Two pieces
Communion
A safety meeting. The moment when the entire waitstaff gathers around the service bar to slam a shot in collective commiseration. The safety meeting is called by the bartender and is a bit of a spectacle in a place like this—on a Saturday, with half a dozen servers on the floor—as no one attempts to hide what is happening from the patrons, many of whom are still waiting for their own drinks.
The shots are poured into disposable cups because the bartender doesn’t feel like washing glasses.
One for Jim, who speaks pig Latin within earshot of his guests: Ucking-fay icks-pray.
One for Sarah, who is stoned and drooling a bit, last night’s glitter caked into her splayed crow’s feet.
One for Brittany, who needs a good shift so desperately that she’s been poaching tables from Sarah, and Sarah isn’t too stoned to notice but is certainly too stoned to confront Brittany, who, after all, has two kids at home and Christmas coming, and thank god they’re with the grandparents tonight because she’s going to tie one on the second the doors lock, because goddam, this shit kills, you know?
One for Donny, who is aging prematurely while remaining a perpetual adolescent, balding like a monk while stockpiling action figures in his uncle’s basement, falling in love with line cooks that don’t even know his name while remaining involuntarily celibate.
Two for Sean, who needs as much to get straight.
One for Ashley, who nearly quit two days ago after a customer put his hands on her ass and management laughed it off because Mike’s a kidder, a joker, a harmless old man, a city employee, a good husband, a Rotary member, a bit handsome—don’t you think, a big tipper, a terrific squash player, a little behind the times, a Yale grad, a Lions fan, a former DA, a volunteer firefighter, a master chess player, a soup kitchen volunteer, a blood donor, a Unitarian, an ACLU supporter, a really nice guy once you get to know him.
What are we toasting to? the bartender asks.
Fuck this place, says Jim.
Fuck the world, says Sarah.
Fuck my life, says Brittany.
Fuck me, says Donny.
Fuck it, says Sean.
Fuck you, says Ashley.
Cleansing of the Temple
The bill comes in a blue envelope.1 It rests defiantly on the table.2 You consider the cost.3
1 No bill has ever come in a blue envelope. Robin egg blue—ridiculous. A demand for payment that evokes an Easter basket. Yet, it does, folded between flyers and newsletters, correspondences, and catalogues. And issued not to you but to your father with whom you share a last and middle name, though he has been dead for three years, and you count yourself still among the living. Among the indebted.
2 You would suppose the dead are not held liable. Are not among those to be collected from. That the dead cannot own so they cannot owe. You say this aloud to your partner. Own and owe. Enunciating with all your tongue and all your lips and all your teeth, as if to show her that your mouth is very much alive. You gesticulate own and owe, broadening your arms, then clasping your hands, drawing a dollar sign in the air, pulling out your pockets. She is in the other room.
3 Whereas you could dig up your father’s body, could drive to the cemetery you’ve seen only that one solitary time, and only for the length of one Hail Mary, one Our Father, one Glory Be, and one fistful of dirt to land soundlessly, could assess the ledger book, could document each installment against the price of your birth, could tremble and spit and laugh at the figure, could quantify interest with a scale and a feather, could negotiate disbursement with Saint Peter, could offer market evaluations of your dispossession—instead, you opt to pay.
Vincent James Perrone
Vincent James Perrone is the author of the poetry collection, Starving Romantic (11:11 Press, 2018), the microchap, Travelogue For The Dispossessed (Ghost City Press, 2021), and a contributor to the novel, Collected Voices in the Expanded Field (11:11 Press, 2020). His recent work can be found in Storm Cellar, The Indianapolis Review, Heavy Feather Review, and Olney Magazine. He is the poetry editor of The Woodward Review and lives in Detroit.