Kategori: Story

Tokyo lay far below, smothered in a century-old, neon-streaked smog. A constant wail rose into Asami’s room from somewhere in the haze, sharp and setting her on edge. But above, a thousand shooting stars blazed orange-yellow trails across the navy sky. Asami’s eyes gleamed with awe, a thousand wishes flooded her heart.

Her father’s heavy footsteps, muffled by their high-rise’s thick, insulated walls, shook her bedroom door as he passed. Asami tensed, poised to leap back in bed, yet she couldn’t tear herself away from her window and miss this. Her throat went dry. What would he say as he loomed over her? The shooting stars hardened her resolve.

He would simply have to find her awake.

The wail ripped at her nerves, and Asami covered her ears as it peaked, shrill and desperate. She searched through the smog below for the source of the noise, her forehead smudging the glass, black hair framing her face. Something unsettled her about the sound—familiar, but distant, like an old nightmare she couldn’t quite recall.

“Where are the damn keys, Emi?” Her father’s frantic voice boomed, cutting through her thoughts. A knot tightened in Asami’s stomach as she glanced at the door.

“Near the respirators!” Her mother raced down the hall, voice sharp with panic. “I’ll find them, just get Asami!”

The twins screamed from their nursery, and a shiver clawed up Asami’s spine. She turned back to the window as an orange glow glazed her room. Her breath caught in her throat as the wails bled through the city. Asami’s eyes glistened, wide.

Those weren’t shooting stars at all.ss

First day of a new spring still dawns gray and drear, dampness lingering in the chill morning air, and this will persist, forecasters say, for several more. But then the sun, at last comes sun, yellow gold morning and evening, and bright white noon—and I will go to the basement to gather empty Mason jars and lids, for now we are in daylight saving time.

Throughout the coming months, on each day when the sun pours down like liquid warmth, sometimes turning to angry burning heat, I will be ready with my jars. Out on the back porch, I will leave them every morning in twos and threes, open and unlidded, then collecting them at evening as light fades to pale yellow in the western sky. Seal them, and collect them, full as they are with warm air and the fiery light of summer mornings and noons, and languid afternoons, and carry them back downstairs.

There they will sit, till all the shelves in the old fruit cellar glow even as summer wanes back to the damp hill of fall evenings and later, winter ice, all lined up and waiting for the darkness. Then, I will descend, every evening, and retrieve one jar, still warm, carrying it to the upper house, where I open it, pour its glowing contents into a large bowl, letting it light the house till all are abed.

“Hello, Bob,” she said to William Norman before nodding to the second visitor. “Bob.”

“I’m William Norman, and this is Franklin Thomas,” William said.

“I know who you are, Bob.” Jenna glanced at the Bob named Franklin Thomas. “Pleased to meet you, Bob.” She turned back to William. “How can I help you?”

“The ship is off course,” William said.
“I know.”

“It’s headed to Siduri.”

“I know.”

William frowned. “How do you know? Unless—”

“Right you are, Bob, I reprogrammed the navigation computer.”

“Why? We’re supposed to go to the colony on Sagan Four.”

Jenna glared at them. “Because after spending years as the only Classic among a ship full of Similars, the thought of spending the rest of my life with thousands of you on Planet Vanilla makes me want to vomit.”

“Sagan Four,” Franklin Thomas said.

“You need to fix the navigation,” William said.

Jenna shook her head. “No.”

“But Siduri has—Siduri has—”

“Nonhuman species. So?”

Both Bobs shuddered. Jenna almost felt sorry for them. It wasn’t their fault they were afflicted with Vanilla Syndrome, the homogenization process that had resulted in most humans looking alike. They were fair-skinned, brown-eyed, blondish, and bland. There was a dulled and blunted quality to how they looked and talked and thought, a vacuousness under their cheerful expressions, as if the edges and corners of their personalities had been rounded off or the colors that made up humanity melted in a big pot to produce beige. They were called “Similars.” Jenna called them Bobs and Bettys.

“Tell you what,” Jenna said. “Once we’re orbiting Siduri, drop me off in the shuttle. If you agree, I’ll set a new course for Planet Vanilla.”

“Sagan Four,” Franklin Thomas said.

William nodded. “We agree to your terms.”

William piloted the shuttle to Siduri. Two dozen Similars came along for the ride. Jenna suspected they just wanted to gawk at the native Sidurians. She had insisted they not bring weapons and patted them down before they boarded the shuttle.

After landing, Jenna was first down the ramp. A welcome party of nine humans waited, all of them astride the planet’s native sentient inhabitants, known as Frains. The Frains were hairless six-legged creatures with shimmering blue skin and large heads possessing four huge eyes, two in front and one on each side. They reminded Jenna of a cross between miniature, trunkless elephants and giant squids and must have weighed close to two hundred kilograms. Their human riders included black, brown, and white; short, tall, and medium; young, old, and middle-aged. Jenna was delighted.

“I’m Jenna Driscoll,” she announced as she stepped from the ramp.

“Nanq Telgard,” one of the men said as he dismounted. He gestured toward the Sidurian he’d been riding. “This is my friend Pfunj.”

Pfunj nodded his head and made a sound that reminded Jenna of birdsong.

“Welcome to Siduri,” Nanq said.

“Thanks,” Jenna said.

“Aren’t there others?”

“They’re only visiting temporarily. Then they’ll head to Planet Vanil—I mean Sagan Four.”

A moment later, two dozen Bobs and Bettys, with William Norman in the lead, shuffled down the ramp. One of the Bettys spotted a Frain and screamed. She spun around and collided with the Bob behind her. He fell into a Betty. Chaos broke out until William Norman calmed everyone down.

“Greetings,” Nanq said to them. “We have refreshments for you.”

“What refreshments?” a Bob asked.

“Panglang and sproong,” Nanq replied.

“What are they?” a Betty asked.

“Panglang is similar to fried grasshoppers. Sproong is like stewed chicken feet, but the bones are softer. Both go well with beer.”

“I’m going to be sick,” a Betty said.

“I’m so sorry,” Nanq said. “We’ll take you to the infirmary.”

The Betty looked at William Norman. “Can you take me back to the Titania?”

William nodded, but Jenna thought he looked disappointed.

“I’ll go back with you,” another Bob said.

“I’ll go, too,” a Betty replied.

All the Bobs and Bettys returned to the Titania. Jenna, despite herself, felt sad she wouldn’t see any of them again. They hadn’t mistreated her, they’d just ignored her, as if she were a piece of furniture. She banished the thought and joined the Sidurians for panglang, sproong, and beer.

The shuttle returned the next day. William Norman descended the ramp, where Jenna and Nanq and a group of Frains and colonists waited.

“What’s up, William?” Jenna asked. She needed to stop calling her former shipmates Bobs and Bettys, lest the Sidurians think her obnoxious.

“Some of us would like to stay on Siduri instead of continuing to Sagan Four. If you’ll have us.”

Jenna was stunned. She wanted Nanq to tell them no, but she was too shocked to speak. Nanq told William he and his companions were welcome. Jenna tried not to grind her teeth.

William thanked Nanq and looked at Jenna. “What about you, Jenna? Is it all right with you?”

Jenna thought about it. She’d been insulting Similars most of her life, but maybe it was time to take the high road. Besides, she didn’t want to make a bad impression on her new Sidurian friends. Nevertheless, she hesitated. And she had a question.

“What changed?”

William shrugged. “I figured it was time to strike a blow against Vanilla Syndrome.”

“Do the others feel that way?”

William nodded.

“Then you won’t be able to, um, hook up with one another.”

“We know.”

Jenna gave William an appraising look. His eyes were hazel, not brown. She hadn’t noticed that before.

She made her decision.

“Okay, then,” she said, nodding. “Welcome to Siduri.”

My prehistoric grandmother, exemplar of Generation W (W for Waste), shamelessly threw away new, unopened packets of Tico’s Tacos “sizzlin’ hot” salsa.

Decades later I’m haggling with squatters to excavate Tico’s Tacos “sizzlin’ hot” salsa packets from garbage dumps. I showcase the packets alongside similarly excavated fast food detritus—styrofoam packaging, plastic cups and lids, faded wax-paper wrappers—all lovingly collected in a gallery behind glass. We’re rabidly nostalgic for these sorts of things because the Tico’s Tacos chain, like every fast food chain, no longer exists. Some of its architecture survives, such as dilapidated sombrero rooftops once neon-lit, and Tico the Cat statues waving hola from atop tumbledown signage. But mostly, reminders of the before times have vanished.

I curate Portals to the Past on Mission St, inside the protected Zone. The gallery is three blocks east of the checkpoint, a razor-wire interface between us and the hungry world. Lately the hungry have been trying to breach our razor-wire. My contact, Zook, the squatter who led the most recent excavation for me—he claims the hungry are planning to attack again in three nights, the same goddamned night as my Tico’s Tacos exhibition opening.

“You should delay your party,” old Zook says, smelling of urine. We’re just outside the checkpoint.

“Why are you telling me about this?”

“Telling you about what.”

“The attack.”

“Because, young lady, I like you. You give me work.” His toothless grin seems lecherous. I ignore it.

We finish our transaction: one box of ancient and interesting restaurant condiments in exchange for one box of jackets and boots. Then Zook’s limping off into the smoky urban wilds beyond the checkpoint.

It’ll be sundown soon. Portable flood lights flicker on. Security sentries inspect my ID, rush me back through the gate to safety, and I traipse down an empty Mission St sidewalk towards the gallery, eager to examine my box of treasure. But Zook’s claim about the attack irritates me. If he’s correct, my soirée will be a bust. People will be too afraid to come.

Dean phones as I pass the old California Shakes coffee shop. “Did Zook get anything good?” he says.

“We have a problem. He insisted there’s going to be….” I stop myself, realizing I’m likely the only one in the Zone who’s aware of this supposed attack. Saying nothing will guarantee that people can attend the soirée. “Actually, never mind.”

“Never mind what.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Um, okay, so about the Ranger Rick cups, I wasn’t able to fully clean them. There’s smoke damage….” Dean updates me on this and more, but I’m distracted, conflicted about whether I should alert Security. It’d be the right thing to do. However, I’ve been working on this exhibition for months, putting so much care into it. And I really need the business. And further, Zook could be mistaken; maybe the attack is mere rumor.

“Gotta go, Dean.” I disconnect the call.

The gallery is wedged between a dental clinic and a market. To the east loom unoccupied green-glass skyscrapers—stilled giants, generals without wars. As always there’s not much traffic on the once-busy thoroughfare; the absence of activity creates vacuous silence and loneliness, but I’m used to it. Earlier in the day I’d unlocked and raised the gallery’s steel shielding, hoping that rare passersby might pause and admire my window display. Presently I’m touched to see an attractive young man viewing the display, a menagerie of plastic rainbow straws, remnants of a Bloopee franchise. Above the straws hangs a neat hand-lettered sign advertising my Tico’s Tacos opening.

“You should come!” I place Zook’s box on the sidewalk, then gesture up at the sign.

The attractive young man smiles a gleaming smile, stares at my breasts, says, “Looks interesting,” which pisses me off, not because of his ogling but rather because I remember the supposed attack and its repercussions for my soirée. “Yes, it will be interesting,” I say, flirtatiously nibbling my lower lip, concluding that old Zook is full of shit, that the attack is indeed rumor and nothing more.

Three nights later the exhibition opens with a clink of champagne glasses. The attractive young man hasn’t arrived, but two dozen other patrons amble around with sentimental admiration. In addition to the Tico’s Tacos “sizzlin’ hot” salsa packages, a stack of single-use paper napkins proves popular, as does video footage of a drive-thru—grainy film-loop projecting against a wall. A violinist accompanies with popular 20th century melodies. Someone muses sadly about that distant life and its unlimited electricity. I can smell my shampooed hair, a special-occasion treat.

Dean congratulates me. “Another successful opening,” he says.

I revel in the moment, dreamy, until a ruckus at the front door causes a collective gasp. The violinist stops, and several cadaverous figures, redolent of sewage and wrapped in patchwork clothing—clearly from outside the Zone—shove their way into my gallery. But instead of killing us all, they inexplicably pause and gape at the exhibits. A scabby woman goes giddy and squeezes open a package of “sizzlin’ hot” salsa, then proceeds to slurp its contents. She gags. A man watches the film loop of the drive-thru, his cracked lips moving as though reciting a forgotten prayer. Another man, ribs visible beneath torn fabric, steps forward to examine my display of “kiddie meal” toys: three plastic Tico the Cat playthings.

A champagne-tipsy patron whispers to me, “I get it! What a wonderful performance! They represent our common humanity, abandoned by our common past.”

“Yeah…sure,” I reply. “It’s been difficult keeping them a secret.”

“Bravo!” says the champagne-tipsy patron.

Then a smash—screams, broken glass—and my soirée ends.

40th reunion. 40. How did she get so old so fast? She was popular and had plans. A “most likely to…” type. Succeed. Be on TV. Own a beach house in La Jolla. She did none of that and didn’t want any of that, but the party at Penmar Golf Course — $100 for hors d’oeuvres with an open bar — has her feeling jittery, thinking about what might have been. Most likely to become a cliché is more like it. She kept the yearbook, Venice High 1985, and opens it periodically to reconcile it with what she sees in the mirror. She’s not entirely unhappy. Her hair is still blonde, no bangs glued straight with gel! Her blue eyes look tired now but mascara helps. And she’s bigger, like everyone else. But her tits look good, even better than back when she survived on diet coke and Marlboro lights. She will not take Ozempic, at least just yet, like her friends. No Botox either but she knows it’s just a matter of time. Everything is just a matter of time.

She looks at the scrawl on the back page — “My one regret: not asking you out…” — from the skinny kid with the big nose and curly mop, the one who became a writer. She probably would have said no but as the years go by, she’s developed an abstract crush on him. She’s followed his career, read a story here and there, a blog where he talks about his divorce. Divorce! When she read that, she got a tingle. She’s married and living a perfectly fine, decent, good life. But knowing he’s free out there is fun, harmless; she smiles mischievously when she sees his name on the rsvp list. She knows her husband would have no interest so she buys one ticket.

What will she wear? A teal linen dress, tan flats, simple; she remembers he was short so she doesn’t want to tower over him but she does wear a push up bra so a little cleavage shows, casually, like she didn’t mean it, her boobs are so big she can’t help it kind of thing. She puts the yearbook in the large leather bag she inherited from her recently dead mother. She is hoping that maybe, after a cocktail, she could get him to sign it again, let him know that she’s followed his career, hint that it’s not too late though for what she doesn’t know. She feels reckless. Giddy.

He looks different, bald now, a graying overgrown goatee; they all have changed, but she recognizes him from his author photos so she walks up, tipsy, and says, “Hey Nathan!” and he says, “Hi!” as he squints at the name tag pinned to her chest with a picture from high school on it. She says, “Mallory. We went to high school together!” and he says, “I think all of us here did!” And they laugh, she can feel her face reddening from the tequila, she’s half a margarita in. He says he doesn’t remember her and she pauses. It’s too late to run away so she pulls out the yearbook, flips to the back, points at the exact words he wrote. “You wanted to ask me out but never did!” and he says, “Huh, that sounds about right.” And she says, “Why not? Why didn’t you Nathan?” thinking that using his name will create some intimacy and he says, “I don’t know,” but he is charming enough now to say, “I was an asshole for not trying” in a tone that is more polite than flirtatious.

A chubby woman, older than them, walks up. She’s not wearing any makeup. Her hair is pulled back but a few straight strands have fallen forward. Mallory thinks she’s one of the servers and is about to ask for another drink when Nathan says, “This is my girlfriend, Lucia.” Mallory is too stunned to respond. “We live in Brooklyn.” Nathan puts his arm around Lucia’s broad waist, kisses her round cheek, making a wet smooching sound. Mallory shakes Lucia’s small strong hand and says, “Nice to meet you!” Someone tells Nathan to put on the playlist he made for the reunion, so he looks down at his phone while Mallory and Lucia smile at each other. Mallory can see that Lucia doesn’t whiten her teeth, they are stained from the coffee Mallory imagines they drink together in the morning or red wine they drink at night, frumpy Lucia and her adoring boyfriend Nathan, the writer.

Mallory puts the yearbook back in her mother’s bag. She wonders if she should get another margarita, decides yes but on the way to the bar she suddenly feels exhausted, weak, like she’s been punched, as if she could sleep for a year straight, so she reaches into the bag for her keys, walks to the red Prius she also inherited from her mother, gets in, presses the button to turn the car on and puts it reverse; she backs up, switches to drive, then steps on the gas to go forward.

 

---

Jacob, a TV journalist for a regional station, was setting up the shot with Tommy, his cameraman, when Eris first approached him.

“I saw what happened,” she said.

“You saw the trampoline take off?” Jacob asked, giving her a quick look over as he did so, seeing if she was sufficiently telegenic for his report.

“Yes, the whole thing. It was awful.”

Jacob weighed her up. Local accent, but clear voice. Clean, well-dressed, nice features, not emotionally constipated. She would do.

So Eris made her television debut in Jacob’s report from the scene of the fair, where unexpectedly high winds had whipped an unsecured trampoline and its four juvenile occupants momentarily aloft. No major injuries unfortunately, so not reaching the tragedy level that would make the national news and so boost his profile, but better than nothing.

Two weeks later, arriving at the scene of a fire at a hospital two towns away, Jacob recognized Eris in the bystanders.

“I had an appointment at the eye clinic,” she explained. “I’d just arrived when the fire broke out.”

Remembering how well she’d come across in his previous report, Jacob decided to use her again. As before, she was a good witness, emotive and descriptive.

Jacob thought little of this coincidence until three weeks later, when he attended the motorway pile-up. He’d arrived a bit late on the scene and was setting up a favorable angle with his cameraman when he saw one of the national broadcasters interviewing Eris.

He listened in and heard her state, “Yes, I was driving along on the way to meet an old school chum when the tanker veered right across the road. I managed to brake in time but…”

All through the rest of the summer, Jacob would arrive at every significant tragedy or accident, murder scene or disturbance and Eris would already be there. Even when he wasn’t working, he would see her being interviewed on his TV screen. She was never directly involved or affected, but always close enough to witness. It turned out she was even a neighbor of the “Sofa Strangler,” the serial killer who was caught that summer. “He seemed like a nice man,” she opined.

Other journalists noticed her regular appearances on their screens. There was initially some suspicion that she was actively involved in these diverse tragedies, but a cursory glance at the facts showed the impossibility of this. It simply was all just a rather unlikely coincidence.

Word got around locally however and it was the town’s Mayor who first approached Eris, gifting her tickets to a theatre performance at the other side of town while his inauguration was taking place in the Town Hall. It was an astute move, as it turned out, as a hostage crisis broke out at the theatre just as Eris arrived. She was subsequently interviewed about it on live TV.

Local companies started approaching Eris with offers of free products if she would only stay away from their stores and offices. One less scrupulous businessman offered her money to attend the premises of his business rival and as Eris approached, the building was levelled by an engine that fell off a passing jet airplane.

Despite these unique earning opportunities, fame wasn’t kind to Eris. She now had the reputation as a jinx and was consequently shunned by all and sundry. She was unwelcome at any of the local shops, while people actively crossed to the opposite side of the street when they saw her coming. Friends deserted her and even her family would only talk to her by phone.

Jacob didn’t really believe that there was anything special about Eris. She didn’t have psychic powers, she wasn’t cursed. She was just unlucky, a statistical outlier, the victim of a series of coincidences, unlikely but not impossible. He knew though, that the public believed otherwise and ever alert to an opportunity to advance his career, he arranged to interview her in her home.

Eris, isolated and alone, jumped at the chance to both see a familiar face and explain herself to the public, to let them see she was just a normal person.

In her living room, with Jacob and his cameraman sitting opposite, she spoke to the viewers on the live broadcast.

“I’ve always been around when bad things happened. Sometimes they’re scary, sometimes just sad, but I always remember what my Mum told me, after our Headmaster had jumped off the school roof. ‘Inside every cloud, there’s a silver lining’. And she was right! The new Headmaster was so much better, so much friendlier. All these things I witness, I know that they’re sad for a lot of people. But I have to believe these events also change some people’s lives for the better. Even the asteroid that killed all the Dinosaurs, well, that was good for people, wasn’t it?”

“I feel so alone now,” she continued. “My family won’t visit, my friends have abandoned me. Even my neighbors all complained to the Council, calling me an Environmental Health hazard. They’ve all been re-housed! All the neighboring properties are empty!”

Eris spoke with such feeling that her heartfelt words broke through Jacob’s cynical veneer and for a moment or two he wasn’t even bothered about the ratings.

“I feel so sad,” Eris said, “I honestly just wish the earth would open and swallow me up.”

And just like that, it did.

Seismologists subsequently measured the earthquake as a whopping 8.5 on the Richter scale, its epicenter being a half-mile under Eris’s house. The city was devastated and Jacob’s life and more importantly, his career, were brought to a premature end.

The nature and timing of the last words of Eris Fortuna were widely discussed, but eventually dismissed as an amazingly unlikely but ultimately statistically acceptable coincidence. Nevertheless, an alternate view might be encapsulated in the wise words of that great philosopher and sometime Baseball player, Yogi Berra: “That’s too coincidental to be a coincidence.”

---

“Beware of the Ides of March,” Madame Hannah said, picking up the tarot card with its stormy-looking tower. The woman tapped her long black fingernails on the card. Bree wondered how the woman was able to shuffle with nails that long.

“The hides of March?” Bree asked. “What’s a March hide?” Long purple curtains covered the walls of the small room, and unscented white candles burned on the side of the little circular table.

“The Ides of March,” the fortune teller said, enunciating clearly. She flipped her hand, and her long bat-wing sleeves fluttered dramatically over the small table with its crystal ball. Bree pulled her head back to avoid getting smacked in the face. She worried about the candles.

“I’m not understanding you,” Bree sighed. “When am I supposed to be aware?”

“March 15th,” the woman frowned. “The date that Julius Caesar was murdered.” Madame Hannah looked at her as if she was a moron, but how was Bree supposed to know about Greek mythology?

“Oh well, why didn’t you just say that?” she sniffed. “March 15th is tomorrow. So what am I supposed to be looking out for?”

“Chaos and change,” the woman said dramatically, leaning so close that Bree could smell the cinnamon gum on her breath.

“Could you, like, be more specific?” Bree wrinkled her nose. “Is it like being-hit-by-a-bus type chaos, or like can’t-find-matching-socks level chaos?”

“Another card is ten dollars,” Madame set the tower card on the table and extended her hand.

“I’m good,” Bree stood, ignoring the woman’s extended palm, and walked out of the little bookshop. It was a gorgeous spring day in Chicago, and Bree took a deep breath of the fresh air, tinged only slightly with bus exhaust. Though she knew she needed to get back to her desk, she walked slowly back to her apartment, stopping by her favorite smoothie store to get a mango and chocolate super kale surprise.

The line was long, and the smoothie staff moved with a lurching apathy that made her wonder if they were all stoned.

Twenty minutes later, Bree took her smoothie from the counter and sipped the bittersweet sludge. She really needed to get back to her desk. She had taken a two-hour lunch break, but that was the joy of working from home.

Back at her desk, Bree removed the vibrating device from her mouse that made it look like she was working and went to work. She answered a few customer emails and then browsed Amazon for a new blender. Maybe she could start making smoothies at home.

With a perky ping, Bree received a message from her boss in the company’s ugly messenger system.

“Bree, I’m going to need you to come into the office tomorrow.” Her boss’s message said. “8am sharp, and make sure you bring all of your company-issued equipment, please. See you tomorrow morning.”

Bree sipped her melted smoothie and wondered why her boss needed her in the office and if she could figure out an excuse to get out of it.

Every time my grandpa, my mother’s father, visited us he always brought a crate of fruits or vegetables, whatever he just harvested. I remember I was in second grade when he came by with the crate and asked how I was doing in math.

“Twenty-six plus six is one,” I said.

He loved it. He was half-Irish, which made me one-eight Irish. Not much Irish, many would say, but we had our own history.

Centuries earlier expulsion waves brought tens of thousands from the Emerald Isle to our part of Central Europe. They were refugees but had standards high enough not to stop in France or Germany.

The Irish worked hard, drank hard, and intermarried with the tossed salad of Austrians, Slovaks and Hungarians. Now, after several generations, only a few know or care about having a few pints of Celtic blood. The others have been reduced to marvel why their last name is Kenedi or Onel. One thing has endured, though, and as a result all the good townspeople become Irish once a year.

Legend has it, when news arrived from Ireland about one of the more productive massacres by the British, a painting of the Madonna shed tears of blood. On the day of anniversary the faithful go to the cathedral to kiss the picture, luckily covered by glass and wiped down after each smooch by a church servant. The blood drops are faded brown, still visible enough so only the most cynical atheists would dare question the miracle.

“The blood stains will miraculously disappear the day Ireland gains total independence,” my grandpa whispered to me, standing in the long line.

Years later, after I flunked out of college the first time, I visited him. I knew he was not well, still it was surprising to find him sitting in a rickety armchair late morning. “It’s pneumonia or a bad case of influenza. Stay away, it’s probably contagious.” Then he wanted to hear about my plans for the future.

I said I was going to join the Sinn Fein since Gerry needed more volunteers. He sighed and rolled his eyes. “What for?” A frosty response from a man who had the Starry Plough banner on the wall next to the crucifix.

I said, “I’ll go to Belfast or Derry and shoot the entire magazine of my AK-47 into a bunch of English soldiers.”

He waved. “Then what?”

“Then I reload.”

He waved again. “Go tell your grandmother to boil up water for tea. That with a spoonful of honey, and in a couple of days I should be back to my vigorous self. Then you and me, we’ll be on the beach checking out the young broads in their tiny bikinis.”

Even though most family members spoke little or no English, and our combined Gaelic vocabulary barely amounted to a dozen curse words, Irish music was playing during the wake. “That was one of his last wishes,” my grandma told us. I nodded. “He was very proud of his heritage.” Grandma rolled her eyes. “No, this is for your benefit. He told me, find some Irish songs for that crazy mac soith. He believes he is Irish.”

“What the hell is going on?” he yelled.

As we turned the corner we saw pickup trucks and semi trailers full of building materials lined up and down the street. Loud construction workers pulled materials off the trucks and piled them on our ball diamond.

Jimmy looked at me, “They can’t do this, it can’t be legal.”

“It’s gotta be a mistake,” Joey said. “If we explain to them, they’ll go away.”

Frankie and I approached a group of workers who were wrestling work fencing along one side of the street.

I tapped one of the workers, the tallest one, on his shoulder. Maybe he was the boss. Maybe he would understand. He looked at me and started to walk away.

“Mister, “ I said, “You’re at the wrong place. It can’t be here. We’ve played on this field for years. Our dads played here before the war.”

“I’m sorry, kid, the work ain’t stopping for youse kids, or anybody else” he said. “Stay out of our way. We don’t want anyone to get hurt.”

Backhoes were already starting to dig foundations for more houses and apartment buildings. Like we really needed more houses in our crowded neighborhood!!

We stood together outside of the fence, hoping it was all just a dream. We wanted to tear it down with our bare hands, but knew our parents would never support any kind of hooliganism.

More workers walking by the fence told us to go away. They told us more trailers were coming to drop off pallets of bricks and lumber. More workers would join the people already working at the lot; raucous crews of carpenters and masons to complete the destruction of our ball diamond.

The tall man who first talked to me, he wasn’t so nice when he saw us still standing at the fence. When we threw clods of dirt at the trucks, he cursed and chased us away.

“Get the hell out of here,” he yelled. “If youse don’t go home in five minutes we’re calling the cops.”

All of us shuffled down the street, shaking with rage. We bit our lips, didn’t look at each other, afraid we’d see the tears on our faces. Even though the oldest players on the teams were only 12-years-old, everyone knew that baseball players didn’t cry.