*

-our 37th birthday-

*by someone who usually despises singing*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 *

*she invites me over around ten pm.

i start the trek to the church ave q stop near the border of flatbush, brooklyn. the subways can be ruthless with a person’s time. it takes an hour to get there.

soon after arriving i realize i’ve forgotten condoms. it’s her roommate’s birthday at twelve am this heartlessly cold night. she realizes she’s forgotten a gift.

rock, paper, scissor, shoot.

“enjoy your stroll baby,” my voice winks.

her middle finger extends close to my face before she walks into the night.*

*

*entenmanns’s cake- vanilla. chocolate frosting.

three pack of condoms- lubricated trojans. black box.

can of 4 loko- twelve percent alcohol by volume. twenty-three point five ounces.

birthday candles- twelve pack. blue and pink.

she comes back with it all in a plastic bag emblazoned with a smiley face. after a few moments of laughter she speaks. her words are saturated with embarrassed amusement.

“my sweet bodega man will never look at me the same again.”*

*

*while his candles burn she sings with sugary affection in short shorts. my lack of enthusiasm’s jerry-rigged out of sight. i sing in a wife-beater and boxer briefs. he wears an oversized queens college t-shirt. his voice trembles with ecstatic gratitude. i initially mistake it for panic.

the living room’s dark. he’s perched on their sofa bathed in the indifferent glow of a television.*

*

*he’s turned thirty-seven years old. his body’s pale, pink, and portly.

at twenty five he left the orthodox jewish community he’d spent his entire life in. he’s unsuccessful as a professional and with women. it’s clear he feels he doesn’t belong anywhere. i know that when i see it.

he articulates all this shortly after our introduction.

him and i converse longer than necessary. her expression urges me to move onto the night’s next activity. he rambles awkwardly and i hear a self-destructive obsession with cards lady luck’s forced into his grip.

he makes me uncomfortable. i ask myself why but can’t put my tattooed finger on it.

i don’t know it now but even though we’ve never met before we’ve known each other our whole lives. looking at him i see my mirror image.*

*

*she has multiple roommates and thin walls. this considered it could be said the volume of our morning sex is inconsiderate.

all good things must come to an end. it does.

audible foot steps walk away from the bedroom door moments after. i ask, “is it just me being paranoid or did he listen outside the door?”

she whispers, “i’d love to tell you, and myself, he didn’t. it’s pretty likely we just gave a birthday performance though.”

i muffle my laugh and sing happy birthday with genuine enthusiasm.*

*

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*

* 

-artist-

*by someone who’s realized

it’s not always something to brag about*

(frankie leone, just a man)

* 

*the large chair he sits in is upholstered with green vinyl. foam peeks through its tears. the public school system probably provided it over a decade ago.

he’s terminally fat. defying the warm weather a cardigan covers his round shoulders. it’s big enough to be a sleeping bag. i judge him.

dull blue eyes rest in blotchy skin. they’re small and covered with frameless glasses. blandly, they whisper advice- i’m not trustworthy.

my teenage self doesn’t need to be told twice.

his mouth speaks, “sit down.”

he picks up a stack of forms. they’re eight-and-a-half by eleven. bleached bone white. very crisp. their grey text lets on the office’s printer cartridge needs to be changed.

“name?”

breathing issues pronounce themselves. a product of frustration and obesity.

i respond, “frankie leone.”

“frank leone,” he repeats while writing. a pen jerks on the paper.

“frankie leone,” my authority issues correct.

“cut it out or you’ll be here during your lunch. just like i’m performing outdated tests here on mine.”

enough fear. not enough anger. no audience. i don’t pursue my point.

before continuing he sighs. it sounds like countless hours of basic cable and a failing marriage. “we’re going to determine your future occupation.”

a link of sausage pushes the glasses up his nose. he asks, “would you consider yourself better suited for math and science or language and art?”

“i’m not good with fact or logic. reason either.”

his eyebrows flex. he pauses. the pen makes more marks.

“do you admire civil service workers- like police, firefighters, or men and women in the military?”

“i don’t know. running into burning buildings seems brave but cops make me nervous. i don’t get soldiers. they’re willing to die for someone else’s dream. i’d only die for my own. no one else’s. i usually don’t like other people’s ideas.”

he makes a check.

“what do you like most about yourself?”

i think then answer, “can we come back to this one?”

a framed picture of a girl’s on his desk. sixteen or seventeen. i stare at it. he tells me this isn’t appreciated by turning it face down.

i smile and tell him, “pretty. reminds me of washington square park in the summer time. on a day the sun isn’t hot.”

disregarded.

another question, “do you prefer the company of others or being alone?”

i don’t need much time to think. “i like people but i feel alone even when i’m with them.”

his face putties into a confused expression. words and checks go on the paper. his breath sounds even more uncomfortable. it makes me uncomfortable. he counts the forms and looks at his watch.

“you’re going back to gym early.”

i watch him write another word at the top of the page: “artist.”

he presses a stamp on an ink pad. it hits the page with a thud.

the sound isn’t very romantic.*

*

*

-racist-

*by someone who needs to get p.c.*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 *

*”you’ve never been an escort?”

the blade of her words glistens with flattering surprise. the question doesn’t offend me. it probably should.

i parry, “no. why would you ask?”

“it’s not unusual for lonely and good-looking guys with some charisma to brush with it. you’d make good money.”

i don’t respond right away. the compliment sharpens the double-edged steel of my ego. this dysfunction irks me.

i suppress a smile. with wooden pride i feign sarcasm, “thanks for telling me i’d be a successful hooker baby.”

her bed’s smaller than i’m used to. it forces us closer to intimacy.

the whetting stone of her words continues, “sorry casanova. sensitive after we come aren’t we?”*

*

*”sin city” pushes pins and needles of romantic carnage into the night that follows.

her friend joins us. amiable and full-figured with guarded sharpness. seemingly latina.

my thoughts wander to an e.r. doctor i know. he’d told me the majority of injuries he sees are kitchen related, self-inflicted, and involve knives.

a samurai sword wielding prostitute cuts street justice across the screen of the old tv. the butcher knife of my voice slips, “asians freak me out.”

“why,” her friend asks. i don’t notice their winces at my carelessness.

stealthily, my speech gashes me. “i don’t know. unfamiliar features. generally cold cultures.”

“i’m half nepalese,” the friend informs me.

i panic. thoughtless torrents of speech flow. “damn. well, you don’t speak with an accent. doesn’t count. plus the clerks at the st marks grocery are nepalese. you look nothing like them.”

the wound i’ve made needs stitches. cheap band aids’ve only exacerbated the problem.

her small bed’s a sexless e.r. waiting room until dawn.*

*

*i’m just a man.

i try to make her horny enough to get some in the morning. she starts giving in but kicks me sheathless before the point of no return. before getting up to take a piss i scratch a dishonest smile over my blued expression.

her bathroom lights have red bulbs.*

*

*scabs form over my sexual frustration by the time i got back. across the room on the small bed she scrapes them off.

she’s naked on all fours. her blunt voice rakes, “fuck me.”

i’m just a man.*

*

*”can i write a few hour before work?”

“i’d rather you didn’t. i need more sleep before i leave. we don’t know each other that well and i really like my things,” she replies.

this answer’s brutally efficient- a guillotine blade. before getting my shit together i scratch another dishonest smile onto a decapitated head.

my headless body walks to the g train.*

*

 *

-bleach blonde freedom-

*by someone who understands

more than he’d like to*

her hair’s bleach blonde flax. it was spun by a strung out rapunzel.

she’s losing her grip on youth. the tune she sings is a weary plea for its return.

grains of it remain in her palm. they’re moistened by blood trickling from small cuts. girlishly manicured fingernails are double-edged swords guarding sand of a time passed.

i lean on the railing of this damp balcony watching. it’s plain i’ll never speak to her. i won’t see her again either.

still, i watch while she moves with a desperate version of grace. i watch while her ballad carries a strained version of freedom to my ears.

i can’t see her eyes. i imagine an icy blue. eating-sized fish are frozen still inches below their surface.

my heart lowers.

i don’t get warmer. i don’t get colder. there’s no time for good-bye.

i turn my collar up to the night before facing it.*

 *

*

-critic-

*by someone who hears but rarely listens*

(frankie leone, just a man)

 *

*she stands in front of the table.

the man’s long arm flexes as he writes. a cheap pen moves across the paper. the little girl watches with intense disappointment.

no quill or stylus. the much-anticipated typewriter is absent. sleek cursive isn’t written onto papyrus or into a leather-bound notebook. only ripped newsprint holds his words.

the child’s displeasure honestly dominates her expression. the man’s unaffected. with tired grace he keeps writing.

she asks, “what do you write about?”

“things i want to forget,” he says pen moving. his voice is nearly a whisper.

her face scrunches in confusion.

“why?” she pursues reflexively.

“so other people can remember them,” he answers.

the young girl senses she’s reached a dead end. she takes her questioning in a different direction. “why do you want to forget them?”

“they’ve forgotten me.”

she takes a moment to digest this. he picks up a loose cigarette and lights it with a fluid movement.

he inhales. he exhales. he resumes his work.

unsatisfied, she speaks again, “why do you care about people who don’t care about you?”

a column of smoke passes his lips. it pan cakes over the paper. in seconds it disperses around his thin body. “i can’t remember.”

she crinkles her nose. her questions are innocent. like the colorful print of her dress. she asks another.

“who wants to read about forgetful people?”

his words fall onto the page. his patience stands tall. “people who’ve been forgotten.”

a short moment passes while she processes this. she volleys back, “mister, are you crazy?”

he stops writing. smiling, he puts out his cigarette and folds tattooed arms. an understanding gaze meets the girl’s.

“depends who you ask,” he pauses before resuming, “you could write things i’d like to forget too if you ask me.”

giggling she responds, “i don’t know anyone who’s forgotten you. what would i write?”

his pen goes back to work. he answers, “reviews.”*

*