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Follow This Desperate City on Instagram for a new story every Monday.
Volume 3
(April 2016 - August 2016)
Unfurling
By J.J. Sinisi
People think it’s some badge of honor, more tours means more commitment. Certainly that’s what Anton thinks. It’s not why I do it though.
The flapping is almost melodic, so many flags, and the people passing beneath. Some take a moment, others unaware, I always find that strangest most of all.
“It’s why you did them, whatever the things were that you did over there.” Anton points at the unfurling procession of stripes and stars. “You did it all for that.”
“It’s not about the cloth.”
We cross the street, grinding traffic just before the park. We’re already late and can see the rows of neatly organized chairs, sterling white like the uniformed people sitting upon them.
Opposite the ceremony grounds, the protesters glare, their chants visceral, unmeasured.
For Anton’s part, he is quiet and introspective throughout the ceremony. As his brother, I appreciate that. He respects me enough to respect this, though I know he despises it.
When I am called to receive my honor, I lose him amid a sea of white caps. But I’m fairly certain it’s his claps louder than all the rest.
It’s not until I come off the riser that the first bottle is thrown. That brief moment when it spins through the air, ejecting its contents like a video from the space station, I know then, it’s all over.
Blood after that. So much blood.
And when Anton is stabbed, I hold a cloth to the wound in his side and his breaths become shallow.
“It’s how we come to this,” he says. “It’s how we all always come to this.”
I tell him I know, but it’s only to avoid telling him why I do the things I do. Pain, its complexity besieged by the relentless assault of loss. Because war was the only place it ever made any sense.
END. (308 Words)
The flapping is almost melodic, so many flags, and the people passing beneath. Some take a moment, others unaware, I always find that strangest most of all.
“It’s why you did them, whatever the things were that you did over there.” Anton points at the unfurling procession of stripes and stars. “You did it all for that.”
“It’s not about the cloth.”
We cross the street, grinding traffic just before the park. We’re already late and can see the rows of neatly organized chairs, sterling white like the uniformed people sitting upon them.
Opposite the ceremony grounds, the protesters glare, their chants visceral, unmeasured.
For Anton’s part, he is quiet and introspective throughout the ceremony. As his brother, I appreciate that. He respects me enough to respect this, though I know he despises it.
When I am called to receive my honor, I lose him amid a sea of white caps. But I’m fairly certain it’s his claps louder than all the rest.
It’s not until I come off the riser that the first bottle is thrown. That brief moment when it spins through the air, ejecting its contents like a video from the space station, I know then, it’s all over.
Blood after that. So much blood.
And when Anton is stabbed, I hold a cloth to the wound in his side and his breaths become shallow.
“It’s how we come to this,” he says. “It’s how we all always come to this.”
I tell him I know, but it’s only to avoid telling him why I do the things I do. Pain, its complexity besieged by the relentless assault of loss. Because war was the only place it ever made any sense.
END. (308 Words)
Istanbul
By J.J. Sinisi
“The seawall,” Nicholas points to where the wooden pylons of a long dead pier impale the warm Atlantic.
“How?”
“Couldn’t take the land route, impregnable walls.”
I wish then that we really are on the Bosphorus, seeing the real thing.
“A great chain was pulled across the harbor. Remember the times. But they dragged their boats over the shore. Amazing resourcefulness. It didn’t work though.”
Impaling our naked feet, the scattered debris of this small beach atop Cape Cod’s flexed arm fight our advance.
The sun wrestles our shadows below the horizon. It’s the first time I’ve been back since Gary died.
“He didn’t just die.” Nicholas reads my thoughts or else wanders through the same troubled reflections. He nods. “Commercial Street, sitting eating his porridge. Who eats porridge?”
“Gary did.”
“Surely. And they dragged him away and now we’re here and he’s gone.”
Sand and history disappear as we walk through the tunnel. One of them lurks, large armed, red cap atop a wrinkled, sun baked brow.
We draw our blades.
An example was needed, we had agreed. All of Provincetown had too. There could be no mistaking what they did to us, what it meant if we didn’t fight back. This city wouldn’t fall; it had stood for too long, meant too much to too many.
Cars pass and across the small street, Archibald makes eye contact and recedes into his trinket shop’s shadows.
“Now,” Nicholas whispers.
We close, our knives doing good work. We step in his blood, our footprints our resistance, our dare to others.
“You didn’t tell me the rest,” I say to Nicholas later, over iced cappuccinos and biscotti. “Did they ever take the city?”
He is grim. “Of course they took the city.”
“Not by sea. They brought down the walls.”
“How?”
“Cannons. They were deceived by progress. Then they impaled the defenders on spikes.” He points out the window, the dead dock and rotting ships. “Something similar to those, I’d assume.”
I can’t finish my meal after that. But Nicholas seems to be eating just fine.
END (347 words)
“How?”
“Couldn’t take the land route, impregnable walls.”
I wish then that we really are on the Bosphorus, seeing the real thing.
“A great chain was pulled across the harbor. Remember the times. But they dragged their boats over the shore. Amazing resourcefulness. It didn’t work though.”
Impaling our naked feet, the scattered debris of this small beach atop Cape Cod’s flexed arm fight our advance.
The sun wrestles our shadows below the horizon. It’s the first time I’ve been back since Gary died.
“He didn’t just die.” Nicholas reads my thoughts or else wanders through the same troubled reflections. He nods. “Commercial Street, sitting eating his porridge. Who eats porridge?”
“Gary did.”
“Surely. And they dragged him away and now we’re here and he’s gone.”
Sand and history disappear as we walk through the tunnel. One of them lurks, large armed, red cap atop a wrinkled, sun baked brow.
We draw our blades.
An example was needed, we had agreed. All of Provincetown had too. There could be no mistaking what they did to us, what it meant if we didn’t fight back. This city wouldn’t fall; it had stood for too long, meant too much to too many.
Cars pass and across the small street, Archibald makes eye contact and recedes into his trinket shop’s shadows.
“Now,” Nicholas whispers.
We close, our knives doing good work. We step in his blood, our footprints our resistance, our dare to others.
“You didn’t tell me the rest,” I say to Nicholas later, over iced cappuccinos and biscotti. “Did they ever take the city?”
He is grim. “Of course they took the city.”
“Not by sea. They brought down the walls.”
“How?”
“Cannons. They were deceived by progress. Then they impaled the defenders on spikes.” He points out the window, the dead dock and rotting ships. “Something similar to those, I’d assume.”
I can’t finish my meal after that. But Nicholas seems to be eating just fine.
END (347 words)
Ambush
by J.J. Sinisi
It was a perfect spot, high steps on one side, well lit from behind. Easy coverage of a large room, an ambush would have done nicely there. Escape routes to either side were a concern, but hitting the target let chaos take care of the rest.
“Jen!” Bradley spun his wheels to catch up.
She stared at the departure board.
“Nine forty five.”
“What?”
“Your train leaves at nine forty five. I already looked it up.”
She rolled her daisy print suitcase away, despite the broken wheel.
“Let’s talk.”
She paused, the mess of her unkempt hair wiry in the dull sunlight beaming through the high windows.
“We’ve spoken enough, Brad.”
“I haven’t told you everything.”
“Lord, what else on earth could you have possibly kept from me?”
She walked away. Bradley glanced back at the stairs, realized he was now in enfilade. A better marine would have realized it sooner.
“Wait!” His gloved hands hovered above his wheels.
Her head tilted back, the faux mosaic of the heavens, the shot every tourist had after leaving Grand Central, breathed down on her.
The falseness of it all made so much sense to him.
“I’m leaving her.”
“How can you still not get it? I know what happened over there,” She sniffed. “I cry about it too, even though I know you don’t think I do. But Brad, I don’t care about her, or you, or even that desert anymore.”
She fled then. He needed to keep her close. But the people, he couldn’t push past and they never bothered to see where they stepped. Everyone was the same since he’d been back.
She walked, distorted by the traffic, the bright clothes, the business of life. His training had abandoned him in Kabul, when he needed it most. She faded then, just like the waning desert sun and the feeling of his lost legs.
END. (313 Words)
“Jen!” Bradley spun his wheels to catch up.
She stared at the departure board.
“Nine forty five.”
“What?”
“Your train leaves at nine forty five. I already looked it up.”
She rolled her daisy print suitcase away, despite the broken wheel.
“Let’s talk.”
She paused, the mess of her unkempt hair wiry in the dull sunlight beaming through the high windows.
“We’ve spoken enough, Brad.”
“I haven’t told you everything.”
“Lord, what else on earth could you have possibly kept from me?”
She walked away. Bradley glanced back at the stairs, realized he was now in enfilade. A better marine would have realized it sooner.
“Wait!” His gloved hands hovered above his wheels.
Her head tilted back, the faux mosaic of the heavens, the shot every tourist had after leaving Grand Central, breathed down on her.
The falseness of it all made so much sense to him.
“I’m leaving her.”
“How can you still not get it? I know what happened over there,” She sniffed. “I cry about it too, even though I know you don’t think I do. But Brad, I don’t care about her, or you, or even that desert anymore.”
She fled then. He needed to keep her close. But the people, he couldn’t push past and they never bothered to see where they stepped. Everyone was the same since he’d been back.
She walked, distorted by the traffic, the bright clothes, the business of life. His training had abandoned him in Kabul, when he needed it most. She faded then, just like the waning desert sun and the feeling of his lost legs.
END. (313 Words)
A Push in the Right Direction
By J.J. Sinisi
How did Jacoby find the motivation? The teeming masses, the morning sun, the reasons, oh the reasons not to stay in shape, but he always had that push to do more. I would’ve ran with him. But Jacoby never asked me anything anymore, not since the breakup.
Dissipating smoke piped above their heads, the bankers, the suits, and the women in pinstripe pants. I hated them, their urgency, cast by a city too determined to never stop.
When he jogged passed yesterday, desperately trying to shove away the growing years, he had to have seen me.
Years ago, in that Japanese place, he did the same thing, stared through me at the pretty blonde bartender and her low cut blouse.
His thumping feet, I couldn’t hear his exactly but the rhythm existed before he appeared, the spandex shirt, his powerful thighs and feet pushing off the pavement.
Beside the smoke stack, I waited for him to pass. The light changed, people bottlenecked. He jogged in place, held a finger to his neck.
That neck, his fatigue, post-coitus yet still throbbing with lust, I remembered the salty taste.
We locked eyes. He frowned and likely yelled a bit louder than intended, given the white specks of headphones in his ears.
“Caroline?!”
I reached then and he recoiled, and before I could save him he pitched backwards, lost his footing, grasped for and missed my hand, disappearing below the construction crack in the ground.
The people around me pulsed but none of them moved toward me, toward Jacoby, and it was all the same because I wasn’t sure if he had pulled away or if I had pushed him, forced him into a decision, forward or back, and when he chose incorrectly I was afforded the chance to finally show him the right way.
END. (302 Words)
Dissipating smoke piped above their heads, the bankers, the suits, and the women in pinstripe pants. I hated them, their urgency, cast by a city too determined to never stop.
When he jogged passed yesterday, desperately trying to shove away the growing years, he had to have seen me.
Years ago, in that Japanese place, he did the same thing, stared through me at the pretty blonde bartender and her low cut blouse.
His thumping feet, I couldn’t hear his exactly but the rhythm existed before he appeared, the spandex shirt, his powerful thighs and feet pushing off the pavement.
Beside the smoke stack, I waited for him to pass. The light changed, people bottlenecked. He jogged in place, held a finger to his neck.
That neck, his fatigue, post-coitus yet still throbbing with lust, I remembered the salty taste.
We locked eyes. He frowned and likely yelled a bit louder than intended, given the white specks of headphones in his ears.
“Caroline?!”
I reached then and he recoiled, and before I could save him he pitched backwards, lost his footing, grasped for and missed my hand, disappearing below the construction crack in the ground.
The people around me pulsed but none of them moved toward me, toward Jacoby, and it was all the same because I wasn’t sure if he had pulled away or if I had pushed him, forced him into a decision, forward or back, and when he chose incorrectly I was afforded the chance to finally show him the right way.
END. (302 Words)
No Way Back
by J.J. Sinisi
Desolation, even though I’m not surrounded by dust and weeds and the hot sun, it’s still LA, roiling and energetic, sprawling into a county, a cultural icon. Its mass swallows me until I’m forever lost.
“We’re here.”
“Don’t pull up yet.”
Davis slows in front of City Hall and its looming majesty.
“We’re going to be late.”
“Circle the block.”
Davis huffs. Our black Range Rover creeps.
“Look.” He points to a smattering of cops leaning on their cars, a SWAT van too. “You’re safe here.”
Davis doesn’t know safe. Davis, a court appointed plainclothes, also doesn’t know what the rifling inside the barrel of his gun looks like. I do.
“Once more around, just to be sure.”
“No.”
Silence within the confines of the well-insulated truck does its job well. Straining, all I hear is my fleeting memory of regret. That at least feels good.
We exit. The sun hides behind blistered palms and I’m not in LA anymore. I’m in Jamaica, St.Lucia, I’m in Queens, the places I could’ve fled, where I could’ve told the others to hide instead of betraying them.
“City council doesn’t like waiting.” Davis’ black suit looks gray in the cascading light, burnt, like charcoal.
I think about furnaces. I think about morgues.
“The hard part is done. The real threats are gone. This is the next step.” He puts an arm on my shoulder but it doesn’t feel like my shoulder.
“I never thought I’d be here.”
“No one does, but that’s okay.”
We pass the bomb sniffing dogs and the metal detectors. Into the grand hall, stepping on geometric flowered floors and passing amidst faux marble columns, my steps echo. I can taste the beating of my heart.
I am alone and the emptiness doesn’t overwhelm me, but I know I’ve no way left but forward.
END. (304 Words)
“We’re here.”
“Don’t pull up yet.”
Davis slows in front of City Hall and its looming majesty.
“We’re going to be late.”
“Circle the block.”
Davis huffs. Our black Range Rover creeps.
“Look.” He points to a smattering of cops leaning on their cars, a SWAT van too. “You’re safe here.”
Davis doesn’t know safe. Davis, a court appointed plainclothes, also doesn’t know what the rifling inside the barrel of his gun looks like. I do.
“Once more around, just to be sure.”
“No.”
Silence within the confines of the well-insulated truck does its job well. Straining, all I hear is my fleeting memory of regret. That at least feels good.
We exit. The sun hides behind blistered palms and I’m not in LA anymore. I’m in Jamaica, St.Lucia, I’m in Queens, the places I could’ve fled, where I could’ve told the others to hide instead of betraying them.
“City council doesn’t like waiting.” Davis’ black suit looks gray in the cascading light, burnt, like charcoal.
I think about furnaces. I think about morgues.
“The hard part is done. The real threats are gone. This is the next step.” He puts an arm on my shoulder but it doesn’t feel like my shoulder.
“I never thought I’d be here.”
“No one does, but that’s okay.”
We pass the bomb sniffing dogs and the metal detectors. Into the grand hall, stepping on geometric flowered floors and passing amidst faux marble columns, my steps echo. I can taste the beating of my heart.
I am alone and the emptiness doesn’t overwhelm me, but I know I’ve no way left but forward.
END. (304 Words)
Empty Pockets
by J.J. Sinisi
Hard to reach, but she likes this one, mostly cardboard, might be clean, maybe even food.
“Debbie, cmon. Wait until I leave, at least.”
Debbie ignores J’quon. He’s changed his clothes again. The stool she’s on wobbles in tune with her digging.
“I don’t want to report you.” He steps into the street. She flops down into the dumpster’s maw.
“Let me finish.”
“You know I can’t.”
She finds molded sandwiches, bags of unopened chips. Her jacket is too warm but she has no place to change. She wretches from the rotting stink.
J’quon lifts onto the rusted green rim. She looks up at him.
“What?”
“Out. Just wait the hour.”
“It matter?”
“I can’t have the customer’s employees seeing you.”
“Homeless bad for business.” She picks, find a box of paperclips. “See? I can sell this to the Philippine guy on third. He pays fifty cents.”
Disappointment in his eyes blends with something else, concern, or, no, embarrassment. He hates telling people they’re friends. The last two times she got her shit together she stayed at his place.
“Hey, why don’t you let me stay at your place anymore?”
“Get out of the damned dumpster.”
“You’re embarrassed.”
She lifts herself out. He extends his hand but she smacks it.
“Don’t be like that.”
“I’m not like anything.”
They stand beside one another. An office drone nods at J’quon but then averts his eyes.
“Here.” J’quon hands her a five.
“I’d rather stay at your place.”
“Can’t happen no more.”
“You dating someone?”
“I said it can’t.”
He turns on her, walks beneath the awning. She waits for him to come back but he doesn’t. He used to always come back.
Another drone. She asks for change but he says he has no cash. Shit part is, she actually believes people when they say that now.
END. (306)
“Debbie, cmon. Wait until I leave, at least.”
Debbie ignores J’quon. He’s changed his clothes again. The stool she’s on wobbles in tune with her digging.
“I don’t want to report you.” He steps into the street. She flops down into the dumpster’s maw.
“Let me finish.”
“You know I can’t.”
She finds molded sandwiches, bags of unopened chips. Her jacket is too warm but she has no place to change. She wretches from the rotting stink.
J’quon lifts onto the rusted green rim. She looks up at him.
“What?”
“Out. Just wait the hour.”
“It matter?”
“I can’t have the customer’s employees seeing you.”
“Homeless bad for business.” She picks, find a box of paperclips. “See? I can sell this to the Philippine guy on third. He pays fifty cents.”
Disappointment in his eyes blends with something else, concern, or, no, embarrassment. He hates telling people they’re friends. The last two times she got her shit together she stayed at his place.
“Hey, why don’t you let me stay at your place anymore?”
“Get out of the damned dumpster.”
“You’re embarrassed.”
She lifts herself out. He extends his hand but she smacks it.
“Don’t be like that.”
“I’m not like anything.”
They stand beside one another. An office drone nods at J’quon but then averts his eyes.
“Here.” J’quon hands her a five.
“I’d rather stay at your place.”
“Can’t happen no more.”
“You dating someone?”
“I said it can’t.”
He turns on her, walks beneath the awning. She waits for him to come back but he doesn’t. He used to always come back.
Another drone. She asks for change but he says he has no cash. Shit part is, she actually believes people when they say that now.
END. (306)
Brooklyn
By J.J. Sinisi
You’re not welcome here. Four words scribbled across history’s memory, the escape clause written on the back of society’s social pact. Serve with us, among us, help us prosper, but when it all starts crashing down, the outsiders are the first victims of our isolationist stares.
I ask how Lou how he’d like me to leave, just walk across the bridge, or could I at least ride my bike. I could give a fuck. That was his response.
Six years I’ve given, five of them in Crown Heights, slicing my knuckles on big rigs. Omar, another truck’s tranny blew, Omar, lift this, you’re the strongest.
Until the blast, of course.
Now it’s side glances, it’s get the fuck out of my town.
“Don’t leave,” Sandra tells me the night before. “I want you to stay. Fuck the haters, the bullies.”
“It’s not about them.” I push the last few strands of brown hair away from her eyebrow stud. Tito curls in my lap. “It’s about me, my terms.”
“No,” another woman may have given in to tears. Not my Sandra. “Lou is driving you away. Not anyone else.” She pets Tito’s head, closes his eyes.
I kiss her, and the softness there almost reels me back from my future’s pull.
“You’re wrong love. It’s all pushing: the country, New York, Brooklyn, even the roots beneath the cracked concrete; and I’ve grown weary pushing back.”
She hugs me and I play with the ridges of her veins. Somewhere three years ago, we thought love was all we needed; it’d hold us together like gravity.
In the end I do walk, not because Lou told me to, but because the Manhattan’s towers reach out like the matted tendrils of fur on Tito’s back. Should’ve known I’d never escape its pull, I should have known it was never about Brooklyn.
END. (308)
I ask how Lou how he’d like me to leave, just walk across the bridge, or could I at least ride my bike. I could give a fuck. That was his response.
Six years I’ve given, five of them in Crown Heights, slicing my knuckles on big rigs. Omar, another truck’s tranny blew, Omar, lift this, you’re the strongest.
Until the blast, of course.
Now it’s side glances, it’s get the fuck out of my town.
“Don’t leave,” Sandra tells me the night before. “I want you to stay. Fuck the haters, the bullies.”
“It’s not about them.” I push the last few strands of brown hair away from her eyebrow stud. Tito curls in my lap. “It’s about me, my terms.”
“No,” another woman may have given in to tears. Not my Sandra. “Lou is driving you away. Not anyone else.” She pets Tito’s head, closes his eyes.
I kiss her, and the softness there almost reels me back from my future’s pull.
“You’re wrong love. It’s all pushing: the country, New York, Brooklyn, even the roots beneath the cracked concrete; and I’ve grown weary pushing back.”
She hugs me and I play with the ridges of her veins. Somewhere three years ago, we thought love was all we needed; it’d hold us together like gravity.
In the end I do walk, not because Lou told me to, but because the Manhattan’s towers reach out like the matted tendrils of fur on Tito’s back. Should’ve known I’d never escape its pull, I should have known it was never about Brooklyn.
END. (308)