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And now for the stories, with
notes from Judge O'Briant 1st place: Fate's Diary "This does what a good story should do. It brings the characters to life and it surprises the
reader with the ending." Fate's Diary All anyone ever wants is unconditional, ever-lasting love. The type of
love that makes one look up and whisper to the sky: it must be fate! That,
along with some ice cream or maybe a slice of watermelon, that’s all anyone really wants, and Austin Eggleston is no
exception. The Summer Like all other days, Austin wakes up and
follows his daily routine. The first thing he does is put on his Wednesday socks, because he hates cold feet. His Wednesday
socks are a pair of simple black socks with “Wednesday” written in blue letters. He has a pair of socks for each
day of the week, but he lost one of the Sunday socks so he usually goes barefoot on those days. But after sliding on his socks
he proceeds to brush his teeth with his kangaroo toothbrush that he bought in the kids’ section at the supermarket.
He normally showers at night, because when he goes to sleep with wet hair it is always crazy when he wakes up. He considers
this to be appropriate for his career of ice-cream truck driving. In
the summers, Austin considers himself fairly accomplished in his career. He has two different routes he takes: one for Mondays,
Wednesdays, and Fridays; and the other for Tuesdays and Thursdays. He is completely aware that the Tuesday and Thursday kids
only see him twice a week, but he doesn’t like them that much anyway. He much prefers the Monday kids, especially the
small girl with three pigtails and her two sisters. They live in a brick house at the top of the hill, which is always blooming
with irises and daffodils. Sometimes their golden retriever follows them to the ice-cream truck. Austin keeps dog treats in
his pocket specifically for this reason. February 3 But
now it is winter, and nobody wants ice cream, so he spends his days taking care of his mother at the nursing home. Austin’s
mother suffers from arthritis. She lies in bed and complains about the pain she is going through or how much she misses her
husband (both reasonable things to complain about), but sometimes it gets a bit overwhelming. Even so, every winter morning,
he comes to her floral-themed room that smells of old-people and baby powder, and he takes good care of her like he always
has. Austin’s mother
never wakes up before 9, so until then he sits next to her and watches the news. This morning, a woman driving a yellow Volkswagen
Beetle was injured in a car accident, due to icy roads. Austin always hurts for the people involved in these types of accidents.
Such rubbish, his mother says when she wakes up. Car accidents are nothing new. You
look beautiful today, he replies, while she continues to lie in her bed.
Oh, shut up, she says, there’s no such thing as a beautiful widow. You
never take my compliments! You
boys just don’t understand. I am in desperate need of a daughter—are you ever going to marry? She has always wanted a daughter, but Austin is her only child. Mother,
I’m young, not even 30! I have an entire life to fall in love. Austin doesn’t
ever plan on marriage, afraid it will disrupt the comfort he is in, but he says things like this to keep his mother happy.
Time will go by faster than
you realize, soon you’ll be in this nursing home next to me. The thought
of this makes Austin shiver. Maybe it’s the idea of growing old; maybe it’s the idea of spending his old age with
his mother. I
don’t want to rush love, mother. It will just happen, there’s still time!
February
4 After visiting his
mother, Austin goes for his semi-annual physical checkup. In no change of tone, Austin’s doctor (a very reliable source)
says to him: you’re dying. Shit, Austin replies, sitting in a chair across from his doctor, are you sure? Positive.
You have little over a month left to live. Four years ago, the same doctor diagnosed
Austin’s father with the same thing, and he died after three weeks. Austin’s father had kept the illness a secret
from the family, and the death broke their hearts. Austin can’t do this to his mother. He has to do something for her,
something she has always wanted. He needs to find love: a beautiful woman willing to marry him. Back
home, Austin creates an account on match.com. He says he is a man searching for a woman between the ages of 25 and 29. He sees on the website that there are over 29 million
uses, and this makes him feel less special. If he’s going to find love, he wants a unique love story that no one will
ever forget. February 5 He has a plan. He always has a plan. He will transform himself into the perfect man, and wait in the park on the other end of town—across
the street from Whole Foods. He thinks that any woman shopping at Whole Foods will be healthy, and environmentally aware.
This makes her a good candidate for his love. Once they are in love, they can return to this park and go on walks, remembering
the day they met. He
thinks of what he will wear, but nothing in his wardrobe seems good enough. He goes shopping for new clothes, buys himself
a dark pair of jeans, now the only ones he owns that are not pre-destroyed. He decides on a lavender shirt because his girlfriend
in high school said the color looked good on him. He can’t remember her name, but that’s not important. He buys
a pair of reader’s glasses that make him look smart. As
always, Austin showers before going to bed. February
6 When he wakes up he
showers again. He thinks maybe neater hair is a better idea, for today is a special day. He shaves, puts on his favorite smelling
cologne (one he created himself), and dresses in his favorite pair of underwear (white boxers that are 90% cotton and 10%
spandex so that they are soft, but still a bit stretchy). He puts his new jeans on and tucks in his lavender shirt. It is
cold, so he pulls out his jacket from his closet, and a scarf he knit for himself one winter. Outside
it is cold, but sunny, with white fluffy clouds in the sky. One of them is shaped like a heart. It must be fate, he thinks.
Maybe it is. He sits on
the bench, puts on his new glasses, and pulls out a collection of Neruda poems he brought with him. He doesn’t actually
read the poems, he only glances at the page, and then looks up to see if anyone approaches him. Nobody does. He crosses his
legs, hoping to look more sophisticated. Still nothing. After fifteen minutes of no luck, he decides to walk into Whole Foods;
maybe someone in there will notice him. As
he is turning into aisle 13, where all the greeting cards are, a woman approaches him, with a cart full of groceries and several
watermelons. Hi honey, she says to him. I think this is everything we need. She has orange-brown hair, shoulder length. Her eyes are two bright moons in sky of her face, the freckles being the
stars. She is not smiling, but he can tell she has dimples and perfect teeth. I’m
sorry? He isn’t sure if he is more confused by her, or the contents of her
cart. This is
all I had on the list, she repeats, unless you wanted something
more. No,
I’m fine, this is… this is good. He isn’t sure what is happening.
We’ll why don’t
we go check out then? I think I left my wallet back in the car; can you cover this time?
Of course, he says, regretting it later. After the checkout clerk is done putting everything in bags, Austin
pays the 207 dollars, and they walk out to his truck. She links her arm around his. That
night they both get in bed—his bed, and she sleeps with her delicate head on his chest. He does not mind, even though
he doesn’t know her name. There is something wonderful about her: maybe it’s the large quantity of watermelon
she picked out. He loves watermelon, and apparently, so does she. February
7 Austin wakes up to
the smell of waffles. It had been a while since he last made waffles; he didn’t like eating them alone. He walks into
the kitchen and sees her, the woman from last night, washing strawberries and slicing them in half, arranging them in the
shape of a smiley face on each individual waffle. Good
morning, she whispers. You must have rearranged the kitchen recently.
I had a hard time finding everything. Her voice is soft, soft and naïve.
I uhh, thought I would try
to organize it a bit. She smiles. She does have perfect
teeth, and she has dimples too—the left one much more prominent than the right. He smiles back. It is love, sort of.
I’m recovering quickly. Thank you for everything you’ve done. She gives him a kiss on the forehead. I’m, I’m glad, is all he can think of to say. Will you tell me more stories
tonight? I want to remember everything! February 12 By now the woman had been living with him for almost a week,
and he still doesn’t know her name. He has been calling her sweetie and honey and darling. He hopes she won’t
notice. Every night he tells her stories of their past (the past he has made up for them). Through these stories he can be
anyone to her, and he decides to be someone she has fallen madly in love with. Tell
me more, she whispers, how did we meet? Austin tells her it was in a hot air balloon; you wanted to see what the world
looked like from a bird’s point of view. I’ve
always loved birds, she smiles, putting her hair up in a bun, using a pencil to
hold it in place. Her hair has gotten lighter and is now the same color as the underside of an Oriole. She crosses her long,
pale legs and leans in forwards, listening to him continue the story. He
goes on to tell her that he was guiding the hot air balloon and they stayed up there watching the sunset. They traveled through
the starry sky in the night until they landed in a purple field, flowers up to their shoulders. From there they watched the
sunrise. February 14 It is Valentines day, and she wants to go watch a movie—a
scary one. He looks up different times at their local theatre. She says he can choose the film, so he chooses one he’s
already seen. This way, he can prepare her for the scary parts and squeeze her hand when something is about to happen. Twenty-five
minutes in the movie he goes to hold her hand and he feels a cold metal ring around her ring finger. He has never noticed
this before, and he isn’t sure what to do next. February
15 They talk about their
fears. I’m afraid
of heights, he tells her. But
we met in a hot air balloon! He hadn’t thought of this. You
see, I was so enthralled with your beauty I didn’t realize there wasn’t any ground under me. I felt like I was
flying, and I was—with you: fearless. It’s cliché, but she buys
it. What is your biggest fear? Drowning, she shudders, I’m deathly afraid of drowning. I knew
that, he lies. He likes that this is her fear; they balance each other out in this
way. She is afraid of down deep; he is afraid of up high. Do
you want to hear another story? He asks her, while making it up in his mind.
Yes! She whispers excitedly, the way she always does. One
day, at a carnival, you wanted to go on the Ferris wheel, and you insisted until it happened. At the top is where I asked
you to marry me. You
did that? For me? She says, her bright eyes tearing up. I’d
do anything for you. He believes this when he says it. So does she.
What did I say! What did
I do? His
imagination starts making up an even wilder story: when we reached the bottom you grabbed my hand and we ran towards
the ocean, into the water with our shoes and our clothes. I wasn’t sure what was happening but you were laughing and
I was laughing and you told me you loved me. You told me you felt safe with me, even in the water. And
I still do. She kisses his lips, and he keeps telling her stories, slowly falling
in love with her. She believes every word he says. February
17 She asks him why he
had not gone to work for the past couple weeks. My
business is only in the summers. He tells her about his ice-cream truck-driving
career, and he isn’t embarrassed at all. Oh
right! she says apologetically, I hate how forgetful I’ve
become! But yes, I remember now. That explains the truck! I thought I had married a lunatic. She laughs, and he is not sure what’s so funny about his truck, but laughs along anyway.
February 18
They talk about his family, and she asks how his parents are doing. He tells her his mother is sick,
and he no longer has a father. Did
he die? Did I know him? Four
years ago. He knew it was going to happen but didn’t tell anyone.
Her eyes water and she whispers, you
must love someone so much to be willing to keep a secret like that from them. He
slowly nods his head, but then she adds, or maybe not enough.
February
21 It snows and it's
the perfect snow to build with, not the powder fluff or the little balls of ice. It's the wet, large flakes that melt when
they fall on someone. He has never built a successful snowman, and neither has she (or so he has decided), so that's what
they do. They build a large one together, in the parking lot by his apartment. They use a pencil she keeps in her hair for
the nose, and he pulls off buttons from his cardigan to put on the snowman. You're
ruining your clothes! She tells him, but he doesn't care. It's
our first snowman, I want to do it right. When it's finished it's almost as tall as she is, and she leans against it, hugging it, and Austin
takes a picture on his phone. He gets the picture printed out and puts it in a frame on his bedside table. One night she stares
hard at the picture, without blinking. She doesn’t smile like she normally does, and her hair falls in front of her
face. I remember
making snowmen. Many of them; before this one. This
was your first one, he says. I
guess. She stares at the picture for a little longer, then shuts the light
off and goes to sleep. February 23 She is a painter, he learns. He lets her
paint his bedroom walls, and she goes out of control: paints him an ocean with an island and green grass and a small brick
house in the center of it and nothing else. This is their dream home. She paints him the future they have spent the last month
talking about. The golden retriever that they will name Skye: the three little girls she has always wanted (two of them a
set of twins), a garden filled with irises and daffodils and maybe a few rare black roses. He
watches her paint; it looks almost as if she’s dancing. He’s seen this house before; he’s seen this dog,
these girls. He drives by them every Monday. He stays quiet; she keeps painting. She
paints his ice cream truck parked in the garage.
February 26
On his walk home after shopping for groceries Austin finds a poster of a “missing woman”
stuck to every tree, covering every wall. He reads it softly:
“Responds
to the name Fiona, 5”9, light brown hair, brown eyes, afraid of water, beautiful signing voice, great painter. Last
seen in a car accident while driving a convertible yellow Volkswagen on February 3. If found, please call 640-0235. Her husband and girls all miss her dearly. Reward is guaranteed.” Fiona.
Fiona. Fiona. He repeats her name; he hasn’t known it until now.
February 27 Austin feels sick, the way he does after
eating too much ice cream all day, or maybe too much watermelon. He feels even sicker than that. He has started to fall for
her, and he has led her to believe that she is in love with him, but that simply isn’t enough. That
night he says to her, you used to sing to me on nights I couldn’t sleep.
Did I? She sounds surprised. I never sing for anyone! I’m always too embarrassed. Please
sing for me, he says, and with that she begins to sing softly, a song about a Blue
Bird. As he closes his eyes he thinks maybe he is in love, though love was never his thing.
February 28
Where are we going? She asks him. He has a surprise for
her. He drives them around in his truck; she has a blindfold around her eyes. Don’t
worry—you’ll see. He doesn’t sound enthusiastic.
Are you sure you won’t get lost? Austin
is sure. He has taken this road many times before: three times a week, every summer, to be exact. When he reaches the house,
her house, he escorts her from the car to the front porch. He rings the doorbell and says, wait here, I forgot something
in the car. He gets in his truck and drives away. His
eyes tear up, for the first time in years. He just keeps driving; it has always helped calm him
down. He doesn’t head back home until the sun starts to go down, several hours later.
The Future Tonight, Austin doesn’t shower before he goes to bed. He dreams
a dream in which he is in love, but he won’t remember it when he wakes up in the morning. He will wake up to an empty
room with a future painted on the walls, and in this future: a girl with three pigtails and her two sisters; a golden retriever;
daffodils blooming in the spring in the front porch of a brick house; and an ice-cream truck parked in the garage, long after
the snow has melted. Sadly,
this is Fiona’s future, not his. He will see her again, hopefully, if he lives long enough
to drive another Monday-route. He will see her through the windows of her small brick house while her daughters run out for
ice cream. He always preferred them to any of the other children. But
in reality, these girls are not his girls, Skye is not his dog, Fiona is not his wife. In
reality, the ice-cream truck is parked outside on the street, and not in the garage. 2nd place: Dick & Jane
& the Barbecue, and, No, It's Not a Love Story, Or Playing With Fire
"I loved the way the way the writer incorporates the facts about propane gas systems to illustrate
the relationship between Dick and Jane. And, no, it's not a love story." Dick & Jane & the Barbecue, and, No, It's Not a Love Story, Or
Playing With Fire FROM: PROPANE 101 -PROPANE SAFETY THROUGH
BETTER UNDERSTANDING Propane tanks have a multitude of connections including valves, gauges
and other attached appurtenances that look interestingly complex.
Dick and Jane were uncomplicated
strangers, and then they weren’t.
They were casual acquaintances, and then they were friendly
acquaintances,
and that’s how they remained . . . in public.
They each went home alone, Dick to sleep with his epileptic dog,
Rusty, and Jane to her microwaveable barley bag (the one that kept her
feet warm) even though it was May on the west
coast of Canada, all
hummingbirds and blooming dogwoods. They went home alone because their
kids were grown and
distant and their marriages had failed to live up
to the North American dream. They went home alone because they were
both past their prime (whatever number that is), Jane even further
past than Dick, and because failures wreak havoc
on acceptability and
desirability in social encounters of the third-person kind.
They each went home alone until
one night they didn’t. After Dick’s
multiple advances outside her car and Jane’s adamant refusals
inside
her car, they ended up in private. And in private, they became
friends. With benefits. And soon-to-be-disclosed
baggage. And
loneliness which unleashed a lot more than Rusty, left at home with
his seizures.
The visible parts of the propane tank play a vital role in the
usability and serviceability of the gas tank.
They were seized up by the mutual and unquenchable need for human
touch in every way, shape, and form—all
fingers and lips and whatever
else they could find. You can’t beat Stop-Swap-‘n-Go fornication, they
decided. But even a long night is only so long. Jane said goodbye.
Dick said he’d call. Jane said no, it was
just a one-time thing. Dick
raised his eyebrow, kissed her nipple, and went home to Rusty.
The second time, failures
were revealed. Jane’s failures included
multiple undefined marriages and an obscure disease involving physical
wasting which she couldn’t always conceal, especially in private.
Dick’s failures and wounds were salted
away, concealed until the light
of day—the serpentine scar across his belly, another across the palm
of
his hand. Proof of violence, even before the rest of his story came
out. A cracked-out ex with a knife . . . who’d
died of AIDS (where
Jane blurted out, did we just!?. . . Dick, with sweat still on his
lip, said no, no. He’d
been tested.) Dick’s disclosure had something
to do with honesty. Jane candidly repeated that a relationship was
out
of the question. Her privacy was at risk, but she couldn’t resist
ruffling his hair before he left.
The inside of the OPD valve is engineered to only allow propane in or
out if the internal valve
is actuated by being depressed.
And so, there was a third time. And it was so ridiculously fine,
that
is, until Jane flailed around the kitchen, spilling morning coffee,
and said that was really enough. They
couldn’t go on bangin’ their
brains out all over the house. Dick asked Jane where, then, did she
want
to do it. Jane said in the car. One last time.
Over several weeks, Jane refused Dick’s subsequent publicly discreet
offers for “keeping her company.” Jane, with too much time on her
hands, was leaving town. California,
she said, a holiday. Maybe a
month. Dick, with a shutdown at work and too much time on his hands
asked when.
Jane said in three weeks. She told Dick he needed to find
himself a woman. A real one, for a real relationship, in a
real world.
All too often propane customers take it upon themselves to paint their
tank a color
that complements the colors of their home or landscaping.
This presents a safety problem. Propane tanks need to reflect
heat,
not absorb it. The absorption of heat creates the possibility of a
high pressure situation.
Sitting on the end of Jane’s bed, he said, I could get lost in you.
Don’t, she said. There’s
no map in or out. But Jane had a sudden
impulse, an irresistible thought— limitations make endings tolerable,
at least. Just . . . be seventeen with me for three weeks, she said.
This temporary little interval will never happen
again. Dick agreed.
With everything.
Dick and Jane allowed themselves the luxury of time, spent it
together,
usually naked, every chance they got. Flaws and failures,
having been dragged out into the open, became as irrelevant
as the
clock. They were insatiable. They were funny. They were “only
seventeen.”
An important point to note is that under normal operation, a propane
regulator will make a "humming"
noise. This is normal and should not
be construed as a problem or regulator malfunction.
Midnight
phone calls, afternoon siestas, and 70’s music prevailed.
They swapped tunes. Jane rented movies—A Clockwork
Orange and Shaft.
Dick played his guitar, “Wild Thing” by the Troggs. Jane ordered
take-out, two days
of food at a time. She sang under her breath.
It was a light-hearted goodbye (Jane breathing a sigh of relief). Have
fun, they told each other.
A saturated vapor contains as little thermal energy as it can without
condensing.
And they did have fun separately. But it wasn’t the seventies any
more,
so they emailed sporadically.
Dick talked dirty and sweet in his emails. Slept near his computer
awaiting lackadaisical
responses in his cool basement, shoving pills
down Rusty’s epileptic throat. Jane sent photos of a cheese factory
in
Tillamook, a sunrise in Carmel, the Golden Gate Bridge. She always
asked, had he found that woman yet.
Most will rightfully argue that the LP regulator is the heart of any
propane gas system.
There was a message on Jane’s phone when she arrived home. Dick’s
voice said, call me. And
then another. So she did, and before she knew
it, he was at the door. Dinner, he announced, proffering steaks,
mushrooms, home-made potato salad. Jane supplied the wine, but it was
an awkward affair. No comparison to the seventies.
It’s a fact that
you can never go back and Jane’s theory that you can never go forward.
Regardless,
they carried on.
The day Dick brought over the shiny black portable barbecue was as hot
and dry as Jane’s
throat on seeing it. Oh, no, Jane thought. It was
abhorrently domestic. He’d even brought a small table to set
it on,
old graffiti almost obliterated. I’ll do everything, Dick said. I like
doing things for you. Jane
almost gagged at the thought of
after-dinner dishes, she and Dick side-by-side at the kitchen sink.
They ate dinner
together in near silence. Take the barbecue home,
Dick, Jane pleaded. I don’t need it, won’t use it. Can’t
tolerate it,
she thought. Dick ignored her request and left the following morning
without it.
Notice that the connector actually allows the regulator to be
installed closer to the service valve.
The barbecue sat inanimate. Jane pondered it from across the patio,
then examined it more closely. A greasy
grey film had spread across
the dark lid. Its folded chrome legs had tiny chips missing. The
rotund propane cylinder,
rusted in several patches, had a curled and
torn label attached. Superior Propane, it read. Stop-Swap-‘n-Go.
Horrors!
Jane stewed. Dick went off on a camping trip to clear his head. He’d
mentioned his upcoming
birthday before he left. Was she expected to do
something special for the occasion? They were on the verge of
falling
into something mundane and predictable. A never-changing forecast of
hot and dry, rather than intermittently
warm and moist.
Still, when Dick called, Jane answered. Then he showed up one night,
unexpectedly. A little drunk.
A lot late. You’re all blue, Dick said,
reaching for a breast. Jane said, yes, looking down at the skimpy
cobalt chemise.
When Jane called the day before his birthday and again on his special
day, his voice mail said
unavailable. Fine, she thought with a sense
of relief.
Regulators have internal moving parts
that are subject to wear and
tear. They are not repaired or subject to repair. They are replaced.
Three days past Dick’s birthday, Jane called again. A little drunk. A
lot late. And he finally answered.
Did you get your birthday blow-job,
she asked. Silence. Dick said he’d been meaning to talk to her about
that. Silence. He’d met someone, he said. What took you so long, Jane
asked. You can keep the barbecue, he said.
Excellent, she said. Dick.
Propane regulator connections come in varying lengths and bends.
Always use caution. 3rd place: The Ballerina in Battery Park "A very good use of specific
detail and description. The scene with the yellow finch and the Rhodesian Ridgeback in Battery Park is especially vivid." The Ballerina in Battery
Park
They said it was the stench that finally led them to that air conditioning
duct on the twelfth floor of a Financial District office building. The poor woman, Imelda Ramirez, had been missing
since Tuesday, but they didn’t find her until Saturday, until that stench flooded the building. The day began
for me, however, on the bus ride into the Port Authority early that morning. I had no idea at the time, but I was
arriving in Manhattan at the very moment the body was being discovered. I was coming up from Philly to visit Kristina
for the weekend. I guess you could say she was my girlfriend. We had been college sweethearts at Wake
Forest. After graduation I moved back to Philadelphia to go to medical school at Temple, and she went off to New
York City on what she called “her big adventure.” She had always been the type to adopt a “if
not now, then never” approach to big life decisions. She had used that very same reasoning the first time
we had sex sophomore year. In those early days, we saw each other often and kept the relationship fresh, taking
turns visiting each other’s respective cities. But things started to grow sour after a few months. “Philadelphia
is so quaint,” she said one lazy Sunday afternoon as we walked around Olde City taking in the touristy historic sites,
trendy shops and restaurants. Though she said it affectionately, I knew then that was the beginning of the end,
and she stopped taking her turn shortly thereafter. For the next year it became strained monthly trips up to New
York, though this was the first in nearly nine weeks. I can remember those first few visits and how accommodating and sweet she
was, coming down to the Port Authority and meeting me at the terminal as if I was some special needs person who wouldn’t
be able to navigate the subway system to get to her place—it was a simple straight jump downtown to Wall Street. Nowadays
it was, “Call me when you’re outside the door.” Though she was still referring to me as her boyfriend,
I still wasn’t privileged enough to get a key—though she had always had a key to my place, and thus I was often
left standing at the curb in the rain or the stinking heat and humidity waiting for her to come down and let me in as she
was always just getting out of the shower. Today we followed what had become a normal routine. We hopped down the block to a popular
café where they served brunch that included endless free mimosas. Sloshed, warmed over and tired, we then
stumbled down to the water and walked along the esplanade at Battery Park. It was a fairly decent day for July,
a bit overcast with a strong breeze that kept the temperature in the low eighties. Exhausted and a bit sweaty by
the time we reached the park, we collapsed onto a bench and began to listlessly discuss which building we preferred in the
Jersey City skyline across the water. We watched the birds dance across the railing and peer longingly out over
the harbor with their beady black eyes. We saw joggers pass by who were as meditative or as mad as monks in their
distorted temple to physical fitness. And archaic ferries lurched their way across the warm summer waters. Tiny
sailboats probably manned by drunken weekenders occasionally came too close to the larger vessels, and a bellowing foghorn
blaring, “Get out of the way, assholes!” pierced the air amidst the cacophonous sounds of chirping birds, sneakers
slapping the sidewalks in unison with heavy breathing, strolling people chattering and children playing on the grass behind
us. That’s when I noticed the little yellow finch on top of a backpack discarded on the bench next to us. It
seemed to be just standing there on its delicately thin legs, relaxing, thinking, taking it all in, deciding on where next
to fly, and I felt a camaraderie with the little bird as I too felt subdued but pensive sitting on a bench in Battery Park
waiting to make my next move. But that sense of peace was shattered when a gargantuan Rhodesian Ridgeback came
barreling down the esplanade, a long leash and chain trailing behind it as it leapt towards the bird, jaw agape to the sound
of a woman yelling, “Daisy! No!” Luckily my little friend escaped in a short quick flurry
to the railing where it did a few hops and a shimmy in poetic succession before taking full flight out over the water and
disappearing from sight. Meanwhile, Daisy had torn into the backpack and successfully pulled out something she
tried valiantly to kill and maim as her flustered owner captured the end of the leash and regained partial control of the
dog. As the pair passed by us in a fit of fury, I watched Daisy pull over to the edge of the grass and drop by
a tree what had been in her mouth, an inedible ballet slipper. What an odd thing to have been left in a backpack on a
bench in the middle of Battery Park only to be discarded by a disappointed dog. After a young couple passed by us jogging
leisurely side-by-side with their toddler who wore nothing but a t-shirt and diaper while babbling incoherently, Kristina
and I decided to take our leave and head back to her apartment. “That kid should be potty trained,”
Kristina said. “People need to be more careful with their dogs. I thought that thing was gonna
jump on us next.” I couldn’t argue with either of those points. Then she turned and looked
up at me with tired eyes and tiny beads of sweat on her forehead she used to take the time to wipe away while in my presence,
her warm slimy hands gripping my arm as we walked hip to hip, and asked, “You don’t really like that dirty white
building the best, do you? I mean it’s hideous. It’s the color of smoker’s teeth.” But
I did. It was art-deco and older and had some character unlike the other modern glass buildings, or at least that’s
how it appeared from this side of the water. We crashed at her apartment for a few hours rehydrating and lounging around
watching an endless marathon of indistinguishable reality shows on TLC where someone or some house had been judged unworthy
and was being made-over. Around six, Kristina’s roommate came traipsing in atop a cloud of good intentions. Her
name was Becka, and she was a physical therapist at some posh Manhattan spa for the elderly. She was a thin, athletic,
cute little thing with perky perfectly round breasts, a rock solid tight little rump you could chisel a sculpture from, a
hint of a Southern accent and a smile that would melt you every time she came in the room. Apparently she graduated
with us from Wake Forrest, and she and Kristina had been friends for a long time. I, for the life of me, couldn’t
remember her from Adam, and with a body like that, Becka wasn’t the type of girl a guy would forget. This
situation wasn’t the first time I thought maybe Kristina lived a double-life she kept completely hidden from me. Yet
other times, when the three of us were together, and Becka would be nattering about “a stupid boy” she met at
the club, and Kristina would be rolling her eyes, I thought perhaps Kristina had kept Becka away from me all those years because
she thought I would think her friend was an idiot – an idiot with a smoking-hot body with whom I would love to
play doctor and practice my bedside manner. Becka, always a fan of “get up and go” pestered us into drinks and a movie. We
had a couple of rounds at the same café where we enjoyed brunch – thousands of places to go in Manhattan and
we always found ourselves in the same familiar dark hole. The waiter, some unidentifiable foreign type with a “how-do-you-say”
put-on accent flirted with Becka ad nauseam until I thought Kristina’s eyes were going to permanently roll back inside
her head, and all I would ever see again were the whites. After we convinced Becka we were going to be late for the movie
if she didn’t tell this guy to shove it, we got out of there quick and marched down to the Battery Park multiplex where
we saw some insipid and raunchy big-budget Hollywood comedy I’ve already forgotten the name of where people laughed
so hard they almost pummeled me into sleep. It killed me, Kristina lived in New York City for chrissakes, one of the film and art capitals of
the world, a place where they premiered films you could see nowhere else in the country, yet every time I came up it included
a visit to some megaplex where you had to ride three separate escalators before you got to your screening room where we would
inevitably see the latest piece of Hollywood drivel parading as entertainment. What made it even worse was that
Kristina worked in the business. She was an executive assistant to the owner of a company that produced locally based
independent films and documentaries. She always promised to send me a list of the recent projects her company helped
finance – apparently one of the docs was nominated for an Oscar – but she never did, as if she thought I was only
feigning interest and really didn’t care about her work. Or maybe I thought she was making-up all of this,
and she was really just living off the kindness of gentlemen benefactors and had no such job. Lord knows Kristina
was attractive enough to live such a life of decadent privilege with her well-bread manners and long, blonde hair. I
always wondered why she decided to settle on me, a slightly-overweight-too-tall-clumsily-attractive type with bad skin. Maybe
she thought she would be able to finally cash in when I became a doctor…whenever that would be.
Walking home
from the movie, Becka recounted her favorite scenes to a politely laughing Kristina, until we were all struck mute by the
police cars, news vans and bright lights surrounding an office building and blocking the street in what was either a nighttime
film shoot with real live extras…or something more sinister. There were gawkers standing around noisily
chattering and laughing as if this might be their golden opportunity to land a walk-on role on Law & Order, but there
was a palpable sense of dread in the air. Kristina quickly dove away from Becka and I like a bird swooping in low
to the ground for a closer look, weaved her way through a throng of reporters while listening in, and then hopped back onto
the sidewalk to meet us as we continued to pass by the scene. It suddenly struck me how comfortable she was living
in the city, getting around town and making her own little adventures without me. “It’s a murder scene,”
she said. “They found some woman stuffed in a ventilation shaft.” It sucked the buzz and
forced upon good humor from us, and we walked the rest of the way home in silence. Back at the apartment, we received an invite
from their gay neighbors to a roof-top soirée where we were promised free booze and live music. Their building
was an older one, just a block from Wall Street in the heart of Manhattan’s Financial District, and its modest ten stories
were dwarfed by the towering modern skyscrapers surrounding it. The roof-top offered an amazing 360-panoramic view
of the cavernous buildings that stretched into the clouds and loomed over you as you craned your neck and tried to peek into
the lit windows which made checkered patterns against the enclosing walls of the city. Looking out between the
buildings was like gazing into the belly of a deep and narrow cave that stretched back forever into a darkness around the
bend. I never turned down an opportunity to go up to the roof-top. Apparently one of the neighbors was involved
in a benefit walk to fight breast cancer earlier in the day and was throwing a party on the roof for friends and family who
had come into the city for the walk. I don’t know, I think maybe the grandmother was a survivor as everyone
seemed to dote on the old lady. I grabbed a cold beer from one of the many coolers by the door and found a comfortable
place near the far edge where I could enjoy gazing up at the other buildings and watch for strange movements behind the lighted
windows while still appearing to be casually partaking in a conversation amongst the people sitting next to me. This
conversation involved a friendly young woman who had just returned from a six month missionary trip to Guatemala and a condescending
older man hopped up on wine and a bloated sense of self importance quizzing her cruelly about the ancient Mayan Civilization
which she had clearly learned nothing about while working at an orphanage for sick children. On the other side of the roof, a man played
Van Morrison covers on his acoustic guitar for a small rapt audience. Somewhere amidst a mournful rendition of
“Brown-Eyed Girl” which I heard through heated whispering was a tribute to his dead wife who succumbed to cancer,
I suddenly thought of that murder scene we passed on the way home and of “some woman stuffed in a ventilation shaft.” The
singer’s soulful voice echoed against the cave walls surrounding the eerily quiet block and trickled down into the street
below where even the usually boisterous drunks falling out of the neighborhood bars showed respect and seemed to come to a
standstill and listen. I swear I caught a glimmer of a figure peering down from behind a drawn curtain against
a dim backlight to see what was happening on our roof. As a breeze whipped through the narrow space between the
skyscrapers and twirled trash atop the roof, I suddenly realized just how cool it was for a July night.
I stood up and
walked over to Kristina who was busy gossiping with the gays under the bright light by the door with an empty martini glass
in her hand. I heard her remark “what a thrill” it was to walk by the media circus at the murder scene. Her
listeners were wide-eyed and hanging on every word. “What was the name of that street?” I rudely interrupted with
the gays looking appalled at my gall. Kristina rolled her eyes and sighed. “Chuuuuurch, I think…or Rector. No,
I’m pretty sure it was the corner of Church.” I heard her say to them while I went to the cooler, “Don’t
mind him, he’s from Philadelphia.” With that knowledge and a fresh beer in my hand, I raced back down to the
apartment and hopped on the laptop to see what they were saying about the murder in the news. I found a clip posted
from a reporter I recognized having passed on the scene, somebody who worked for the Manhattan News Blog. I also
found pictures of the woman who was murdered. She was beautiful, with big brown eyes, full red lips, dark hair
and olive skin. She was young and vivacious and even without knowing anything about her, I knew she didn’t
deserve to be stuffed in a ventilation shaft. And she wasn’t just “some woman”. She had
a name, a life, a family. They said it was the stench that finally led them to that air conditioning duct on the twelfth floor
of a Financial District office building. The poor woman, Imelda Ramirez, had been missing since Tuesday, but they
didn’t find her until Saturday, until that stench flooded the building. “I know what a dead rat in
a vent smells like,” the security guard who first contacted police remarked to reporters, “But I ain’t never
smelt anything like that in my life.” The strangest thing about the case was that Imelda Ramirez had bee
seen exiting the building on Church Street where she worked as a cleaning lady early Tuesday evening, but the security tapes
never showed her returning. When her family reported her missing the next morning, the police did a routine sweep
of the building for evidence, but never suspected she would be found there based on what they saw on the security tapes. The
mystery was how she got back into the building undetected and ended up dead from severe head trauma, wrapped in plastic and
tape, and left stuffed in the air conditioning duct on the twelfth floor. The police believed a key to breaking
the case would be locating a missing bag which could lead them to the killer. Earlier Tuesday evening, Imelda Ramirez
attended her niece’s ballet recital, and accidentally took her sister’s bag which contained her niece’s
ballet slippers instead of her own bag before leaving for work that night from her sister’s apartment in Jersey City
and taking the ferry to Manhattan. The bag had yet to be recovered. And then I remembered my friend the yellow
finch perched atop that abandoned backpack and Daisy the Rhodesian Ridgeback and that ballet slipper that was left slimy and
chewed up by the tree behind the bench in Battery Park. That’s when I decided to run. I sprinted
all the way down to the water, dodging drunks and cabs and joggers, all along the esplanade on my desperate night run until
I came to that bench. The bag was gone. The slipper was no longer there. Panting and out
of breath with my shirt clinging to my clammy skin, I thought perhaps the police had already been here and found the items. Maybe
there was a coworker who told them Imelda liked to go to the park at night on her breaks for some fresh air, and it led them
here, and they had the evidence they needed, and suspects would be brought in tomorrow. But as I surveyed the scene
and noticed a cleaning man pushing a giant trash bin in the darkness going from trash can to trash can along the esplanade,
I knew that stuff was gone. The bag was probably taken up by some bum or tossed by a cleaning guy. The
ballet slipper might’ve suffered another mauling at the mouth of a wild dog before being picked up by a jogging fitness-obsessed
babbling toddler and tossed in the water further down the way. I could’ve walked past the still bustling murder
scene and told the police what I had seen in Battery Park earlier that day, but I didn’t. At best it was
nothing, a coincidence, the type of coincidence that is bound to happen in a city this big. At worst it would be
a lost cause because the evidence would never be retrieved, and even if it was, who was to say that would lead them to anything?
When I got back
to the apartment, Kristina asked, “And where the hell did you go?” I told her I went for a jog. She
told me she wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to get me sick, so I slept on the couch. I woke up
early the next morning before dawn, snuck out of the apartment undetected and took an early bus from the Port Authority back
to Philly. On the ride home, I composed in my head the email I would send Kristina telling her it was over. My
one regret was never sleeping with Becka. It would’ve made the break-up more fun, more natural, less cold. To
think on the ride up I was contemplating how I was going to tell her that I took a deferral from med school for a semester
and might drop out all together and come up to New York and move in with her in a last ditch effort to save the relationship. But
that was before Battery Park and the ballet slipper and the murder scene and “Brown-Eyed Girl.” As
the bus rolled into Philly, I thought of that little yellow finch and its escape from Daisy’s clutches, its heroic dance
along the railing as it primed for its flight to freedom. It turns out the murder of Imelda Ramirez was the first from a serial killer
who would stalk Manhattan’s Financial District for the next year and a half. He would end up battering to
death six more women: three cleaning ladies and then brazenly a financial advisor, a personal trainer and a non-profit organizer. He
was a cleaning man who worked at the park at night, like the man I saw on my run. He stalked women who worked in
half-empty and partially abandoned office buildings or walked alone along the esplanade at night. He would kill
them out in the open in Battery Park with one foul and silent swoop from a lead pipe, put their bodies in his trash bin and
then take them back into the buildings where they worked, find an abandoned floor, wrap them in plastic and stuff them in
the air-conditioning ducts. Four of his seven victims, including Imelda, were believed to have been still alive
when they were stuffed into the shafts. He was finally caught when police saw him on a security tape wheeling a
large trash bin into one of the buildings just an hour after a victim was seen leaving. After my email to Kristina, I never heard
from her again. Admittedly I worried when the serial killer story broke a few months later. I imagined
poor Becka became hysterical, worrying about jogging on the esplanade, afraid to go out alone at night. Kristina
could’ve been a potential victim, too, as she allegedly worked in one of those office buildings along the murderer’s
route. But that worry quickly dissipated as I knew Kristina could handle herself. Anyway, our relationship
was over. Yet she and I would always have that day in the park on the bench, both of us too afraid to speak about
it or tell anyone about what we may or may not have seen. After all it was just a bag and a ballet slipper. It
was probably nothing. How were we to know at the time that bag may have belonged to Imelda Ramirez? I
think the reason we never spoke to each other again was because we both knew we may have been able in some small way to stop
a killer before he struck again but did nothing about it. Well, I did something, kind of. I ran. I
imagined Kristina then had the time of her life, and I wouldn’t be surprised if after they finally caught the killer,
she felt disappointed. That exciting time when she lived under the terrible shadow of the Batterer of Battery Park
was over now. The only thing I could still feel anything for from that period in my life was that finch that escaped,
my little yellow avian ballerina. I imagined it had probably landed somewhere safe by now, but I, unfettered from
Kristina and medical school and heading to Chicago…I was still running.
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