Eating Gourmet Three-Bean Chili Out of a Can

James checked his phone. It was 5:33 p.m. How ridiculous that he had to check his phone to learn the time, he thought. What happened to the days before everyone became so dependent on phones? Before accessibility was instant, before knowledge was immediate, before reaching someone was almost guaranteed. Almost. Maybe he would go back to those days. Institute a self-imposed technology ban, ditch his phone, his computer, run from wifi, hide from the cloud. Perhaps he’d forgo modern conveniences altogether; shun electricity, cook by fire (or by steamy radiator in his case), get back to nature, live off the land, as much as one could in the urban metropolis he called home. Yeah, that’d be great. Just one guy, sitting in an apartment, staring at the ceiling in the dark, eating gourmet three-bean chili out of a can. That would get him more chicks.

Speaking of chicks, where was this girl? Resisting the urge to pull out his phone and glance once more at the clock, he put his hands in his pockets and turned around to face the street. Heading south on Broadway he spotted a blue, double decker bus with the phrase “Eat shit, tourists” spray-painted on the side. Instinctively, he pulled out his phone and snapped a picture.

“Awesome,” he muttered to himself.

"Serpentine, serpentine."

Wynona sat in the back of a taxi careening down Fifth Avenue, her head throbbing incessantly as she stared out the window, everything passing by in a blur. She felt as though she could close her eyes and go right back to sleep. Okay, don’t fall asleep in the cab. The meeting had gone well, or so she thought. She had to think positive. Besides, it was over. She hadn’t slept for days, the sharp, stabbing sensation behind her eyes had become almost comforting. At least she knew she was still alive.

And if they called to say they were passing, would she still be alive then? There was only one way she could go forward, straight ahead. She thought of the forward motion advice she’d received on a childhood visit to the Everglades, “Serpentine, serpentine.” The serpentine: effective for outrunning alligators, not necessarily applicable to life. Wynona might not have had any other options for the future, but she did have a mental file of totally useless facts that would keep her warm at night.

Reduced Fat

Ralph walked into the bodega on Houston Street. Ignoring the owner’s greeting, he proceeded to the back of the store, his eyes searching the refrigerated cases for milk. Correction, soy milk. She had to have her ridiculous soy milk. As if the world would end if she consumed any fat calories that originated from something of the bovine species. God, she was irritating. But then, she’d always been irritating on some level. And now here he was, at 1 a.m., halfway between the $6.79 Organic 2% Reduced Fat Milk and the $3.59 French Vanilla Gourmet Coffee Creamer. He missed Renee. Grabbing the soy milk, he frowned, his reflection staring back at him in the glass door. He’d done this to himself, as usual. And all for only 110 calories per cup. 

"Have a great summer!"

Mr. Harrison pulled his jacket collar up around his neck as he turned back around to lock the front door. It’s always like this, he thought to himself. You suffer through the long, hot, sticky last weeks of August, sweat collecting in a pool at the small of your back as you walk the streets, forced to see the exposed body parts of strangers just as hot, yet seemingly not as bothered. Then, in the span of twenty-four hours, there is suddenly a chill in the air. A chill that sticks around until late May, like the leftover mashed potatoes on the bottom shelf of the fridge that no one wants, but somehow never get thrown away. Tupperware, the ultimate camouflage.

It was cold. No, not cold, brisk. A word that was, in and of itself, annoying. He detested winter, and come to think of it, he detested summer too. Not that he’d been able to enjoy much of it, what with all the crap going on at work. He thought of old yearbook entries from childhood, “Have a great summer! See you next year!” No one ever said, “Have a shitty summer! Hope I don’t see you next year!” At least he’d had the foresight to wear a jacket this morning. Glancing down at his tattered leather briefcase, he realized it might be the only thing he got right today.