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Pauly in love

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  Pauly’s jacket hangs from outside the door when come into the carport, an annoying little detail the distracts me as I unlock the door to my apartment next door. I have chores to do before work; my dog needs walking, my laundry washed, and I need no morning mysteries to distract me. I’m tempted to knock on Pauly’s door, think better of it; he hates being disturbed for no reason, perhaps the rain earlier had caught him unawares, and he’s left the jacket out to dry. There’s an odd yet familiar scent, of mothballs and cedar chips recalling my grandparents’ house and the stored clothing they dragged out of closets for each change of season, a memory that has nothing to do with Pauly, and yet lingers in the air, raising more questions I decide can wait until noon when Pauly usually rises. I do not have to wait, finding him on my way back with the dog, wearing the jacket I saw, ducked into a narrow space in front of his door, struggling to put on a tie, hair slicked back – without the ...
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The girl across the street

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    Tiger Stevens nudges me in the ribs when he finds out I just moved into the rooming house across the street from our favorite bar. Guys I drink with always talk about the girl that lives in the three-storied Victorian house across the street. Now I’m living there. I never get it, always confused by the nod and wink as if I am supposed to know something I don’t know. I guess I’m a bit of a snob. I drink with the boys I attended high school with but always assume I won’t end up like them. Sure I load trucks like they do as some Fairfield warehouse, yet I secretly scribble masterpieces into notebooks after house with the assumption I might some day get discovered. Sure, the girl, I met my first day in the rooming house is intrigued by the notebooks and asks me to read some of the contents to her each time we meet inside the house. I never do. I keep thinking I’m not ready. I tell her maybe next time, and really hope I am ready next time. Tiger hoots more when I tell him about...
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Where have all the flowers gone?

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  Whew. Not now, a beer first. I can’t talk with my head all tangled up. Yeah, I went over there. Thank you, Joe. That’s a little better. Brew for the soul.  That’s what I always say. Okay, Okay, I’ll tell you in a minute. I’m still a little shaken. Yeah, I’m high. No, I didn’t save you any. And it was damned good stuff, too – like we used to get in the old days. You could smell it even when he rolled it. I thought he had a time machine hidden up in that room of his. And pot’s not the only old thing he’s got up there. I’m telling you. Will you hold on and let me catch my breath. Joe, another one. So what about him? I’m not sure I can tell you anything more about him than we knew before I went up there. No, no, nothing like that. It’s odd. Bizarre. I mean we’ve all wondered about him, even back when we wandered around together in the old neighborhood. He was always on the fringe, hanging out with Hank and Pauly. But hell, he looks like an all right guy on the outside, and he do...
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