Random Mindful Moments

The hanging necktie said a lot about me. It was pre-tied to a perfect length, stylish, and a not-too-pricey brand.

An annoyed silence filled the room, at times interrupted by brief chatter or voices from the hallway. Background music seeped in from the gallery, the same Big Band-era tunes in an eternal loop.

He searched for something to do, something work-related, and was only a tiny bit frustrated by his inability to stop circling back to Facebook every few minutes.

________________________________________________________________________________________

Same shit, different day. Cold coffee,  co-workers texting, sleeping, getting in moments of rest amidst an environment of fleeting certainty, at best. Calm waters this morning, not a ripple yet seen.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

Sitting with my legs crossed in my living room. Our living room.

I heard a familiar knock on the door, a percussive barrage followed by the tone of our half-functional doorbell.

I met her at the door. She greeted me with her signature upward-facing hug stance, arms enveloping me and closing in on my tired shoulders. Smiles, kisses and “I miss you’s” included, bounced back and forth between us. A later day for me, as well as it being an early one. A standard day for her, extended through readings and online classes.

We type and lounge in a harmonious silence, only topped by the hum of the AC.

_________________________________________________________________________________________

I made my way down the steeply inclined one-way street to the large rotunda on Riverside Drive. A few arm swings and leg stretches later, I slowly took off.

No smartphone, no headphones, not even a watch, I only focused on what I can see, hear and feel around me. My sneakers bounced off the not-so-even pavement. I concentrated on my breathing, my form and keeping a steady pace. Every now and then another runner would pass by in the opposite direction. I would see old men playing dominoes on their special tables up ahead while I benchmark my timing by the next biggest tree.

“Take at least 20 seconds to get to that next big tree. Take it easy, nice and slow,” I thought to myself. The sound of tires on cars driving by and young children I just passed were minimal distractions, if at all.

After about 15 blocks I turned around. Always mindful my body, surroundings, and own thoughts, running is my favorite kind of meditation nowadays.

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Projection Lounge – Parts 1-5

Part 1

The green and white lights flickered and spun, showering the stainless dark floor with small circles. They bounced off several dozen bodies; some lights bounced off a shiny watch or flickered within the diamonds of an earring. The DJ played a calm, trancy mix within the minimalist yet chic medium sized lounge, nestled within the basement of one of the city’s most posh hotels.

She was at the bar alone, an after-work haven for many. She didn’t quite stand out in the mostly dark space as she casually sipped on a small glass, filled with ice and an indistinguishable clear liquid.

At 10 pm on a Friday night the mood was serene, yet yearning with potential. Eyes were floating around the well-known Projection Lounge. This place had a reputation for luring Manhattan’s youngest and hottest low-key millionaires. There were no five dollar beers or screaming sports fans here. She remained at her post, slowly sipping her drink and scaling the room.

Her legs were crossed as she sat at the on a bar stool, wearing a tight black dress and the most elegant black Prada heels, showing just enough of her toes to show a metallic silver pedicure.

A man in his thirties approached the bar. He had flowing, mid-length dark brown hair and wore a dark colored suit that may have been black or navy under the lounge’s atmosphere.

“Scotch on the rocks, please,” said the man, now more clearly wearing a navy suit and a light blue shirt without a tie.

The bartender quickly poured the drink, pouring the scotch in a counter-clockwise motion over a small glass of ice.

“Would you like to open up a tab, sir?”

“Sure, why not? And I’ll take a drink for the lovely young lady next to me, too. I’m Malcolm Griffin III, you may have heard of me before,” said Malcolm to the woman in black, now neighbors at the bar.

“Um, I can’t say that I have,” she coolly replied, “And I’m not interested in a drink from you, but thanks for not really asking.”

“I can assure I have no ill intentions, I just figured a young lady at the bar by herself with a glass of vodka might want a drinking buddy.”

She responded with silence and by turning away from the tall, handsome man.

“You know I hear you’re considered an alcoholic when you drink alone.” Malcolm persisted to try and grab her attention.

She again said nothing, carrying on as if his stool was empty.

“Another scotch, on the rocks sir.” the bartender promptly delivered his second scotch.

“Hey, I’ll tell you what, if you’re still that uninterested in me after one drink, I promise you I’ll leave you alone. I just think you’re breathtaking, and I’m glad you haven’t heard of me. Maybe it’s better that way, so you can see that I’m not so bad. Just one drink, how does that sound?”

She slowly turned her body to face him, crossed her legs and locked eyes with his. She waited just long enough to say:

“Sounds like something a guy says before he slips some kind of date rape drug into the drink he just bought for some ‘lovely lady.‘”

Malcolm’s face contorted. He looked surprised and hurt. He looked away, sighed and shook his head.

A silence followed, this time Malcolm was the one avoiding her gaze.

“You can have it if you want. I haven’t touched that drink and you saw the bartender make it, but if you’re going to make me out to be someone like that, then never-fucking-mind. Have a nice night,” Malcolm said, and walked away with his glass in hand.

She tasted the glass of scotch. It was a bit strong, just how she liked it.

A few minute had passed when she walked over to Malcolm, now sitting on one of the many dark purple, rectangular love seats that rounded almost every wall and corner of the lounge.

He was admiring the visual display projected on the wall next to the DJ and stage.

“Hey. I’m sorry about that,” she said, with a much friendlier tone than before.

“Sometimes I tend to push the right kind of guys away, but I can tell you’re genuine.”

“I appreciate it, but I’d rather hear your name, and how you like that scotch,” Malcolm replied.

“Stephanie,” she introduced herself,”and this scotch is pretty good.”

She sat down next to him, encapsulating his eyes into hers as she slowly sipped on her glass of scotch.

“Can I try yours?” Stephanie asked.

“Sure, although they are the same kind,” Malcolm said, as his previous spirits seemed to be restored.

She took a small sip of his glass, grimaced a little, and then stirred the drink a little with her ring finger on her right hand.

“Not bad, but it’s better if you stir it every now and again,” Stephanie said in her silky, confident tone of voice.

“Try it now,” she said as she stirred her own drink with her middle finger. He took a sip of his scotch on the rocks, now about halfway full.

“It tastes a bit more watered down like that, but to each their own, I guess,” Malcolm said.

“You have really pretty eyes,” Stephanie said, her ice cold walls melting fast.

“You have really pretty everything,” Malcolm said, with a smooth half-smile.

After a few minutes the music seemed to have gotten louder, as did everyone’s voices and the otherwise muted street noise outside.

Malcolm and Stephanie seemed to be hitting it off.

“Oh my god! I know where I’ve heard of you before. Didn’t your like, grandfather or something invent something really important? I’m sorry, I’m horrible at these kinds of things.”

“Well, sort of I guess, I don’t know how important they are now, but he came up with the idea of public phones. He patented the first pay phone and sold the rights to the big phone companies of the day,” Malcolm replied.

“That’s quite the family history, don’t be so modest!” Stephanie said with the green and white lights twinkling off of her smile and sea green eyes.

Malcolm smiled back, looking a bit more fatigued then her.

“So you must be some kind of heir to the throne, huh?”asked Stephanie.

“Eh, I try to not to flaunt it,” replied Malcolm, “I’d rather make my own name in something, something different. It’s hard to do that when I’m literally named after my grandfather and my dad,” said Malcolm as they both chuckled.

“How about you? What do you do?” he asked.

“I work for a few modeling agencies,”said Stephanie,”Maybe you’ll see me in a magazine or on TV one day.”

“I hope so,” said Malcolm, wiping sweat off his brow.

“Whoa, you’re really sweaty,” said Stephanie, her voice sounding half-concerned at best. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, it’s just a little hot in here, ” said Malcolm as he unbuttoned another button in his shirt.

“Could you go for another round?” he asked.

“That depends,” Stephanie answered, “Do you have that brand of scotch at your place?”

They locked eyes for a few seconds. “I’ll get us a cab,” Malcolm said, trying his best to play it cool.

_____  _____  _____

Malcolm’s eyes opened from an uncomfortable slumber. He heard an unfamiliar, rhythmic beeping and had to shield his eyes from fluorescent lights.

He saw two gray rails on either side of the twin sized mattress he was on. After blinking several times, he drifted back to sleep.

He remembered hailing a cab with Stephanie, telling the driver his address, and then ferociously making out with her in the backseat. His consciousness shifted between memories of kissing her, having his hand on the back of her neck, and feeling her hand reach into his pants on the way to his place.

His memory went dark.

He was lying in bed sideways, naked, covered only by his sheets, watching Stephanie get dressed. He couldn’t speak and couldn’t move at all, except for his eyes. It felt like a bad dream.

As she finished putting on her dress and heels he heard her talking to someone with her phone in hand. She was speaking a language he couldn’t recognize; the only thing he understood was her saying his address to someone on the other end.

His memory went dark again.

His eyes opened. Back on the hospital bed again. The rhythmic beeping was a bit more familiar.

He jumped up into a sitting position.

“Nurse! Nurse!!!” Malcolm frantically pressed the nurse’s alert button.

Three nurses came in, one woman and two men.

“What the fuck happened!? I want to speak to a doctor! Get me the fucking doctor!”

Malcolm tried to get out of bed, his face bright red, struggling to move.

“Sir! Sir, just calm down-”

“What the fuck happened?! What did she do to me?!”

“Mr. Griffin you have to stay in bed now!” The head nurse bellowed, drowning out his frantic yelling.

“Stop moving so much! You’re lucky to be alive. If you move like that you’ll rupture the stitches!”

“Stitches?”

“Yes sir, on your lower left side. The doctor will be here shortly to explain everything to you. There are also two detectives who need to speak with you.”

He sat up in bed, and reached around to his left side. He felt a jagged scar sealed with large staples around the area where his left kidney should be.

The news was on the old TV mounted onto corner of the ceiling.

“Police are on the lookout for this woman, last seen on security footage from the apartment complex of Malcolm Griffin III on the Upper West . . .”

Malcolm’s eyes locked on the morning news, displaying a grainy security camera photo of the woman he met the night before. He was more fixated now on ‘Stephanie’ than ever before.

Another memory from last night came to mind:

“‘I work for a few modeling agencies,’said Stephanie,’Maybe you’ll see me in a magazine, or on TV one day.'”

________________________________________

Part 2

“That bitch! That fucking bitch!”

Malcolm yelled in a rage, frantically shaking the grey rail on the right of the hospital bed.

The head nurse quickly left the room while the two male nurses pinned his arms down and urged him to calm down.

“I’ll fucking kill that bitch! Get the fuck off of me!”

The head nurse returned to his bed side with a large needle prepared.

“Turn him over,” she said, with an emotionless, militant tone of voice.

“Sir, we’re giving you a shot ’cause you’re presenting a danger to yourself right now. When you wake up, you will need to stay calm or this will have to happen again.”

“Don’t you fucking dare! I’ll fucking sue this whole hospital!” Said a red-faced Griffin, arms secured against his back, legs pinned, face down on the mattress.

“I’ll put all of you quacks out of a fucking job! Don’t you dare-” A jolt of pain, followed by a yell from Malcolm interrupted his threats as they administered a sedative by needle to his right buttock.

The effect was almost instant; his violent barking was reduced to heavy breathing, his limbs gave up the fight to leave the mattress.

He was gently turned over by the two nurses to a more comfortable sleeping position, pillow reset underneath his head and covers pulled over him. He fell into a deep slumber.

_____  _____  _____

Malcolm and Stephanie slowly staggered off the elevator to his condo. Malcolm slouched and leaned on Stephanie as they slowly walked toward his door.

“Have you ever done this before, honey? It looks like you can’t hang,” Stephanie asked Malcolm, with a menacing giggle.

“Uh, I . . . I’ve, I’ve done this. I wanna do YOU, Step-uh-nee . . .” Malcolm’s vision looked like an incomplete kaleidoscope, a mix of lights and colors that faded in and out with each closing of his eyes.

“Mmm, I think I hold liquor a teenyweeny bit better than you, big boy. Let’s get you inside,” Stephanie pressed her body against Malcolm’s, now semi-conscious, with the strength of a crash test dummy.

She kissed his dazed face, digging into his pockets.

“You’re so hawt, you’re like . . . yeah,” Malcolm said as she found the keys to his apartment.

“Show me to your bedroom, baby,” she said as she unlocked his front door.

“Come this way,” Malcolm pointed with one arm and hung on to Stephanie with the other, his one-night stand and human crutch.

They made it to his bedroom, as she let him collapse sideways on his king size bed. She left the lights off as enough moonlight leaked into the room from the floor-to-ceiling windows.

The elaborate spread of Malcom’s liquor cabinet caught her eye.

“Hey sexy, how about that night cap before the real fun starts?”

“I dunno . . . I’m kinda fucked up, baby . . .” an almost fully sedated Malcolm managed to say, laid out sideways along the bed, arms and legs spread wide, struggling to keep his eyes open.

“Oh come on . . . take a trip on the wild side, you big, handsome man!”

Stephanie pulled up Malcolm by both arms, stirred a glass of scotch she just poured a few times with her ring finger on her right hand and fed it to Malcolm.

He swallowed the scotch. She lay him gently as he was before.

Stephanie visited the bathroom within his master bedroom, and turned him over on his  stomach. She unzipped her wallet and spread out a very small set of stainless steel surgical knives.

Stephanie called an unsaved number in her phone. A short conversation in Russian followed as Malcolm lost his slipping hold on consciousness.

______  _____  _____

Malcolm, sedated at the hospital, faded into another memory:

“Can I try yours?” Stephanie asked.

“Sure, although they are the same kind,” Malcolm said, as his previous spirits seemed to be restored.

She took a small sip of his glass, grimaced a little, and then stirred the drink a little with her ring finger on her right hand.

“Not bad, but it’s better if you stir it every now and again,” Stephanie said in her silky, confident tone of voice.

“Try it now,” she said as she stirred her own drink with her middle finger. He took a sip of his scotch on the rocks, now about halfway full.

______  _____  _____

Malcolm woke up in the hospital again.

_______________________________________________

Part 3

The bright lights blinded him, but didn’t startle him this time.

Malcolm slowly sat up, careful not to place any weight on his newfound wound. He coolly sighed and rang the nurse’s bell button, just once.

The head nurse entered his corner, single bed hospital suite once again. She was a short, older African American woman with short, curly, grey-ish hair and bifocals on the end of her nose. She came in with a tired look on her face, and looked at Malcolm like she had seen worse cases than his.

“Hello, Mr. Griffin, I’m Nurse Williams, Head Nurse for our ICU.” she greeted. “You slept for about two hours. How was your rest?”

A smug grimace engulfed Malcolm’s face. “I’ve had better.”

“Well, we’ll need to talk about what happened to you. You had a poisonous drug in your system last night and was in a sedated paralysis through the early morning today. Your left kidney was removed, it looks like it was by an organ poacher.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Malcolm replied with a deadpan tone, matching his expression.

Nurse Williams went on, unphased:

“Your housekeeper found you lying in bed soaked in your own blood. There were jagged stitch staples on your skin near your kidney area. The EMTs rushed you here, the surgeons here did an emergency procedure. You had  internal bleeding from the initial incisions before you got here. The doctors stopped further bleeding internally and replaced the bonding around your kidney area.”

A long silence followed. Malcolm let out a heavy sigh and slowly blinked and rolled his eyes, while shaking his head.

“The FBI has personnel guarding this floor. They believe you may still be in danger. You should expect a full recovery in 4 to 6 weeks. You will have abdominal pain, and of course on your left side, but after 1 to 2 weeks it will decrease significantly. The doctors will be keeping you until Monday morning at least to run tests and make sure you can walk out of here alright. You may need crutches or a wheelchair on the way out of here, we’ll have to wait and see. We are here to help, Mr. Griffin.”

A humble, slow motion head nod was his only response.

“There are two gentlemen from the FBI who have asked to speak with you when you feel able and ready. They’re interviewing the EMT crew downstairs. They interviewed the doctors who performed surgery on you earlier. If you like, I could-“

“Send them in,” Malcolm said with a tone as serious as his gaze.

“Very well,” said Nurse Williams. ” I’ll be back with them in a few.”

_____ _____ _____

After a few minutes the double hallway doors opened parallel to Malcolm’s hospital room. The smell of black coffee and wet trenchcoats filled the room as two detectives walked in.

“How ya doin’ Mr. Griffin, I’m Detective Santelli, FBI,” said the tall, bald man as he flashed his badge.

“Detective Horowitz, FBI,” the shorter, younger man did the same.

“We have a few questions about last night,” the older detective said.

“Well, that makes three of us,” Malcolm scoffed. “By the way, I assume this will all be off the record until we can arrange a meeting with my legal team.”

The younger detective said “Fine, sure. Why don’t you take us through the night? Whatever you remember.”

Malcolm began recalling the night out loud.

“I was at Projection Lounge. Met a beautiful girl at the bar. I offered her a drink, she turned me down and then changed her mind. We hit it off, had a few glasses of scotch. I felt kinda sick coming home. I passed out on my bed, woke up here.”

“Did you see her put anything into your drink at any point?”

“No sir not at all. She would just stir it with her fingers.”

The younger detective looked at his older counterpart with a slight nod and an ‘I knew it’  written on his face.

“Mr. Griffin, could you provide a positive ID on this girl?”

“Sure, I can pick her out, no problem.”

“We’ll be back later, sir.”

_____ _____ _____

The detectives returned a few hours later in the early evening. Malcolm began going through mug shots on one of the detectives’ laptop.

“No. No. Nope. No. Not her, either,” Malcolm said as he scrolled through mug shots of women who fit his description of ‘Stephanie’.

“Who are these people? These women who all look so similar.” asked Malcolm.

“We believe this ‘Stephanie’ character may be part of a group of Russian black market organ dealers. They’re called ‘The Poison I.V.’s’. They’ve been arrested time and time again but always avoid jail time somehow. They must have friends in high places. We have little to no idea who they work for, but the rumor’s behind these women are beyond anything I’ve seen,” said Detective Horowitz.

“Wait, what do you mean?!” Malcolm asked, a bit unsettled.

“There’s rumors that they work directly for the Russian government. Or wealthy elite of the world. Or both, whatever. They’re said to a be a secret squad of assassins and sell organs to the highest bidder, including Russian government doctors, these mad science freaks who want to test stem cells for human cloning, making perfect expendable human army clones, all that jazz,” Detective Horowitz said.

“What? So what are they gonna do with my DNA?!”

Detective Santelli chuckled. “Relax, kiddo, none of that is more then Horowitz reading too much bullshit on the internet.”

“Oh, fuck off, Santy-“

“Yeah yeah, all we know is they’re a group that works together and makes organ poaching a business. I wouldn’t take the whole conspiracy stuff too seriously.”

After the mugshot slideshow count getting into the hundreds the search seemed pointless to continue. Then, there she was, ‘Stephanie,’ with a stoic look on her face, in an orange Dept. of Corrections jumpsuit, staring straight ahead in her mugshot.

“Nope. Not her.” Malcolm said, fully aware of who it was. “No. No. Not her, no,” he carried on as they kept scrolling through shot after shot.

________________________________________

Part 4

After a day of questioning, the detectives assured Malcolm they would follow up in the coming days and left the hospital for the evening.

Malcolm rang the nurse’s bell around 11 pm. Nurse Williams came into the room.

“Yes, Mr. Griffin?”

“Miss, I’m sorry for my outburst earlier. It’s been a rough 24 hours.”

Ms. Williams chuckled. “Oh, you are a sweetheart. Don’t worry, you have had quite a day.”

“I never got to ask, was my cell phone on me when I was taken here?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Could you please bring it over? I have A LOT to catch up on.”

“Sure thing dear, one second.”

Nurse Williams came back and handed him a plastic sandwich bag with his special edition Android phone inside. He unlocked his phone with a fingerprint scan and 10-digit code.

Dozens of notifications poured in as his home screen unlocked. The time display read 10:48 pm. He set his phone from vibrate to silent and started typing in an international number from memory.

He ignored email and social media notifications while texting a code of random symbols and letters. He clicked on ‘Send’ and stared at his phone, feverishly.

The mystery number replied with the same string of symbols and letters.

Malcolm let out a sigh of relief, reclining in his propped up hospital bed. He set an alarm for 2:38 am.

He rang the nurse’s bell.

“Yes, Mr. Griffin?”

“Could I shower?”

“Well, that depends. Can you stand up on your own?

“I think so.” Malcolm began trying to get up-

“Hold on a second there, we’ll need a male nurse to assist you to and from the shower. he’ll need to be near you at all times, you’re not cleared to walk without a nurse.”

Malcolm sighed “Alright, alright.”

“Also, because you are who are, and what happened to you, there are still FBI agents here and one of them will be standing guard by you at all times.”

“Let’s just get this show on the road, please.” Malcolm said, trying to stifle his frustrations.

A male nurse entered the room, one from the previous day, and stood by Malcolm’s bed. He was a tall, buzzcut wearing, blonde haired, blue eyed colossus who dwarfed Malcolm in sheer size and muscle.

“Shall we try to stand up, sir?” He said in a thick, Russian accent.

“Yup, let’s go.” Malcolm slowly put his feet down into hospital slippers on the floor.

“Good. Let us walk slowly for now, sir,” said the Russian Fridge of a man.

Malcolm slowly shuffled to the shower and bathroom down the hall.

Already standing on one side of the door was a man in a black suit and tie with a clear ear piece in his left ear. He gave Malcolm a slight nod as he went in. The nurse/bodybuilder stood on the other side of the private bathroom, and made sure the door could not lock.

About 15 minutes later Malcolm hobbled back into his private room, got back in bed and got settled for the night.

“Could I have a wake up call at 7 in the morning, please?”

“Mr. Griffin, you do realize you need your rest, correct? It’s above my pay grade to deny you a wake up call, but I do advise against it. You’ve been through trauma. You should rest.”

Malcolm paused. “You know what, you’re right, Miss…uh Miss-“

“Williams.” she filled in the blank.

“Sorry, Miss Williams. Don’t worry about that wake up call.”

“Very well. I’ll be leaving soon ’til the morning, have a good night, Mr. Griffin.”

“Have a good one. You can call me Malcolm if you want. Thanks for everything.”

They exchanged tired, humble smiles as she left the room.

__________________________________________

Part 5

Malcolm’s alarm rang at 2:38 am.

He woke up and silenced it after a few seconds. He lay back down, on his side, watching the time on his phone with an obsessive angst.

A few minutes later a deafening explosion erupted from the opposite side of the building. The sounds of shattered glass, fire alarms and nervous yells from staff and patients filled the 3rd floor ICU. The emergency sprinklers were set off .

“Agents down! Agents down! Secure the peri-” guns shots interrupted an FBI agents orders.

A quick storm of gunfire resounded, with one set of bullets firing much faster than a chorus of handguns. After about 30 seconds and one last scream of agony, the faster gunfire had the last word.

The giant nurse came into Malcolm’s hospital room, wielding a black plastic bag and an Uzi submachine gun.  He was dressed entirely in black, including a hood and face mask. He turned on the light as he walked in. The 3rd floor was now eerily void of human voices.

He threw a plastic bag at Malcolm with newly bought street clothes, and sneakers, all in black. He spoke to Malcolm in Russian:

“Poydem, moy drug,” “Let’s go, my friend.”

“Da, no devochki prinesli klon?” “Okay, but did the girls bring the clone?” ‘Malcolm’ replied in Russian.

“Eto bylo v morge. U menya ono yest’, nam nuzhno uyti, ser.” “It was in the morgue. I have it here, we must leave now, sir,” His apparent inside man affirmed.

He helped ‘Malcolm’ get dressed and carried him on his shoulder down the stairs, alarms blaring and sprinklers spraying to a backdoor toward the garbage pickup area.

A large black SUV awaited midway down and across the street.

The large ‘nurse’ carried ‘Malcolm’ the length of the walk to the SUV.

The lights were on in the car behind dark window tints. A faint shape of red plastic cubes with the biohazard symbol appeared to fill the trunk to capacity.

“U vas yest’ vse eto? Ona zdes’?” “Do you have all of it? Is she here?” ‘Malcolm asked while hanging over the Russian ‘nurse’s’ shoulder.

“Da, da, vse ob etom pozabotilis’.” “Yes, yes, it’s all taken care of.”

He opened the back seat and placed ‘Malcolm’ inside, like a father would place his child.

‘Malcolm’s’ eyes lit up once he saw her again.

Sitting next to him was ‘Stephanie.’ They embraced and shared several intense kisses. They hugged each other as tight as they could until he yelled in pain:

Ahh! Eto moya plokhaya storona!”“Ahh! That’s my bad side!”

‘Stephanie’ was crying. “Mne tak zhal’, chto ya prichinil tebe bol’, moya lyubov'”  “I’m so sorry I hurt you, my love,” she whispered to him.

“Vse normal’no. Nam nuzhno bylo sdelat’ khorosheye shou,” “It’s okay. we had to make a good show,” ‘Malcolm replied, while wiping away ‘Stephanie’s’ tears.

“My mozhem nachat’ snova seychas, gde-to v drugom meste.” “We can start over again now, somewhere else.” ‘Malcolm’ said.

The Russian ‘nurse’  put the SUV in drive and pulled away from the back end of the hospital. The car had international diplomat plates, a deterrent to any police attention. Police cruisers, swat team and fire trucks sped past traffic towards the hospital as they quietly they drove the opposite direction into the night.

_____ _____ _____

“… And now for a follow up on last night’s explosion at St. Luke’s Hospital in Midtown.

A powerful explosion rocked the hospital’s Intensive Care Unit around 2:45 am last night. Police have not yet ruled out terrorism as a cause for this attack. The blast came from a set of explosives rigged into the air vent system.”

The news showed an overhead helicopter shot, then to a reporter across the street from the main building. The whole block was diced with caution tape, local police, counter-terrorist units and ambiguous men in black suits.

“17 people were killed and 29 more were injured. Among those casualties were hospital patients, staff and police. Among those killed was Malcolm Griffin III, heir to the Griffin Telephone Company fortune, along with his security detail. He was in a private room  in the ICU, guarded by FBI agents when the blast hit. He was pronounced dead on the scene, although the medical coroner was said to be ‘Suspicious of Mr.Griffin’s actual cause of death.’ An autopsy will be conducted on Monday, according to hospital officials.”

“Demetri! Vasha rabota byla neakkuratno!” “Demetri! Your work was sloppy!” ‘Malcolm’ yelled to his right hand man, half-joking. Demetri barely reacted, shrugging his gargantuan shoulders while lounging on a recliner.

“Police believe this was a hit-job by an underground assassin group known as the Poison I.V.s, reported to be human organ dealers on the black market.”

‘Malcolm’, ‘Stephanie’ and the Demitri laughed at that line as their private jet flew non-stop to St. Petersburg. The three of them sipped champagne while watching the latest CNN briefing.

“The hospital’s morgue was almost completely raided of preserved vital bodily organs, many of which would have been used for life saving surgeries. This detail has raised suspicions that this heinous attack may have been carried out as an ‘organ heist’ by the Poison I.V.’s or a similar group. Police are searching for this man:”

The hospital ID photo of Demetri displayed on the screen.

“Nurse Boris Asimov is a recent employee and  person-of-interest in the St. Luke’s Hospital bombing. He has not returned to his job nor his home since reporting to work last night.”

Many grandiose theories exist about the ‘Poison I.V.s’, including spying for the Russian government, being funded by members of the global elite. They are also said to be spearheading a DNA reconnaissance program to perfect genetics in human cloning, and are rumored to even use facial reconstruction surgery on their members to hide their true identities.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, lady… all of the above?” Demetri said in English and threw his head back for a big laugh.

“Hey, Veronika?” ‘Malcolm’ asked her in English. “Yes, Mikhail?” she answered.

“Can we not take my fucking kidney out next time?”

(Fin.)

“…gracefully surrendering the things of youth.”

Many a time a conscious mind willingly went astray,

into the woods of vivid colors and mysterious sensations.

Many memories survive of the times when smiles were wide,

The air so dense and murky, rain clouds wondered what we were up to.

‘Regret-me-not, forget-me-not’ is the protocol I put on these good times I recall,

but all-in-all, the realm we call ‘reality’,

on its baseline,‘au natural’ level is what I most currently enjoy.

 

I have a large cache of long-term recollections, fueling introspection toward the past,

but looking back on the few late nights in recent days, long since my change of ways

I see the best of times depend on the ‘who’ around me;

the ‘what’, ‘where’, ‘when’ and ‘why’ matter far less in retrospect.

I now celebrate sobriety in my own mind, quietly.

I’ve learned that good company matters more than something to ingest or breathe in;

it’s not cool to me anymore.

 

White Cuffs

White cuffs peek from the green sweater

With my name etched on the right side pocket

In classy, white cursive.

My navy blue slacks get a little tattered at the heels,

and eventually my Reebok Classics look a bit too ‘classic’ to wear.

Running, playing, making friends, playing tag;

My school uniform can’t keep up with me.

 

White cuffs hidden by a navy blue blazer, but keep

peeking as I keep speaking behind turned teacher’s heads,

Being a pre-teen with my pre-teen friends, who don’t care

if our blazers’ gold buttons break off while trying to catch a football.

The tie color changed, but the letters on it didn’t.

 

My white cuff sizes went up as my voice went low,

collared shirt now hidden by navy blue sweater.

Full-blown hormones, surrounded by pretty girls,

every turn, every twist, every class, every locker,

girls all over the place! And they think I’m cute?

I can get used to high school and my biggest  white cuffs so far.

A bigger, different sweater every year til I’m 18,

and as I graduated I thought the white cuffs on my

button down shirts would be all but eradicated.

 

For a while, a dormant crowd of white cuffs hung on their

sleeves, that hung on their collars, that hung on their hangers,

that hung on the pole in my closet, and that’s how I liked it.

After 14 years of a shirt and tie, 5 days a week,

the preppy look in my mind mind was canned, and

band tees and Vans kicks were in, and they looked sick!

So my weekend wear became the apparel of my undergrad years,

but I still feared someday I would be an adult that ended up

dressing up for work, no earrings in my ears,

and be the guy in a suit and tie having a beer.

 

The premonition came true, but much better than I thought,

cause what I feared most isn’t true; In my suit and tie adult life

I don’t feel much sadness or strife. The latest upgrade is the set

of black suits, nice ties and white shirts I wear, day in and day out.

I thought it would make me feel square, lame, or wack,

but a big part of me feels like I’m back on track.

 

The premonition turned out much better than I thought,

I’m wearing white cuffs again, but I’m more happy than not. – RSM

Theories on Random Tears

At times I feel a teardrop or two well up from inside

for literally no reason at all. I don’t even feel sad,

angry or upset. I don’t feel bad at all, yet my tear ducts

get wet. My emotions are as calm as a still lake during a clear

weather sunrise during Autumn, but at random a tandem of

salt water tear drops drop and tear through my otherwise dry cheeks.

 

It’s not when I yawn, although I tear up then too, and I have better

things to write about then trying to lie or vouch that I never cry out of

emotional distress, like the ‘manly man that I am blah blah blah’,

That happens to me too, although it’s not what I’m referring to.

I reply to an email at work and feel that stuffy feeling like I have one tear

from my left eye surging through, emerging; I catch it before it hatches

all without the tear-appropriate emotions.

 

Maybe I’m in a conversation about how to get to the nearest train station or

something similarly generic and I swear it, I feel a tear or two irrigate into the

outside world, surfing over my pores until I end the unexpected clear streak with a

baby-soft swipe around my eye(s) with Bruce Lee quality quickness to cover it up.

 

I have theories, from simple to downright trippiculous:

One of these is that somewhere in a parallel universe,

my other self is experiencing some kind of sadness,

and through some cosmic mystery I feel my pain from another plane.

 

I also have thought that past lives stay with souls as time goes.

Maybe unbeknownst to me I’ll see a stranger from my old family tree,

or maybe I’m in some kind of place that subconsciously reminds me

of my previous realm of existence, and all but a couple of

 

emotional

 

liquid

 

droplets

 

fall

 

one

 

by

 

one;

the rest is hidden within the past,

my inner being’s sealed memories of a previous life,

trying to claw through to the present.

 

I could just be more tired than i thought, and I know I’m not the only one,

so imagine what kind of deeper meaning and spiritual cleaning these random tears

can have, teeming with multiversal emotional information,

or the life you lived before you lived this life,

telling you “There goes your cousin!” or “Look! he was your wife!”

 

Or maybe it was just a yawn. -RSM

 

 

The Dance

It goes in a circle.

The steps are the same as yesterday.

 

Next step, then the next step, no time to look back at the last,

engaging the minds, bodies, emotions of the dancers,

very talented, highly trained, always distracted.

Eventually all the dance floors close, and their weary feet

readily head home, trading old media for new to always stay distracted.

 

Easy come, easy go are the dancers’ spots in each ensemble.

Nothing is more important than dancing to them all; the next

dance they do, jazz shoes to buy, routines to learn, auditions to study for.

So for sustenance and survival, our daily shuffle comes back around. – RSM

 

Tightrope Walking

So close, yet so far once again, he was on the roof of the wrong building. He tried to open the door leading back downstairs; locked.

His back lay on the gravel and grit of the pebbles spread across the roof. Hands behind his head, the grey sky creeped along. Feet crossed, jacket unzipped and jeans ripped, he closed his eyes as the rain fell.

He awoke after what felt like an eternity. His surroundings hadn’t changed except for the sky, a smug grey now a cloudy black, save for the streetlights near and the skyline from afar. He turned his gaze from Manhattan’s lights to a solitary window, directly across from his rooftop sanctuary.

Window closed, lights on, white curtains parted, he began to regain hope. He knew those picture perfect curtains, just as if he had seen them yesterday.

The temperature was dropping. The cool Autumn wind was now a stinging gust, sure to be below freezing. His socks had some holes; his shoes had more. Underdressed, malnourished, and down to his last few cents, his long journey had come to a halt right at the end.

They had made arrangements before he left. Every night at 11:11pm, she would look out of her living room window, onto the street, waiting for him. Before he made the jump. Before he turned all his pesos into dollars, stuffed whatever he could into a tattered backpack and took off.

He said he would be there by September. Before he got beaten and robbed in Alabama. Before he narrowly escaped ICE in North Carolina. Before traveling from house to house, doing odd jobs for next to nothing. Before begging in broken English for 5 weeks in DC. He scraped money together for a Chinatown bus and a few calls to her on payphones.

As the November winds frosted his young face, she prayed and prayed, prayed and prayed again for him to get to her safely. A love she may have lost, but hopes to God she didn’t. She worked at the daycare in the morning and at the hotel in the evening. She said a prayer whenever she could for her love to come, but hadn’t heard from him since his troubled lips whispered “Te quiero tanto” on the phone two weeks ago.

Stuck on the roof, there he was, beginning to shiver from the frigid Northeast winds. He looked across to the white-curtained windows. He knew. He knew it had to be where she lived. He memorized her address, for the most part; he knew she was in apartment 5C. One street off makes a big difference when it’s below 30 degrees and are stuck on a roof.

He saw the roof doorway of the building across slightly ajar, light peaking through the cracks. A solitary cable ran from his roof to hers. He hoped with all his heart and soul it was hers; deep down, he knew.

He approached the barrier surrounding the rooftop. The cable connected the two buildings over their wide, adjacent alleyways, about forty feet apart. Looking down, he saw a 5 storey difference between the roof and the concrete floor.

Slowly, timidly, he placed both hands on the freezing cement ledge, brought both legs over, now sitting on it. He tapped one foot lightly on the cable; a thick cable, no shock, not slippery. He planted his right foot as firmly as he could. He felt his weight depress the cable. Adrenaline and fear consumed him unlike ever before. He knew the cable would bend, but not break under his weight.

He remembered the one time he went to the circus as a child, and cautiously lifted his left arm while holding onto the ledge with his right. As the sky decorated his filthy hair and clothes with light snowflakes, he knew that he had to find shelter. The shivering young man planted his left foot in front of his right, and let go of the ledge.

Before he knew it, one foot had stepped in front of the other; right over left, left over right, right over left, left over right. Small, balanced steps, he took, each leading him closer to the roof ahead. Arms spread, legs moving, he found an unexpected rhythm in his footwork. He focused on the cable ahead, not on the concrete floor below, and recited prayers to himself over and over. Right over left, left over right, right over left, left over right. A gust picked up over the alleyways, but he was not deterred. He had come too far to fail.

He reached the opposite ledge. He climbed over, arms chilled to the bone, and fell onto the opposite roof. He hurried into toward the door, not looking back at the aerial gap he had just conquered.

He ripped the door open to the warm, well-lit building. Down the stairs one flight, his stiff, wet legs descended, and he was on the 5th floor. He slowly approached the door marked ‘5C’, with tears already falling, warming his frozen cheeks. He rang the bell several times and yelled her name, a faint cry at best. He heard frantic footsteps and many locks unlocking.

The door opened. There she was.

They embraced like never before, with more passion then they ever would again. She had a rosary in one hand, cell phone in the other, with the time on the screen reading 11:11pm.

Buzzer Beater

Running, running, running,

half a block down, I hear the train rumble through headphones blaring,

scaring, whizzing by old ladies, taking their grandkids to school,

my own backpack clapping against my spine as I fly down the hill,

up the stairs, MetroCard in hand, swipe it at the turnstyle,

turn a hard 90 degrees, I hear through the breeze rustling nearby trees:

“This is a Manhattan bound 2 train, the next stop is-”

jumping upstairs 2 by 2 with toward the 2 train the 2 doors closing I reach the platform,

and race for the doorway, like my feet haven’t met enough of the floor today.

Ding-doong. Already warned to stand clear, I throw my body into the open space, and just

barely beat the closing doors, as they seal shut on the first try, and into the sunrise and

working day, the barely open eyes of mine and fellow train passengers ride. -RSM

Thunder on the Beams

Six lines of magnetically charged metal beams shake, bend,

and take impact over and over from a storm for the ages.

Thunder booming, as if nature had rhythm

and dogs go crazy and bark back at the sound

of the violent downpour raging in and around the steel beams.

The sounds of the storm increase, rooms begin to tremble,

the people below close their windows and pray

to have the thunder cease for the day.

An earthquale approaching, it seems,

and as its most unnatural sounds wail and scream,

SNAP! Breaks one of the steel beams,

Weathered by the hurricane to earthquake nightmare.

That’s when I figured I should put my electric guitar down for a while.

I need new strings now, and probably pissed off the neighbors too.

 

I Started Looking In The Mirror Less

A few years ago I would remain in the eye of my own gaze,

With my ego tugging on my mind, saying “Look again! Just make sure.”

So every vein of opportunity to be so vain

I looked in the mirror, a lot, and complained, and made changes

until my appearance in reality and my mind was the same.

 

Exhaustingly unscrupulous, taking sooo many selfies,

compulsive on my pursuit of perfection, so ruthless,

I was never truly happy and knew this wasn’t healthy.

I pass a window that reflects and have to slow down, stop and check

if my collar looks weird on my neck, or if my pants look tight, or too loose.

Hopefully there’s nothing on my face that shouldn’t be,

so I take quick picture to see something my eyes couldn’t see.

 

Enough was enough, one day I decided to delete my Instagram

and to not hold my looks so high above all else, I took a big step

and I started looking in the mirror less. I didn’t get any uglier,

I let my hair grow and it didn’t look any funnier.

I could tell when I felt bummier and my nose felt runnier.

I didn’t need a constant reflection of my image to reflect on the fact

that narcissism is a good-looking way to constantly self-attack.

 

Perfectionism stems from insecure origins,

like a good catholic who feels like they’re full of sin

or a parent who shuns their child’s success,

and then the child feels like they’ll never win.

The mirror was my best enemy, my fakest friend,

my physical editor which never liked the ideas I pitched.

 

I started looking in the mirror less and less,

until a whole day would pass as I would pass by

windows that reflect, mirrored walls,

and even neglect the looking glass outside of bathroom stalls,

And to my surprise, I didn’t look grotesque or wrong

as I came home singing one of my favorite songs:

 

“Vanity, stands naked at my door…”

I sang as I saw the mirror in my room;

an old friend greets me with a smile.

 

He looks happier than before, I haven’t seen him in a while.

He’s better off, just like me, for leaving vanity outside.