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By: JG Lowry It was old, the address book, tattered, the pages dirty. For years, I had been meaning to replace it. Turning the pages of the old book, I find, Archibald & Sons. Yes! Brothers, both of them blond, in blue shirts and dungarees. While gardening, Brenda had turned up a rock, convinced that it was a meteorite; washing it in the tub, she swore that it had shook, springing to life, leaping out of her hands and into the commode. Smiling, the brothers fished it out with what looked like forceps, charging a sum we thought modest. A few pages on, Crystal. No last name, no address, no phone number. I sit thinking. Ah! Our ghostly neighbor! Always dressed in white with gray hair to match, tapping on our door at two in the morning. Her cat, Bobby, was missing. We didn’t see him, by any chance? Kind, Brenda made her tea and sat with her in the kitchen. Bobby, what happened? You never came home. Pages C to E are blank, but at the bottom of E, in tiny print, I find Magdalena, along with a phone number written backwards. My clever code. Magdelena with her lustrous hair, snowy smile. Her husband, Forrest Loch, a diplomat, always traveling to, or expected back, from Chile, or Luxemburg, Botswana, or Caracas. Encountered her on a train to Washington, waiting patiently for a gentleman to lift her bag into the overhead rack. That afternoon, the two of us watched the rain from our hotel bed, the clouds almost touching the Potomac, sipping cognac, she pretending to teach me Spanish, both of us laughing at my ineptitude. When I called, a week later, a woman, speaking in a cold tone, said there was no such person. My sole infidelity, a result, I’ve convinced myself, of the rain, the dark afternoon. I turn the page to Harmon & Sons, Hardware, long closed, gutted by a mysterious fire. After a raucous party, Brenda and I staggered out of a taxi near dawn, each convinced that the other was drunk. Our keys! What happened to our keys? Awakened at home by Brenda’s tears, Mr. Harmon appeared within the hour, carrying a black bag, his cranky son in tow. He insisted it had been a pleasure, refusing the money we heaped upon him. Next, The Blue Hour, a restaurant where Brenda and I met at the bar, commiserating over the lack of peanuts. Memorable, too, for a luncheon honoring Brenda’s parents for thirty years of marriage, when, after a round of toasts and picture taking, a large cockroach appeared on the table in front of Brenda’s mother. Prudy wanted to scream but, instead, froze. Her face turned pink, then an alarming purple To the rescue: Brenda’s brother Larry, known as Ketch, a Major in the air force, resplendent in his dress blue, who, sweeping the roach onto a spoon, put it into his mouth, pronouncing it delicious, a fine source of protein. With Ketch that day, his wife of six weeks, Shirley, she of the prodigious singing talent, and equally prodigious capacity for drink and pool boys. Soon lost to Hollywood and a string of sad movies. Boone Pickard rules the next page: Director of Pickard and Fontelli, Home Decorating and Design. His dark hair combed in two waves; Italian suit and shoes. Hired to decorate our new condominium, Boone immediately decided me superfluous, focusing his attention on Brenda; circling, holding her eyes, seizing both her hands in his to make a point. He pronounced a verdict on our taste with a wave of his hand. Furniture: distressing. Rugs: he’s bought better from an outlet for movie theaters. As for our paintings, cherished, purchased after months of careful budgeting and tiring visits to galleries: Why are you collecting nobodies? Brenda wept. He’s right. We’re dummies. What he proposed, accompanied by elaborate drawings, would have cost us almost twice what we paid for the apartment. A con man! I cried, balling up the papers and flinging them across the room. Brenda sighed. Yes. But you have to admit, he was charming. After Boone, Tiny, our cat. What’s he doing here? Rescued from Prospect Park, with his huge thirst for birds, he acted like he wanted to be a wolf. Remembered for crying at the door of our bedroom when Brenda and I made love. Ah Tiny, I want you back Along the margin of the same page, a drawing of a human foot, its big toe colored red, wiggly lines rising from it indicating pain. Brenda’s work, no doubt. Her mother, Prudy, had broken her toe kicking the refrigerator after discovering that Lewis, her husband of thirty years, had, for ten of them, a girlfriend in Indianapolis. It infuriated her! Not the girlfriend! No! Indianapolis! Where the hell was Indianapolis? Who the hell would live there? And when did Lewis, who got lost regularly on the subway, go there? Under U, written in a shaky hand: U-think you R, U-R. Painful reminder that I had been drinking again. On the next line, R. T. Quince, for years our Official Successful Friend, always known as R.T, photographer and reporter; addresses in London and Perth and Mumbai; five phone numbers, all of them crossed over; names of wives and girlfriends filling half a page. Had his greatest success when, living in Vietnam for over a year, he took pictures of children maimed by unexploded bombs and mines left over from the war. His wife Sarita Sparks, also a reporter, died on Halloween night in London, when coming home from a party dressed as a fly, she jumped into a fountain off Trafalgar Square, getting entangled in her costume and managing to drown, people laughing and applauding, thinking it was a stunt. He last called near Christmas, many years ago, his voice so low we could hardly hear him. He was living in Chicago, starting his third marriage, and trying to sell his memoir to publishers. He was saving money to get a face lift so he could become a television commentator. V is empty. Never found a name to put there. W has one entry: Tom Winkler. A classmate from college, long forgotten, until he called on a snowy night when Brenda and I were watching TV. She was quietly weeping, holding a tissue to her face, certain that she was pregnant at forty-four. Without so much as a greeting, Tom said he was dying. That he was in love with me, had always been in love with me ever since that day in French class with Miss Chasson, fresh from Paris with a saucy smile and tiny skirt. We were translating a passage from The Stranger for a mid-term grade. Tom had no time for such things, being a substitute on the basketball team and the president of a fraternity house. Seeing his distress, I turned my book so he could see the translation neatly written between the lines. In addition to an “A” Tom received a smile and a polite clap from Miss Chasson. So, Peter, after all these years, I was wondering, he said, do you love me? With Brenda sobbing beside me, a throbbing in my head signaling the start of a headache, I swore and hung up. Tom, forgive me! On the back of the book, I find I had written: Kindness before regret. I write the same words on the flyleaf of the new book. This time I mean it.

By: JG Lowry On one side of Victory Street was the factory, a low yellow brick building with a rolling door for cars and trucks, and a door for employees, painted green, the lamp over it protected by a metal shade, also painted green. The factory had no sign on it. On the other side, were the railroad tracks, separated from the street by a chain link fence. Once a day, an unpainted truck pulled up to the factory. On some days it sat on the street for an hour before the door rolled up. Sometimes, it pulled in immediately upon arrival. A car drove down the street, bouncing over the potholes. A man in a dark wool cap and a stained warm up suit pushed a shopping cart along the street, staying near the curb. A train went by, going very fast. People sat at the windows, none of them bothering to look at Victory Street or the factory. After the train passed, a yellow balloon drifted slowly over the chain link fence, a long string dangling from it. A gust of wind blew it into the door of the factory where it lodged over the transom. An elderly woman wearing a green turban came along walking a dog. The dog stopped to sniff at the door of the factory. Tim! she called impatiently. A man opened the door of the factory. He wore a blue work shirt and jeans that were almost white. His face was dark and craggy. He took a cigarette from his shirt pocket, put it into his mouth and lit it. He took a few, quick puffs, watching a bus with screens over the windows drive down Victory Street. After a final, long puff on his cigarette, he flipped it into the street and went back into the factory. It began to rain. The rain fell softly. The potholes filled with water. A blue car with dents in both front doors sped down the street splashing water out of the potholes. The sun came out, throwing a shadow like an arrow, half on the sidewalk, half on the side of the factory. An airplane that couldn’t be seen from the street droned overhead. The sky grew pink and Victory Street fell into shadow. The streetlights on different sides of the street flickered blue and bloomed into orange. The rolling door of the factory opened and the man who had been smoking drove out in a red pick-up truck. The door closed behind him. At the corner, the pick-up spun its wheels and ran the red light. Another train went by. A beer bottle flew from the window of a passing car. It didn’t break and spinning rapidly, hit the curb, coming to rest in a puddle. A deep shadow grew in the space between the streetlights. The lamp over the doorway of the factory made a spotlight on the sidewalk. The lights of a train appeared in the distance. The train took a long time to arrive at Victory Street, making a shrieking noise as it went by. People slept in the brightly lit windows, their heads resting against the glass. Heavy rain fell, stopping abruptly. The sidewalk glistened. There was a shout on another street, a loud metallic banging. Moths circled the streetlights. Two men came along. They were arguing. They stopped under a streetlight to better argue. One of the men shoved the other. The man who had been shoved began walking again. The other man waited before running after him. An ambulance passed at the corner, its lights flashing. A car drove down the street, zigzagging and stopping under one of the streetlights. A man got out. He was laughing. He pointed a gun at the streetlight, holding one hand to his wrist. He fired a shot. It missed. He got back into the car and a woman began laughing. The car pulled onto the sidewalk, stopping before hitting the streetlamp and rocking back and forth. The car backed onto the street and speeding down to the corner, ran the red light. There was the screeching of brakes; a car horn blared for a long time. People shouted. The metallic pounding started again and stopped. The balloon deflated and fell to the sidewalk in front of the factory. The sky turned gray. The streetlights went out and Victory Street appeared. A young woman came down the street. She had long black hair and carried a cloth bag. She stopped in front of the factory and, whirling around, swung the bag in the air, her skirt rising and showing her shapely legs and black stockings. She walked to the corner, singing softly, not looking at a man walking down the middle of the street. He wore a suit and tie. He lay down in the street, throwing out his arms and legs. He lay a long time, looking up once or twice. A panel truck came around the corner, braking sharply, and driving carefully around the man. He raised his head and called out after the truck. He got up, brushed off his suit and walked to the sidewalk where he stood looking up at the sky.

By: JG LOWRY It was April, windy and cold. Coming out of the New World Market, Martin saw two pigeons engaging in a tug of war over a frozen crust of bread. He stood amazed. Are they that hungry? It made him feel bad. He went back into the store and bought a slice of cake. When he got outside, the pigeons were gone but he saw another dipping into the stale water in the gutter. Here, pal, he said, breaking off a piece of cake. The bird scuttled over, wings flapping. Two more came out of nowhere, diving for every crumb he dropped. Hey, what are you doing? a voice called from the store. It was the owner, a bald man with eyebrows like mustaches. They’re dirty! They’re pests! They’re hungry, Martin answered. What harm am I doing? The man ran forward, clapping his hands and scattering the birds. I’m sick of cleaning up! You! You don’t have a job? Martin crushed the cake remaining in his hand, scattering it on the sidewalk. You don’t come back to my store no more! the man shouted. You don’t have to ask me! Martin shouted back. His warm apartment was comforting. Sunlight falling on the wine-colored rug, his magazines and newspapers stacked neatly on the coffee table and JonBoy, Jessica’s parakeet, hopping around in his cage. You miss her, don’t you? Martin said, sticking his finger into the cage, JonBoy jumping onto it. I know. I do too. He put away his groceries and walked to the window, his hands in his back pockets. One hundred and eight-two days now. She said she didn’t feel right. She had a headache. He wished he had paid more attention. Why don’t you go take a nap? he remembered saying. But she just sat, pressing her hand to her temple. I don’t feel right. He took her in a cab to the Emergency Room at Booth Hospital and sitting next to him on a metal chair, holding his hand, she died. A stroke, the doctors said. Nothing had seemed right since. He couldn’t get the pigeons out of his mind. It didn’t make sense. Birds were always there, weren’t they? Bouncing around on the tiny lawn in front of the building, flitting from branch to branch in the trees. Who would think they didn’t have enough to eat? That animals could be hungry and suffering? Tomorrow, he decided, he would see that they got fed. In the morning he bought two bags of hot dog rolls at the new supermarket and walked over to Sherman Park, a tear drop in a sea of traffic, populated with neglected trees, broken benches and mutated shrubs that might have fallen from space. A man stood at the entrance, feeding an army of pigeons from a shopping bag. Need a hand? Martin said cheerfully. I got ‘em, the man said brusquely. These are my regulars. His baseball cap was pulled low over purple sunglasses. Martin started into the park to find his own pigeons. There aren’t any more, the man said. I get every one of them. Martin shrugged, looking around in frustration. Listen. You want to do something? Do the seagulls. Martin was astonished. Seagulls? What seagulls? At Coney Island, the man said, brushing off his hands and folding up his shopping bag. No one feeds them in the winter. They die by the hundreds. It’s a crime. Don’t they eat fish? Martin said. The man smiled bitterly. What fish? You think there are any fish in the ocean? Go all the way to Coney Island to get mugged or knifed? Martin thought. But he had two bags of food, a long day to fill. He walked to the subway and asked directions at the token booth. The man said something he didn’t understand and seemed to point in the air. Martin walked down the stairs to the gloomy platform. A young woman stood on the opposite platform, her hands in the pockets of a vinyl coat that gleamed in the dim light. Does this train go to Coney Island? Martin called. Before she could answer, a train swept in and he got on. He was surprised when they rose from the tunnel, seeming to pass through the back yards of homes with above ground pools, rusting cars sinking into the earth like headstones, and by red bricked schools with athletic fields an unnatural green. He sat thinking. What kind of a world was it when there wasn’t enough food for people, the animals, everyone? He had driven a cab for thirty years, leased two others with his name, Burns Service, painted on the door. Year in and year out, without fail, young and old, rich and poor, bolted from the cab without paying. And he chased after them, fearless. It’s the way people are, Jessica used to say. He got off at the last stop, crossing a walkway to the boardwalk, stopping to put on his new prescription sunglasses, surprised by the expanse of blue water, a spit of land in the distance with puffy clouds sitting over it. The Atlantic, he thought, regretting that he had never crossed it. He saw no threat. People rode bicycles and jogged. A man sat on a bench playing scales on a trumpet. In fact, it was cheerful. But where were the seagulls? He began walking, stopping from time to time. There! He saw some, sitting on the rocks that jutted into the waves like a broken backbone. And walking to the railing, he saw more, rows of them, sitting close to the boardwalk, like a fleet of planes ready to take to the sky, their feathers puffed up against the cold. He went down the stairs and walked towards them. They barely stirred until he opened the bag of rolls when there was a loud squawking and flapping of wings. Birds dropped from the sky, their shadows on the sand, the more daring ones hanging in front of him, catching the food in flight. For a moment, Martin feared that, in their frenzy, the birds would attack and peck him to death. But he quickly grew confident, spreading the food like a man sowing a field. By the time he opened the second bag, he was like that man in the park, feeling that every seagull on Coney Island was his friend. Tomorrow, he said when the bread was exhausted. I’ll be back, I promise. Very fine, a woman said as he climbed the stairs to the boardwalk. She was sitting on a bench, wearing a leather jacket and red scarf. Might I suggest birdseed? she said. It’s more nutritious and lower in fat. Believe it or not, gulls have heart issues too. She looked expensive, Martin thought, her lustrous hair swept back, gold rings on her fingers. Her name was Ambrose, she said, offering her hand. To whom am I speaking? Martin introduced himself. Come, Marin. Let me buy you a drink. My great-grandfather was a whaling captain, she said as they walked along the boardwalk. A dreadful man, full of guilt over what he had done. I live up there, she said, pointing over her shoulder without looking. Martin glanced at a high rise with white terraces looming over the boardwalk. My husband was a lawyer. He died young and left me rich. Now my daughter’s a lawyer and she’s exactly like him. They turned into Sal’s, a hot dog stand with its windows enclosed, tables and chairs set at odd angles, chipped and battered as though they had spent their lives at sea. Theodore, good afternoon! Ambrose called to the counterman. He nodded, his face red and frowning under a knitted cap. He poured a shot of Scotch and brought it to her. And you, Martin? she said, raising her eyebrows. Oh, coffee I guess, he said. Theodore shook his head. Only espresso, he said gruffly. That sour, oily stuff Martin thought, but he agreed. Two years ago, he was a criminal, Ambrose whispered. A common criminal! He sold drugs! And now look! I think it’s just wonderful. She fixed her intense brown eyes on him. Now Martin, tell me, what brought you to our beautiful community? Oh, he said, after Theodore had set a tiny cup and saucer in front of him. He explained about the pigeons. How he had felt sorry for them. About the man who had sent him to Coney Island. Are you a widower, Martin? Divorced? My wife died six months ago, he said. Why? She shook her head. No matter. She raised her glass. To the animals, she said. Martin touched his cup to the glass and watched her knock back the Scotch. I have a heart condition, she said, fanning her face. You don’t drink? Martin. No, he said. Well, a beer sometimes. Good, she said. The movement needs strong, clean men. She leaned across the table. Are you aware, Martin, that pigeons are being exterminated throughout the entire United States? Poisoned ruthlessly? This harmless, sweet creature! And are you aware of what goes on in slaughterhouses? Animals being killed. Having their throats slit while they are still alive? Why? So we can have our steaks and our by-pass surgery? I’m making you uncomfortable, aren’t I? Theodore! she called, holding up her glass. You’ve never thought about it, have you? Not really, he said. She patted his hand, her leg brushing against his. Dear man! The Japanese are resuming the hunting of whales. Can you imagine? Just when we thought the slaughter was over! Theodore brought her drink and she poured half of it into his espresso. Voila! You like Irish espresso? she said, beaming. Martin had to smile. A whale, she went on, is a highly intelligent, peaceful animal. There is no reason to kill them. None whatsoever! It’s blood lust, pure and simple! Doesn’t it make you angry? We could go on and on. The wild horses, the wolves, the penguins. In twenty years, they’ll all be gone. Oh, it’s so sad! Closing her eyes, she gulped down the Scotch and laughed. It’s all right. I’m walking, not driving, right? Now, she said, her leg taking his prisoner, what do you think of all this? Martin shrugged. What can I do about it? he said. No, no, don’t think that way, she said. Listen to me. If someone came to your home and began smashing your windows you’d stop them, wouldn’t you? You’d confront them, you’d call the police. Am I right? Sure, he said. Well, that’s what’s happening, Martin. The same kind of criminals are destroying the planet’s wild life. Are we going to stand by and watch or are we going to do something about it? Her leg tapped his for emphasis. He began to feel uncomfortable. Do what? he said. Take direct action, she said. Trash labs that experiment on animals! Knock down the fences restraining wild horses! Brave men and women must defend the whales! It’s a war! A war which must be fought by men like you! Men unafraid of the consequences! Men who will go to jail if necessary! Whoa, Martin said, pulling back his chair to free his leg. I’m not going to jail. You know what it sounds like to me? It sounds like politics. Politics? she said, slumping in her chair. Please tell me how? Oh, people saying this is right, this is wrong. We’ll fix it my way. No, the other bunch says, do it our way. You know? Nothing changes. Things just get moved around. She sat aghast. But I thought you wanted to do something for the animals, Martin? I do. I’m going to feed them, he said. But that’s not enough, she said, sitting erect, her voice rising. You think you can come to Coney Island feed some seagulls and go home? You think that ends the problem? It won’t work! The world’s too complicated today, Martin! The oceans are being polluted! Developers are destroying animal habitats! Food sources are vanishing! How can you think of feeding pigeons while hundreds of species are being wiped off the planet every day? You’re doing exactly what the despoilers want you to do! Why am I sitting here getting bawled out? Martin thought. I don’t work for her. OK, he said. OK what? she said, smiling encouragement. OK, I’m going home. It was nice to meet you, Ambrose, he said, getting to his feet. Her eyes narrowed. I’ve not finished speaking! How dare you! A gentleman never leaves before a lady gives him permission. Well that’s too bad, I’m doing it anyway, he said harshly. He walked out onto the boardwalk. He heard footsteps behind him and turned in time to see Ambrose, her mouth a slash of anger. You old fool! she cried, slapping him in the face. His sunglasses flew off, bouncing along the boardwalk. We’ll send you to the slaughterhouse! she cried, walking off. Martin stood rubbing his cheek, looking at his glasses. A lens had broken loose, throwing a prism of green light. A young man stopped his bicycle. Go kick her ass! buddy. Martin felt like crying. I don’t have the money, he said, picking up his glasses. This is just the coolest place, the young man said, wheeling off. Martin put his glasses in his pocket and stood, not knowing what to do. He took the subway home. Everything more than two feet in front of him was a blur. Why? he asked himself, over and over. What was wrong with her? All I wanted to do was feed the seagulls.

By: JG Lowry I was on the subway, on my way home, when I noticed a couple. The girl was young, maybe nineteen, her dark hair in bangs. She had high cheekbones, a cool expression and carried a large, red leather handbag. The young man was tall and supercilious. He wore glasses and one knee of his jeans was torn out. They seemed to be avoiding each other’s gaze. I thought they were married until I noticed the girl was not wearing a ring. At Fourteenth Street, the young man wanted to get off. The girl did not. They exchanged harsh words, half in English, half in Chinese. He pulled her off the train onto the platform. She wrestled herself free and tried to get back on. The door closed and caught her bag. She screamed. The train started to move and she let go of it. I jumped up and pulled the bag out of the door. You’ll have to take that to the police, a plump woman said, lowering her book. I know, I said shortly. She smiled. Just in case, she said. Instead, I took it home. I placed the bag on the kitchen table and sat down. It had three pockets on each side. I carefully investigated them. One contained the expected: lipsticks and eyeliner, tweezers and three sizes of combs; and two tiny bottles of perfume, blue, and smelling like the sea. Another had pictures: schoolgirls in white blouses and plaid skirts, their arms around one another. One was smiling, the other was not. The girl from the train, I decided. There was one of the couple. They were at a resort, a pool in the background. The young man was exuberant, laughing and waving his arm in the air. Again, the girl was almost expressionless. And finally, someone’s parents, thick bodied and gray, standing with a dog in front of a house with snow on the roof. The dog looked almost as old. I found canceled tickets to movies and plays; a page torn from a telephone directory with a number circled in red, and a color picture of Mount Everest, the shadow of an airplane on its side. In the last pocket, I discovered a red notebook with green flowers on the cover. The diary of Li Na was written in purple ink on the first page, the handwriting neat and small. Today, the first entry said, I bought the most cool shoes, purple and feeling velvety. It is absolutely sad that after six weeks I will like them no more. I must buy another pair and another! Ha says my feet are delightful. I wash them, paint them, perfume them so he can suck on my toes. It gives me such a sensation! My toes are having sex! Grandmother Ho-Cha (Wing) died last week. She was born ancient though I know that is not possible. Her greatest pleasure was chewing gum. Once I got drunk and chewed tobacco. It made me vomit for hours. I had bad breath forever! Ha said I smelled like fertilizer. I wonder what I am doing? School. Studying until my head falls off. My parents. Ha. And money! Money! Always money! And Ha is so arrogant! Our sex is always great. He is going to be my husband! If I tell him I have no excitement, he is furious! I will soon be twenty-one, the start of old age. When I am thirty-one, my body will be bloated and worn because of children, my heart a pool of regret and sadness because of my stupid life. I will accomplish nothing. No one will remember me. Maybe I could fall asleep forever? Maybe there will be a better life in my dreams? This upset me. I turned to a fresh page and wrote: Li Na, this is foolish! It is true that life is hard and, from time to time, we all feel discouraged. But you are so young! You can do so many things! Learn to swim! Learn to play the piano! Make a movie; become a scientist and cure diseases! Travel! Above all, do what you want to do! Do not please people! Nature will bring life to a close. When you look back you must know that you have tried; that you have done what is right for you. I signed my name, Gran Wilkes and enclosed my e-mail address. I closed up the purse and took it to the Lost and Found Department of the New York City Transit Authority. It was a dreary room with green walls and racks filled with umbrellas, books and cell phones. The clerk, stooped and bald, spoke in a low voice. They would keep the purse for a year. Sixty percent of items are claimed. If not, I said? He shrugged. They were auctioned off. I went home resigned to the fact that Li Na might never retrieve her purse. Life went on. I got engaged, but my fiancé, a travel agent, met someone in London and broke it off. I got a promotion at work and bought an apartment. For some reason, I got a dog but he spent most of the time under the bed, growling. I gave him to a friend who declared him to be wonderful. He just didn’t like me. On Christmas Eve, I got an e-mail from Li Na. She was amazed that I found her purse and returned it to her. And my comments in her diary had inspired her. She had left Ha. He was a brute, telling her how much he loved her while stealing the money grandmother Wing had left her. She had moved to San Francisco. A friend had gotten her a job at an internet start-up. They shared an apartment overlooking the harbor. Many mornings, she woke up to see the Golden Gate Bridge rising through fog. Her phone was always ringing. She was going out constantly and had many offers of marriage. But why? Her life is exciting! Last weekend she took a ride in a hot air balloon. The pilot said she was the most brave of his passengers. He took her to dinner. He is from South Africa. His family grows wine and lives in a mansion. She is thinking of taking a trip to visit with him. And, before she gets too old, she wants to see an elephant in the wild. In exactly one year, she will return to New York and will appear on my doorstep. I was happy for Li Na. In January, Rene returned from London. She fell into my arms and cried. She had made a mistake. Could we possibly love again? We agreed to meet in a restaurant to discuss the question. I took a cab and at a stoplight glanced out the window. I saw Li Na and Ha walking down the street. Ha now wore a silk tie and an elegant coat. Li Na had the same red handbag and now a baby hanging on her chest like a papoose. I almost called out her name. The light changed and we sped off.

by: JG LOWRY Jonnie: This is to inform you that things are not working out for us. I, too, am in a total state of shock. What went wrong? Well, this may seem petty, but I am not afraid of being petty because we all know that attention to detail is a sign of intelligence; therefore, do you realize - or do you even care? - that during the whole duration of our marriage, you never sang, hummed or even whistled, Autumn Leaves? If you remember, it was Our Song before we got married. You sang, hummed and whistled every god damned song ever written but you could never get around to Autumn Leaves. This caused me indescribable pain. And, since I am venting: another thing. Boy, did you ever brood! Thinking, thinking - always thinking. About what? All you talked about was baseball and what’s-for-dinner? I’d say, what are you thinking, Jonnie and you, you would just smile. It took me years to discover, NOTHING! The man is thinking about nothing! I’m married to a computer. There’s a little light on but it’s not running. Jonnie, don’t be hurt! There were good things in our marriage. For instance, your shoes. I loved your shoes! Polished, always new, or new looking, never needing heels, that nice leather smell. How did you do that? I never saw you touch them. You worked like a thief in the night, didn’t you? Sometimes, I used to hold your shoes and I had a funny feeling. Like it was you in a different form. What else was good? The way you opened mail. I loved the snapping sound you made when you slipped the paper out. It all seems so cool and important, like a diplomat reading a declaration of war instead of the gas bill. I tried it so many times but I could never get it right. And one more thing. When I got out of the car to open the garage door and looked back at you, sitting behind the wheel in your suede jacket, your cool sunglasses and that blond hair! Oh, the fantasies I had! You were a pilot! A racecar driver! One of these expert drivers you see on TV, spinning cars around, screeching the tires, what-not. Did you ever notice how many times we made love in the garage on top of the bags of Lawn Grow? Jonnie, I’m sorry we didn’t have babies. I know I said the money and my job, blah, blah. But you want to know the real reason? It was too weird. I didn’t want to look down and see something coming out of me like some kind of alien. This made me feel so bad, I secretly went to a psychiatrist, Mrs. Hiller-Troup. In effect, she said I was a mess. I had the sexual life of a fourteen-year-old. You know what I said? So, isn’t it better than having the sexual life of a sixty-five year old (which she was)? Thank you. End of therapy. Well, I hope all this clarifies why I am leaving you. I’m going far, far away, someplace like India or Nepal. I’m going to be a monk and spend the rest of my life thinking about why this world is so weird. Maybe I will write a book that will be made into a movie. Wouldn’t that be cool? Even though I don’t understand you I still love you in my way. Your wife, Sonja. P.S. I don’t want a divorce.

By: J.G. LOWRY A patient came in today and said he was upset. That’s a new one. He pulled at his hair to demonstrate. Yesterday, all day, everyone he met in the City and at work said the same thing to him: vodka. I sat looking at him. Vodka? He nodded vigorously. You need to say it too? Now explain it to me, he said. In the course of a conversation? I said, No. Just, hello, vodka. He folded his arms. You can’t explain it, can you? You’re going to tell me I’m crazy, aren’t you? Once again, I explained patiently that he is not crazy. That is not the point of our discussions. Then these people, the ones saying vodka to me, they are crazy, right? Let’s put this aside, I tell him and get on to other issues, such as your need to set fires. He smiles. Maybe they want me to put them out with vodka? Shit, I think going home on the train, he’s just crazy. Maybe they’re all crazy. I’m crazy. There’s a good-looking woman sitting next to me reading the New Yorker. I look at her until she notices and lowers her magazine. Vodka, I whisper. Her face lights up. That’s just what I was thinking, she says.