Another Empty Glass

Another Empty Glass
by Matthew Mulder

I notice something missing. It's too smoky to read the small clock behind the bar, and I never wear a watch. How long has it been? Must be getting late. Still holding it - squeezing it actually - and trying to extract more porter for my melancholy.

But something is missing.

I keep looking at the bar and the band that's playing Radiohead cover songs. Their energy makes me feel old. Their lyrics make me feel dumb. And their girlfriends make me feel ancient. The oatmeal porter feels heavy in my belly as a familiar young lady turns my way and says hello. She says how are you and says she needs someone older in her life. She's trying to make conversation the way she tries to seduce the drummer, who beats the skins to an alt-rock anthem I don't know, but wish I did. Maybe that's what's missing.

I squeeze the chalice of my sorrow. It's bone dry, and, by the looks of it, it's been dry for some time.

It must be late. There's no ring of moisture on the cardboard coaster with the green pub emblem. All hope is gone, evaporated into the cigarette clouds of the people around me as they listen to Kerouac or the Radio's song falsetto into the crash of reverb from the guitarist's sonic wail.

What's missing won't fit into the cup I hold in my left hand marked with a wedding band and a cheap, gold bracelet. That young familiar woman with the black leather coat looks at her empty glass, cuing me to buy her another. I wonder if she knows what's missing. I wonder if I could gather up a cup full of hope floating through the atmosphere and contain it in this empty glass and save it until tomorrow and drink it for breakfast.

Or maybe I could crawl inside and lick the residue, the hope stain that lines the bottom of my sorrow.

She raises her glass to the bar maid and I see an amber glimmer of hope in the bottom of her tumbler. Its amber remains swirl for a moment, then disappear into the bar maid's hand.

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Bio: I am a theory slut from Asheville--a true elite of the postmodernists. I collect avant-garde Pinoy hiphop dub tapes, eat critical theory journal articles for breakfast, bath in Icelandic mythology and read ancient manuscripts for light reading.

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Matt Mulder
Mulder_Matthew@hotmail.com
http://1000blacklines.blogspot.com/

Doomed to Repeat by Chall Gray

Zim! Zim! Zim! This is the sound the lines of the road would make if they could speak as you drive over them. Sometimes you can almost hear them.

A while back you saw a man in the road. You hit the brakes and slowed to almost 40 mph, only to realize that it was a road sign.

Eventually the road itself becomes an apparition. Taking on slopes and undulations that exist only in the mind. Moving and breathing upon itself. Sometimes it is, then isn’t. Then is, then isn’t.

The music has no efficacy, neither does keeping the windows open. Drowsiness has become an inescapable shroud, a straitjacket drawn tightly around you.

—Goddamn it, you have to stop! Get some coffee, get a sandwich, something.

You see an exit, you take it, not really caring what is there, but needing to slow down, change gears, use the brake, any change of momentum. Sanity through differentiation.

It’s twenty minutes before four now, that means you can make it there by noon. That’s being generous too. You’ll still be able to stop a couple more times if you need to. No sweat.

At the bottom of the exit there’s a sign that says “Coffee House, 24 Hours,” and an arrow to the right. You pull off into their parking lot.

There are only three other cars there. You sit down, order a cup of coffee and pick up the menu. It’s an olio of greasy concoctions: sausage and grits, hash browns, burgers, barbeque, it goes on.

After a brief contemplation, you choose the “Never-Ending Stack of Pancakes.” It’s $6.95, but this’ll be enough food to sate you for the rest of the trip.

The waitress is short and has her hair pulled up into a bun above her over made-up face. As she brings your coffee it’s obvious to you that she was attractive twenty years ago, before the pull of time and the signs of a difficult life transposed themselves upon her.

The only other patrons are a couple of guys in plaid shirts. They’re over in a booth smoking on the other end of the restaurant. They didn’t even notice when you walked in.

“More coffee, hon?” She asks, setting down a plate of three pancakes.

“Yeah sure, thanks.” You reply.

The pancakes are good, though part of that probably stems from your hunger. The chef stops. He’s a burly guy with a cardboard hat and a rugged face. As he leans in you notice the marine insignia tattooed on his forearm and the small hint of vacancy in his eyes, one that’s seen in the eyes of so many veterans of war.

“How’re them pancakes?”

“Excellent, thanks.”

“You ready for another stack?”

“Yeah, I reckon so.”

Presently, he brings another plate of pancakes. You begin to slow down on the second one and after one bite of the third decide that you’re satiated. The chef is walking by as you stop eating.

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No, they were great. I’m just full.”

He stares you in the eye for a few seconds. “You’re gonna finish your pancakes, ain’t you?” He says slowly.

You’re somewhat puzzled, but begin to work on your third pancake, not wanting to offend him. Just as you finish it, he brings out another plate and sets it down in front of you.

“Oh no. I’m sorry. That’s all I can take.” You say, wondering why he brought these out to begin with. You thought you made it pretty obvious that you were full.

“Well, I made ‘em, and you ordered the never-ending stack, so you’re just gonna go ahead and finish ‘em,” he says evenly and unwaveringly.

You look at the plate and back at the chef.

“No, I’m sorry, but I’m full.”

“I don’t think you understand son. You ordered the never-ending stack and you’re gonna finish ‘fore you leave.” His voice has risen and become angry by the end of the sentence and the two plaid shirt guys glance over as they are walking out the door.

“They’re leaving.” You point out.

“They didn’t order the never-ending stack,” he says callously, as though it should’ve been obvious to you.

You begin to eat the pancakes, forcing the bites in, slowly chewing, then making yourself swallow. As you start on the second pancake he pours more batter onto the griddle.

“Got your next stack comin’ right up, buddy,” he says without turning around.

You glance at the waitress. She’s looking out the window. You look at your watch. The second hand is ticking in place without moving forward. You turn back to your pancakes and slowly begin to cut another bite.

Chall Gray is a svelte, handsome 21-year-old hailing from the northwestern part of the southeastern part of the USA. He is looking forward to applying for a job as a goat herder upon completion of his studies.

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