a short story by Jerry Zinn

The cold brakes of the bus screamed in front of Wellworth’s while Anne Parkhurst adjusted her white gloves and repositioned the pillbox hat on her carefully set hair. As she stood up she did her best to smooth out the creases in her dress, some refusing to disappear after settling on the hour journey. The bus driver tipped his cap as she exited onto the sidewalk, stepping over the mound of snow. Lining the streets, tinsel trees of silver and gold glistened from the streetlights even in the grayness of the day, throwing sparkles onto the path. A gust of lake effect greeted her as she cautiously navigated the sidewalk. Instinctively she pulled the fabric of her threadbare jacket close around her neck, hoping to create a tighter seal.

Anne approached the large doors of the front entrance with Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” emanating from the speakers above, a man dressed as Santa Claus providing backup bells by the bright-red Salvation Army bucket. Anne rummaged through her purse for some spare change for Saint Nick. She found eight quarters and, recognizing she’d need five for the ride home, plucked out three and inserted them in the slot with metallic clangs. She turned toward the store but stopped. She only needed one dollar to get home. Anne’s good nature wouldn’t allow her to proceed until she donated her remaining spare quarter, adding 25 more cents to his collection.

The last five years had been trying for Anne and her husband. In 1955 a quarter was a quarter, but she knew there were still others who needed the money more than she. Anne had worked hard to earn a day of vacation for Christmas shopping, and the two-hour round-trip journey, and the purchase she was in town to make, would put an even bigger strain on her finances. But she also understood that hers was an important mission. She earmarked a small percentage of her wages each month to buy a special gift for her husband Jim, because Anne knew Jim would never spend any of their savings on himself.

The doorman greeted Anne with a big smile, and he brought the heavy door to a close behind her, shutting out the harshness and enveloping her in the Christmas spirit hanging from every ledge of the department store. A manager, dressed in a well-fitting suit and tie, came up to her. “Here for some Christmas shopping?” he asked politely.

“I’m here for something very particular, for my husband,” Anne answered as she opened the clasp on her purse and pulled out a folded page torn from a periodical. “Perhaps you can tell me where I might find this?”

“Ah wonderful, if you’d please follow me, Mrs…?”

“Parkhurst.”

“Mrs. Parkhurst, my name is Gregory. Let me take you to the proper department,” he said, inviting her to board the escalator bound for the second story. Anne was captivated by the array of lights and ornaments that made her feel like she was moving through the stars. She always stood up a little straighter and talked a little more formal when she made the rare trip downtown, and so mindfully she improved her posture. Anne looked down at her dress and tried again to wrestle out the creases, unsuccessfully.

“Mrs. Parkhurst, this is Miss Rubinstein. She will be glad to assist you in making your purchase and with anything else you may need. Merry Christmas,” Gregory said, excusing himself.

“Thank you and Merry Christmas to you too.”

“Mrs. Parkhurst,” Miss Rubinstein began, “How may I help you?”

Anne returned to her purse and produced the advertisement she pulled from a magazine at the beginning of the year. Anne realized material possessions were not of paramount importance, but the message behind the gift was, and so she saved up the exact amount she needed and took the day off for the trip to downtown Cleveland to make the purchase. She knew how hard Jim worked at the bank. He’d been forced to work harder and to put in longer hours since the lay-offs, and he had been passed over for a promotion a second, and a third time. Jim Parkhurst was among the last people who needed to be told life wasn’t fair.

As a banker, one of the most important factors to success was being presentable. Jim had a rotation of three suits, constantly in need of mending; a handful of ties, handed down from his father; and a watch that stopped working a year ago, but he still wore it to look the part. Twice a day, as he often joked to Anne, he could provide the right time when asked. At the office, he constantly looked at the wall clock so if he were ever asked, he could pretend to read it off his wrist.

“I have the model right here,” Miss Rubinstein said, sliding the glass backing and drawing out the watch. It’s hands, numerals, and bezel were all gold, and the face pearl white. A black strap of leather bound the timepiece to the cushion in the case.

“It’s perfect,” Anne said. A thousand times she imagined Jim putting it on, wearing it confidently to the office, and the image made her happy. Anne pulled out an envelope from her bag and handed it to Miss Rubinstein with the exact amount printed on the tag.

“Would you like it engraved, Mrs. Parkhurst?”

It would be, Anne thought, a great personal touch. But she realized she had no more money to spend. “How much would it cost?”

“Engraving is $1.”

Without a split-second of hesitation, Anne pulled out the four remaining quarters designated as her fare home and handed them to Miss Rubinstein. “Please write ‘For My Dearest Jim.’”

“Of course, Mrs. Parkhurst. I’ll just give the watch to our engraver,” Miss Rubinstein answered, as she stepped away from the desk, disappearing into the back room.

Anne wondered at the decorations and the teems of people moving about in a beautifully spontaneous dance. They too were buying gifts for loved ones, trying to make the season special. As she stood in awe, she pictured the expression on her husband’s face on Christmas morning, when he unwrapped the watch. She knew that image would keep her warm on the long, cold, walk home.

a short story by Jerry Zinn

Sam let out a grunt, grabbing his left shoulder in pain. His cream color shirt was dripping in the maraschino blood seeping steadily from the fresh bullet wound. He tore off his sleeve and tied it around the injury to help stem the bleeding while using his leg to straighten himself up against the corner of the adobe walls, spurs jingling on the heels of his life-beaten leather boots.

“Poetic, isn’t it?” The words came from below and behind a distant wall. Sam flashed a quick glance around the edge from his perch, holed up in the bell tower of the white washed Spanish church of St. Sebastian. A bullet took a chunk from the edge of the structure near his face and threw some plaster dust into his eyes, causing him to recoil. In the brief look, Sam was able to discern where the sheriff and his two deputies were settled.

“Sunday Sam,” the sheriff continued, “picked a church for his last stand, and on Sunday afternoon no less. It’s almost like the good Lord planned it. You’ve knocked off eight banks from here to the Mississippi, and you’ve still got the audacity to show up in church every week. I can’t quite figure if you’re a God-fearing man or if you think weekly service somehow absolves you of your sins. Well I’m done chasing you, Sunday. You’re only leaving that church one of two ways: walking out in handcuffs or in the box I had made up for ya. It’s up to you. There’s three of us and, at two guns a piece, that’s six barrels lookin’ for your head or your heart.”

Sam heard the sheriff but the message didn’t faze him. He pulled his revolvers from their holsters and slipped out the bullets from his belt to fill them. The wooden handles had crosses carved deep like crevasses, something he’d done over a bottle of whiskey one lonely night in Nevada. A fine job he thought, professional-like. With his uninjured arm, Sam reached for his hat, a light brown wide-brim decorated with sweat stains and the same dust that filled his lungs.

He leaned forward and affixed it to his head, mopping the moisture from his forehead with his remaining sleeve. Even in the seclusion of the tower, the sun was inescapable, branding the drenched arm hairs to his skin. Without looking, Sam pointed one of the revolvers through an opening and took a shot, a puff of smoke quickly dissolving in the dry breeze. He counted eight blasts of return fire, and by the sound he could tell none of the men were any closer to the church.

Convinced of his momentary safety, Sam reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a cigar, damp with perspiration but still dry enough to light. He struck a match on the hardened mud and took a deep draw, the tip curling to accept the flame. As he smoked, Sam looked at the large bell hanging above, its thick rope dangling to the ground. The bell was simple but large, a cast bronze with the year of its installation fastened to the side in raised numbers: 1817. His teeth dug into the end of the cigar, freeing a bit of the tobacco, which he fished for with his tongue and spat onto the planks under his soles. In spite of the predicament, Sam was calm, and his mind drifted. He wondered how heavy the bell was and how many men it took to raise it up.

“Hell of a time for a smoke, Sunday!” the sheriff called out with a chuckle. A sly smirk worked its way across Sam’s face. He took a drag and tilted his head back, opening up so the smoke could scale to the roof and dissipate. Then he tossed the cigar out the tower, and a few shots fired. It was a good sign, Sam thought. They were nervous.

“Well? What do you say, Sunday? You don’t want the next time you go to church to be for your own funeral, do you?” There was impatience in the sheriff’s voice. Sam yawned, scratching his bristled neck and grasping the red bandana at his throat.

“How tall are you, sheriff?” Sam yelled.

“What’s that?” the sheriff replied, confused.

“Just wonderin’ if I’m taller than you.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I was just thinking we could put you in that coffin you had made. No reason it should go to waste.”

“I didn’t realize you had a considerate side, Sunday.”

“Sheriff, if you think I’m gonna surrender myself to you, you’re even more of a God damn fool than most in your profession. And about every one I’ve met I’ve turned to dust.”

“You should be more careful with your language son. You are in church after all.”

Sam stood up and kept his back glued to the corner, wincing at the sharp, throbbing shoulder pain. “Why don’t you and your boys join me? The service is about to start,” he teased.

“Joe,” the sheriff whispered, “you head up to the well quickly. Abe and I’ll cover you.” Joe looked back skeptically.

“You sure?” Joe asked.

“Look, Sunday’s not budging. Our only chance is to get into the church, so we got to get over there in stages. Now we’ll cover you. Just keep low and try to be swift and quiet about it,” the sheriff responded. Joe’s insecurities remained as he looked over the wall and saw the well halfway between the church and his refuge. Back in the tower, Sam was considering his options. He knew he couldn’t go down; his shoulder was done for, unable support the weight to lower himself.

Joe inched around the corner of the wall and, gripping his rifle tightly, he bent over and shuffled towards the distant stone watering hole. Sam crouched down and extended for the rope, giving it a strong tug. The bell rang out loudly as it swayed, the large clapper inside clanging against the cast frame. The sheriff and Abe fired a few shots each and Joe froze where he was, panicky eyes set on the tower and its swaying mechanism.

Sam took a breath, raised both of his revolvers, and turned the corner to see Joe stuck in no man’s land. Faster than any of the three law-enforcers could think, Sam fired a shot from each pistol at Joe and ducked to the other side as the replies whizzed by.

“Joe?” the sheriff called out. When no response came, he peeked over and saw Joe lying motionless on the ground, his head an unappetizing bowl of ground meat. “God damn it. Joe’s dead,” he said. The color flushed out of Abe’s face when he heard the words, and it fell to his toes when he got a look for himself. Sam stealthily glanced at his handiwork.

“It’s too bad about Joe, sheriff. Why don’t you and your other little friend go home now while you still have each other,” Sam said, loading more bullets into the rotaries. “Maybe order a bottle of hooch and hold hands.”

“You’re going straight to hell when I’m through with you, Sunday!” the sheriff yelled.

“That’s quite a prophecy, preacher,” Sam replied. “Didn’t know you were ordained.”

The sheriff turned to Abe and motioned with his head for Abe to try where their comrade had failed. Abe shook his head in refusal, his shock over Joe’s demise still fresh on his sunken cheeks. The sheriff read Abe’s expression and loosened his lips.

“We’ll both go at the same time,” he said, which seemed to settle Abe. Sam let out a deep breath and closed his eyes, cocking back the hammers on the nickel-plated guns in effortless synchronization. A piece of leftover cigar made its presence known in the back of his mouth, and he chewed it a little, extracting the peppery spice from its fibers. Almost as quickly as his bullets, Sam darted across the opening, saw the sheriff and his remaining deputy, and fired. One of the bullets struck the bucket hanging above the well, and water gushed out the hole. The other shot caught Abe in the neck, and he collapsed to the ground. The sheriff threw himself against the stones of the well and looked back at his fallen deputy. Abe gripped at his wound, but the sheriff recognized there was nothing either man could do. He knew his partner would bleed out in a matter of seconds. The sheriff sat still as a boulder, watching helplessly as he lost his second man of the day.

The sting in Sam’s shoulder was intensifying, and the sensation radiated. Blood was coming through the makeshift bandage, and he knew he needed to end the standoff soon and find a way to get himself medical attention if he was to stay out of the made-to-measure coffin.

“You’re going to have to be speedier than that, sheriff.”

“Those were two good men, Sunday. Your body count’s not going to help you where you’re going.”

“Good men? Good at what?”

The sheriff stood up slowly and pointed his rifle at the bell. He didn’t respond to Sam’s jab. He remained focused. For the first time, fear sent chills over Sam’s body, a strange freeze in the hot New Mexico summer. The sensation was foreign, and he almost didn’t recognize it. Since it was one of the few things he’d never experienced, he was able to identify it by process of elimination, knowing, for example, that he hadn’t just fallen in love. His palms secreted sweat and loosened their hold on the cross-embellished handles. With the tip of a barrel, he pushed up on the brim of his hat and let it fall behind.

“You’ve made your decision,” the sheriff said without flinching, the intensity of his words weighing uncomfortably on Sam’s ears.

“How’s that?”

“There’s only one way you’re leaving that church now: sealed up in a pine envelope.”

“Envelope? Well I’m not much for writing, and I damn sure ain’t much for dying.”

Sam prepared himself for one more move. He took a deep breath in and out and said, “It’s been a real pleasure getting to know you over the years, sheriff. I’ll be sure to lay a flower by your gravestone.” Immediately after he finished speaking, Sam turned, and three shots went off. One of Sam’s bullets hit the sheriff in the leg, the other struck the dirt, and the force of the sheriff’s shot threw Sunday Sam back toward the bell. As he fell down the tower, Sam reached for the rope, and when he struck the ground, the bell tolled.

“I hate flowers,” the sheriff said to the audience of emptiness, grabbing his leg and hobbling toward the church, the bell still singing its somber song. He threw open the doors and stumbled into the aisle, a simple wooden crucifix hanging nobly on the altar. The sheriff looked to his left and saw Sunday Sam on the ground, head turned the other way, rope still swinging above his body. As the sheriff made his way over with labored steps he could hear the sounds of several horses riding in from the distance. It was his backup, conveniently and substantially tardy. Slowly, Sam’s head rolled over to face the sheriff. Sam looked him straight in the eyes and winked with his last exhale.

“Sheriff? You all right?” one of the men said as he dismounted and entered the church.

“Yeah, I just got shot in the leg. I’ll go see Doc Otto first thing. I guess you saw we’re going to need to more coffins out here?”

“What about Sunday Sam?”

The sheriff pointed his nose to the lifeless body and added dryly, “Sunday Sam got his last rights.”

a short story by Jerry Zinn

The air had the chilled nip of a kiss from an early spring mistral in the French countryside. Paul Van Dyke stood, Bordeaux in hand, at the top of the elevated patio overlooking the endless stretch of fastidiously manicured grounds. Van Dyke felt the cold touch of the breeze against the back of his neck like a stroke from the hand of a siren, receding into the imaginary sea forthwith. He took a sip from the glass and allowed the full body of the wine to roll the fullness of its body around his tongue, its alcoholic constitution a welcome radiance as it made passage. His wrist turned naturally in the constant search of temporal awareness, but he recognized and ignored the inclination to check his timepiece.

The button of his expensively tailored, black wool suit was unfastened, and he thumbed it through the hole as he walked slowly down the stone steps, his arrival at the base marked by the crunch of the fine, white gravel. He proceeded forward with a deliberate lack of pace, placing his hand on the weathered stone ledge feeling the small pores and imperfections as he slid along. The boxwoods lining the long network of green and gravel lines were geometrically flawless as though he were inside a famous diamond, and from his distance the network’s constituents appeared solid as Italian marble. He came toe to toe with the fairway-length lawn, its alternating light and dark green stretching from the caps of his polished oxfords to the horizon point where they met in the distance. The spray of the fountain shot up and fell down continuously, creating the illusion of a transparent tree of water growing forth from the discolored pedestal.

Right or left? That was the decision to be made in order for him to continue without infringing upon the blades of sacred Poaceae. Van Dyke allowed his feet to choose for him, following their heading to the right. Each subsequent, crackling meeting of his leather soles with the tiny stones brought him closer to the somber expression on the Grecian statue who called the garden home, her head turned as if preventing her gaze from falling upon him. With the brilliant canopy of trees stretching to the sky chirping from within, Van Dyke fell into unpleasantness. He had no one to blame but himself for the position in which he was immovably set. After all, he had taken the money, and with that he signed away the luxury of a clean conscience. He finally understood that he wouldn’t be able to eat the cake he had collected, an annoying cliché, frustratingly fulfilled.

As Van Dyke followed the sharp angle of the path, forcing him nearer the fountain, he heard but could not see the plane overhead, remaining as it did, hidden behind the peppered gray matching the shade of his hair. Initially he wished to be aboard the plane instead of where he was, but he struck down the thought with the remembrance that actions have consequences, and those couldn’t be avoided or escaped, only faced as in duels belonging to earlier times. Regrets were poisonous, poisonous as Botrytis blight and just as difficult to treat, Van Dyke thought as he turned another corner and walked to the bench, placed equidistant from the parallel sides of the garden. He stood between the bench and the fountain circled with lavender. Van Dyke could never go back and undo the damage he’d done, the greed to which he succumbed was like spilled soup never to be fully returned to bowl. In his business dealings he became well acquainted with the valuation of land, and to his disgust he also knew his own price, to the cent.

With glass in hand, he felt the gentle mist of the peripheral fountain water brushing against his face. What’s done is done, he mused as he took another appreciative sip of the vintage 2003. Over the years, Van Dyke often stood in the very spot in which he found himself, and presently its familiar comforts were no less familiar or comforting. He closed his eyes and welcomed in the subtly aromatic lavender with none of the artificial enhancements added in reproductions.

“Mr. Van Dyke.” The introduction did not startle him; he knew it was coming. Slowly he allowed his eyes to welcome back the splendor of his surroundings. Van Dyke set the glass down carefully on the moss-patched bench as he about-faced. He adjusted the cuffs of his starched shirt peeking out from his jacket sleeves.

Van Dyke didn’t feel the piercing metal bullet work its way through the infinitesimally thin fibers of the black wool fabric, past his pink silk pocket square, beyond more dermal barriers, and into his heart. He didn’t even hear the muffled pop of the shot through the suppressor. But Van Dyke could feel the life leaking out of his body, and each shuffled step backwards felt heavier as his balance began to fail him. While engaged in a rearward fall, the rippling, clear waters waiting to receive him, a strange thought came into his head given the circumstances: he hadn’t finished his glass of Bordeaux. It was an unfortunate, though appropriate way for him to go out, he thought, as the known world dissolved away.

a short story by Jerry Zinn

“What do you think it’ll be like tonight?” Oscar asked.

“It’s impossible to know for sure, but I’m predicting the most insane one yet. After all it is the tenth, and I hear they’re going all out. We’re talking epic proportions,” Ryan answered.

“Last year was pretty crazy though. You think it’s going to be even more out there this go around?”

“Yeah but come on, this is the tenth anniversary. The first couple were kind of lame, but the last few years have just been insane.”

“Duly noted. I’ll brace myself for impact.”

Oscar returned to his desk and sat watching the clock tick slowly with his chin resting in cupped hands. The annual Halloween Party at Blair’s Dopamine Center was an event people talked about anxiously as soon as the Labor Day weekend played through. And while its reputation for excess was well known, officials turned a blind eye each year and allowed it to go mostly unregulated.

Officially, the Halloween Party didn’t exist. It was organized purely by word of mouth. Most offices scheduled the following day off in advance, citing obscure holidays as reasoning, as expectations for productivity were meager at best. It seemed no one was immune to the temptation, the lowest workers in the food chain frequently rubbed elbows with CEOs and bigwig decision-makers. It had evolved over the decade into one of the biggest days of the year, and even those few who didn’t attend, mostly because there were still necessary operations that needed tending to, received a contact high from the festivities.

Part of the reason the celebration was so over the top was the prevalence of a particular drug in almost limitless supply. While not illegal, the substance was tightly controlled the other 364 days of the year, and Halloween was the one occasion where it was not only unchecked, but policing and governing officials frequently indulged in it themselves.

Overdoses were common and accepted for what they were. Hospital’s usually found their ERs and bed towers filled beyond capacity the following morning, and it often took almost a week to process and administer care to every patient. Politicians, when asked how they could better manage the festivities, frequently responded ambiguously so as not to infuriate any of their constituents. It seemed the entire affair was more or less a necessary evil to maintain order and keep happiness at acceptable levels.

The workday ended later than Oscar wanted, and he quickly went home to change out of his work clothes and into something that would permit him to live a little, let his hair down, and so on. He arrived at Blair’s, dimly lit and decked in ghostly and ghoulish ornamentations, where loud music was pounding. The crowd had a raw energy, an unstoppable energy, a lift from which no one so much as considered the prospect of the inevitable downturn. From the sprinkler system drugs rained down in a fine mist, seeping into clothes and lungs with equal indifference. The party stormed on for a few hours before nearly all in attendance, clothed in everything from togas to pinstripe suits, had either passed out where they stood or went home to retire to the most easily accessible places in their homes. The music died down until it could no longer be heard, and somewhere far off in the distance, as if reaching the space from the end of a dark tunnel, voices murmured.

“Do you think we should have let Blair eat all the candy?” the woman asked.

“Well honey he is ten now. Halloween’s going to start meaning less and less to him as he gets older, so we might as well let him enjoy it. Besides, its just one night, and after eating his weight in sugar I think he’ll probably sleep the whole way through the weekend,” the man responded.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so amped up. I bet his dopamine center was having the party of the century.”

“Well he probably wont want to eat another piece of candy till Christmas after tonight.”

The man left the room and the woman lingered a moment longer, smiling at her sleeping son sprawled out on his bed. She flicked off the lights and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her and officially ending the year’s Halloween Party.

a short story by Jerry Zinn

As I peered aimlessly through the delicate fog of Lisboa into the sea of black and white tiles rolling like imperfect waves over Rossio Square, I felt a stream of rain fall on my toes with their crimson-painted nails exposed. I adjusted my umbrella, which I had allowed to list back as my distant memories swam in the square. Sentimentality often strikes me when I am at my weakest, a warm refuge for the cold and lonely spirit. Decades of experience taught me there is only one cure when I fall into the trap of musing, and fortunately for me I was standing just near that very medicine. My feet carried me swiftly and surely to the tiny counter of A Ginjinha, an establishment smaller than my closet and as old as the vines in Porto.

My visits were regular, perhaps even daily. Though my days often appear similar, I never intend for them to be. I follow my heart, and my heart often longs for familiar comforts. My years of patronage are too numerous to count, and in so doing my true age would be revealed. Suffice it to say the trips were many over a long period. To Emilio, working with the kind of graceful movements that masked his mechanical efficiency, I simply smiled and raised a finger to indicate one drink would do.

Emilio nodded as he placed a small, white plastic cup before me and tilted a large glass container, pulling out the wooden knob and allowing a few of the morello cherries to jump out before putting the stopper back in just far enough to hold back the fruit and allow the sweet, dark-red Ginja liqueur to fill the vessel. I placed the Euro coin on the countertop, but he didn’t take it, raising his eyebrows as if to say, “I know you’ll want for another.” Of course he was right, but for my own sake I left the coin there just the same as I took little sips of the delicious elixir, the tartness of the cherries bound by alcohol to the sweet syrup. When it was gone I tossed the two fruits in my mouth, manipulating them with my tongue to extract the pits and holding them off to the side as I enjoyed the soaked bits of bliss. Then in the classic Portuguese way, I took great pleasure in spitting the seeds on the mosaic square, adding them to the scattered collection from unknown mouths.

For a moment I considered walking on, but the dry, sour pull at the back of my tongue beckoned for another, and I obliged. Emilio had already prepared my next drink, and I placed another Euro on the table. My second offering he promptly stacked on the first and handed back, patting his chest to signal the charges were to be added to the house’s tab.

“Obrigada,” I said with great sincerity.

“Boa noite, Carlota,” he said as I carried on past the theater with its Ionic columns, slick steps shimmering under a thin film of moisture. It is an image, along with the city’s winding streets and pastel hued buildings, carved resolutely in the marble slate of my mind. The backs of my hands are strangers to me when compared to Lisboa. It is a city that weeps its glorious history from every crack and seam, its spirit stiffened by an endless chain of hard times but still breathing an inextinguishable flame of life from within. I am only a dot in its present, a passing thought in its timeline, but still present in an intimate and indelible way.

Night was soon to fall upon the city, but the fog would let the light of day linger on longer, dimming imperceptibly to darkness, replaced by the artificial luminescence of lamps and storefronts. I continued to weave my way through the city, up the steep inclines that led only to steeper inclines, and whether the Tejo was at my back or facing me I seemed to be climbing up. This is the Escher-like reality in which alfacinhas are inextricably tangled, a metaphor for the uphill battle of Portugal itself. As I wandered I could smell the intoxicating aroma of salty bacalhau and the foamy head of beer. Conversations skipped off the plaster walls of buildings that ran together like a long, winding train, the road cutting them at harsh angles.

I reached my destination, more a time than a place, and I peered out over the city below. The myriad colors that decorated the structures by day had turned to black, and the scattered flickers sprinkled bright dots like Christmas lights hanging above the water. I heard the bell of the tram as it rounded the bend, its sign floating above the solitary headlight, and I raised my hand so it came to a halt at my feet. I closed and clasped my umbrella before climbing aboard and paying for the privilege, the coins earlier refused, accepted now. I found a solitary seat in the back corner at a window from where my insatiable appetite for the environment could be satisfied.

The tram worked its way along the tracks, smooth in the straightaways and choppy through the curves. When I was full I pulled the cord and hopped off, back out into hidden alleyways. Before I could unfurl my umbrella the rain subsided to a fine and bearable mist, so I left the protection tightly wound. By then the night was alive as if spiked with espresso, but without the tempering effect of sugar or cream, an unnecessary luxury. Day is only an activity to be endured, serving as the time which comes before the night and which rears its unwelcome brightness when night turns in. At night, life possesses endless possibilities as the worries of the day drift away like a blue-tinted wisp of smoke from a damp cigarette. My heels clapped against the tiles like the clicking of an antique typewriter, driving my imagination to ruminate more poetically as I arrived in front of the small bar nestled between busy restaurants and shops. The blue and white tiled number 85 affixed to the stone doorway receded from the brightness as I stepped inside.

“Olá Carlota! Como vai você?” Franco asked from his seat, teardrop-shaped Portuguese guitar set upon his lap as he carefully tuned each of its dozen strings.

“Tudo bom, Franco. Tudo bom,” I answered. “Tonight, I’ll just be doing one song.”

“Lágrimas da Noite?”

I confirmed without speaking. Around me the crowd bustled. Words and phrases from all angles entered and exited my ears, fortified like fine port with the clinking of glasses and scraping of silverware. The space was full, and though the bar was not much larger than the tram, the pack of people made it seem more expansive. I knew the place well, familiar beyond the unknown faces. I was at home in its routine. Sometimes the greatest comforts are found in normalcy. Once Franco was satisfied with the sounds of his instrument, he looked up to me and nodded. The patrons needed no other signal as a hush fell upon the room, and all eyes turned to me.

“I will be singing one song this evening, one of my favorites: ‘Lágrimas da Noite.’ For those of you who don’t know the piece, it speaks to the fleeting nature of the night and the inevitable transition to the responsibilities of day. ‘Lágrimas da Noite,’ ‘Tears of Night,’ will not just be my only song this evening, it will also be the last I ever perform,” I explained to gasps and the great surprise of Franco, who has been at my side for many nights through many years. I closed my eyes, and Franco recovered to begin plucking, delicately and masterfully, transforming the mood of the room as he played. As I sang I let the song take me away. It transported me to the first time I sang it all those uncountable years before. My younger self danced with my present to the tune of my future as my emotions carried the melody. I felt as if all the raw passion inside me was invited to flow out from within as I swayed, the power of fado. When I arrived at the final line, it emerged slowly, savoring as I did the feeling of each word as they passed over my lips one by one into the hazy air:

Como lágrimas da noite, passo contra a minha vontade em dia.

(Like tears of the night, I pass unwillingly into day.)

“Dia” hung around a moment longer, undulating like a radio wave as Franco played the remaining notes. Applause filled the room, pouring over into my grateful heart. As I opened my eyes I bowed in appreciation, one final time. Franco gave me a loving embrace, and the next singer, a young girl a sliver of my age rose up to take my place. I stepped back out into the street and opened my umbrella to ward off the drops that fell with the heaviness of my saturated soul. They were tears, tears of the night, raining down through an atmosphere seasoned with enchantment, which would, as I would, pass unwillingly into day. I wandered down the avenue alone, but my story, transforming from present to past instantaneously, entered the ranks of Lisboa’s distinguished history.

a short story by Jerry Zinn

The Waldens sat at the dinner table in silence, each plugged into devices, seemingly unaware of their surroundings. The extent to which meals in the home had evolved by 2122 was utterly lost on them. No one remembered what life was like a hundred years before.

Only a few moments passed before the barrier of silence was broken, not by any of the Waldens but by the kitchen itself, which had begun preparing the evening’s feast. Mechanical arms weaved through the space swiftly and with the synchronized and flowing movements of an orchestra. In earlier generations, people would have paid simply to witness the technological wizardry that was taking place in front of the Waldens, but advancements had become so commonplace that devices like those were often tossed on the side of the street like newspapers once were, the litter of an inundated society.

At the table there was no conversation. There were no questions regarding how each of the Waldens’ days had been. No comments were made on the state of the country or the world at large. Talk of upcoming films and works of scintillating fiction was left behind decades before, trapped in the lost memories of cinemas and libraries. The dish the robotic chefs were preparing was the same they prepared each night for the Waldens. The menu was set when the machines were installed, and they were designed to stay with the routine unless reprogrammed. The Waldens never considered reprogramming the kitchen, just as they never considered reprogramming anything else in the house.

A message streamed across the notification wall in the kitchen, as it had for a week, with the time updated: THIS HOME WILL BE OBSOLETE IN 1 HOUR. There were no further details. No follow up was necessary. The Waldens were aware of what would happen when their home officially became a technological relic. In 2100 it was decided that residents in out-of-date homes would be evicted, the parts repurposed, and the remaining structure leveled to make room for the next generation. Not even the impending removal and destruction surfaced as a talking point at the dinner table that evening.

The Waldens were served their dinner by the kitchen bots, an unceremonious Last Supper. Their last time at the dinner table together would be no different than their first. They consumed all that was set before them, the portions having been measured out perfectly for their individual needs. A glance or two was passed from one to another around the table like a breadbasket, but still nothing was said.

When the hour had passed, the power was cut to the Waldens’ house for a few seconds, and then a strong, red strobe light began flashing through the house. Over the speakers hidden within the building came a loud and clear message, “This home is now obsolete! Prepare for reassignment! This home is now obsolete! Prepare for reassignment!” The words repeated as the front door was thrust open and a squad of robots, painted all black from head to toe with a large recycling symbol illuminated in green on their chest plates, entered the kitchen. In a blitz, they dismantled and reclaimed all of the technology in the kitchen and moved on to the other rooms in succession. The Waldens sat at the table, silent and unflinching. When the robots finished stripping the house they turned to the table and approached each dinner chair one by one, unplugging and removing the now obsolete machines from Waldens Robotics.

a short story by Jerry Zinn

Howard Jordan sat on the back patio on a cool autumn morning and took a sip of warm, freshly brewed dark roast. He could hear the birds chirping and what remained of the leaves rustling, the two sounds often melding together. Leaning back into the deep wicker chair, it’s fibers crunching as the strands rubbed against one another, Howard propped his feet up on the table, atop a stack of large books on subjects about which he knew nothing. All that mattered to Howard was that they were suitable for elevating his loafered feet to a comfortable position. He held the mug to his face and let the humid fragrance dance up his nostrils.

As he nestled in, Howard wondered what Noel Fullerton’s idea was. Fullerton had commissioned Howard to paint a few pieces in the past and purchased countless others. But when he phoned the night before saying he wanted to commission another work, Fullerton said, “It will likely be the most challenging and frustrating piece you’ve ever done. I believe it has the potential to be incredibly rewarding as well.” What he meant by all that, Howard was unsure. When Howard pressed him, Fullerton insisted he would provide no further details until he met with Howard in person the following morning. So there Howard sat, the following morning, awaiting the arrival of one of America’s great philanthropists and supporters of the arts, anxious to discover what subject would be at once challenging, frustrating, and rewarding.

Behind him, Howard heard his wife moving around in the kitchen and pouring herself a cup from the pot. “Come on out here Sara. I’m just waiting for Fullerton,” he said.

“I’m just putting some sweetener in my coffee, then I’ll be out.”

“I can’t believe you put that poison in your coffee. It ruins the taste, and I hear that substitution stuff is worse than real sugar.”

“I know,” Sara said, settling into the chair next to Howard with a shiver. “Chilly this morning,” she remarked, changing the subject from toxic substances.

“Yeah it’s finally starting to feel like fall out here.”

“Any idea what Fullerton has on his mind?”

“I thought about it all night, and I’ve been thinking about it all morning, which is to say I thought about it instead of sleeping. Honestly, I have no idea. Maybe he wants me to paint a ceiling, like the Sistine Chapel. I couldn’t even get him to give me a hint. He said it was important to him that he ask me in person.”

“Sounds like it will be an interesting project. I can tell the unknown intrigues you. To have you up all night, after all these years, that’s something. Well he should be here any minute, so at least you won’t have to wait much longer.”

“Hey Sara?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For sticking with me. I know it’s not easy being married to an… artist,” Howard hated calling himself that. It made him feel like he was boasting, even to his wife. “It isn’t the most structured life. But there’s no way I get to where I am today, figuratively or literally, without you being by my side every step of the way. I don’t say it as often as I should, but I love you more than anything.”

“I love you too Howard. I knew what I was getting into when I married you, just like you knew what you were getting with me! No one should ever wish for an easy life. The most important thing is to be surrounded by the people you love and who love you. We are both very fortunate.”

“Exactly right, Sara,” A ring interrupted their professions. “I think that was the doorbell. Must be Fullerton.”

“I’ll let him in and leave you two to talk shop.”

“Thanks hon.” Sara rubbed Howard’s shoulder lovingly as she slipped back inside and went to open the door.

A moment later, Fullerton’s unmistakable, booming voice rattled through the house and out to Howard in his wicker chair, which shook at the sound, “Hey Sara! Is the maestro in?”

“He’s just out back,” Sara answered,  noticeably softer.

“Howard!” Fullerton said as he walked in and invited himself to be seated.

“Noel. I must say I’m anxious to solve your riddle. What is this piece you want me to paint that’s so special it can’t even be mentioned over the phone?”

“Boy Howard, you don’t mess around do you? No time for weather talk or how’re you doings, huh?” Fullerton replied, “Down to business. Well, it’s something I’ve wanted to talk to you about for a long time. You know we’re setting up that exhibit at the Cleveland Museum of Art, of your landscapes, next year?”

“Yes, I think I might have gotten a phone call or two about it,” Howard joked.

“I felt it would be an important statement, an insight into your mind if you will, if I could commission you to paint on a very personal subject, as a complement to those pieces.”

“And what might that be?”

“Howard, I want to commission you to paint a self-portrait. And before you refuse,” Fullerton put his hand up to quash any reactionary responses. “Please hear me out. I realize you’ve never done one before, and I understand why you haven’t. But consider how much of an impact that could have on people who come to see your work. You are unquestionably one of the most influential artists of the last fifty years if not more, and you’ve changed the entire idea of what people believe is possible, and not just in art frankly. I’m not exaggerating. You know me well enough to know I’m a straight shooter.”

“Noel, I just don’t know about doing a self-portrait.”

“People want to know how you see yourself. All I’m asking is for you to think about it, Howard. As I said, it will be very trying, but I think you’d be surprised how rewarding it could be for you and for countless others.”

“Alright, Noel. I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you Howard. You know how to reach me,” Fullerton said standing up. “Take your time to think it over. In keeping with your philosophy, now that I’ve said my mind, I’ll leave you and Sara to enjoy the day.” To that Howard simply nodded his head and returned to his coffee as Fullerton let himself out the front.

“I heard what he said…” Sara said stepping back onto the patio.

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Think about it. I owe him that much after all he’s done for my career. I suppose he’s right too. It could have an impact on some people. Can we go for a walk?”

“Of course, let me grab your shoes and coat.”

Howard felt for the table and set down his coffee, carefully to be sure none of it spilled, as he sat up. He stood and stretched as he let out a sigh and walked through the kitchen.

“I’m just at the door Howard. I’ve got your coat and shoes.”

“Thanks Sara.” Sara guided Howard into his tennis shoes and jacket, and they headed out the door. She threaded her arm through his and hugged it tightly. “You know Sara you’re more than just my wife, you really are my better half.” Sara didn’t answer but Howard imagined she was smiling, which made him happy. She guided him down the steps one at a time, serving as his wife and his better half, as she’d always done and would always do.

a short story by Jerry Zinn

Alicia stood at the water’s edge, the occasional tail of a broken wave sending cool water between her toes. She held a small round shell in her hand, rubbing the sand off with her thumb and forefinger as she looked out on the layered atmosphere. The only visitor as far as her eyes could see was a seagull gliding on the ocean breeze like a distant kite. Once Alicia no longer felt the coarse grains, and her fingers slid along the ridges of the shell without interruption, she tossed and caught it a few times, keeping her focus on a buoy jostling with the current far away. She waited for the white of the next wave to form, and then skipped the shell across the surface towards her marker. It kicked up in the air when it made contact with the crest before falling behind with a plop. Satisfied, Alicia wiggled her toes and tensed at the slight pricks from bits of crushed shells.

She ran her hands along her smooth thighs while the wind picked up and filled her linen shirt like a sheet drying on the line. When Alicia turned her head a mess of her hazelnut hair cut across her face. She quickly flicked it back and out of the way. With a full breath of the salty-sweet sea air, she turned and walked along the shoreline, a thick forest of palm trees to her right, the clear water folding to her left, and nothing but pristine white ahead. She had the island cove all to herself and was attempting to use the opportunity to think of ideas for her next play, walking without urgency. Tucked into her front pocket was a pen and small moleskin notebook where she recorded the intermittent flashes of lightning in her brainstorm.

Alicia noticed something glistening in the sand and shifted her course a few degrees to investigate. When she arrived at her destination, she found the neck of a green beer bottle. She could tell it had been there for a time because it had transfigured to sea glass, the strong sheen weathered away by passing sand and the ebb and flow of the tides. Alicia bent over and pulled at the lip, expecting it only to be a broken piece, but was surprised to find a fully intact vessel. Alicia dumped out what had accumulated inside. She smiled as an idea crossed her mind. Perhaps she was just the hopeless romantic everyone seemed to think: the idea of putting a message in the bottle was too tempting to avoid.

Alicia sat down on the warm, shifting ground, which hugged her legs welcomingly, and pulled out her notebook, its leather a little damp from sea spray. Looking to the cotton ball clouds in the sky for inspiration, Alicia thought of what to write. She clicked her pen and introduced it to the tip of her tongue as she opened to a fresh page.

“Dear Wanderer,” she started. “I’m writing this message from a different time and a different place. I don’t know you, but if you’re reading this I feel you must be a romantic like me. Take a minute to look around you and appreciate what you have, for each moment is as fleeting as the wind, and like each breeze, it is precious. Yours in time, Alicia, March 1^st 2015.”

As she finished signing her name, Alicia took care to separate the page from the journal. She rolled the paper and sent it into the mouth of the bottle as she stood up, brushing off the sand that clung to her skin. She looked around for something to cap the container with, noticing the spent cork of enjoyed Bordeaux within reach. With a few taps from the base of her palm, Alicia secured the stopper, preserving the capsule until it reached its unknown person and time. She made her way back to the edge and waded out until the salt water seeped into the white fabric of her button-down. She gave a last look to the hazy green glass, her note tucked safely within, and then threw it as far as she could, beyond the push of the current, with the maritime postal service stamping the parcel with a splash.

Alicia watched the neck of the bottle bobbing away for a few minutes before losing it behind some ripples and then continued her aimless trek along the beach. Her mind wandered through a labyrinth of themes, time periods, and storylines. She caught a glimpse of high tea in Elizabethan England, bombshells exploding on the shores of Normandy, and young lovers sharing a laugh at a tapas bar in turn-of-the-century Madrid. Her stream of consciousness ran at its own pace, speeding and slowing at irregular intervals. For a time she got so lost in her imagination, she no longer saw the beach in front of her or the ocean and palm trees to either side. It was as if she was watching a montage of what her play could be but without the guidance of what it should be. Alicia scribbled bits and pieces of her thoughts, a scrambled alphabet soup in a code only she could decipher. But nothing original seemed to materialize.

The whirlwind came to an end, as it always did, and thrust her back to the present. A few more seagulls joined her and were warming their pipes like a barbershop quartet with laryngitis. Ahead of her a bent palm tree reached out like an arm from the dense foliage, its fronds swaying with the whistling wind. The scene was restorative after the hurricane in her mind ran its course. Further down the beach where the shore bent outwardly, there was a man tending to a small boat, propped up atop a few logs. As she got closer she watched him push it to the water and over the break of the waves. He hopped aboard, propelling the boat forward with powerful strokes of an oar.

A stronger swell took Alicia off guard as it crashed up against her legs and sprayed her up to her waist. As the water receded, the color from the sand drained slowly after. A crab scampered across the whitening surface and stopped a few feet from Alicia. She could see its eyes, fixed at the end of small antennae, looking her over as its claws opened and closed, snapping like Spanish castanets. Assessing Alicia to be a threat, the crab sidestepped its way back onto dry ground and gave her one last look before diving into its hole.

When Alicia’s gaze returned to the shoreline, she saw a green bottle wash up in front of her. She recognized instantly that it was the bottle she had thrown in earlier. Seeing it again so soon made her laugh. With a sigh she picked it up from the wet ground, some of the thick sea foam still clinging to the bottom. Slightly resigned from her failed attempt, with a shake of her head she pulled the cork out using greater effort than expected. She flipped the bottle and knocked out the curled paper. As she unrolled it, she looked at her watch: noon. Looking back to the message, a strange feeling came over her and she flashed back at the timepiece. Alicia realized she had lost track of time, noon coming as not much of a surprise, but a different marker of time’s passage was indeed very strange. Upon closer inspection she confirmed what her quick glance had revealed: March 1^st, 2065.

Alicia’s eyes, wide with alarm, moved from the face of the watch to her hands, littered with the lines defining a long life. Her hair was no longer the familiar nutty color, but was instead a soft white like the earth surrounding her. Alicia looked down at her legs, their formerly toned shape more relaxed, with a few straggling streaks of blue veins. In disbelief she dropped the bottle. Then with shaking hands, she opened the letter and saw the words, the handwriting faded and warped from condensation over decades: “Dear Wanderer, I’m writing this message from a different time and a different place. I don’t know you, but if you’re reading this I feel you must be a romantic like me. Take a minute to look around you and appreciate what you have, for each moment is as fleeting as the wind, and like each breeze, it is precious. Yours in time, Alicia, March 1^st 2015.”

Suddenly a flood of scenes came crashing through her head like a tidal wave, missed and forgotten moments from the past fifty years of her life, remembered in an instant. Every clip flew by, unfamiliar, as if she were remembering some other person’s life. The words of the message churned over and over unrelentingly in her head as if it were trying to become butter, as she stood breathless, the water washing over her feet: “each moment is as fleeting as the wind.” Suddenly such a wind picked up, shaking the palm trees, and forming small ridges across the surface of the water as her hair blew into her face again. When she cleared the tangle strewn across her eyes, the message was torn from her hand and thrown into the sea. Alicia watched as the paper floated on the surface before it soaked up the salt water and disappeared from view. For a while she stood, staring out across the water, wondering how she’d let decades of precious moments slip away like unappreciated breezes, her own message unheeded. Alicia looked back at her watch, 12:05, March 1^st 2015. Frantically she gave herself a look-over to find everything as it was before: young and colorful. She pulled out her notebook and wrote with haste the outline for her next play.

The warm rays of the morning were appearing in the distance beyond the small farm as Sam Fulton loaded the last batch of fresh tomatoes on the bed of his pickup. He looked at the multitude red fruits, organized between the neat grid formed by the white, wooden crates and thought about the hard work that went into producing the crop. The year had followed suit from every year of the previous decade in the unforgiving nature of farming conditions, but this time he prevailed. He felt fortunate to have been able to fill even one box, let alone a whole truckload. None of Sam’s neighbors in the small town of Millbrook had been similarly blessed.

Sam pulled a folded green tarp from behind the driver’s seat and spread it across the bed, fastening it to the wall in several places to keep its weight off the crop. As he tightened the last bit of rope through the small brass ring of the covering and tied it, his wife called out from the porch, “Sam, come inside and have some breakfast before you leave!”

Sam looked at his watch and computed the time from the placement of the hour and minute hands, fuzzy in the low light with his fading vision: 5:05AM. He needed to get his truckload to the city by 8:00 at the latest, so he figured he had about thirty minutes, factoring in the always unpredictable city traffic.

“I’ll be right in, Alicia. But I’ve got to hit the road around 5:30,” he answered after his minute of deliberation.

“That’s fine, I’ve already made your toast and coffee. You can eat it as fast as you want, but you need to eat before you go.”

“Alright,” Sam said wiping the dust off his hands and onto his jeans, worn soft from years of solid use. He stomped his shoes on the mat by the door, checking the soles for straggling mud before entering. Sam knew he would never hear the end of it if he tracked anything inside the day after Alicia finished cleaning the whole house, so he opted to slip the work shoes off and leave them. Alicia gave only a quick glance to his feet when he walked into the kitchen, but Sam could tell in that instant she was pleased with his decision.

On the table was his simple breakfast, burnt toast with generously applied butter and a cup of coffee so black it could easily have been confused with Texas Tea.

“What do you think you can get for it?” Alicia asked as Sam took a sip from the still smoldering coffee.

“It’s impossible to say, really. But I think it could be significant. Tom told me a few days ago he was optimistic,” Sam responded before biting into the toast with a loud crunch.

“Well, that’s good. Lord knows we need it.”

Sam finished his breakfast as Alicia gave him the rundown on her schedule for the day, “I’m going to stay home from work today because I’ve scheduled everyone to come to the house. The plumber, cable man, and the HVAC guy are all coming at different times. You know they give ranges on their arrival that are like three-hour spans, so who knows when each will get here and how long it will take them. I just decided it was better to get it all done in one day, so I’ll be here when you get back from the city.”

“Sounds like a good idea. Always better to kill as many birds as you can with that stone,” Sam responded, knocking back the last sip of coffee and rising to take his dishes to the sink.

“Here, let me get those,” Alicia said, taking the platewear from her husband so he could wash his hands. “I guess it’s better to wash them after you eat instead of never…”

Sam smiled and rolled his eyes as he dried his hands on the red and white, checkered hand towel.

“Did you save some for us?” Alicia asked.

“I set a few bunches in a basket on the porch. Treat em nice, won’t you?” he replied with a wink.

Alicia leaned in to steal a goodbye kiss from her husband before he headed back outside and into the glaring sun, fully developed by that time and sitting just atop Dutchess County. He climbed into the truck and jimmied the key to get the engine to start, which was something he never took for granted. Sam pointed to the heavens in thanks, a habit of his since the odometer passed the 300,000-mile mark, as he pulled away from the house with Alicia waving from the stoop.

Sam drove on, out of the area’s agricultural land and into the town’s rolling acreage of green grass dotted with quaint colonial homes and more-than-respectable estates. It was quiet as usual for that time of day, so Sam enjoyed the tranquility of the open road and the soft roar of the engine. He put down the windows to invite the comforting hush of fresh air, which he much preferred to anything the radio could produce, as he pulled past the “Welcome to the Village of Millbrook” sign and headed south on 82 toward the city.

The traffic picked up with the Manhattan skyline just coming into view through the haze, causing Sam to sit idle in the truck. At first he was unfazed by the lethargic and intermittent movement of the mass of cars, but as the clock ticked beyond 7:30 he got increasingly frustrated. The only thing he could do was tap his foot anxiously against the heavy plastic mat and hope the gridlock would soon break. When it finally did, Sam noticed the culprit: the back doors of a furniture delivery truck had flung open and donated to the road everything necessary to furnish a cozy family room or a classically cramped studio. He sped up after passing the scene and was deep into Manhattan by around 7:45, behind his preferred schedule but still on time.

Sam pulled up to the back of the building and a man came out to the curb to greet him.

“Morning Sam,” he said, leaning in the truck window as he ran his fingers across his forehead and through his long, dark hair.

“Hey Tom, sorry I cut it so close. There was furniture all over the Parkway,” said Sam.

“Furniture?” Tom asked with an appropriate measure of confusion folded on his brow.

“Yeah the back doors of a delivery truck gave way, and the stuff was everywhere.”

“Well good thing you left when you did at any rate. It’s not a problem. We still have enough time. By the way how much were you able to put together?”

“I filled the bed with a single layer of crates. I’ve got seven rows of five, so there are thirty-five in there that are all full. Each probably weighs about twenty pounds.”

“I won’t believe it till I lay my eyes on em! Let’s take a look,” Tom said as Sam hopped out of the truck and began untying the tarp.

“Crop looks real good Tom, I’ll tell ya,” he said peeling back the covering to reveal the ripe red passengers glistening with their slight condensation.

“Wow Sam, I could almost cry. Tomatoes like this… I haven’t seen any in a long time,” Tom answered in a cloud of nostalgia.

“Well, I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t use the money. Things have been running pretty tight.”

“Yeah, I know it, Sam. Well let’s get all these crates inside. It’s five till eight already. Come on boys,” Tom said calling a few of his coworkers to assist them in moving the cargo into the building. The men worked quickly, and by eight o’clock the last of the tomatoes were inside and Sam’s truck bed was back to being an empty steel shell, the folded green tarp its only accent.

“Thanks again Sam. I’ll give you a call as soon as they sell and let you know,” Tom said extending his hand to Sam’s.

Sam gave Tom the kind of hearty handshake that speaks to genuine trust and replied, “Thank you, Tom. Alicia and I would love to have you and Sally over for dinner this weekend if you’re free.”

“We’d love that, Sam. I’ll give Sally a ring to double-check. When I call you about the crop, I’ll let you know. Take care.”

“Sounds good Tom,” Sam answered as he put the car in gear and began the journey back to Millbrook, hoping the return trip would be more fluid. Tom walked back inside the building and counted the crates to make sure all thirty-five were together and accounted for. He picked up a bunch with five juicy tomatoes hanging gingerly from a supple vine, and took a strong sniff of the fresh, crisp smell. He placed the bunch back down with care and quickly examined the rest of the collection. To his great satisfaction, all of the tomatoes looked similarly perfect.

“Tom, give me the one that looks the best,” a man, dressed in a tailored, navy-blue suit said entering from the hallway. Tom scanned the boxes and selected the one that fit the bill.

“Are they up?” Tom asked.

“They’re next,” the suit responded as he disappeared back down the hall. The man waited in the doorway situated off to the side of the stage where there stood an even more formal gentleman at a podium with a gavel.

“Next is Lot 7, fresh tomatoes from a small farm in Millbrook up in Dutchess County,” he said motioning for the man to bring the example to the stage. After the crate was set on the pedestal he continued, “Christie’s is pleased to bring you the these tomatoes, the first available at auction in New York in ten years. Not only are these exceedingly rare, but they are also some of the finest tomatoes you’ll ever see.” The energy level in the room picked as if its occupants had been shot with epinephrine. “We have thirty-five crates, which represent the entire crop for the season. If you want tomatoes, this is the only chance you will have to purchase them. Let’s start the bidding at $15,000 per crate,” he said, causing all the paddles in the room to shoot up eagerly.

“Rachel, I just can’t get over that cake you made. It was so delicious!”

“That cake was a hit, Rachel. Did you see how quickly it disappeared? I may or may not have been responsible for three of those pieces!”

“It’s amazing how much better this party was with your dessert. I feel like it really livened everyone up, don’t you?”

“Normally I crash after eating a dessert this rich, but I feel like I could run a marathon now.”

“The recipe… I don’t want it; I need it!”

The unanimous reaction to my most recent creation was positive. It was nice to get a sense of what famous chefs must experience on a regular basis. I’ve never found the supply of accolades directed towards me to be superfluous, so while they were certainly there in volume, I could have done with a few more. My friends were nearly bouncing off the proverbial walls, much to my satisfaction. Though I’m admittedly a novice when it comes to baking, I understand ingredients. That is to say I’m aware of how ingredients affect people. A sprinkle of this or a teaspoon of that can be the difference between, “that’s delicious,” and, “that’s interesting.” The most potent elements can make or break a dish; so careful implementation is essential.

“What do you call your cake?”

“Hadn’t thought about it. How about Chocolat Cake?” I answered.

“Oui! French! Very chic!” Maddie was almost screaming.

“I have to know, Rachel, what is the secret to your recipe?” Christine asked.

“Coke,” I replied matter-of-factly.

“Oh I’ve heard of using Coke in cakes, but I’ve never tried it myself! I’m not adventurous enough. Now that I know how good it is though I’ll have to make it for my kids!” Kate exclaimed.

“I guess only parents really know what’s good for their children,” I replied.

I had a good feeling that people would enjoy the cake, but I was sure the secret ingredient would shock them. It hadn’t. As a matter of fact they seemed even more excited when I revealed it. Unlike when a magician divulges his or her sleight of hand causing belief in magic to evaporate, when I showed my hand I furthered my célébrité. Even Kate, since when was so open-minded? Kate was correct in her self-classification. She is likely the most unadventurous of all my friends, but the excitement with which she spoke edged on unrealistic. All judgment aside, of one thing I am absolutely certain: it was the first time any of them ever had cocaine.