’s older brother] just married María. [an 11-years-younger Honduran] And Lisa [Thad’s baby sister] is overtly lesbian. Not sure what the issue is. Maybe bring it up later.

But, will it kill the leisurely let’s-just-chill-on-our-day-off-together vibe? / Wonder when those folks got married. Why did I assume that they’re married? Because I’ve seen them sitting there on weekends for over four years now. Still, that doesn’t mean that they are wedlocked. Though, they most likely are. A 97.79% probability. Ha! Wonder what Jolene is thinking. No telling. Guessing is feckless.

As the trail rounds the bosky slope, they spy the wooden castle playground. A mother and kindergarten-age son are swinging with their backs to Jolene and Thad. Wonder how their lives will turn out. Who knows? Maybe they avoid the (un)known pitfalls and unforeseen accidents. And maybe not. / Bet husband-dad is back at the house. Or has he died?

Did they get divorced? Is she a single mom? Too late for a kid now. Or, is it? Nah, don’t want to give birth to a baby now. Will being childless haunt me? Adoption is always a possibility. Thad would be a good dad. I think. Time to sprint.

Jolene suddenly launches into a brisk running pace. Six-foot-three-inch (1.9 meters tall) Thad gives chase, settling about ten feet (approximately three meters) behind his 5’-7” (1.7

meters tall) girlfriend of 41 months. She really does have a flawless ass. A perfect pair of succulent crescent buns. And everyone out here can see such, too, bouncing on full display. Why did she forego her black Velcro® skirt? The incalculable female mind. Maybe I’m becoming a prude.

[internal chuckle] / Can tell he’s staring at my butt. Can feel the radiant heat of his eyes. Wonder if his wiener is getting hard. Can men still run when aroused? Bet he wants to have a sexual escapade later at his place. Can sense it. And can sense PMS coming on. A couple of shots of cognac will drown out the irritability. Going to show him a different side of me. Going to surprise the hell out of him. It’s long overdue.

“I’m going to overtake you and your sexy rumpler,” [ sic] Thad announces as he passes Jolene on the right. Knew he was monitoring my derrière. Men are such lust-crazed dogs.

Though, he’s a good one. A caring one. A loving one. A loyal

one. Hmmm … Was he really home all last night? All alone?

‘Girl, just stop with the suspicious thoughts. Give it a rest.’

“Oh yeah, Mr. München?” [Thad’s paternal side was from the Bavarian capital.] Jolene counters as she sprints past her average-build significant none-other. I’ll just let her open up a nice lead and expend some caffeine energy. Then I’ll reel her in like a cracking breakaway cyclist in a mountain stage of the Tour de France.

Jolene dashes down the grass-covered slope to narrow-but-curbed, one-way Memorial Drive on the northwestern side of the convivial, unostentatious, Allegheny-County-borough-betwixt-southwestern-Pittsburgh-and-northeastern-Mount-Lebanon green space. She crosses the vehicle-vacant, dead-quiet lane and steeply descends towards the still-closed-for-the-off-season, gigantic swimming pool’s ancillary brick building. Desperately having to urinate, she stops at the glass-paned side doors, but both are locked. Jolene then darts off to her right and runs around the corner to the front of the older, narrow-rectangle-shaped, two-story edifice. She has now slipped out of Thad’s sight. Where in the world is she going? Girlfriend should know that that building is closed today. / Gosh! Have to pee so freaking bad! Bladder ready to burst. Don’t want to crouch down next to a bush. Please dear God, let this door be unlocked. Yey! Now to find the ladies’ room. And fast!

A biracial, light-brown-skinned, 50-ish male janitor sees the posterior of Jolene as she enters a women’s restroom on the main, first-floor hallway. The husky man stealthily advances.

And charges inside. He sees Jolene’s white athletic shoes under the third stall divider. And stops. An uneasy silence ensues. Must be an obese woman from the sound of those footsteps. Why did she stop? What is she doing? Well, all done now. Time to get out of here and track down boyfriend.

He may be having a panic attack. Should text him, if I don’t see him, when I get outside.

Jolene pulls her stretch pants back up, flushes the commode, and opens the metal door. Just as she exits the stall, she sees the hired-just-last-week-on-work-release janitor standing with his jeans and boxers down, stroking his already-erect 7.1” [18 cm] penis. Oh, no! No! What to do?!

“I want you to get down on your knees right now and blow me. If you scream, I will kill you. I swear to God, I will! I’ve been in prison for 13½ non-fucking years for murdering a

worthless whore, and I’m not above doing it all over again.”

He then brandishes a handgun with an attached silencer.

“I’m not playing. Time to get busy, bitch.” Why me?! Why did he have to be working here today? Why did I have to enter this building? This is the worst nightmare of all time. No, this is real! He’s full of misogynistic rage. Could easily see him killing me. Better do what he says. Really have no choice.

Maybe act like I’m turned on by his pecker. Yeah, that’s it: fawn over him; inflate his ego.

“I would be honored to pleasure your massive cock, captain.”

The janitor-on-loan smirks and points at the floor in front of him. Bet she can suck like a brand-new vacuum cleaner.

This is going to be great. And I fully deserve it!

Jolene then assumes the position and begins to lick the dark-haired man’s smelly member. When was the last time he bathed? Hope I don’t get a nasty bacterial infection.

The sucking intensifies. The soon-gasping man’s rough fingers are felt on Jolene’s scalp. He pulls her head closer.

“Jolene. Jolene. Earth calling Jolene. Jolene, are you in there?” Yey! It’s Thad coming to my rescue. / Who the fuck is that? Must be her bone boy.

The restroom door suddenly opens. And the prisoner-janitor promptly and calmly puts a 9 mm bullet right through Thad’s forehead before he can utter a single syllable. His body droops; Thad is dead before his head crashes into the ceramic tile floor. Oh my God! This maniac just killed Thad.

He’s going to kill me, too. Right after he cums. Am so sure of it. What to do? Don’t want to die. ‘Think, girl, think!’

“Just keep licking, sweetheart. Yeah, just like that. Never mind that momentary annoyance. He won’t ever interrupt us again. Ah, yes. Nice tongue action, babe.” Bastard!

<chomp> Jolene immediately bites down with maximum mandible force on the homicidal man’s pelvic endowment.

Blood spurts. The stunned reprobate screams in pain as he holds his almost completely severed penis. His hands and legs quickly turn red from the gushing. WTF! That cunt bit my dick off! Gonna blow this bitch’s brains out right now!

The wicked man then fumbles for his extra-long, suppressor-barreled handgun. The black pistol falls out of the brute’s left-side jacket pocket, landing on Thad’s back. Now’s my chance.

Jolene lunges forward with her arms extended. Her thrusting open-palm hands strike his chest, pushing him into the wall.

He moans, mumbles incomprehensibly, rolls his eyes, and then slumps down the wall, losing consciousness upon striking the floor. How’d you like that mother-fucker?! You sick piece of human garbage! You killed my fiancé-to-be.

Worthless asshole!

Still in shock and breathing spasmodically, Jolene touches Thad’s bloody face. And then watches the evil convict bleed to death. When she gets her respiratory and cardiac rates to settle, Jolene calls the police on her slender smartphone.

She would veraciously explain the whole sequence of events on the back seat of an almost-new, black-and-white Dormont Police cruiser. The hardened, veteran, short-haired Caucasian officers would interject a few groans, but would resolutely believe Jolene’s account. Her self-defense assertion was accepted; she was not charged.

Jolene would attend Thad’s inurnment six days later. She would receive a thimble-size glass container of a portion of his ashes, which she placed on the top of her jewelry box.

Then the therapy started at a local clinic. Jolene had a serious case of survivor’s guilt. The incessant voice in her head kept repeating: ‘Why wasn’t I killed? Why am I still alive? What am I supposed to do?’ She couldn’t fathom satisfactory answers to any of the questions.

Nightmares came early and often. She lost weight and brooded privately. Though at work, she maintained a normal-appearing mien.

Then seven months later on a splendid autumn Saturday (October 10th), Jolene musters the courage to return to Dormont Park. She parks her 2008 Volvo S40 in the exact space that Thad did on the ill-fated March day. Whew! Back here again.

Once out of the metallic flint-grey car, she takes a deep breath of the 63° Fahrenheit (17° Celsius) air. Then she begins retracing her path, this time at a slow walking pace.

To her astonishment, she sees the same older Asian man on the same bench. However, he is alone. Jolene freezes. Did his wife die? Or, did she leave him? Probably the former. Or, is she infirmed in a hospital? Sure wish I could ask him.

Quietly. But, it would be prying into a personal matter that is none of my business. He might even think that I’m some

demented ‘Dormont dame’. Ah, the things that one will never know in this life. A world of mystery beneath the obvious.

And presumed.

Jolene meanders past him. They don’t make eye contact.

Nevertheless, upon descending the quite-verdant-for-fall grassy slope, she looks back. And he looks at her. They both share a mutual realization: This person remembers seeing me with her/him.

The elderly man then glances at the baseball field, and Jolene looks towards the now-closed-once-again swimming pool. She proceeds towards the building where Thad and the sadistic man died. But once at the front door, she loses any remaining desire to go inside. She retreats and starts climbing the knoll. Going to ask him.

However, the brown-jacketed Asian man is now gone.

Jolene would never see him again.

Windgap by Mike Bozart (Agent 33) | April 2022

© 2022 Mike Bozart

As 63-year-old, semi-retired, quarter-Shawnee, recent widower Wayne ‘Lol’ Enyaw looks out the rear, above-kitchen-sink window of his modest, cedar-slat-sided, 777-square-foot (72 m2) cottage, which is set back from view of the über-foresty [ sic] section of narrow Summerdale Street in Windgap (a West End Pittsburgh neighborhood), a sudden memory grasps hold of his neural attention-transmission commission. While waiting for hot water for his morning caramel tea, in an entranced daze he surely is, whilst staring at the densely deciduous demarcation. Wayne recalls a spring day exactly 45 years ago – April 14, 1973 – in an area nearby. That small, partial-then-but-now-wholly-reclaimed-by-the-arbors, ovaline clearing between the houses and the graveyard. [Hollywood Memorial Cemetery] Whew! What a day – and night – that was. And it was a Saturday, too, just like today. Though, it was much cooler than today. [The high was predicted to be 81° F (27.22° C) on this mid-April day in 2018; the high was only 53° F (11.67° C) on 4/14/73.] Where is everyone now? How have they all fared over the 4½

decades – 2¼ score years – since that multi-mind-meldulation. [sic] Luckless Lacy. [internal groan] The long-haired Italian American lass died the very next year. An auto accident – more like a deliberate collision – in Westwood.

[another West End neighborhood] A methed-up fool sped through a side-street STOP sign. T-boned her car in the left midsection. In mid-intersection. Then tried to flee. Jackass.

Hope he got his just due. But somehow doubt it. So many dangerous idiots on the streets. And poor Pete. He died in a freak single-prop airplane crash in ’82 – or was it ’83? – in Indiana. Near West Lafayette. Trying to finally finish up that paper for his post-grad degree at Purdue. [University] What a waste. And lovely little Janiyah. What an ebony princess, she was. She didn’t make it out of the ‘80s, either. An opioid overdose in ’87. Over in Glen Hazel. [an east-side Pittsburgh neighborhood] Was it on Christmas Eve? Or the day before?

Poor girl got mixed-up with a bigtime loser. Kurt was the only

‘90s casualty. Crushed while working on his vintage Ford Mustang in ’95. Never trust a jack by itself. Bet he got in a hurry. And rushed the job. Should have blocked the axle.

Then Steve died from a ruptured intracranial blood vessel in

’08. Next, Sue slipped and fell, struck her forehead on a coffee table, and died from a cerebral hemorrhage just two years ago. We’re dropping like flies now. 6 down and 4 to go. Hell, I might be next. Can tell my innards are in bad shape. Rather die right here than in a spirit-crushing

hospital. That sure was a strong psychoactive concoction that Gene whipped up for that most memorable day. A magnificent mescal mixture. Guess Gene is still with DuPont in Wilmington. [Delaware] What about Ariel, the Asian seductress? Wonder where she wound up. Probably with Gene. [internal chuckle] And last but by no means least, Catalina the shy Latina. Is she tending to her grandkids?

Does she ever recall that day of thoughts astray: ‘the great psylvan [sic] PsycheFest’.

<ding-dong-ding-dong> Wayne’s cell phone was ringing. He swipes the green dot on the screen to accept the ID-less no.

Probably a scammer. Bet I regret answering this call.

“Hello.”

“Wayne, this is Catalina. Do you remember me?” Wow! And right after thinking about her. Like out of a weird-as-a-speedboat-in-a-peat-walled-moat work of fiction.

“I certainly do, Catalina. How have you been since that wigged-out day 45 years ago?” Wonder how she got my phone number. Everything is on the internet it seems.

“I’ve been ok. I still live in Pittsburgh, over in Manchester. [a North Side neighborhood] You know that there are not many of us left from that crazy day in the Windgap gap.” ‘The Windgap gap’? Did she just coin that? Or, did she refer to it as that shortly after – or during – that epic day? Or, did Gene bill it as such. And didn’t tell me? Hmmm …

“By my research, Catalina, counting you and I, there are only four of us left. Have you heard from Gene or Ariel?”

“Gene died in 2012 from pancreatic cancer. Heard that he ignored the pain for too long. Then when he went in for a checkup, it was too late. He was in the ground two weeks later.” ‘In the ground’? So blunt. But so true.

“Oh, wow. How about Ariel? Remember her?”

“Of course. She passed away in 2009 while visiting her grandparents in the Philippines. Food poisoning, I heard.

Improperly stored meat, I believe.” Tanghalian kagaw. [‘germ lunch’ in Tagalog]

“Woah! I guess we’re the last two survivors.” Huh?

“Steve is still alive in North Carolina, right?”

“No, he died in 2008 from a brain aneurysm in Charlotte.”

“Gosh, then I suppose that we are the final two. Still married, Wayne?”

“No, my wife of 29 years, Samantha, died 13 months ago.

Ovarian cancer was the culprit.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Are you doing ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine, except when I wake up. Just joking. The back is almost shot, though. Along with the gastro-intestinal tract. Hope you’re not eating. [chortles] So, how about you?”

“Yeah, I’m relatively ok, health-wise. I’m on my third marriage. He’s a quiet Anglo fellow; the first two were raucous Latinos. Had a total of five kids. I don’t know what the issue was with me and men.” [laughs]

“We are a problematic contra-species, Catalina.”

“Oh, please stop with that, Wayne. Hey, do you have an email address by chance?”

“Are you going to send me your copiously annotated version of Tolstoy’s War and Peace at a rate of one page per day?”

[guffawing] Ok, Catalina, sure; it’s waynebrain@yomail.com

“Thanks, Wayne. Not sure if I’ll be alive 1,225 days from now. Got diagnosed with some precancerous cells down below.” How many years is 1,225 days? [about 3⅓]

“I’m not sure if I’ll be alive in 1,225 hours, Catalina.” [chortles then coughs]

“How long is 1,225 hours, Mr. Human Calculator?” Catalina enquires in a faux-emphatic manner.

“Just over 51 days; in fact, would you believe it’s fifty-one days and almost exactly one hour? Really. What are the odds of that?” [laughs]

“1 in 1,225?” Catalina posits.

Wayne remains silent, wondering if that is the actual probability. What is he thinking? Wayne was always so odd.

“Earth to Wayne. Hellooooo. Was just lobbing that pre-used number out there. I can see the smoke coming out of your ears from here. You can turn your internal abacus off now.”

[laughs]

“But, Catalina, what if those really were the odds?” So?

“Ok, and then, what?”

“Who knows? But, listen if you kindly will, I had this intensely strange dream last night, Catalina. Interested?”

“I’m all ears,” as you Anglos say.

“Ok, there are these two, fiercely competitive, male, middle-age, Caucasian, alpha-ape rivals.” Huh?

“Did you say alpha-ape?”

“Yes, I did, Catalina. Forgive my simian slip. Anyway, they are seated in three-piece suits at opposite ends of a 23-foot-long, [seven meters in length] narrow, polished-and-shiny, mahogany-veneer conference table. There is a single, black-with-thin-white-stripes, standard-size croquet ball resting in front of each participant. A referee’s whistle is soon heard. A stare-down ensues. It then is revealed to me that it is a game – well, somewhat. There is a hole in the center of the table that is 1.567 x the diameter of the croquet balls.

Apparently, if one rolls their ball into the hole, a bonus ball is awarded, and such player will soon have two balls setting in front of him.” Ballerismo! [sic]

“Two balls! [guffaws] Such a male-manifest dream. But, go-ahead, mi amigo,” [‘my friend’ in Spanish]

“Hominid A grabs the croquet ball. Then hominid B does likewise.” What?!

“Hominid A and hominid B? Why are you calling these two men ‘hominids’?”

“Is it an incorrect description, Catalina?”

“No, but it’s a most unusual one for such a scenario, Wayne.

[a three-second pause] So, what happens?”

“The stare-down re-intensifies. Their common thoughts are revealed to me via whispers. ‘Will that asshole roll for hole, or go bold and throw a Nolan Ryan fastball at my noggin?’

‘Wonder if shithead can duck in time, or will he bob right or left. Hope I strike his upper pate dead-center. One and done.’ And then I awoke, feeling like I had been cheated.”

Out of what? Gory violence? A smashed-in-forehead homicide? Such a bloody mess. Something must have triggered such an odious dream. Was he bullied? Was he mugged? Was he slighted at one of his jobs?

“Wayne, what happened to you?” Catalina enquires. “You can tell me.” Huh?

“What happened to me? You mean like was there some traumatic event in my ho-hum, pretty-much-ordinary-after-that-wild-day-in-the-woods life?”

“Yeah, did something bad happen to you during the intervening years?” Catalina queries.

“No, nothing remarkable. I’ve just recently added it all up, the positives and negatives of this existence, and the dash symbol came out way ahead of the plus symbol.” The dash symbol? – Oh, a minus sign for negative.

“You know, Wayne, it’s not too late to dump that bitter cup and brew a new one. It’s never too late for a change in outlook even if there is broken glass all around.” Still measuredly upbeat she is, despite the marital mayhem.

Bleaky positive. And me, positively bleak.

“I don’t know, Catalina; I think the bitterness is baked into the inner side of my porcelain mug now. Dawn® just doesn’t stand a chance.” With Dr. Doom.

“Now, that was kind of funny, Wayne. You should write that one down. Do you do any writing?”

“Just little fragments,” Wayne replies. “What about you?”

“Oh, some haiku poetry from time to time. Speaking of writing, guess what I found in an old box in the garage?”

“Montezuma’s treasure?” Huh?

“Very funny. But, seriously, Wayne.”

“Ok, what was it?”

“A little free-verse poem that I scribbled on a ripped-in-half piece of notebook paper on that psyche-day in Windgap.”

“Ah, would love to hear you recite it. Do you have it handy?”

“I have it in my hands right now, Wanye.”

“The anticipation is killing me. Fire away, Catalina.”

“Ok, the title is This Day in the Woods. [clears her throat]

This day in the woods / A day never to be forgotten / Ten assorted teenagers mentally adrift / Minds entangled in the encroaching dense foliage / So many curious glances / So many new chances / All pondering this existence / Seeking clues between the neon-green leaves / Where the gaps become lines / And the lines trace shapes / Haunting images merging / Will this day presage anything notable? / Anything tragic? / That lone hawk with a wary eye / ‘What are these crazy humans doing now?’ / On this day in the woods | Well, that’s it, Wayne. Not exactly [Walt] Whitman.” [chuckling]

“Hey, I love it. I can see that hawk now, circling a few times, and then moving on. Always wondered if it spied a mouse in the field, but after doing a risk-benefit analysis, decided it was too dangerous to swoop down with all these uncanny teenagers scattered about, and moving so oddly. So, when exactly did you write it on that day?”

“It was just before sunset. I slinked off into the woods and sat down on a fallen oak tree and put ball-point pen to paper.

I can still ‘feel’ how weird it felt to write. The printed letters each had their own personality. Words were cliques. Utterly bizarre. Have never forgotten that.”

“Smart of you to bring pen and paper, Catalina. I had some thoughts that I wanted to jot down, too.”

“Do you remember the general line of thinking, Wayne?”

“Oh, just along the avenue of ‘what a weird world this is’ kind of stuff. Wow! Just remembered the mantra that was in my head that day. ‘Life to death; atoms arrange then rearrange’.

Such a metallic taste.

<thud>

“Wayne! Are you ok?!”

Wayne’s e-mail message: “The sole survivor: Catalina.”

Much thanks for your valuable mind-time!

Other titles: Gold, a summer story, a suspense-filled, noirotic e-novel; To Morrow Tomorrow and Mysterieau of San Francisco (novellas); Kron by Night, Foxfire, and Lost in Lost Cove (novelettes).

Click HERE to return to Table of Contents.