#no sweet Polish deli right around the corner?

[cannotgiveafuck]

On a better note, we got our paczkis on Monday bc the Polish deli was closed today (good for them) so I had some delicious fuckin pastry treat.

I care not what else is happening, Happy Paczki Day.

[d33pwithinmys0ul]

One Shot For Pondhue Rick Sanchez x Reader Fluff

I hope this doesn't format weird, but I've been doing one shot fanfic for art trades, this is my first finished one! If you're interested go ahead and dm me but I've got lots to tackle.

I love @pondhue's art, be sure to check them out, this is what they requested, enjoy :)

“Summer!” Morty yelled up the stairs in an exasperated voice. Both his hands are clenched on the straps of his backpack. “I-I’m gonna be late for math, Mom said we have to walk together this time.”

You were cross legged on the recliner as you watched her bound down the stairs with a pink zippered pouch in hand. 

“Don’t act like you give a shit about your education Morty, it’s not a good look for you.” She rolls her eyes in his direction and hands you the pouch. “You can use anything but Funny Bunny and the glitters. See you tonight!”  She was out the door before you could even say thank you. 

“She’s fuckin’ killing me, y/n.” Morty gave a frustrated huff. The door slams shut and you stifle a laugh.

You almost slide off of the recliner in favor of the floor, then go through Summer’s nail stuff. The polish bottles all clink against one another gently. 

It was empty and quiet. The Beths and Jerry had said something about a galactic honeymoon before being cut off by disgusted groans from Rick and the kids. It was an easy job to take.

You turn on the TV for some background noise, and decide to pick your favorite color.  

House sitting seemed unnecessary for the Smiths, but it would be nice to be around Rick more in light of your recent “exclusivity.” Rick’s chosen word, not yours. It was kinda sweet, you supposed.

You start with your left hand, laying it flat on the coffee table. It was fun, and soothing. 

Exclusive was a nice term, you think. Not too distant, or too territorial. He respected you.

You were starting another finger when you heard the familiar warp of a portal materializing in the kitchen. 

God, Rick was noisy. Every box and bottle in the fridge resounded as if he were taking inventory, he hacked and coughed every few seconds. Was he aware that you were here? Was he trying to make a point, like you had to acknowledge his presence first?

You continue without a word. Maybe you could do your toes too? Should you match, or pick another color?

Your mouth twitched as you saw him from the corner of your eye. He plopped himself down on the couch, adjacent to your spot on the floor, with a drink in his hand. He burps and changes the channel. 

There was a comfortable silence, only the noise of different shows and commercials, human looking humans, nothing you’d usually see on interdimensional cable with him. 

Rick drapes his arm on the back of the couch. “Y-you gonna join me?”

“In a little bit, I’m almost done,” you said.

He grunts in reply.

Why was he being so quiet, almost shy?

You finished your last finger, waving them around a little to dry. You look back up at the TV, and literal shit is being spread on a bagel. 

“Jesus,” you automatically cringe and turn to Rick, “Why?”

“Poop deli,” he shrugs and takes a big swig of beer.

“That.. Is not–romantic,” you said.

He snorts but changes the channel anyway. “I didn’t realize you needed wooing right now, sweetheart.” He rubs the back of his neck.

“Who said I needed it?” You say incredulously, flapping your hands to dry your nails faster. You know you looked silly and laughed a little as soon as you started.

“‘S a good color on you,” Rick almost mumbles, vaguely gesturing to the little set up of polish and remover, and all the other contents of Summer’s pouch on the coffee table. 

“Thank you.” You slide the nail stuff across the table and sit on the carpet next to Rick’s foot. “Maybe you could join me?”

“On the floor?” Rick’s voice almost reflected your own earlier regarding ‘poop deli.’

“It won’t kill you,” you said. “I was hoping I could do your nails too?” You almost didn’t ask, but you were curious. Sure, Rick usually gave most things shit, but you’d like to think you were his soft spot. 

“And what are you thinking, exactly?” He squints at you almost mockingly. He lowers himself smoothly onto the floor next to you.

“How about…” Your hand hovers over a few different bottles in Summers collection. “Lincoln Park After Park,” you said and handed him the bottle. 

“I’m—eughhh–’m not wearing purple.” He said flatly. He places it on the table and takes another swig of beer. 

“It’s basically black,” you scoffed. “I think it’s pretty. You’re lucky I don’t want to do the whole damn nail routine on you. I’m sure your cuticles are atrocious.”

Rick exhaled sharply through his nose, and rolled his eyes dramatically and splayed his large, bony hands out on the coffee table. “Before I change my mind.” 

You smile with satisfaction and scoot closer to him, going from sitting to kneeling. Tall bastard. You almost get poked by his knee as he crouches in an almost frog-like position, you laugh at the look on his face as you untwist the bottle. You give him a quick kiss on the cheek right before he starts complaining.

“That is a purple tinge,” he insists, emphasizing the color. 

“It’s black,” you set the bottle on the table and grab his hand. You start on his pinky finger, feeling the rough skin of his palm. “It’s not permanent, don’t be a child.”

“I’m aware of the properties of Earth nail polish,” he uses his free hand to take a swig of his beer, which almost spilled all over the carpet. “Forgive me for being a little more s–eughh-selective.”

“Earth nail polish?” You laugh. “So there’s alien versions, you mean?”

“Obviously. More durable and vibrant iterations of this shit. Think of that blackest black bullshit, but better. And it doesn’t stink. Just an obvious superiority of the wonders of the galaxy over puny mundane humanity.” His lab coat collar was wonky and he didn’t sound too serious about the last part.

“Mhm,” you said as you spaced his pinky away and moved onto his ring finger, careful not to smudge your own. “And how’d you get so familiar with galactic cosmetics?” He shrugged. “Old band days. I’ve told you about this before,” his eyebrow furrowed.

You could see a little bit of the purple tint as you finished another nail. 

“Drunken rants barely count as telling me,” you said. “The Flesh Curtains,” you said with a flourishing stroke.

“Th-this, it’s the first time since then I’ve gotten my nails painted,” he said, a little surprised at himself. “Bit of bird DMT and common sense is m-euguhghh-more than enough to overcome, fuckin gender societal bullshit.” He was watching your hands, one painting, the other keeping his still. “If you paint it all over the fingertip it’ll come off in the shower. Don’t exactly shower much at Birding Man, though.”

“That’s where you guys met, right?” You asked.

“Mhm,” Rick said. “Thirty somethin’ and didn’t give much of a fuck to do shit else. Just shows and drugs and all the usual rockstar bullshit. I was young. BP gave me a guitar and we were too shitfaced to stop ourselves.”

“Bird Person doesn’t seem the musical type,” you say as you take his other hand and dip the brush into the bottle of polish. “That’s pretty cool.”

“He’s a fuckin’ genius.” He waves his free hand. “Bird planet stuff gave him a natural advantage, I think. Heavy into classical. Would’ve been a w–eughhh–waste, -i-if he never did anything with it.”

“So what kind of music did you make?” You asked, smiling. You were trying not to seem too enthusiastic. You didn’t think he’d be so willing to open up. 

“Eughh–it was the eighties, I think, don’t fuckin’ remember too much. Rock, nu metal. For a bit we used an invention of mine with an algorithm that c-cal-calibrated the data from other successful rock acts across the known universe to write songs for us, bullshit like that. Didn’t work out. BP almost got us to do new-wave, n-eughh-not my cup of tea.” He takes his flask from his lab coat pocket. 

“Squanchy didn’t want that either. Too hyperactive. We found him squanchin’ backstage by the drumkit when we wanted to crash the festival, so that role for him happened naturally. I don’t think you’ve met him. When we were on the road I’d have to sing him to sleep while I drove cuz BP would just pass out. If Squanchy didn’t get a goddamn lullaby he’d have to squanch to go to bed, and that was when I actually gave a shit if my ship was clean..”

“I advise you to restrain your speed. Breaking Blimmyjink highway laws will further delay our performance,” Bird Person said in his monotone voice.

“I swear to fucking god, I’ll eject you into the vast emptiness of space if you spill that goddamn beer!” Rick yelled over his shoulder while keeping his eyes on the road. He coughed and hacked before narrowly swerving around another vehicle. 

They worked real hard to get a gig at the Celestes, and he wasn’t going to let shit ruin it. Rick growled a little as he forced himself to ease up on the gas pedal. 

“I didn’t spill squanch!” Squanchy whined.

“Should’ve brought my damn portal gun, you stupid fucks,” he barked at the other members in the car. “U—eughh-unbelievable.”  Rick had thought that a road trip-esque approach to a few of their gigs would create some type of positive relationship without too many drugs involved.

The galactic highway had too much traffic for a Thursday night, they had a shit time slot. He weaved in and out of lines of other ships and cars, speeding to get to the venue. His glass beer bottle nearly tipped over in the cup holder, before his bandmate caught it with a feathered hand.

“You’re in distress,” BP observed. 

“You deserve a medal,” Rick muttered.

“What seems to be the issue?” Bird Person persisted. 

“We need time t-to set up. No fuckin’ brainer. Even with the damn Band in a Box mechanism every .5 seconds counts in this GODDAMN TRAFFIC!” Rick yelled and honked his horn. 

The driver in front of him extended a tentacle out of their window.

“Is he flipping me off?” Rick asked, glancing at his cat-like drummer in the back seat. 

“Nah, he’s just giving you the squanch. Could be way worse, Rick.” Squanchy replied before chugging the rest of his drink, his feet kicked up on the drivers seat.

“Paws down asshole, you’ll sing yourself to sleep tonight,” Rick said through gritted teeth.

“Your voice is slightly hoarser than usual.” Bird Person said. “Perhaps your agitated state is creating strain on your physical health.”

“Only by 20.8%, which literally d-eughh-doesn’t matter,” Rick quipped. “This is a really important show, you know that.”

BP rifled through his satchel made of leaves and other stupid shit Rick didn’t see the point in before. He pulled out an unusually large acorn. 

“It is infused with healing syrups and herbs from my home planet. I insist.” He handed it to him when they slowed to a stop at a light. “It may soothe you.”

“What-am-am I supposed to eat this like an apple?” Rick's eyebrow arched before glancing back at the road.

“If by apple you imply a hand sized, edible food source–”

“Whatever,” Rick grumbled and took the acorn begrudgingly.

“Thank you for giving me your trust,” his bandmate replied.

The show at the Celestes had been a hit. It helped them book other gigs–turns out there were some good connections to make on a random Thursday night. Rick wasn’t on vocals that show, but he felt a lot better. He got so drunk that he crowd surfed and shit his pants in a broom closet. 

“We ended up having a p-pretty decent sized fan base on Blimmyjink even after we disbanded. Pers didn’t neutralize any of the tannins in that acorn, though,” Rick said with a laugh. “Tasted like shit.”

You were almost done with his second hand, almost wishing you could stall so he wouldn’t stop talking.

It was really nice of him to speak more about his past, considering Rick wasn’t very comfortable with his backstory, or a lot of what happened before he and Morty moved to this dimension. You could tell he was really trying. 

“That seems really fun. It would be nice to meet Squanchy sometime.” You put away the polish and rubbed his shoulder. “I didn’t realize you and BP had been so close. He doesn’t seem like the type to paint his nails.”

Rick scoffs. “Yeah, no thanks to me. They wanted to be lame and go onstage as they were, like f-fuckin’ Weezer or something. It was fun styling everyone. I had pierced ears back then too, we were so fuckin’ drunk–shit was lopsided.” 

He rolled his eyes and pressed a button on his watch, careful not to smudge his nail. 

A little holo projection appeared of an old picture you’d seen before. Rick, Bird Person, and Squanchy on stage. Fire effects erupting by the drumset, Bird Person with his wings displayed powerfully behind him, Rick lost in thought as his face contorted while striking the strings of his instrument. 

“Wow, yeah. You guys look amazing,” you try not to giggle a little at Rick’s get up. You hadn’t seen it in detail like this before— spiked leather bracelets, a skull on his belt buckle, the loosest, skinniest tank top that was as far away from his chest as possible, and a choker around his neck. Jesus Christ. What a choice, what a man.

“Clearly I was the o-eughh-only one that actually looked good,” Rick said with a wink. “But it was some good shit. We never made any money doing it. But we had some good memories.”

Rick's hands were both free as the nails dried, so he used them more as he talked. “That time in my life w-was a goddamn free for all. I trusted BP for no good reason when I’d been bitter and angry for years. We all almost wrote a whole album that night, after Birding Man, but Squanchy drunk pissed all over my equipment and we lost the files.”

“And drunk Rick didn’t waterproof his stuff back then?” You ask dubiously. 

“I–eughh–I think I can say I was a lesser man back then.” He said with a shrug.

“Do you miss it?” You ask.

“Loose shirts, shittier tech, different mindset back then. I don’t regret it, but I was...just running from a lot of shit. It was escapism. Every musician is disturbed, art is mental illness, whatever bullshit you wanna . I-I think I needed it.” He said fondly. “I’m a little less likely to do donuts in a Blimmyjink parking lot these days.”

The TV hums quietly in the background and you take in the natural pause. 

You take his hand cautiously, admiring the fit of yours with his, the new polish on your nails. “Thank you for giving me your trust.”

He brings his palm to your cheek and kisses your forehead.

[fuchsiagrasshopper]

The Olive Branch

Author's note: Here is a modern AU one-shot I wrote for @maggiescarborough 400 follower challenge. My prompt was breaking up. Congratulations hun and thanks for letting me take part! It was something completely different for me to write and I hope everyone enjoys!

Masterlist

Pairing: Ivar x Fem:reader

Word count: 3400

Warnings: Angst, language

Your relationship with Ivar had run its course. You had known it was over the moment you overheard him talking about you in his office to his brother. What had begun as a sweet gesture to surprise your boyfriend for lunch had ended with you sneaking back out the building before he could find out you had been there. You still didn't remember most of that escape, as you had been too busy forcing yourself not to cry or scream from hurt.

It was a Tuesday, and you were fortunate enough to have a day off from work. You decided to be spontaneous, picking up soup from your favorite deli to surprise Ivar with for lunch. His job didn't always allow him the time or luxury to stop to eat, but today you would make sure he was looked after.

You and Ivar had been seeing each other for nearly six months, and you felt that in that stretch of time you had made it past any difficult hurdles that could turn a relationship sour. It wasn't perfect, but little arguments and disagreements had to be weathered in any relationship, and you got to a point where you were both comfortable with each other's faults and tendencies. When you had met one another's families without hassle, you figured that was as good a sign as any that this was something special.

You didn't go to his place of work often, but you knew your way around well enough to find his office. He worked for his family's exporting company, a numbers game that consisted of suits and ties, and corporate gatherings. Ivar had once described them to you as ass-kissing at the highest level, and after attending a few black-tie affairs by his side you understood his point.

You made your way down the brightly lit corridor that was all freshly polished floors and heavy oak doors with gold inlaid nameplates. The designer of the office had spared no expense on the finishes, and you felt underdressed compared to the expensive attire of the workers.

As you rounded the corner to Ivar's office you could see his door was ajar. He was speaking with someone, and as you neared you recognized Ubbe's voice. It didn't sound like work talk, it sounded more like Ubbe was discussing his family. You were about to walk in to interrupt when your name was suddenly brought up.

"So, how are things going with (Y/N)?" Ubbe asked.

There was a long pause before Ivar answered, and that filled you with dread. "Okay, I guess."

"You guess? I thought things were going great."

You understood Ubbe's point. You thought things were working out well between you two.

"I don't know. Recently I've been feeling that it's run its course between us. I don't think there's a future there."

Your heart was in your throat, and you thought you were going to be sick. Ivar could be distant, but you had no idea he was at the end of his rope when it came to your relationship.

"Really? Ubbe sounded as confused as you felt. "What brought this on?"

"It's whenever we do something in a social setting. She's not a bad girlfriend, but she's too shy for any of my work functions, and she isn't spontaneous enough."

"Right, as opposed to Freydis?" You heard the crunch of leather as Ubbe took a seat. "You're still hung up on her."

"I can't help it," Ivar shot back. "She was perfect for me. She fit in with my lifestyle. (Y/N)'s a good person, but she's too simple. I'm...bored when I'm with her."

A good person. Those were the only kind words he had to say about you, after dating for months. You knew about his relationship with Freydis in little detail, and only that they had broken up because she moved away for work. Maybe he should have gone with her. You were feeling bitter and used, and you couldn't listen to any more of the disparagement. You even felt guilty about eavesdropping, but you wondered how much longer he planned on keeping this from you if he was so miserable.

Your feet started in the opposite direction, reaching the elevator with your head down and the lunch you had brought hanging loosely in your grasp. Your breathing had turned labored in your attempt to keep the tears at bay, and you kept pressing the button to shut the double doors before you were forced to endure a long ride down to the lobby in the company of one of Ivar's coworkers.

The moment you were on the ground floor you began fast walking to get outside, and you threw away the lunch in the first trash bin you passed. Your eyes stun when the chilly wind brushed your face, and you knew the tears you had struggled to hold in were beginning to fall. You hoped to God people weren't staring, and you kept at a brisk pace in the direction of anywhere. You and Ivar didn't live together, so you at least had your own space to hide.

As you approached the train station, your phone buzzed with a message. It was from Ivar. You wondered what words Ubbe had plied him with to get him to reach out. Usually, a message from him when you knew he was at work would have been a delight, but now you were already into second-guessing. It was a simple invite to dinner, but you knew you wouldn't be able to sit in a restaurant and pretend everything was alright. You replied with an excuse.

Sorry, I'm not feeling well today. Raincheck

Ivar's reply was quick and to the point with a simple 'okay, feel better'. But you wouldn't feel better. Your relationship was over, he just wasn't privy to the fact yet, and you didn't want to end it with the embarrassment and disappointment still so fresh…

ooOOoo

And that's how it was for the next two weeks. You distanced yourself from Ivar while gaining clarity about the situation. The hurt turned into a dull throb, but you also accepted that it wasn't his fault for feeling the way he did, even if that was cold comfort to you. It was best for you both if you ended it and moved on.

"I think we should break up," You finished saying to Ivar as he had tried to gift you a diamond bracelet. He had dropped in unannounced again, a habit that had started after you blew off the dinner. Your visits consisted of sitting in silence on opposite sides of the sofa, and you could barely bring yourself to kiss him when he would leave.

He must have sensed something was off the past few times you had seen each other, and the bracelet was his way of trying to bridge this new gap. Now he was giving you a blank stare, trying to play catch up on whatever details he had missed that led to this behavior from you.

"Alright," He started slowly. "Can I ask why?"

Because you're bored with me, your mind shouted, but you swallowed the bitterness and forced a smile. "We've been growing apart for a little while now. You must have felt it too."

"I've felt that you've been brushing me off," Ivar said as he fell back into the armchair across from you on the sofa.

"What do you mean?" You tried to act surprised by the accusation, but your voice raised a tick. You had never been a good liar.

"Well, just now when I tried to give you the bracelet, you looked disgusted. I might as well have been giving you a can of surströmming."

"That's not--" You started to say, but he cut you off.

"Not true? No, I think it is. And what about that dinner last week? Were you even sick?"

You felt small under his strong gaze, but you weren't about to let him spin this whole thing back on you when you knew the truth. "No, I wasn't sick. I guess I just didn't want to go to dinner with you because I felt it was pointless."

"Pointless? If you'd decided that, then why did you wait until now to break up with me?"

"I've never broken up with someone before," You admitted, the first truthful thing to come out of the conversation. It was always you getting left behind, and it felt strange to do it to someone else. You still had feelings for Ivar, which didn't make it any easier knowing he didn't feel the same, and possibly never had. "I thought you'd be relieved anyways. You must have felt the same, that we were drifting apart."

"I didn't realize you felt that way," Ivar replied, frowning at his lap. "Ubbe didn't say anything to you, did he?"

You tried not to react, but your blood froze in your veins and your heart trembled. "No, why would he?"

And then you realized Ivar suspected you knew about the private conversation with his brother, only he mistakenly thought Ubbe had blabbed to you about it.

"It makes sense now, why you've been pulling away. He told you, didn't he?"

"About how I'm a good person, but that I'm too shy to fit in with your social circle," You blurted out, your anger rising.

Ivar was stunned by your abrupt attitude change. You never raised your voice for anything, even when you'd argued. "So he did tell you."

"No Ivar, Ubbe didn't tell me anything." You rose from the sofa and turned your back on him to stare out the window. It was a beautiful day. You let out a mournful sigh. Too bad you wouldn't get to enjoy it. "I came to see you that day, to surprise you with lunch. I guess you wouldn't consider that spontaneous enough though."

"(Y/N)," Ivar started and over your shoulder, you could see him pushing himself up from the chair with his cane.

"I don't want to hear it," You interjected with your hand up. "This is why I didn't want you to know I knew about that. I didn't want to hear your excuses."

"That was a private conversation you weren't supposed to hear."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better?"

Ivar frowned, and he seemed annoyed with you as if you learning the truth had inconvenienced him. "No, but I should be the one upset with you for trying to break up with me without telling the truth."

"I'm not trying to break up with you, I'm done with you, Ivar," You told him, and your blunt tone caused his face to fall. "Maybe I shouldn't have listened to that conversation, but I'm glad I did. It spares me from being in a relationship with someone miserable and bored when they're with me. Did you expect me just to not say anything and carry on as if nothing had happened?"

"We could still talk this through." His voice sounded timid, and you didn't think he meant it.

"Talk through what? You're still in love with someone else, and I won't be your poor replacement." You strode to your apartment door and held it wide open. "Please leave."

You half expected Ivar to stay put and want to argue this through further. He was nothing if not confrontational, and while you admired his inner strength, you did not want to find yourself on the receiving end of Ivar Lothbrok's ire. But in the end, he didn't say anything. His cane thumped down the hallway to the door, and as he strode by you, you kept your head down holding your breath. You don't know if you were hoping he would do something to change your mind, let you know that it had all been a misunderstanding, but that wasn't the case. Ivar left, and you found yourself closing the door long after he had gone.

Now that it was final, you didn't know how to feel. The past few weeks you had been preoccupied with internalizing your heartbreak. You had held it in for so long, that now your well was empty. Your relationship was over, and if you were going to move forward you would have to cleanse your life of Ivar. Grabbing a box from your closet, you began to pack away anything he had ever given you.

ooOOoo

It was such a cliche, the expression about missing something after it was gone, but it was currently how Ivar was feeling. A month had passed by since your break-up, and time had slowed to a crawl. He hadn't seen or heard from you since he had left your apartment that day. You had returned a box of his things when he had been away at work. Hvitserk had been home to retrieve them, and Ivar had asked how you seemed. His answer; fine.

At the top of the box was the bracelet he had bought you in a last-ditch effort to try and save the relationship. You hadn't even worn it. He didn't know why he had put in the effort to save the relationship since at that time he had convinced himself it was no longer something he was invested in. Perhaps Ubbe had gotten through to him, but by then it was already too late. You had heard everything, and it had led to a devastating end.

Ivar knew why he had second-guessed being with you. He knew from the moment you met that you were the complete opposite of Freydis. You were timid, and your interests lied in things you could do independently as opposed to a social setting. Not like him at all. After growing up different from his disability, Ivar made sure he thrived in large groups as an adult, no longer wanting to be the one isolated in the corner of the room. Being with you had reminded him that wasn't necessarily a bad thing, and he never thought you were weak as a result.

But then he had seen Freydis' engagement announcement online, and he was suddenly mourning the loss of his past. Never follow an ex on social media, that was Hvitserk's advice, and he should have listened. He and Freydis had said their goodbyes two years ago, though more reluctantly on his part. She was everything no one thought he would ever have in a partner. The beautiful blonde had chosen the cripple, and his ego had soared to new heights.

Food tasted better, the air was cleaner, everything was different from his supposed view from the top. Ubbe had reminded him that it hadn't been as perfect as the memories he clung to. During that time with Freydis, he had abandoned much of his ties to his family, and he had picked up the bad habit of spending money to the point of debt. When she had left him for new career goals, he had gradually returned to earth with the other mortals and realized he had been an asshole.

He had a momentary lapse back into that spell all because of one picture online, and unfortunately, it had bled on to you. Now all he could think about was how much he had hurt you, and with no real excuse good enough to justify such atrocious behavior.

A knock on his door came, and he threw the bracelet back into the box of his belongings that had made their way from your home and now back to his.

"Hey, you want dinner?" Hvitserk asked, poking his head in.

"Not hungry."

"Still feeling sorry for yourself, huh," Hvitserk said as he leaned upon the doorjamb.

"If I didn't, nobody else would," Ivar grumbled petulantly.

"And how do you think (Y/N)'s feeling?"

"I don't know, you said she was fine."

Hvitserk ran a hand down his face. "I was covering. If anything she looked...disappointed."

Disappointed in him more likely. He was a disappointment, and not because of his legs as he always feared. When the news of his break-up with you had spread through the family, they all were annoyed with him for making that choice. None more so than his mother. She had been vocal over the years of her dislike for Freydis, and while Ivar knew his mother would have a difficult time accepting any woman he brought home, she had come to reluctantly welcome you into the fold. The rest of his brothers didn't hold back on hurtling their own brand of criticism, each as unique and harsh as they were creative.

"What should I do," He asked aloud, and Hvitserk looked startled by the question. He was the last one in the family anyone looked to for advice, but Ivar already regretted not taking the bit about exs and social media to heart.

"Apologize. That's the only thing left, even if it won't be enough to remove the hurt right away. She needs to know you regret what you've said."

For the first time in a month, Ivar felt a smidgen of hope. "Do you think there's a chance we could start over?"

"I don't know about that. If she holds onto those things you've said as the truth, then she might have a hard time trusting you again. Those relationships never work out," Hvitserk said with a shrug.

"Maybe I should go over there and talk to her," Ivar said, already rising from his bed.

"I wouldn't," Hvitserk replied looking guilty. "Thora's over there now, and she's still pissed at you for hurting (Y/N). If you don't want to end up in grievous harm, I'd stay away for now. Sorry."

Ivar sighed as he plopped back down. "No, I get it."

"Try reaching out slowly, and work your way from there," Hvitserk suggested.

"You're surprisingly not as dumb as you look," Ivar taunted, and the first grin broke out on his face. It felt good to use those muscles again.

"I know, I'm brimming with knowledge and ready to impart wisdom," Hvitserk said with a laugh. He stood up from the door and looked ready to return to the sitting room. "You sure you aren't hungry? I haven't ordered yet."

"I think I could eat. Just give me a moment, I need to finish putting this stuff away." He indicated to the box, and Hvitserk nodded in understanding before closing the door behind him.

Ivar pulled out his phone and searched for your name. All of the things he had to say couldn't be composed of one text message, but he could extend an olive branch and hope it didn't come back as ashes.

I know this is probably coming too late, but I need you to know I'm sorry and I miss you. If you want to, I'd like a chance to meet and explain things, that's it -- Ivar

He hit send before he started to ramble or worse chicken out entirely and not send the thing. He didn't know if you would reach out right away, and he didn't want to know. Getting up from his bed, Ivar hobbled on his crutch, leaving his phone behind in his room to join his brother for dinner. Hvitserk must have sensed his change in mood, but he embraced it rather than asking, and they didn't bring you up again. It was the first time in a month he felt like himself, no heartache over Freydis and no self-pity over losing you. After a late-night of buffoonery, and pizza and beer, the brothers returned to their rooms.

Ivar ignored the phone sitting in the middle of the bed, avoiding it as if it was some cursed thing. He went about his nightly routine, all the while he felt the pull to check if you had replied. He hoped you had. Even if it was just to tell him to fuck off, something was better than no answer. After getting his legs settled beneath the covers, he lied down in bed and shut off the lamp on his side table. Before going to sleep it was time to check if you had seen his olive branch. The glow of his phone lit up his face, and his breath hitched. You had replied. His eyes flitted back and forth, tracing your words to make sure they were real.

I miss you too. Let's talk soon.

Ivar fell asleep right after, with renewed vigor in his heart. He would work to earn your trust back. Whether that meant as a couple or just as friends would be up to you, and Ivar would respect what you decided. So long as you were still in his life, everything would be alright.

Taglist

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[willow-salix]

Here's my offering for the second FabFiveFeb with the awesome @gumnut-logic focusing on the gorgeous Gordon. I used two of the prompts. Enjoy!

Selene's eyes cut to the side away from the book that she promised John she'd read but was continuing to boggle her brain.

He was there again, hanging around near the bedroom door, haunting the hallway, stalking the sleeping quarters of the house. And it was getting annoying, she'd have to do something about it. It was hard enough to concentrate on "Unlocking the Universe" without the constant distractions of the sighing, whining, moaning apparition outside. 

The figure moved past the door again, looking in at her. She tossed the book aside and sat up. 

"Gordon! What the hell is wrong with you?" 

The sun lightened, tousled blonde head popped around the door frame. 

"Oh, Selly, are you done reading?" 

"Well I am now."

He bounded in like an enthusiastic puppy, dropping down on the end of the bed, forcing her to move her feet quickly out of the way. 

"Did you want something?" 

"No, it's all good." He glanced around, his eyes taking in the new editions to his brother's room. Since Selene had been in his life John had definitely lightened up, growing more comfortable in his own skin and spending more time with them all but, even though Selene had gone shopping with Grandma and Virgil to pick out a few things to make herself feel more at home, John's uniqueness still shined through. 

They had all wondered if Selene would take advantage of John's suggestion that she redecorate his room, but they should have known better. Selene never acted as you would expect her too, very much like all the women in their lives. They were used to strong women that never followed the crowd, Kayo, Grandma, Penelope, it stood to reason that anyone the brothers met would be just as special. 

John's posters and star charts were still on the walls, but a few new types of chart had joined them, ones that showed the phases of the moon and its meanings, the sun and the solstices and the constellations related to star signs. 

Her books were intermingled with his own, her clothes were in his wardrobe mixed in with his,  items of makeup and toiletries were scattered around his bathroom and little interesting trinkets and her divination tools had joined his collection of space rocks, awards and celestial models on his shelves. The room had been softened with the addition of softly glowing lamps, fluffy blankets, a squishy armchair that Selene liked to curl up in and a couple of house plants. 

But the most interesting item to appear was what she called her altar, a small, scarf draped table nestled in a corner near the window. It held her tools, candles, crystals and other interesting things he didn't know the use of. The room now smelled of sweet incense and warm candle wax instead of its scent of furniture polish and occasionally John's shower gel. 

He had expected the room to feel different, but he could still sense his brother's presence in there even though he was currently up in Five. Somehow they had managed to blend effortlessly, a natural evolution of the two. 

Gordon would never admit it but he had moments of intense jealousy when he saw the two of them together. Not that he begrudged his brother the happiness he had obviously found, nor that he saw Selene as anything but a much loved sister who often seemed like a female Scott, put there to worry, boss him around and force him to eat. 

No, he just wished he had the same thing. It seemed rather unfair that his brother could manage to meet someone in such a random way and find his perfect partner when, try as he might, he could never seem to get any closer to the one who held his heart in her perfectly manicured hand. 

He sighed, his shoulders slumping. It seemed that every time they got close to their moment something or someone got in the way. 

"Spit it out."

He jerked out of his musings. "What?" 

"Whatever it is that you're thinking so hard about," she reached out and smoothed her thumb down the scrunched up skin between his eyebrows. 

She was right, he had been hovering, mostly because he was trying to get up the guts to not only ask for help but put his plan into action. He guessed it was now or never. 

"Sel, I need your help with something, call it my birthday present."

Selene sat up a little straighter. "OK, obviously I'll help with anything, unless it's a prank on your brother, in which case I'll still help but I'll deny all knowledge and throw you under the bus in a heartbeat."

"Good to know," he grinned, her teasing as always, putting him at ease. "Promise you won't tell anyone about this either."

She touched her hand to her heart and drew a little cross. "Cross my heart, I won't tell a soul."

"OK, first I need to show you something, but we're gonna need transport."

                                        ***

Selene's nose was pressed against the window of the little sub, her eyes drinking in the sight of the world outside. 

"Wow…this is just…wow." She had never expected there to be so many colours illuminated by the powerful lights of Four. A moving rainbow of waving, pulsing, rippling beauty that covered the sea floor, building up into what could only be described as an underwater garden. Mounds of coral in all colours created a hilly backdrop for the shoals of colourful fish that swam lazily around them. 

"Better than space?" Gordon nudged her playfully with his elbow. 

"I will never admit it to your brother, but it might just top it. This is incredible, I mean, I've never even been scuba diving."

"You've never…" he shook his head in equal parts amazement and disappointment. "That's it, I'm teaching you to dive. It's amazing, you know John used to join me a lot, he likes to skindive," he saw the blank look on her face. "Where you dive without a suit, just with an aqualung and flippers. He helped teach me to swim you know, Scott wanted to throw me in and let me work it out for myself as Dad did to him and Virg, but John was insistent that he help."

"That's so cute."

"No it's not, it's manly and the complete opposite of cute."

"Sorry, not cute at all, you're right," but her grin said he would never change her mind, she was just humouring him. 

"We're nearly there," he said, changing the subject. "It should be around this area, I worked with Dr Forsythe at the Living Oceans foundation, who specialises in Coral Reef conservation, the results ended up being pretty positive."

"Is that where we're going now?" 

He nodded. "You should start seeing some any minute now."

It was nice and quite interesting to see the way Gordon handled his craft. It was nowhere near as big, fancy or fast as the other Thunderbirds, but he acted like it was an extension of himself. She was used to seeing Gordon as the playfully mischievous one that she often caught plotting something, or out on a mission when he was all seriousness with the odd burst of light. This was different, this was his element and he was beyond comfortable. It was nice to see him so relaxed and happy. 

The first flicker caught his eye and he paused, his finger pointing the way. Her eyes followed his directions, growing wider as she saw the result of his months of effort. 

"That… is truly amazing, boo. She'll love this."

"So you'll help me get her out here?" 

"Oh, you can count on it."

                                     ***

"I do so enjoy our little shopping trips," Penelope tucked her arm though Selene's, "you always find such interesting little shops that I would never have thought to look in."

They had wandered all over Union Square and were now making their way down to the bay, Selene having had a nice little restaurant recommended where they could have dinner. 

"I love that dress you got, you suit vintage, it will look beautiful on you. I just wish my style suited it a bit more, but we can't all be blonde and beautiful."

"Oh hush, I happen to know a certain space monitor who thinks you are the most beautiful woman in the world."

Selene smiled, catching sight of their destination. 

"And I happen to know an aquanaut who thinks the same about you," Selene pointed down to the beach where Four sat, surrounded by people. 

The shock on Penelope's face was a sight to behold, it took a lot to surprise her, but they had definitely managed it. 

"Don't keep him waiting."

"But what about dinner? What will you do, Parker isn't returning for at least four hours?" 

"John's picking me up in an hour in my car, we've got a date night. Now go," she gave Penelope a gentle push towards the railings.

Feeling uncharacteristically unsure as to what she was doing and rather ambushed, Penelope slowly descended the steps down to the beach. She had absolutely no idea what was going on, why was he even here, on his birthday of all days, when he should be celebrating with his family. 

The back hatch of Four opened to reveal a grinning Gordon. He cambered out, stretching to his full height but instead of the standard blue uniform he was dressed in smart, grey trousers and a plain white shirt with not a palm tree in sight. His usually messy hair was brushed and an attempt had clearly been made to tame the unruly mop. 

"Lady Penelope."

"Gordon, happy birthday."

"It is now, and also," he reached back into his craft and drew out a bouquet of pink roses, "happy Valentines day."

Penelope could feel an uncharacteristic blush warming her cheeks as she took the flowers. 

"Will you do me the honour of being my Valentine tonight?" 

She nodded. "I'd like that very much."

"I've got something to show you, care to take a little trip with me?" 

"How could I turn down such an offer?"

She took his offered hand and climbed aboard. 

                                     ***

Penny had been under water more times than she could count, being an experienced diver and having a car that was more than waterproof, but nothing compared to sitting beside Gordon Tracy as he piloted them deeper into the ocean. 

He'd programmed in the coordinates and left the small craft on autopilot as he produced a picnic basket from her favourite London deli, filled with all her favourites. 

She would never have believed that he had it in him to put together such a romantic gesture, he'd likely had a little help since Selene was obviously involved, but she found she didn't really mind. 

It was nice to be alone together, especially with no chance of interruption bar an emergency. No nosy Parker to wedge himself between them, no darling Bertie to demand their attention, no rescuees to reassure, no brothers to interrupt. Just them and the quiet peace of the ocean. It was rather blissful. 

Now that they had time to talk they made the most of it, chatting between bites of crusty bread, tangy cheese, succulent grapes and a very palatable white wine, catching up on their lives the past few months. 

She looked more beautiful than he had expected, dressed down in casual jeans and a cosy sweater, clothes that one wore to go shopping with a friend rather than to a society event. It was strange but most definitely not unpleasant to see her out of her comfort zone and designer clothes, to see the real woman underneath. This was the one he'd wanted to get to know, the one he was drawn to. 

Penelope found her gaze drawn over and over to the gentle curve of his lips as she watched him eat, recalling just how soft they had felt during their one, brief kiss. She hadn't planned it, she'd just been overwhelmed by everything, seeing him back on active duty after his brush with death had been emotional for her and she'd thrown aside all decorum, giving in to the urge. Now she wanted to be able to do that again, wanted to lean in, close the distance between them and lose herself in the unique presence that was Gordon Tracy. 

He blinked his big caramel eyes at her and she was done for, she inched forward as he did the same...BEEP… 

Gordon leapt back into the pilots seat as they neared a reef, growing instantly more serious as he took back control of the little craft from the autopilot now they had reached their destination, steering it expertly past clusters of coral and waving fronds of exotic underwater plants and little darting fish. 

Gordon watched her eyes drinking in the sight of the reef he'd so lovingly helped to cultivate, to save for future generations. 

"I've been working with a guy specialising in marine conservation breeding, basically breeding hardier fish with those that are endangered, trying to create new breeds that will survive the changing climate."

"Oh really? That's fascinating. Were you successful?" 

Gordon didn't speak for a second, guiding the nose of the sub around a particularly large group of pink puffy anemones. There they were, still in their shoal, lazily swimming, almost exactly where he and Selene had found them two days previously. 

"You tell me," he nodded towards the small, genetically perfect saddleback butterflyfish. 

"Oh my," Penelope stared at the fish, their bodies sparkling in the light of Four's high beams. There was only one way to describe the shine of their scales, the way they seemed to be a silvery pearl colour one moment and with a flick of their body you saw a rainbow of colours…

"Iridescent," she whispered in awe. "I have never seen anything so beautiful. And you helped create them?" 

Gordon smiled proudly, watching his babies swimming happily around the craft as they floated gently through the shoal. They were graceful, unbothered by their presence, seemingly curious as they came right up to the glass to investigate. "Yep, I got to name them too."

"You did? What are they called?" Penelope tickled her finger against the window, laughing with delight as a fish followed her movements, booping its nose on the glass. 

"Well, obviously they have their species name of Chaetodon Ephipippium but in English," he paused, slightly embarrassed now that he was here with her. He took a deep breath, remembering what Selene had instructed him, be bold, be brave, be daring."In English it's a Pretty Penny."

She blinked, unprepared for the wave of emotion his information provoked. He'd named them after her. These beautiful, unique creatures he'd created would forever be a reminder of just how special he was. 

"That's…well…it's very flattering, and they are certainly very pretty," Penelope turned her head, hoping he wouldn't see her blush. She didn't know what to say, how to react. 

Gordon's eyebrows drew down in a frown, did she not like them? Had he been wrong? Be bold, be brave…He reached out a hand and cupped her chin gently, turning her back to face him. 

"Do you not like them?" 

She covered his hand with hers, managing a shaky smile. "No, I love them."

"Then what's the problem?" 

"We can't, we can't do this, not now." She gently pulled his hand away and set it aside. 

"Why not? Give me one good reason?" he refused to let go of her hand. "Just one. Tell me you don't want me and I'll back off."

"What about finding your father? The launch of the new Zero-X?" 

"That isn't a reason not to, that's a reason to take every chance we can and act on it. We don't know what we're going to find up there, if we will even find anything at all. If this and International Rescue itself has taught us anything, it's that life is too short and too unpredictable to waste opportunities by being cautious and scared. You have to grab your happiness with both hands."

"This could change things between us, and not for the better." 

"Or it could make it more amazing. Look at John, he took a leap of faith and I've never seen him happier. I want that, Penny, I want that with you."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small jewellery box, opening it to reveal a natural pearl, carved into the shape of a seashell, strung on a delicate gold chain. 

"What do you say Valentine? Will you be mine?" 

His handsome face was full of hope but also wariness, fear of rejection. Would it be so bad to risk her heart on one such as he? Gordon was a joker, he rarely ever took anything seriously, but here he was, the most sincere she'd ever seen him.

He was one of the good guys, he saved people, he didn't hurt them. He was worth taking a risk for.

"Tell me you don't want me," he whispered again, a plea for her to tell him the truth. She was powerless to resist. 

"I can't," she whispered back as she moved closer. 

His lips brushed hers in the softest of kisses, his mouth catching her little sigh of relief as his arms slid around her waist, pulling her closer. There was no one to interrupt them, no one to tell them no, no one but them. 

No matter what happened in the future, good or bad, they would always have this moment, they would have each other, and the world would have the pretty little fishes that floated outside their little sub of solitude. 

[bulbpix]

If You Just Listened - Part 4

I promise the food is relevant later afsjvdhkcjhf

-------------------------------------------------

    "And then he apologized! After I basically accused him of stalking me!" You blurted into your phone, burying your face in your hand.

    "Oh, sweetie. It's alright," said your mother, trying to comfort you. "Did you clear up the misunderstanding?"

    "I mean, I guess..." you sighed, twisting the phone cord around your finger. "I told him it was alright, and I apologized too."

    "That's good. As long as you said you were sorry," your mom said in a slightly reprimanding tone. It kind of made you feel like a kid again. Still, calling your mom always helped in times like these.

    "And what did he say about the laughing?"

    You fiddled with the telephone cord a bit. "I dunno. He said it was a condition he had or something." You plopped down on your bed, staring at the ceiling as you tucked the phone between your ear and shoulder. "You should've seen it. It was freaky. Like... you could tell he didn't want to laugh. Like it was hurting him."

    "Hey, watch how you describe that poor man. He doesn't mean to be 'freaky' you know," she scolded.

    You chuckled, just happy to hear your mom's voice.

    "Yeah, yeah. I know."

    "So how's Gotham life? Are you getting too cool and hip for us old folks now?"

   You smiled. "Yeah, maybe a little. It's okay, when I'm rich and famous I'll give you and dad each a dollar."

    "Wow, a whole dollar," your mom said sarcastically.

You smiled. "It's the least I can do."

Your mom scoffed. "Literally."

You talked to her for a small while longer, ranting about your coworkers and your job in general. You made sure not to give her too much of an insight on the "city life," if you could even call it that. She would be heartbroken. You couldn't do that to her.

After exchanging some family gossip, you finally said your goodbyes. You placed your phone back on your night table, and stretched. This was your first day off for the week, but you didn't quite know how to spend it. You sat up, scratching your messy bed-head and taking a moment to think...

Maybe it was time to stop being so negative. Today, you decided you were going to take a walk around Gotham and see what it had to offer. Surely it couldn't all be bad.

You hopped off your bed, a new kind of energy finding itself in you. Today was a new day, and you were determined to find the good amidst your current circumstances.

You cranked up the radio and made your way to your bathroom, getting yourself ready to do some exploring.

You exhaled, watching a small cloud form from your breath. It was a chilly day, but it wasn't so bad. You began your walk down a busy street, not really knowing what you were looking for, but looking for it nevertheless.

And what you found was quite surprising.

Vendors crowded the block with food from all over the world. Yes, there was always the usual falafel and taco carts like you were used to. But Gotham had so much more. There were Turkish pastries, Polish sausages, Peruvian chicken, nearly everything you could think of. It was a crowded and disorganized street, but it had a sort of urban beauty to it.

You wandered through, stopping at every cart that interested you.

You ate:

-Cheese cakes

-Soft Japanese candy

-Greek spinach pie

-Poutine

-Fish eggs (Which were surprisingly good.)

And to top it off, you had a cup of hot chocolate from a cart run by a sweet old woman who kept calling you "honey." It was rich, and very delicious. You took a sip, and prayed your stomach would go easy on you later on.

You finally reached the end of the street, and turned at the corner. This next street was much less entertaining. It was just as crowded, but there were no vendors. Just delis and busy people. You sighed, and shrugged your shoulders.

'Hey, we can't win 'em all.'

You walked down it, warming your hands with your hot cup of chocolate. You wondered what else Gotham had in store for you. Surely that street of vendors was only a small slice of its hidden treasures.

You looked around as you continued your stroll, until something finally caught your attention.

Above the crowds of Gotham citizens, you spotted something fluffy and bright green. You walked towards it, trying to get a better view.

Once you got close enough, you slowed down your pace, giggling. What you found was a dancing clown, holding up a large yellow clearance sign, wearing a bright green wig. You couldn't lie to yourself, it was a very entertaining sight.

You walked closer, trying to get a better view of the clown. His dancing was actually kind of impressive.

You watched his performance. He skipped and jumped, spinning and tossing the sign in every possible direction. It was mesmerizing. You were almost envious of his talent. He had a very bright energy to him, one that clearly didn't match the setting he was in. As you approached the clown, you noticed him begin to observe you. You were still too far to see his face clearly.

You walked even closer.

He suddenly stopped dancing, messily holding the sign up to his face, and spinning back around. You tilted your head in confusion.

'What the...'

You noticed the brown tufts of hair sticking out from his wig. You looked him up and down.

'Skinny...'

'Tall...'

'Is that who I think it is?'

You were now right behind him, waiting for him to turn. He glanced in your direction, his face shooting straight forward again once he saw you staring.

"Arthur?"

The clown stopped dancing. He sighed, and slowly brought his sign down. He turned to you, trying to act natural.

"Hey," he responded defeatedly.

    You looked down at your feet, suddenly feeling tense and nervous. The last interaction between you two wasn't the friendliest, and you knew it was largely due to your quick assumptions of him. You felt terrible about it, you knew that kind of accusation must have really hurt him. And in all honesty, your apology last night was lack luster. Yet here he stood in front of you, believing he was the one to blame.

You sighed, and looked back up at him.

"I'm really sorry about last night, Arthur."

    There was a pause. Arthur looked taken aback.

He shook his head, "No, no. It was wrong to follow you like that."

"You wanted to make sure I was safe, and all you were doing was walking home. There's no reason you should be sorry," you insisted.

He looked at you, tightening his lips.

Neither of you knew what else to say.

You stood there for a bit in uncomfortable silence, not quite knowing what to do. You cleared your throat.

"I like the outfit."

Arthur raised his eyebrows. "Oh, yeah," he smiled, looking down at himself. "I'm a party clown."

You grinned, happy to break the tension. "So, you're really good at partying?"

He shook his head, giggling. His laughter was so innocent, like a child's laughter. At least, when he meant to laugh. It was... sweet.

"No, I just get hired for small jobs like these. I go to children's hospitals sometimes, too."

You placed your hand over your heart. "Aw, do they like you there?"

He scratched the back of his neck, seeming embarrassed. But his smile was bright. "Yeah, at least I think they do."

"I'm sure they love you," you assured. "I like the makeup too, it weirdly suits you."

"Oh... Thanks," Arthur stammered. You assumed he wasn't used to compliments.

You talked for a small while longer, learning some interesting facts about his life. You learned about his dream to be a stand-up comedian, and how he wrote all his jokes in a journal. You listened to every word, noticing how he communicated with you. It seemed as if he was trying to come off as a "cool" guy... and failing. No, he didn't have the most charming personality. But you didn't mind. You knew Arthur wasn't a "normal" person. If trying to act cool helped him speak, then who were you to judge? It just made you happy that Arthur was comfortable talking to you.

    After a few more minutes of talking, you thought it would be best to let Arthur get back to work.

    "I'll see you around the building, yeah?"

    "Um... Yeah. Yeah of course," he stuttered.

    You began walking away, turning to smile and wave at him. He watched you, grinning as you went.

    Just as you turned forward, you heard him yell.

    "Hey!"

    You looked back. Arthur began waving wildly at you, mimicking your wave in a much more erratic movement.

    You faked a laugh, and turned around again.

    'Yeah. Still weird.'

[theliterateape]

Tilly’s

By Wayne Lerner

IT WAS 10 A.M. WHEN THE PHONE RANG.

“Whadda ya doin’,” the surly voice said. 

Then he laughed that hoarse, loud laugh that probably disturbed the people in the office next door.

I could see him as he talked. The mouth surrounded by the scraggly beard, moving at a thousand miles an hour. Him walking and talking at the same time since he never sat for too long in any one place. Medium height, medium build, and large hands with fingers, which had been broken years ago. The hands hid the story of a man feared by many when he was much younger.

“What do you mean, what am I doing? I'm working, taking care of things here. I am saving peoples’ lives or, at least, I’m putting up with the doctors who are saving peoples lives.”

“We’re going for lunch,” the voice said.

“Where are we going?”

“Tilly’s.”

“Tilly’s? Where’s that?”

“Corner of Madison and Paulina, sucka. Today, we’re taking a ride.”

“Why am I going to Tilly’s? I’ll be the only white guy there!”

Hats laughed again. “Nope, there will be two of you. You and George Washington on the one dollar bill. I’ll pick you up at eleven forty-five. Be ready. We’re going to my ‘hood.”

Eleven thirty came and I grabbed my coat and walked downstairs. A beat-up ‘73 Bel Air was huffing and puffing at the corner, just outside of the hospital’s front door. Lord knows the car could’ve used a new muffler or baffle. The noise bellowing out of it was guaranteed to make the cops give us a ticket.

Then again, maybe not, considering where we were going for lunch.

Hats was sitting there, no seatbelt, no hat, no gloves, no coat, no nothing, just a big smile on his face and that loud, raucous laugh when he saw me. Hats moved easily between black slang and white language depending upon who he was talking to. Today, he was all slang because we were going to his turf, the area he roamed when he led the gang. It was cold and snowy that day in January but that didn't matter. He knew he would park right out front.

“Suckas, I’m here and I want Walter’s fine cookin’!”

The short ride was interrupted with incessant belching of fumes from the back of his car and his phone ringing. 

“Yeah. No. I’ll get back to you later. I gotta talk to the alderman.”

In between calls, I asked, “Why don’t you get a new car?”

“ Why do I need a new car? I like this one. It has character, just like its owner.” 

“This car is dangerous to drive. I'm worried about you and especially your wife and kids.”

“Ain’t nothing to worry about, Mr. Volvo. I’m a pro-fessional driver!”

“This car is fucking dangerous.”

“You look worried, white boy. Don’t stress. I’m gonna take care of you.”

“Yeah, that part I’m sure of, but I’m also sure that this beater could break down and I’ll be trying to get back to the office and all your buddies in this neighborhood will be looking at me, thinking, ‘What’s that white boy doing here? Maybe we ought to step out and help him!’ I’m not so sure I’m looking forward to this experience!”

Hats laughed that crazy laugh again, so loud that it made the car windows shake and then he turned to me.

“Man, ain’t nothing ever going to happen to you. We be brothers and you know’d it.”

We parked in front of Tilly’s in a No Parking Zone. 

Hats would never park in a handicap space, but a no parking space was fair game.

The engine stuttered twice and then finally died. 

As we entered the front door of Tilly’s, Hats roared a big hello, announcing his arrival, Hats’ style.

“Suckas, I’m here and I want Walter’s fine cookin’!”

Tilly’s was a mainstay on the near west side of Chicago for the folks who grew up in that neighborhood and those who came from the southside to enjoy real southern cooking. 

I had heard about it for years from him and now I was going to have an adventure I would not soon forget. The west side burned after King died and businesses were looted...but not Tilly’s. It opened the day after, just like always. And it served bums and cops alike.

“What the hell am I going to eat?” I asked him.

“You’re gonna eat what I want you to, boy.”

My stomach was starting to churn and not in a good way.

“Grits, chitlins, pig’s feet, fried chicken, and any other shit I’m gonna put on your plate. And you better make sure you eat it all ‘cause they be watching you. See what you’re made of. Do you belong or you just a visitor?”

Men and women, regardless of age, came up and gave him a big hug. He was in his element.

He paid special attention to the young men and women, stopping to ask them about school or their jobs and their families. He was firm in his voice but soft in his heart. These were his investments and he was making sure to manage them carefully.

We moved to a table right next to the counter so he could be close to the kitchen.

Hats yelled out to the cook. 

“Walter, what the fuck you doing? Where’s my food?”

Walter stuck his head through the opening between the kitchen and the dining room and gave us a big, toothless smile. His unruly gray hair was molded into a big afro, held back by a hairnet. He, too, had a scraggly beard, but longer than Hats’. It looked like it hadn’t been trimmed since Kennedy was president.

“I’m gonna bring it out when it’s nice and hot, but not before, so sit the fuck down and shut the fuck up!”

Hats laughed and said, “Yeah and bring me another plate for my friend over here.”

Walter looked at me.

Now, my stomach was doing flip flops and it wouldn’t stop. I was getting queasy so I reached for the Tums I always carried with me.

“You mean the white boy’s gonna eat home cookin’? Don’t know he can take it.”

And Walter roared long and loud. And so did the other folks in the restaurant.

Tables were placed close together so many people could be served at one time, certainly more than the law allowed. They sat on ripped vinyl chairs, which scraped along the dirty floor as they pulled up to their tables. No mustard or ketchup on the table, just hot sauce and lots and lots of napkins.

I sat down across from Hats and made eye contact.

“I’m not gonna be able to eat this stuff ‘cause if I do, you’re going to have to take me to the emergency room.” 

Hats laughed. “This ain’t no Jewish deli, fool. It’s Tilly’s and you need to be here.”

Walter brought the food to the table. His white apron was covered in grease, his hands burnt in many places. He had a gentle smile, which contrasted with his booming voice. He used both to keep his rowdy guests in order and that usually worked. If not, Walter would pull his piece, which he hid beneath his apron. They knew he wouldn't hesitate to use it. Tilly’s was his home and nobody better fuck with him.

Walter smiled at me, “Here's your food, sir.” 

“Don’t call him sir. That here is James. No sir, just James.”

“Good to meet you, James.”

“My pleasure, Walter. It’s a treat to finally be here at Tilly’s. I've heard so much about it from Hats.”

Walter laughed.

“We'll see how you feel when you’re done eatin’ my cookin’. I’m not sure they serve this here food at your restaurants.”

I looked around as he put the plate down. All eyes were on me. I was in a suit with polished shoes, my overcoat folded over my chair. They were in dirty overalls or torn jeans, tattered shirts, and jackets with big, gaping holes.

I was out of place and I knew it. So did they. They kept watching me as I took my first bite.

I didn’t feel scared, just uncomfortable but I knew Hats and Walter would watch over me. 

I grabbed the fork and a piece of bread and started in. 

“Spicy! Holy shit!”

Food tastes I never had before. Sweet, sour, harshness and burning, like Walter used a bottle or two of horseradish and Tabasco just for me.

I picked at the food to be polite but I knew I couldn’t eat the whole thing. 

Hats watched me out of the corner of his eye with this big shit-eating grin on his face. I must have consumed a gallon of water to damp down the heat in my mouth and a loaf of bread to settle my stomach.

In a quiet, white voice, Hats said, “If you want to work in the community, you have to pass the first test. This is the beginning of our journey.”

“Okay, I’m up for it. You know I am. Nothing could be more important.” 

After about thirty minutes, I managed to eat most of the food. In between bites, I snuck two Tums into my mouth, knowing that I had some Pepto back at the office. I just had to make it for a little while longer. 

Just then, the vibe in the restaurant changed. No longer was I the entertainment. Folks shifted in their seats or swiveled on their stools at the counter to talk with Hats about problems they were having.

“What’s up, Melvin? Hats inquired.

In between chewing on the toothpick in his mouth and wiping the sauce off his chin, Melvin made the first ask. “What can the hospital do for me? Are there any jobs open?”

“Mevin, you clean? I can’t be getting you an interview if your demons still got ahold of you.”

When Diane left, the restaurant got quiet.

“I’m clean, Hats. Honest. I’m going to my meetings every week just like I told you I was.”

“Okay, Melvin. Call me on Tuesday and I’ll see what I can do. But don’t fuck me again, Melvin. That’ll be the third strike and there ain’t no more!”

As Melvin returned to his stool at the counter, a very distinguished looking woman approached our table. Her dress was clean and pressed and her hair done up like she was going out on the town.

“Diane, you look great!” Hats exclaimed. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you looking this good, especially at Tilly’s.”

Walter sneered at Hats but Hats continued.

“How’s your daughter, Diane? Is Tessa off the streets? I put the word out to make sure no one hurts her. And I’ve talked to City Hall about getting more patrols in the area to grab the creeps before they bother her and her buddies.”

Walter moved over to make room for Diane to join us. He knew this would be a tough conversation.

Diane dabbed at her tear-filled eyes and sat down. 

“I don’t know what I would do without you, Hats. After James died, I’ve tried to keep her moving straight but my job keeps me so busy I can’t watch over her all the time. And I do have other kids to concern myself with, you know.”

“I do, Diane. I know. This is shitty but we will make it right. Can you and Tessa come to my office a week from Thursday? I got someone I want her to meet who may be able to help. But I gotta do some legwork first.”

Diane rose slowly from the table, kissed Hats, gave him a long, heartfelt hug and quietly left the restaurant.

Hats played the role perfectly.

He was the community representative and he knew how to talk with his people. 

He never made a promise he couldn’t keep but he did make promises. 

And then he would deliver on them. 

His relationships with the power structure in Chicago and Springfield along with the special connection he had with the hospital’s President allowed him to build trust by being good for his word. And I was getting the education he wanted me to have. He knew, in the future, I would have to represent the organization to these same people, sometimes with him and sometimes alone. They had to see me as being good for my word as well.

When Diane left, the restaurant got quiet. The customers turned in their seats to resume eating Walter’s fine cookin’ and to listen to the conversation we were about to have.

Walter looked at me and then Hats.

“What’s going on with the new Bulls/Blackhawk stadium, Hats? We sure could use the jobs here on the westside and it would be good for business. Cops would have to patrol more ‘cause folks with money be coming to the games and the city sure don’t want no trouble. That could help us get rid of our ‘friends’ on the corners too, ya know.”

“The plans are going to the City Council next week,” I replied. “I’ll be there representing the hospital. I’ll talk to the Mayor and the alderman about the timetable, contractors and jobs and I’ll get right back to you. And you can be sure I will let them know your concerns.” 

Walter just nodded as he got up to go back to the kitchen.

“May I have the bill please, Walter?” I asked. 

Hats never carried any money when he was with me. 

“There’s no bill today, James, the food is on me. It’s always on me when Hats eats and you done a good job with your plate.”

Walter shook my hand and turned to talk to Melvin before going back into the kitchen.

I grabbed fifty dollars from my pocket and dropped it on the table. Money well spent.

I got back into Hats’ Bel Air knowing that my life was in danger once more.

“Hats, thanks for taking me to Tilly’s. You’ve talked about it for so long, I just had to see it for myself. And, man, do I like Walter. He is someone I would like to get to know a lot better.”

Just a mile away from the hospital, but light years away from the life I know.

“Hey, Hats, before I forget. Let’s make a date for next week. Walter said he would make me his special egg dish for breakfast.”

Hats just roared.

Wayne Lerner is a retired healthcare executive and an associate professor of health systems management. To stay off the street and out of trouble, he is a board member of a safety net hospital system and teaches a graduate level course in the fall at a local health university.

A lifelong Chicagoan and White Sox fan, he lives in the northern suburbs with his wife of thirty years. Together, they have five grown children (with spouses/SOs), five grandchildren ,and five grand-dogs.

Wayne has published in professional journals many times and even edited a book on a major hospital merger but he has never achieved a dream he had while in high school and college to publish an original work of fiction... until now.

[theminx1]

Many thanks to @kiolbassasmokedmeats for providing the meaty goodness for this post. My tummy and my freezer are very happy right now. #sponsored #butihonestlylovethisproduct . I grew up in a Polish household, so I know my Polish sausage. My family bought fresh sausage from a specialty shop a couple blocks from our home; we ate it for every big holiday. We liked smoked Polish sausages too, and would pick those up from a deli around the corner. I just loved the way that deli smelled, all meaty and smoky. That same aroma hit me when I opened up a package of Kiolbassa Smoked Sausage. They say that scent memories are the strongest, and I was taken straight back to my youth, standing in front of the refrigerated case in that deli, trying to decide which variety of sausage I wanted to try next. . I love Polish sausage with sauerkraut, so I modeled my 4th of July dinner after that, only I used kimchi in place of the kraut and added a sweet and smoky mayo. The end result was like a multi-cultural Reuben sandwich--so savory and delicious. . @apexdropofficial #Kiolbassa #KiolbassaSmokedMeats #KiolbassaSausage #ad. . . . #foodie #foodcoma #foodstagram #EEEEEats #foodietribe #ilovefood #fl52grams #eattheworld #dailyfoodfeed #bombesquad #FRavorites #forkyeah #eater #feedyoursoull #nomnom #baltimoreeats #myfab5 #foodgasm #foodporn @dailyfoodfeed @huffposttaste @zipkick @buzzfeedfood @foodrepublic @zagat (at Baltimore, Maryland) https://www.instagram.com/p/CCTPs3gMWKs/?igshid=1hayjasivet86

[sandwichbully]

It’s a two-fer!

Sikora’s Polish Market & Deli, 8 September 2018

  I’m biking around Nordeast on Saturday, not looking for anything in particular, I’ve been on mostly all the trails in town, now I’m just urban exploring (read: holding up traffic).   Now, let’s back up a bit, a bit of story time.   See, back in the day, Daddy Charlie went to a bar called Mayslack’s. He knows this must have happened. The problem is that he can’t fucking remember if he was ever actually there. Did it happen? Did he go there? He must have. This was when he was dating Angie Doom, she would have totally taken him to Mayslacks because it would have given her a chance to do two things she loved: Pretending to like country music and making fun of people who like country music. So he knows he had to have been there but the memory is just a blur. (Daddy Charlie was a drinker, to paraphrase Heath Ledger’s Joker.)   Mayslack’s is also famous for their garlic roast beef, so I figured that I was in the neighborhood, may as well pop in, finally form a Mayslack’s memory, and get some Sandwich Bully fodder out of it.   I walked in, took off my messenger bag, hung it on the bar stool, sat on the stool, saw the sign behind the bar that said “$20 MINIMUM FOR DEBIT AND CREDIT”, got off the stool, picked up my bag, slung it over my shoulder, and walked back out. Wasn’t even in there long enough for the bartender to know I existed.   (Also, looking at that menu online, the sandwich is $12.95, which is, uh, no.)   So, luckily, I find myself at Sikora’s, where the sign in the window says “POLISH DOG $4″ and I say yes to that. I go inside and I have to look around for the - Where - Do I go to the counter or - What? Where - It’s back in the corner, a total self-serve sitch.   There are two buns in the plastic bag - you know, the plastic bag that buns come in - in the bread box, some sketchy looking slaw (but it’s vinegar based instead of mayo based so I might live), and then there’s a steam tank inside of which are four kielbasas that look like what happens when an old man dies at the Russian bath and nobody notices until closing time. These things are wrinkly as fuck in some murky goddamned water.   However, I have dared to eat the 12:30 AM gas station hotdog more times than a suitable number for that occurrence exists. I may live.   So, seeing as how this is being served up family picnic style, I take one of the two buns (remember that) and dress it with slaw and mustard from a yellow bottle that aside from the homemade label SPICY is nondescript, and reach into the tank to grab the least wrinkliest of the four dogs.   Yeah, there were two buns and four dogs. Who put this together? Who thought they were going to sell more unbunned than bunned dogs? It just - I mean - You can see where my brain is falling to pieces with this, right?   Fuck it, I’ve got my least wrinkly sausage at the deli which is like saying I’ve got my most fuckable sheep at the petting zoo: I’m not sure about this and I think something bad will happen to me but I’m going through with it. So, fuck it, I’ve got my least wrinkly sausage and I take it up to the register and the gal at the register rings me up and I break out my debit card and she sucks her teeth, “Ooh, we actually have a five dollar minimum.”   YOU CAN’T DO THAT! THAT’S NOT HOW SOCIETY WORKS! YOU CAN’T MAKE YOUR MINIMUM HIGHER THAN YOUR SPECIAL! IN WHAT UNIVERSE DO YOU THINK THAT’S OK! WHY WOULD YOU - WHAT THE - I MEAN COME ON!!!   ... is what I wanted to say but instead I just bought a juice.   I took it to the counter and the gal said, “That’s a good choice.”   I tell her, “I just bought it because the guy on the label was smiling at me.” Which was the truth. I had no idea what the fuck it was until after I bought it and read the label: ORANGE & APPLE & LEMON JUICE.   I take a seat outside, the only seating provided and I bite into my dog and...

  This was the blandest dog I’ve... Well, that’s a bit hyperbolic but, Jesus, where was the salt? the fat? the garlic? It was totally uninspiring.   The bun was thicc and fluffy without being airy, the mustard was spicy, the coleslaw provided no crunch or sweetness or tang. Kind of bummed but I lost only four beans.

The Cardinal, 10 September 2018

  Voted or picked or elected or named or something “BEST FOOD FOR LIGHT RAIL RIDERS” by Minneapolis - St. Paul Magazine (yes, that is a publication) in twenty twelve, I was always curious to check out the Cardinal and I figured I would go there today for lunch while out riding around south Minneapolis. I mean, I don’t read MSP Mag, it’s just the banner they have hanging on the front of the building. In twenty eighteen. OK.   So I pop in, they’ve got Game Show Network on TV and Hamm’s on tap. Guy behind the counter asks what he can get me, I tell him I’m in for a bite of lunch. He starts listing off the specials as he grabs me a menu - starting with goulash because who doesn’t want goulash when it’s eighty fucking degrees out? - and I look in the menu while he’s still rattling things off and I see “Cheeseburger $6.95″ and you aint got to tell me nothing else, hoss. A $6.95 cheeseburger? In Minneapolis?   This is the land of the ice and snow, from the midnight sun where the eight dollar cheeseburgers flow. You’re undercutting every other burger stand in town?   Let’s fucking do this.   And I’ll take a fucking Hamm’s because Hamm’s.   I had my choice of grilled or raw onions. I chose grilled and I’ll tell you they were absolutely the ronin of this Japanese epic poem - Well, no, wait. Did the Japanese do epic poetry? I know the Romans and the Greeks did but what about - Because, see, even haiku are just about nature and shit. (Speaking of, I saw so many hummingbirds today. That was cool.) But those are short. Did they do epic, like, narrative poetry?   OK, so, new analogy.   The grilled onions were the true murderer whose mask is removed to reveal a severe facial disfigurement in this borderline softcore pornographic blood-soaked giallo, adding sweetness to an otherwise bog-standard cheeseburger.   The other characters included female witness frantically trying to convince the police to listen to her played by the annatto and sodium heavy American cheese; the boorish but dashing swimsuit photographer on assignment from London who sees something “telling” in the background of his photos played by the beef patty, and the police detective that is holding onto everybody’s passports until this nonsense is sorted out played by the top bun and his partner who might be too close to the murderer himself because of his wife’s work at the asylum played by the bottom bun.   Sorry, haven’t made one of my pop culture analogies lately and I like doing that so I went overboard. You don’t like it? Fuck off to a different sandwich blog.   Anyway, reflecting on the sandwich later on my bike ride, I knew what was off about it: They don’t season their meat. Or at least it didn’t taste like it, which is why I needed to pull in support players like the Simmons girl, the one they found in the park, she was here from America played by salt and Nannette, the French model, here with the photographer fellow who the police are looking at as the prime suspect played by pepper. It would have helped if they seasoned their meat a little more generously.   Oh, and also there was the female witness’s murdered-in-the-third-act prankster and scene-girl roommate played by catsup and the sleazy night club owner who winds up dead in the second act by knife in the back but the police call it mysterious causes played by mustard.   OK, I’m done.   It wasn’t a bad burger, it wasn’t a burger that made me want to shout to the heavens, either. I’ve had better burgers *cough* much better burgers *cough* but considering that the only other restaurant options right on the Blue Line are the McDonald’s four blocks south and across the street and there’s not even a LRT stop there and then the Burger King another five blocks south and across the street but with a stop a block north, the Cardinal, for being on a LRT stop, for being on the same side of the street as the tracks, and for not being a McD’s or BK, yes, by default, is the best food for Light Rail Riders. And it’s cheap, too. Not compared to the BK dollar menu which I think they call a value menu because - actually I don’t know why they do that.   I got out of the Cardinal with a cheeseburger and a beer for ten bucks before tip. Go give them your money.

  Wait, no. Don’t do that. Don’t give them your ten dollars.   Give me your ten dollars.   I wrote a book. It’s about fried chicken sandwiches.   At times.   Mostly it’s about porn.   And drugs.   And murder.   Buy it here: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/batpussy-charlie-pauken/1129374780?ean=9781538094839

[planet-inanity-blog]

Skeleton #5: HOT DOG MAN

When I started my day, when I finally rolled over and punched the off button on the alarm clock for the fourth or fifth time, I knew I wouldn't be able to make it to Main in time for the lunch rush, and I would have to settle for 7th. The problem was this: the people who worked in offices off 7th weren't balding comb over greaseballs like the guys in cheap suits that worked on Main, and therefore their hot dog consumption relied on mustachioed pinstripe nostalgia for that quintessential American summertime meal, complete with a wink and a Coca Cola. All the guys on Main needed was a quick fix, something to cram into a space being encroached upon by the growing sadness and desperation of their pitiful existence. Either that, or they were just some hungry dudes. Regardless, it was time to leave, so I did, skipping half of my morning routine and instantly regretting the fuzzy feeling of my teeth as I pushed my hot dog cart out of the driveway and onto the street. I hopped on the bike attached to the cart with a few PVC pipes, and pedaled hard in the direction of my post on 7th, my bike chain protesting a few times before settling into a comfortable position in first gear. Almost to the corner of 7th and Washington now, a few blocks away from my destination, I noticed that the construction of the tunnel under Highway 5 was almost finished. Before the highway had been there, there had been a little strip mall with a dry cleaners and a kosher deli that I used to get bagels from every Sunday. The tunnel ran right through where the deli had once stood, and though it was still cordoned off, I could see all the way through to the other side. I had been eagerly anticipating the completion of this tunnel for months now, for it would allow me to bypass the only pedestrian bridge over Highway 5, and save me an immense amount of time getting to my most lucrative spot on Main. Making a snap decision, I suddenly, recklessly, careened into the middle of the road and with a ka-chunk-ah bumped up onto the path leading to the aforementioned tunnel. In my jury-rigged hand mirror rearview I could see the woman in the car behind me put her hand on her horn, but in the end she decided it wasn't worth it and sped off. Now I was determined to get in time. Those guys needed me, and I sure as hell needed them to help pay my electricity bill, which was way overdue. When I got to the entrance, my first impression was that someone had taken great care to wrap the plastic caution tape around the pylons on either side of the opening. From waist height down, there was not a part of the tape that I could see through. I hated to undo such fastidious work, but I had little time to think about the moral implications of my actions, so I dismounted and used the box knife for opening packages of hot dog buns to cut cleanly through the middle of the tape. As I made the final cut and the tape flopped limply to either side, a sudden gust of wind, carrying the smell of something akin to rotten meat, filled my nostrils without room for debate. Grimacing, and hoping that I wouldn't run into the source of the smell in the dark, I got back on the bike and started to make my way into the tunnel. The tunnel was plenty big for my cart and bike on the inside, and was made from polished concrete that reminded me of the shiny floor of the deli that existed in this very spot all those years ago. As I pedaled on through the semi-dark, I realized that even though there had to be heavy traffic coming out of the city this time of day, I could hear absolutely nothing from the highway overhead. In fact, the only noise that accompanied my brief trip was the sound of my labored breathing. Except it didn't sound like my breathing. It sounded like I was about 200 pounds heavier and a smoker. It sounded like I was one of those greaseballs that ate one of my hot dogs nearly every day in the summer. As I neared the exit, I decided that  there were probably just some strange acoustics in this tunnel, and at least I had been lucky enough to avoid running over whatever was causing that terrible odor. When I emerged back into the light of day, my cart gave a slight jolt as it followed me out of that soundproof passageway, and I heard a loud noise like the implosion of an aluminum can the size of a phonebooth. Worried that I had damaged my cart somehow by running into something on exiting, I turned to observe the damage, but nothing looked out of the ordinary, and the shiny brushed metal of the cart temporarily blinded me in the intense sun coming through the trees. Shaking my head, I pressed on, and about five minutes later, I pulled up to the corner of Roosevelt and Main where I could already see a small crowd of hungry greasers awaiting my arrival. I pulled over to the curb, detached my bike, and pushed the cart up onto the edge of the sidewalk. As a crude line formed from the mass of eager looking business men, I started to pull out condiments with a practiced flourish. The first person in line, a particularly lumpy looking little bald man, ordered two hot dogs, and two cans of Sierra Mist. I nodded, took his wadded up bills, and opened the heated compartment that held my foil wrapped livelihood. And I recoiled in horror. The stench that I had caught a whiff of at the entrance of the tunnel had returned with a vengeance and once again flooded my nostrils. Inside the compartment, foil shredded and strewn about, was a terrible mass of indistinguishable buns and hot dogs, no visible separation. Some buns were attached to other buns, some to hot dogs. All as if they were one entity to begin with, no seams or folds or tears. Just one flesh, yes flesh, flesh is the only way I can describe what I saw, even though I rationally knew what the inside of my cart had held at the start of the day. Quickly, seeing the faces of my patrons curdle as they too apprehended the horrendous stench, I slammed the compartment door closed, mumbled something vaguely apologetic, and returned the crumpled cash to its owner, simultaneously beginning to hitch up my cart. Then, as the disappointed crowd started to disperse, a muted thumping sound started to emanate from the inside of the cart. I dropped what I was doing and put my ear to the compartment door, and sure enough the thumping became even louder. Cautiously, nervously, I twisted the handle and lifted the door a few inches. The thumping stopped. Then BAM! The door slammed open onto the top of the cart and out shot a blurry hot dog colored thing about the size of a standard poodle. It landed on the sidewalk with a doughy thud a few yards from me, and before I could get a good look at it, trundled off in the direction of the office workers on two stubby legs. In shock only for a few moments, I saw myself on the evening news, trying to explain how this abomination came from my hot dog stand, and fearing for the fate of my unpaid electricity bill, I sprinted after it. The little bastard was fast, but from the bewildered looks of the people in its wake, I was able to tell pretty well where it was going: right into the oldest and tallest skyscraper in the city, the Bozz Corporation's headquarters. As I rounded the corner of the building, revolving door entrance in sight, I knew I was too late when I heard a high pitched scream. There the lumpy guy at the front of the line stood in front of me, mouth open, looking up at the roof of the building and pointing. I followed the path of his index finger, and there, perched on the edge of an elaborate stone cornice was whatever emerged from my cart, clearly humanoid and peering down at the onlookers in a defiant manner. In a loud voice like the gurgling symphony of a souped-up garbage disposal,  the creature began to shout down at us. From that distance, it was impossible to make out what it was saying, but it sounded to me like "I barf what you eat" or "you are a sweet treat" or "buy california meat" -- I'm really not certain. It repeated the phrase three times, then without hesitation, unceremoniously pushed off from the building and swan dove gracefully onto the sidewalk below. Similar to an Olympic diver, this act too ended in a splash, but instead of chlorinated water, this impact spewed a melange of soft bread and meaty bits onto the suits of the people who had watched this all go down. Replaying again and again in my mind, when it was  at the mid part of its fall,  I could have sworn that I saw the miniaturized and mottled form of the lumpy man beside me, winking at me mere moments before it hit the sidewalk. After the police came, and nobody was able to tell them anything helpful, I packed up my cart and rode home as though nothing had happened. But something did happen, and I am afraid I will be eternally haunted by the image of that falling hot dog man, winking at me as its final act. Even though the tunnel I went through that day is officially open now, I refuse to go through it again, and take the long way over the pedestrian bridge down the road. Really, the most important life change I've made since this incident though is one that I believe all people should subscribe too. I buy big, juicy kosher hot dogs, and you'll have to trust me on this one: those suckers will change your life.*

*This is a paid advertisement from the Kosher and Unintelligent Meats agency

[janiklandre-blog]

Wednesday, April 19, 2017

9:21 a.m. cool day - getting used to a much brighter world - still, all a bit confusing.

Thinking how this here computer room now is structuring my day - used to write in Ken computer days - computer on my desk - early in the morning - have been waking up again around 6, the new time - hate the twice yearly time changes and am not alone - New England considering to abolish them and live on their own time.

First thought now the drops - then I do turn on ABC TV - since I never had cable and luckily Ken was around to install for me the $40 box I needed to keep using my TV - and ABC is about the only channel I get now,  also breaking up a lot - after pushing three buttons in the right order (it used to be one) - the breaking news is all about murders, fires, accident and a very extended weather report that only confuses me. Still, that is how I have come to begin my day. Since today Passover is over and the streets will get cleaned again - no alternate parking during Passover - also Moishe's bakery reopened - I head down the Bowery to 8th Street - so much garbage on side walks, people sleeping on the side walks - down 8th Street also called St.Mark's place - how changed from the time I came here - to a something Spa corner 8th and second ave - one of the few remnants of olden days - a friendly man selling me the New York Times - today a detour to 9th street to a bank with a relatively simple ATM - Apple bank that I used refuses to service my Amalgated bank card. On to Moishe's - no cake yet, no coffee, I got some cheese strudel - and on the deli on 4th street - super market opens at 9. In 1973 many stores opened at 6, all were open by 8 - now many don't open until noon - every store has a different time - but the delis: 24/7 - open day and night.My mother would have loved it, in her Vienna store was open from 7-12 - then a siesta until 3, and once more from 3-6 - closed from Saturdaynoon until Monday morning. She should have come to New York - she would have loved this city - I begged to come - to no avail. By 8:10 I was home again, to read the NY Times until 9 - with a coffee I buy, half of the cheese strudel - reading with interest the review of a British book about Snobbishness - and class - so discussed in England and denied in America. By now I've been made aware of people of value - the indication of the French woman that I was not one of them - this afternoon she once again is returning to Paris for medical treatment. Free so I hear in France - she  at this moment my cell phone rang and she returned my call from yesterday - she is one of very few conscientious returners of calls. She does get treated well in France, I was about to write - we all do hope she will return soon - she much prefers New York to Paris - most of my European friends much prefer New York to where ever they come from in Europe. They do feel a lot freer here. Another friend introduced me to the concept of a,b,c and so on lists - did correctly state - as a young and beautiful woman you are much higher on the list - that is why I noticed the list a lot less when I was young. But one topic I sort of started on yesterday was intrigue - in German we speak of "Intriganten" - English does not seem to make it into a noun - earlier I  looked for definitions in my Webster, found schemer, manager and a few other terms. One thing that came to my mind that people growing up in a brood - some still do with with nine or ten siblings, but even those with five or six - or even just one - by necessity become early schemers to get some attention. It obviously does make them the natural schemers that I never became. Obviously my this here blog is a tiny, very late attempt at a little attention - and very much held against me by some - who find it totally unbecoming.

Never thought much about intrigue before, now I do. I am - I believe - utterly inapt - also my inaptitude at politics - that is all about scheming? Snob - the author of the book says some of it is good - and we often express it in ways we are not conscious of. I suspect I have and do express some snobbery.

Yesterday. Polish church - I do end up at a table with Chinese. Things were a bit slow - a Slavic lunch - cooked by some Polish restaurant in Brooklyn, the food is catered - very nice buttered noodles with lots of sour cream and some canned peaches and carrots - in Prague we often had something sweet for lunch - poppiseeds used a lot, cottage cheese more like what they call here farmer's cheese, with noodles and sugar, sweet dumplings and also some dish with cabbage that was sweet. Not all that much meat - not much meat during the war - I can happily live without it. Sugar also was rationed - nothing was too sweet. Then they have been wanting me to register - required for the city funding they get - it reminded me of Polish jokes, how many Poles does it take to change a light bulb - in this case it was two Polish women struggling with a computer - always forms, forms that go with anything subsidised - I guess that is one of many reasons people do like the Catholic Worker - no government involvement, they never have become a non-for-profit that among other things makes institutions tax exempt and also would facitilate - at least before our new president - extended visitor visas for volunteer workers. Among the very best workers they had were young German woman - there was some man in Berlin who was excellent at recruiting them - Germans were liked - I too profited from that. Now that source seems dried up - visas are for shorter and shorter periods.

In any event, anything having to do with bureaucracy exhausts me - the two Polish women were exhausted also - then I still did some shopping - and everything has become heavier than it used to be - I did take my little green back pack - most women in my house allot more time to shopping, go with their carts and go to Key Foods on Avenue A - three city blocks from my house - cheaper than the 2nd Avenue market where I go. Must be a tiny fraction of the markets outside of the city - they do provide motorized scooters for those with difficulty walking - will bring their groceries to the trunks of their cars - and until now drivers licences get extended until people die over 100. Couple of phone calls - I was exhausted - fell asleep for a while, woke by 3 p.m. - called a Central Park friend, she kept me on the phone - people do seem to do that - finally I headed for Washington Square Park, closer to the West, where I had gotten into talking to Ferdinando before - he arrived as I arrived - alas it had turned cold and I was cold, still talked with him close to an hour - he is 88 and in great shape - only once saw his father who was from Peru and did not speak English - he grew up in a Catholic orphanage and never learned Spanish, his mother was Puerto Rican, never told him about family. He profited greatly from years in the army, ended up in the Korean War, came down with TB, was cured - and should I see him again I'll find out more about his life. I told him he was a great example of being fit, healthy, bright at 88 despite of truly disadvantaged younger years. It was some politician - Moynahan I believe - also from a disadvantaged background who praised people pulling themselves up by their shoe strings - Feerdonando seems a good example. Talking to him cheered me up - obviously is in some awe of me, the world I come from - in much worse physical shape than he is and probably a good deal less content than he is. Pleasures of New York - pleasures of Washington Square Park - lots of young people, bands playing - I decided a lot more happening than in Tompkins Square park. Luckily, still a pleasant walk for me. My eyes acting a bit funny - I do see black floaters - am told it will take a while for complele normalcy - telling me, enough computer? Off to the dentist - some teeth to extract - what a drag it is getting old. Ferdinando has good teeth - found out what I have been taking is an Ace inhibitor not a beta blocker as I thought - Jane Brody in the nyt yesterday on how many people pay lots of money for pills and end up never taking them - to ill effect. I have been taking the pill. Hope to be back tomorrow morning - take train to 86th, then cross town bus to my dentist on West End Avenue - plan later stop in Central Park - yesterday on TV shown in beautiful bloom   -  still, fast cars, bikes, motorized scate boards coming from all directions so many people I know have gotten run over - say a prayer when I leave the house. Marianne

[manchattanskyline]

Downtown to Midtown and Back Again.

Manhattan Bridge, Manhattan- side traffic exit

A sleepless , and I mean totally sleepless, night followed. I was at the reception desk at 6 am , sharp, being firm but fair to begin with but this quickly deteriorated into out-and-out begging for a room on the other side of the building. I was given sincere apologies and informed that another room would be free, the following day. One more night in the noisiest room from Hell. OK, it had to be done. We didn’t have a choice. Being terribly stiff-upper-lipped about the whole thing, I decided that this was not going to ruin the holiday, or even the day. I slapped on some make-up on my far-travelled, sleepless, dehydrated face and we set off in to the slightly warmer climes of -2 degrees C. It had snowed the day before so I thought it would be a good idea to go all the way up to Central Park, while the snow was still hanging around, so that we could see some iconic ‘New York in the snow’ sights. Despite the joys of free wifi in the hotel and the excitement of using Google Maps in New York, it was a bit further than I’d anticipated. We soon stopped at a lovely looking coffee shop called Think Coffee, at the lower end of the hugely historic Bowery.  The Bowery has seen some good times, bad times and downright dangerous times. From being one of the first roads built in New York, showing Houdini’s first solo show and spawning the birth of punk rock in America ( see CBGB’s &  The Ramones ) there’s a rich history and culture about the place, although the lower end is now mainly populated by restaurant equipment and lighting shops.

There are still some original stores here, like the cash register store which has been selling and repairing the things since the turn of the century ( the 1900 one). There are some beautiful old fashioned elaborate models in the window, as well as rows and rows of spare parts, inside.There’s also The Bowery Mission, a men’s shelter set up in 1879, and at it’s current location since 1908, which still provides help and shelter to Lower Manhattan’s homeless.   A lot of the shops and buildings have laminated posters in their windows, telling you the history of that building. I think we managed to read most of them, over the next ten days, but I’m sure there are a few that eluded us.

The Bowery, Downtown

The Bowery, Downtown

We settled down in the warm – sweet- pastry smelling coffee shop to a crispy  artisanal ( I use that word with a wry smile) almond croissant and a steaming- creamy cappuccino. Sat in the corner window on a real leather seat, at an impossibly small table, we had a perfect view of the whole world passing us by. Every age, race, gender and sexuality passed by that window, as two NYPD cops were handing out leaflets on the corner of Bleecker St and The Bowery. What struck me was how much interaction there was between the NYPD and the general public. Despite the corruption which we know still exists within the organisation, it’s clear that New Yorkers do, ultimately, trust their police force. They know that they keep their city safe, that they have and will continue to sacrifice much, for New York and it’s visitors. In the UK, we rarely have anything to do with our Police force unless we’re in trouble, as a suspect or a victim! People were having cheerful conversations with these cops, thanking them for their work and wishing them a good day. As one older woman touched the arm of one of the cops, all I could think was ‘ are you crazy, he’s got a gun!’. And they do have guns. And batons. And stab proof vests. I have my opinions on armed Police but here, in this city, with it’s issues and it’s not so distant history, I found myself feeling a little more open minded on the subject.  There’s an eclectic 1990s mix-tape playing in the coffee shop and suddenly it’s the Spice Girls. New York is already giving me so much life, so much to see, so much to hear, so much to smell. What have we given New York? The sodding Spice Girls. I feel like I ought to rush up to the counter to apologise. I could have sat in that window seat for the next ten days, just soaking in the action on that cold street corner. We had a good way to go yet and so we bundled back up, taking care to dispose of our individual items in the appropriate recycling bins, and pushed on, back up The Bowery, towards Midtown and Central Park.

Each new block gradually became a little busier with more business-types. The buildings got newer, shinier, squarer and taller and we found ourselves walking over more and more subway vents and bigger crossings. A note about crossing the road in New York. First of all, a really good way to judge a native New Yorker, or someone who’s been here more than twenty-four hours, is to see how far out in to the street they stand when waiting to cross. new comers (like us) dilligently stay on the pavement (sidewalk) whilst inevitably looking the wrong way first. Natives stand a good few feet out, confident that not only are they looking the right way, but that are close enough to the sidewalk to jump back from a speeding truck and far enough out to accurately judge the first opportunity to cross.

About those ‘walk’ ‘don’t walk’ signs. First off, the original style ones were replaced in 2004 when the city replaced them with pictograms (a white pedestrian for ‘walk’ and a red hand for ‘don’t walk’. This does make me a little sad but it also makes it a lot safer for the hundreds of thousands  of non-English speaking visitors and new residents of the city. Secondly, you learn pretty quickly that these signs are an optimistic suggestion, at best, and a dangerous assumption at worst. Whilst here are enforced rules in New York regarding jay-walking, from what I could gather the general rule is ‘walk’ means you can cross but the traffic might still run you over, a ‘don’t walk’ means you can cross but the traffic will actively go out of it’s way to run you over. If there is no sign, look both ways, say a little prayer and run across with your eyes closed, keeping at least one other person (a loved one if needs must) between you and the oncoming traffic.

We passed men practising ballet at the barre, in what looked like a shop window but which was probably a studio / gym. we casually spotting a giant red Jeff Koons “Balloon Rabbit” in the foyer of an office building and lamented the deaths of what seemed like hundreds of discarded Christmas trees, permeating the air with their piney-scent as they lay on their sides, covered in a very festive dusting of snow and awaiting their fate (Sssssssh, don’t tell them!). There were tiny dogs wearing coats and shoes and women with huge leather tote handbags and even bigger headphones. The air felt crisper and cleaner as we approached the lower East side of the Park. Suddenly the soaring Empire State Building, the ominous Trump Building (this was only days away from the inauguration) and the ornate Plaza Hotel give way to wide-open walk-ways, trees, grass and sky. Sky! Something we hadn’t seen an awful lot of since crossing 14th St and passing the Flat Iron Building  There was a incredibly smug-looking woman running in Central Park. To be fare, who wouldn’t be smug if that was your local running track, and although our faces hurt from the cold and our legs ached from the rather epic trip from Lower East Side to Upper West side (yes, yes, we should have taken the Subway) I was nothing but ecstatically happy.

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Jeff Koons’ Balloon Rabbit

The Flatiron Building

The Chrysler Building

Central park Ice-Rink

That bridge, Central park

I felt like I knew my way around Midtown better than I did Downtown, only because that’s the area I’d stayed in before but having already had a glimpse of the more residential and daily-functioning of Downtown, I was realising how showy and over-polished the upper areas of Manhattan were. This is where the iconic skyscrapers and word-renowned department stores and, yes, the money, reside. All these things make for great photos and certainly have the ‘wow’ factor but they are also the tourist traps and the over-priced attractions and are a million miles away from the soul of New York. This is one version of New York, one of a hundred, that gives you a totally different experience of the city from the one you had a block away.

A quick jaunt in to the park and out again on the lower West side at Columbus Circle, along  West 59th street, back to The Plaza (where we’d be having afternoon tea on Friday) and then back down Fifth Avenue at a leisurely pace towards our main food destination of the day, the world famous Katz’s Deli. After turning the map round a few times to re-orintate ourselves and almost bumping into Helena Bonham-Carter (yes, really) we arrived at our neon-lit destination. You know, the one in ‘When Harry Met Sally’ , where Meg Ryan demonstrates to Billy Crystal the acting skills of the female species. A quick scan of the walls of the giant dining area, every inch covered with photos of the deli’s owner and staff with movie stars, sports personalities, politicians and the odd U.S President, proves that that’s not all it’s known for. What Katz’s does best, beyond the fame and the hype and the celebrities, is really, really, really, really, really good food. We opted for table service as the counter service ordering was a little confusing and we really needed a sit down. I had the pastrami on rye, with pickles, and a home-made lemonade (Katz’s own brand). The meat was hot, the bread was soft and the pickles were amazing. The sandwich itself was huge and whilst I ate half without a struggle, the second half proved a struggle and was beaten I ate some meat off the remains half and then had to concede that I was already way past being just ‘full’. My dessert tummy was not, however, and so we both ordered a plain New York cheesecake. It would have been rude no to.

Katz’s, That’s all!

Always busy and the huuuuge serving counter.

Pastrami on rye, lemonade and a whole plate of pickles

Even Leo’s been here.

As we slowly (very slowly) rolled back down Houston St towards The Bowery, we passed two stalwarts of the Lower-East side culinary scene: Russ & Daughters and Yonah Shimmel’s Knish Bakery, both Jewish in origin and both promising familiar and mind-boggling delicacies, alike. We resolved to return and visit these establishments, later on in our trip.

When we returned to our hotel room, we were tired and aching and full to bursting. It would have been dangerous to lie down so we caught up with a bit of social media, posted some photos and watched a bit of TV. The local New York channel was concentrating on the up-coming inauguration and the protesters we had passed, on Fifth Avenue. living in a city I was, of course accustomed to seeing familiar streets not he news but this was different. This was world famous streets and world changing events that we had ben privy to, just a few hours ago. Before we got too comfy and fell asleep, we took a quick look at the map and went on a min-advendure to Little Italy. Mr Manhattan has Italian heritage so we were interested to see a) how much of it still there and b)whether or not we had room for a canoli. it was well and truly dark now and as it was a Tuesday evening, also pretty quiet everywhere. We had a bit of a reccy and made a not of some places we’d like to come back to, to eat, and then found ourselves in a gorgeous old corner cafe, Caffe Roma. Proudly situated on the corner of Mulberry and Broome, this place had been here since 1880 and didn’t seem to have changed much. A large glass display counter showcased plate after plate of pastries, cakes and biscuits. The decor was most definitely original and the chairs were the old decorative wire kind, and reassuringly uncomfortable.

display counter of wonders

Old School

Espresso and canoli

Original ceiling, light fitting and shelves

Outside sign

Turns out we did have room for canoli, and an espresso. We had a further mooch around the neighbourhood, now being squeezed by the ever-spawling Chinatown to the South and the multi-million dollar brownstones of Greenwich Village to the North. Having long been deserted by all but a handful of the descendants of those brave and trail-blazing immigrants, the popular restaurants and bakeries remain but you know that no new arrival to this city could ever afford one of those apartments, five stories above our heads, sporting a smart fire-escape and potted palms.

Welcome

A small selection of Ravioli

Oldest Cheese Store in America

Sofia’s, Mulberry Street

With no room left in our tummies and no elasticity left in our leg muscles, we sauntered back to the hotel, and our Subway train soundtrack.

Manhattan Bridge from our hotel window. No zoom.

Read the first entry of this travel diary, here. New York Travel Diary: Day 0

New York Travel Diary: Day 1. Downtown to Midtown and Back Again. A sleepless , and I mean totally sleepless, night followed. I was at the reception desk at 6 am , sharp, being firm but fair to begin with but this quickly deteriorated into out-and-out begging for a room on the other side of the building.