Pt I.
Andy sat on his milk crate smokin a butt listening to the speakers play a muzak version of some 80’s hit. He hated this job. A microphone broke through the noise, “cleanup in aisle five.” Andy smirked knowing they’d come looking for him even though he was on a legitimate break this time. Five minutes went by and sure enough, Matt walked up to him and asked if he was going to respond to the cleanup. Andy grunted, “yeah, I was getting to it,” and muttered under his breath “asshole.”
He grabbed his cleanup cart and headed for the aisle in the nearly empty market. He hated this job. There amidst some marketing specialist’s wet dream was the modern day equivalent of blitzkrieg. One of the spaghetti sauces had fallen off the shelf and detonated on the floor like a 500lb. bomb in a shopping mall. Andy stood there and stared at it for a few minutes quietly amused. There was Ragu everywhere. One of the shards of glass had cut a bag of pasta on the facing aisle and there were pasta shells all over the floor mixed with Thick’n Tasty. Andy cursed himself for having used his last legitimate break. He just wasn’t getting out of this one.
He pulled the broom and dustpan from the cart and walked down the aisle. He was about ten feet down the aisle when he felt as though he were caught in a rubber band that had reached its tension level. As this seemed to be the kind of joke some of the guys would play, he looked around to see who was messing with him. He felt confused to see there was no one around. All at once another jar of sauce leapt off the shelf and hovered in the air in front of him. Andy looked to either side of him to some invisible spectator to confirm that he was seeing what he was seeing. He knew there wasn’t anything hallucinogenic in his cigarette, at least not that he’d put in there. The jar of sauce crashed to the ground and exploded as Andy covered his face to protect him from the glass shards.

It was cold that day. Bob could tell without having set foot outside as his knee often bothered him in the inclement weather. Thinking it better to remain indoors today, he decided to clean out the basement and repair the wall where the movers had broken the plaster. In the basement, amidst the clutter of the room, he began to move boxes away from the wall and readied his materials. ‘This room will make a good office,’ he thought. He approached the wall with his hammer to tap around and find where the beams lay underneath the plaster, so he’d know where to cut his piece of replacement gypsum. He tapped around but didn’t hear the dull thud normally associated with a beam, as he should have heard every 16in. A bit puzzled by this, he decided to just expand the broken plaster and have a look inside. He took the hammer and used it like a poker to jab a bigger hole in the wall, and as he did so he was overcome by a horrendous odor emanating from within. He grabbed his flashlight and shined inside. Behind the cobwebs and dust in a hollowed out section of the basement retaining wall was a body. Bob jumped back and fell over some boxes at seeing the clothed bones covered in dust. He screamed “Holy Shit!” and ran upstairs to call the police.
The department sent the usual battalion of photographers, analysts, and detectives. Along with the police, the local newspapers arrived. Bob was a bit confused about the media being involved, as he hadn’t phoned anyone other than the police. He looked over at the pot-bellied police officer talking to the reporter and smirked to himself, ‘not much glory at the donut shop in this town.’ Meanwhile, the technicians brought the body out of its resting-place in the wall and inventoried everything. Of particular note for Bob was that in the victim’s hand was a gold chain with a word which spelled, “Bitch.” Bob was very confused by this. ‘It seems so unlikely that anyone would willingly wear something like that,’ he said to himself. He had seen people wear all sort of things, but something about this struck him as odd – and he said as much to the police detectives who nodded condescendingly. The detectives and technicians finished their preliminary investigation and sealed the room pending further investigation. They assured Bob that it wouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks, which seemed all right with him.
The rest of the evening – disregarding the day’s events – Bob was distracted. ‘Why would anyone wear a necklace that said “Bitch,”’ he thought. ‘Yeah, ok people wore all sorts of things, and for some people the moniker actually fit, but there was something very strange about this,’ he continued. He began to dwell upon it. He called his friend Michael and inquired as to the strangeness of this happening. Obviously Michael was floored at hearing of a body being found in his house, but he had nothing to say regarding the jewelry.
Days went by and then weeks. The police eventually wrapped up their investigation, which had very little, if anything, to do with the jewelry. Bob, however, was plagued by this inconsistency. He troubled over it endlessly, when late one night as he prepared for bed the answer came to him like a bolt of lightning. He knew the answer. And with that, he brushed his teeth, climbed into bed, and slept soundly

Edward sat at the table enjoying his machiato while Clarice looked over the tourism brochures. The whole situation seemed so surreal to him. The machiato was delicious, but he was annoyed. His large hands had trouble managing the small cups, which seemed little larger than shot glasses. ‘Why can’t they use cups with decent handles?’ He thought to himself. Almost in the same breath he answered, ‘because this ain’t America and not everyone has the same values, let alone the same size hands.’ He smiled. Clarice looked at him wondering what he was thinking. She said, “what’s that smirk about?” He responded, “it’s nothing.” She looked quizzical and then smiled and went back to studying the brochures.
He mused over the scenery, which was really incredible. It reminded him of the California coast in some ways, up near Marin. She did this to him. She brought out that side of him that he enjoyed so much but rarely had time for.
Presently she said, “we should rent scooters and ride down to the beach.” He thought ‘here’s another example.’ He smiled and said, “that would be shporty,” using their intimate language.
As they loaded up the scooters and took off down the coast road he saw the Mediterranean in the distance and felt himself bubbling inside. There she was riding alongside. He was alive.

Diego gazed out the window as the bus rolled passed Eighteenth Street. He hated it when the bus was crowded. He looked down at Eugenia. She looked adorable with her confused morning face, like a child half-awake. His mind rushed back to the time before, when he felt adrift. The bus lurched forward in traffic. Through some sort of miracle they found each other and now he found himself contentedly sharing his life with this anomaly. He couldn’t imagine himself without her. It was as if they were separate halves of the same orange – each piece fragrant and colorful yet incomplete. A passenger squeezed past him towards the rear exit. He wondered if she knew how much he adored her as his focus wandered back. She just continued to stare straight ahead, as if transfixed by some distant point. He laughed to himself as he remembered the first time that he told her that he loved her – she had the same confused expression. He broke from his reverie suddenly and tapped her shoulder. “This is our stop,” he said. She looked up and smiled. They made their way to the rear of the bus and descended together.

It's all about Ho Ho's!

Ok... so the story begins with our dashing hero forgetting his wallet at home and not realizing it till he's at the bank near work, fully 30 min. away. Ok, so he can live without coffee in the morning [barely], but he has to pay for parking. D'oh! 'When are they going to have the stinkin E-Z Pass for the parking lot,' he wonders. 'Now THAT would be useful,' he says to himself.

They say that everyday we are bombarded by thousands of marketing images, which undoubtedly jibes well with our inherent desire for STUFF. I believe it was Buddha who said, "life is desire and suffering." Is it possible to say that we are genetically predisposed to the treadmill of desire? Or, is that a nurture issue? Anyway... more to come...