Dog on a Cold Stone Floor

The creative writing class I teach at the community center meets every other Thursday at 7 p.m. Anything goes, I say. Poetry, short stories, a screenplay; write whatever you like, and we’ll work to improve it. The students vary in age from teenagers to octogenarians.

Recently, Lucas, 20, submitted a one-act play called Dog on a Cold Stone Floor. The play, set in Harlem, is an inversion of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof. Li’l Daddy and Li’l Mama live in a two-bedroom apartment with their son Pebble and his wife, “Maggie the Dog.” They all love each other, communicate openly, and enjoy perfect health and happiness.

When I told Lucas I liked his idea, the inversion, but felt a one-off joke better suited his premise than a full-fledged one-act, he scratched his earlobe and said, “Huh?”

“Tennessee Williams,” I said.

“Who?”

“Cat on a hot tin roof,” I said.

“Huh?”

It’s been a few days and I keep thinking, is this possible?

Distance

Brendan finished reading a long-form article about Charles Dickens. It was partially concerned with the Englishman’s fixation on imprisonment. Brendan brewed a cup of oolong tea and pondered the nightmarish idea of being thrown in jail for a crime one didn’t commit. He took slow, careful sips and stared out the window. He watched a tufted titmouse leap from a tree branch and fly away.

His iPhone buzzed, startling him. These days no one called. The number was unknown. On a whim, he answered.

“Hello?”
“Brendan?”
“Yes?”
“This is Charles.”

Charles? Brendan paused for a good long while and then asked the caller to explain how they knew each other.

“We met in prison. Remember?”

Never having been imprisoned, Brendan didn’t remember.

“You said that thing to me about us both being in prison? We were in the grocery store? It was pretty soon after Covid got really real and all the mask-wearing and distancing and stuff? Remember?”

Brendan still didn’t remember.

“You gave me your number? You said… if I ever needed a job?”

Brendan hung up. He turned his phone off. Whoever that guy was, if he was nice and sincere and not crazy, he certainly wouldn’t be approaching me like this. No normal person would reintroduce themself like that. We met in prison? That’s just weird and rude and scary. Plus, who calls anybody anymore? I certainly don’t.

Brendan drained his tea. Then he grabbed his mask and headed out for a walk. He kept his head down and kept his distance.

Submerged

No need to worry - let me say that right away - but there’s a ton of water flowing into my apartment, and this being Christmas Eve, “it doesn’t show signs of stopping.” Luckily I have a scuba tank and a diving mask. I’ll be okay.

And now I’m completely submerged. All is calm. All is quiet. I’m sitting on my couch, toward its edge (to make room for my tank). I’m aware of my breathing of course. You’re always aware of your breathing underwater. My mind isn’t thinking about how this situation will rectify itself. I’m not concerned about water damage. I’m not worried about the future. I’m underwater, in the present, in my apartment, and it’s nice.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Dirty Malone

The Malone boys were Frankie, Johnny, Jimmy, Patty and Dirty. Dirty never minded his name, he turned it into a strength. Not a nickname he'd tell anyone who asked. He worked harder than his brothers, took himself less seriously. Many thought he was the best of the bunch. He was.

The Undetected

Traffic's never an issue because we travel very early in the morning and very late at night. Whenever possible, we avoid crowds, we wear what we want, we're polite but distant, we prefer good books to listening to others' bullshit, we prefer written bullshit to spoken bullshit, we cheer for the common. No one in our town sees us (physically, yes, but not otherwise). We live on small portions and we always pay cash. No one will remember us, but we don't care. We're gratified day to day.