Yeah, it needs some work. It’s about coming to terms with self-hatred and shame. He doesn’t hate the junkies, he hates the part of himself that is them.
Short Story / Coffee
Mirrors don’t lie. That’s what I was thinking as I scraped the razor over the last of the stubble on my chin and wiped leftover wisps of watery shaving cream from my face and neck. I looked at my reflection as I rinsed the disposable razor beneath the tap—clear eyes, wide smile. Mirrors don’t lie.
I watched my reflection as I slipped on a white, collared shirt and buttoned front, and then each cuff, in turn. Carefully, fastidiously. I took my eyes off of the mirror as I slipped a plain, stainless steel watch over my wrist and fastened the clasp. Rotated my wrist and looked at the time. 6:15 a.m. The smile broadened. Places to go, people to see.
There was a time in my life when I did not wear a watch, when mechanical hands circling a flat dial held no significance for me. Much like friends. Or my children.
That time has passed. The watch is a symbol of that. Plain and cheap, but it couldn’t have been worth more to me if it were diamond-encrusted gold.
I folded the towel I had used to wipe my face. Looked in the mirror one last time. Turned and began the walk to my future.
I walked slowly through my apartment, looking around as I went. Everything was in its place. My apartment was small and most of my furniture and other possessions were old and a bit worn, like me, but I kept them very clean. Like me.
I stopped in the living room at a bookcase filled with a strange mix of poetry, writing texts, pulp thrillers, literature, and science fiction. Grabbed a black bag from the bottom shelf. Took one last look around.
There was no television. I have nothing against television; I don’t necessarily agree with those who believe it is somehow inherently bad. I just think it’s a time waster. And I had wasted twenty years of my life already. Simple math, really. Couldn’t afford to waste any more.
I pulled my apartment key from my pocket—like the watch, a symbol of a new life—and locked the door on the way out. My door.
I made my way down University Avenue slowly. The morning was cold and damp and the walk was a long one, made longer by the fact that I walked six blocks out of my way. It was a habit, subconscious, like spitting on the sidewalk every time a cop passed.
I was less than a block from Shattuck Avenue and the coffee shop when I smelled him, the odor of his unwashed bodye sight of him preceding the sight of him by a good fifty feet.
Shit! I thought, stopping for a moment. This was the reason I walked so far out of my way in the mornings. So I wouldn’t have to see them. Any of them.
There was no escaping it. I would have been late if I’d backtracked. I took a deep breath, figuring that if I held it as I passed, perhaps the smell of my past wouldn’t be too strong. Wouldn’t choke me.
I began walking again, briskly, grimacing and averting my eyes in a blank and familiar stare. The one that said, “I don’t see you. You don’t exist. Any form of attempted communication is unwelcome and futile.”
Still, the putrid pile of human refuse spoke as I passed. The stare is no match for desperation.
“Spare change?” it croaked.
I could feel bile rise in my throat like anger as I walked past. I did not look down. I never looked down.
You can’t see what you don’t look at. That’s the trick.
I made it to the coffee shop for my meeting with three minutes to spare. I had learned punctuality the hard way.
Phil was already there, in the corner, and smiled and waved me over as I entered. Phil was my future. When he had called the previous week to offer me the chance to interview, I had scarcely been able to believe it. My dream job.
“Hey, John.” His smile seemed genuine as he pointed to the chair across from him.
The coffee shop was a Mom and Pop affair, and busy, right on Shattuck by the BART Station in Berkeley.
I had been taking the train to downtown Oakland and my present, crappy job as a welder for six months. And walking six blocks out of my way to avoid the street people for that same amount of time.
Phil was the editor of an alternative weekly, The Protector, and the person who was going to decide whether or not I finally got a chance to write for a living.
“Hey, Phil,” I said, taking his outstretched hand and shaking it, returning the smile with one of my own. “I brought the stuff you asked for.”
I pulled three neat, bound sheafs of typewritten paper from my bag as I sat down. Slid them over to Phil. Sample articles. He had told me on the phone that he wanted to read them in front of me so he could ask questions while the words were still new and fresh in his mind.
“I’m gonna go grab a cup of coffee.” Phil was already reading. He just sort of nodded as I got up and made my way to the counter.
I got my coffee—plain, no caramel macchiato taffeta bullshit for me—and was at the cream and sugar kiosk when I smelled him again.
“Hey, buddy, I think you forgot something back there.” The man from the sidewalk.
He was filthy. Not dirty, filthy. Long, unwashed hair matted with an amalgam of God-knew-what. Red, angry sores on every visible skin surface. Not that there was much of that. The man was wrapped in the tattered remains of a cheap wool blanket, the kind that charities give out when it gets cold. Or detox facilities.
Still, it was his breath that made my eyes water. The human body will make a deal of sorts with dirt. After a week or so without soap and water, the smell of an unwashed body loses a bit of its pungency. Not so the mouth. And this guy smelled like he had gargled with Wild Turkey in an effort to mask the smell of rot.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Dropped something.” The man’s eyes darted nervously around the coffee shop, like he was aware that he was intruding into normalcy, and ashamed. “Hey, how about a cup of coffee, buddy? Couple bucks for a sandwich?” Despite the slurred speech, just mentioning money made his eyes light up with excitement. Anticipation.
I felt it myself for a moment, before the anger and the hatred bubbled to the surface. “Get the fuck away from me.” A hiss.
“Hey, no harm buddy.” He reached out and touched my arm like he was trying to reassure us both of his humanity.
I jumped as if I had been shot, forgetting the cup in my hand for a moment. Steaming coffee spilled all over the sleeve of my shirt, burning like memory.
“Get the fuck away from me!” A raw scream.
I saw fear in his eyes then, and something more. Hurt.
I ran into the bathroom, and rolled up my sleeves, running cold water on the red, puffy skin of my forearm. Looking down, I couldn’t help but stare at the faded green of the shamrock tattooed there. And the scars.
Needle tracks leave scars that last a lifetime.
I looked up at my own reflection. Only it wasn’t myself I saw in the glass. I was looking into the past. At my son.
“I love you big mister”, he had said to me. “I love you Little Mister,” I had replied absently, my mind already cashing the paycheck in my pocket, anticipation already tying my stomach in knots. Love dies that way, sometimes. When you’re not looking.
Then the image in the mirror changed, and I was looking into my own face again. Anger and hatred welled up in my throat with phlegm, and I spit it in the face of the one who truly deserved it.
Me.
I took a deep breath, not even bothering to wipe away the spittle sliding down the surface of the mirror, and turned sharply on my heel, exiting the bathroom.
Phil was still at the table, and looked amazingly unruffled. He was reading the last of my sample articles as he tapped a foot against the coffee shop floor. He was also holding something shiny in his left hand. He looked up as I approached.
“You okay?” he asked. I nodded. “Guy left something for you. Said you dropped it on the sidewalk on your way here.”
Phil held out the shiny thing. My two-year Narcotics Anonymous birthday token. Another symbol, this one of a healing that had yet to take place.
I took it from his palm with slow deliberation. “Phil?” I asked, “Would you hold it against me if we rescheduled. There’s something I need to do.”
“Nah,” he replied, “In fact, I think it’s probably a good idea.”
After agreeing to stop by his office later in the day, I returned to the coffee shop’s counter. Two coffees this time. And a sandwich.
I clutched them close to my chest as I walked into the cold morning, holding on to them like peace itself.
Or redemption.
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acwd reviewed Version 1 -
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Really great imagery, my senses are heightened, and I can still smell stale Wild Turkey breath.
I’m trying to find the outcome of John’s son – it was thrown in there, but not explained. I read it through a couple of times and still don’t get it. Did the son get taken away because John was a druggy, or did the son go away? Either way I got that the son is no longer in John’s life, and maybe that’s the whole point, so maybe it’s just fine the way it is.
Also the following line didn’t flow quite right, “the odor of his unwashed bodye sight of him preceding the sight of him by a good fifty feet.”
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avedis reviewed Version 1 -
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Great story, the promise of a new future and closure on the past.
The ‘showing/telling’ balance seems fine, as does the level of description.
I like these ‘snippets in time’ stories, and personally need neither background nor follow through when they work well – as does this one.
They work either in a mixed anthology or single author anthologies, not so sure about just in a magazine (Hence low rating on lit magazine).
Just a couple of suggestions:
“and buttoned front, and then each cuff, in turn”->”and then buttoned up, first the front and then each cuff in turn”
Using short sharp sentences works well here mainly, but just alternate a bit.
e.g. “Rotated my wrist and looked at the time”->”Rotating my wrist, I looked at the time”
“the odor of his unwashed bodye sight of him preceding the sight of him”. This doesn’t work. -> “the odor of his unwashed body assailing the senses and preceding the sight of him”
Good work.
jhmckeogh reviewed Version 1 -
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I think you need to make it more clear why he’s got a phobia of the homeless guy. He was once homeless, right? So wouldn’t he have a little bit more empathy for the guys still on the street. Now, obviously he’s scared of re-becoming one of them, but just talking to a guy is not gonna make you rebecome. Couple ways you could do it, you could play up the drug angle more. Something about smelling all that street filth makes his arm itch and his brain want the poison.
The story is good. I don’t think he needs to be interviewing to be a writer. But thats just me, i try to stay away from meta-fiction. Also, some welding jobs are pretty good… and if he is welding, my bet is he’s been doing it for about 2 years, so the welding job has been one of the reasons he’s stayed clean. I don’t think he’d dismiss it as a crumby job so easily. Maybe he’ll be interviewing for a much better position, with benefits and such, but that doesn’t mean the old job was all that bad. All work is noble.
Also, could you put some mannerisms in for the guy as ex-junky. Or anything in how he operates that would hint at him once using the stuff (you don’t have to tell us explicitly, just hint)
cheers,
james
fiction84 reviewed Version 1 -
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i find it hard to review pieces, as i am not one to speak on talent or correctness of writing. is that even a word, i just made it up.
onto your story.
for the opening, i dont like it. the way you write it reminds me of some of my stuff, which is fine, but it just seems like too much words for simple opening.
i would suggest reading the opening line of
william gibson
he wrote a book called neuromancer
read the opening line of that and just feel/see/know the power of the opening line.
it means the world to the reader.
since “you” are in the story
i would suggest using short and quick thoughts when speaking of “yourself”
such as this line.
“Shit! I thought, stopping for a moment. This was the reason I walked so far out of my way in the mornings. So I wouldn’t have to see them. Any of them. “
that was yours. see, the ! after shit threw me off. i would suggest something like
“shit. all these steps and for what for failed obscurity. serves me right”
just a thought.
i enjoy the setting, the city always offers a great place to set a story.
curious as to see if this is going to be continued or not.
i like some of the words you did use
BobRaley reviewed Version 1 -
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Hmmm. I don’t know if it’s fair for me to review this, as I’m pretty sure I recognize the writing style, and maybe my review will be influenced the other piece you wrote which is the best thing I’ve read on Urbis. Still, I relly enjoyed this. It feels just a bit rushed in places, and I’d like to see more dialogue, especially between your protagonist and Phil. That’s my suggestion, anyway. Kudos.
hellbunny reviewed Version 1 -
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“the odor of his unwashed bodye sight of him preceding the sight of him by a good fifty feet.”- this phrase needs to be reworked.
“perhaps the smell of my past wouldn’t be too strong.”- he’s trying not to smell the homeless people, but this line makes it sound like he’s not trying to smell himself.
I really like this piece and the redemption at the end. I think you need to stretch everything out a bit more because it felt rushed. Also, your story was littered with fragments. I think once you expand it, give us more of a plot and fix the grammar and confusing sentences, you could have a very strong contender. I look forward to the revision.
CadenceLee reviewed Version 1 -
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The beginning was intriguing and it opened with a phrase you don’t hear a lot. I an see how that would be inspiring. You wasted no detail. Everything fitted well in and seemlessly. I love the humanity that this portrayed, above all. Or maybe the inhumanity. I’m still trying to decide.
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