I have been drawn to unique-themed playlists and listening projects this summer, inspired by various sources, friends, kindred spirits, radio programs, and American music in general. I've created lunar playlists, emotional playlists, playlists about rain or fire, have had playlists made for me about evil and the macabre futility of existence, and playlists where you listen to one song in various incarnations. I realized, that Jesse James not only seems to be a popular topic in American folk music, but a few variations of the song "Jesse James" persist through many different genres, so I figured I could combine the themed playlist aspect with the single-song-many-versions aspect to form a uniquely American, Jesse James-soaked listening experience. It also links up with my weird and unexpected obsession with trains as of late. And it allows me to express my musical fanaticism in the nerdiest fashion possible; the unassigned homework approach. And so continues my Americana summer...
"Jesse James"- Woody Guthrie
"Jesse James"- Pete Seeger
"Jesse James"- Bruce Springsteen
"Jesse James"- The Pogues
"Jesse James"- The Kingston Trio
"The Ballad of Jesse James"- Johnny Cash
"Just Like Jesse James"- Cher Yeah, I had the cajones to post this one.
"Just Like Jesse James"- The Mooney Suzuki Okay, this one wouldn't really make sense without the original Cher version... (Just copy and paste and hit play because this stupid site won't let me post links for some reason)
http://grooveshark.com/#/search?q=mooney+suzuki+just+like+jesse+james
"Riding with Jesse James"- Charlie Daniels
"I'm Bad Like Jesse James"- John Lee Hooker
"Frank and Jesse James"- Warren Zevon
"I Dreamed I Saw Jesse James Last Night"- Charlie Parr
"The Great Conch Train Robbery"- Shel Silverstein
"A Train Robbery"- Levon Helm
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, July 8, 2011
The Lunch Box- Revised
The park bustled with life, as usual, that afternoon. Nameless faces meandering through the paths, lounging on the benches and warm earth, laughing absently, living what appeared to be their superficial existences. Where was all the pain and dark secrets? Not in this park, on this day. Everyone seemed to be in high spirits, carefree and enjoying themselves. She wondered why she was the only one caught in her head all the time. Never quite able to let go and be present, always waiting for some faraway occurrence that never materialized. She leans back on the fountain ledge she is perched on, she wants to fall back into the water so badly, but she stops herself, like always. The warmth of the sun isn't quite warm enough for her that day, and a little shiver runs down the curve of her back. The heat of summer is still too cold for what she is looking for. Her eyes dart back and forth across the park, catching a glimpse of every dumb-founded person that makes their way back to their dull routine. No one is of any real interest. They all seem like they are androids, they exist, but just barely. She thinks of the unimportance of all their lives, even collectively. Just another example of the world's cruel joke, giving man this inflated ego, while someone sits back and laughs at how piddly and insignificant they actually are. She counts herself among the insignificant, but with the slightest air of smugness. At least she recognizes it, not like these mindless morons, going about their day like it is the end-all be-all of humanity. Business meetings, lunching ladies, play dates, and whatever else, so-called normal people do to pass the time in their ridiculous blink-and-you'll-miss-it lives. Sometimes she feels nauseous at the idea that somehow she is lumped in with these peons. Someone could be doing the exact same thing she is, surveying the park with a critical eye, laughing quietly to themselves. The generics come and go without much fanfare, nothing intriguing to even invent about them. How can you make these vapid robots even remotely worthwhile? She closes her eyes and tilts her head toward the sun. It creates red and orange lines and smudges in her head. She lets the sun bake her for a few moments before reluctantly returning to the world. She opens her eyes to find a man has taken seat a few feet to the left of her on the fountain ledge. He has to be in his mid-thirties, slightly dirty looking with his full beard and dark wiry hair, making him appear older than he is. He is wearing dusty, dark blue coveralls and his hands are covered in grease. His fingernails are black with oil and grime, his name is stitched on a patch on his left breast, but the fabric is folded over so she can't quite make out what it says. She looks around again, but no one seems to notice the man, but her. She is angled slightly away from him, making her staring all that more obvious, but he doesn't seem to notice. He just keeps fingering a dented, paint-chipped old lunch pail resting on his lap. He runs his hands across the top slowly, then makes his way down the sides, it makes a hollow tink-pop when his thick, calloused fingers push in one of the many convexments. He begins to play with the handle, squeaking it up and down with a tinny clink when it hits either side. It is rectangular with a rounded top, a faded sun-baked pale canary, what once could have been off-white, but had yellowed with age, with chips of steel grey where the paint has inevitably eroded away through the years. He doesn't quite seem nervous, but slightly on edge, maybe sullen, even. He doesn't seem content to be living his menial existence, he doesn't seem to be perpetually late for some farce. He seems like he is stuck in his head too. He looks up from his lunch box every so often to watch the people pass by, but then he hangs his head once again. She can't take her eyes off of him. He either doesn't notice or doesn't mind because he just goes on about his lunch pail transfixiation. She turns as subtly as she can to face his direction. His large, greasy hands dwarf the dilapidated lunch pail. Her gaze moves up to his face. His beard and dirty-appearance are at first off-putting, but under that mask, lies what could be quite a handsome man. A chiseled jaw lies beneath the haphazard tangle of brush. He is tall and powerful, every bit of 6'5. His build is strong and masculine, his arms almost bulging through his sleeves, his hands resolute and decisive, but his eyes are soft and kind. Dark brown with golden flecks of sadness dotting their landscape. A thousand stories lie behind those eyes, she thinks, maybe she wishes. He just keeps clutching his lunch pail and staring out with those soulful eyes. She wants to say something, but doesn't know what. Just then the mammoth of mystery pulls a waxed paper-wrapped sandwich out of his left breast pocket, thereby smoothing his name patch out enough for her to read; Jack. He begins to unwrap his meal from its waxy captor, turkey on wheat she discerns. Then it clicks, why would he keep his lunch in his pocket if he has a lunch box? This is curious, indeed, she thinks. He devours the sandwich before she has time to make heads or tails of the development. He crumples the waxed paper in his massive claw and shoves it back into his pocket. He rises slowly, lunch pail in hand and makes his way back to the street side of the park. He lumbers out of view, around the corner of a bodega. Now it was her turn to be dumb-founded. She couldn't keep him out of her mind. His visage burned into her brain like the fiery lines from the sunlight. The hour was getting late and she had to be getting back to work, but it was with total reluctance that she had to leave the park that day.
A few days had passed and she was back at her fountain ledge, watching the ignorants lead their sparse, shallow lives. She had almost forgot about Jack and his growing- in-mystery lunch box, when he strode casually to the spot in which she first laid eyes upon him. There he was, clutching his lunch box like a brick of gold, letting out a barely audible sigh as he sat on the ledge. Her heart begin to beat rapidly, so loud she thought he would hear. She felt her face flush with the rushing blood that filled its chambers. That anxious-feeling welled up in the pit of her stomach, leaving her catatonic for a brief second. She snapped back and sat, perched on the edge of her seat, waiting to see if he brought another bizarre pocket lunch. She didn't have to wait long, as he drew another wrapped sandwich out of his coveralls' pocket. Tuna salad on white this time. The smell was unmistakable. Who is making these sandwiches? Is he? Does he have a little wife somewhere that makes him his lunch everyday? And if he keeps his lunch in his pocket, what the Hell is he keeping in that lunch pail he clings to? This is definitely the most interesting person this park has ever hosted, she decides. After finishing his tuna, he heads to the street side and around the corner, to be gone again, leaving her with an empty feeling swimming around in her gut.
This identical scene goes on for the rest of the week. The abstruse blue-collar sits beside her on the fountain ledge, pulls out his homemade sandwich from his "Jack" pocket with one adroit paw, while grasping his dented old lunch pail with the other. He eats his lunch so quickly, one would be hard-pressed to even recall if it ever existed. She can't take her eyes off of him, seated there next to her every day, she begins to anticipate his arrival. She gets that excited feeling when she sees him cross the greenscape of the park, making his way over to the fountain. Her heart flutters the tiniest bit when he sits beside her. She realizes, morosely, that this is the happiest she has been in a long time. This is the part of her day she looks forward to the most. Watching this unappreciated lumberjack eat his lunch while obsessing over an old metal box. She can't help wondering what's in that pail of his. The way it hangs, in his gargantuan mitt when he walks back to the street, seems like it contains something. Could it be old love letters, perhaps? She fantasizes. Business papers, maybe? Stuff he doesn't feel comfortable leaving in his 5th floor walk-up on the bad side of the city. What if it's his cherished teddy bear from childhood that can't stand to go anywhere without? He feels ridiculous though, so he stuffs it into an old lunch pail, she chuckles to herself. It's probably just a few mechanics tools, she figures.
The next day, she anxiously awaits Jack's arrival. She practically dances in her seat. She can't seem to keep still, tapping along to an imaginary rhythm with her slender fingers on the coarse cement of the ledge. She was more anticipatory than usual, for she had decided that today was the day she was going to talk to him. What she was going to say, she had no idea, but she avowed to make some kind of idle chit-chat. He was usually here by now, she thought. The hour was getting late and she needed to return to work in the next 10 minutes or so. She nervously looked down at her watch again, as if willing time to freeze for her sole benefit. She heard the metallic clink of the lunch pail before she spotted him just across the park. He plodded his way over to his usual stretch of cement, his eyes never far from his coveted lunchbox. He ran his considerable hands, ever so tenderly, up either side of the lunchbox, converging at the top. She longed for him to run his masculine hands up and down her body like that. Was this just a nervous habit or was there something in that pail that he really loved in that sweet manner? She needed to speak before he started to inhale his sandwich. But what would she say? She hesitated. She wanted something quasi-clever and charming to just roll off her tongue. Something that they would look back on and laugh, at how quirky and bold she was, years down the line in their too-small studio apartment that they never would have the heart to move from. She could ask him about what kind of sandwich he had brought that day, but that seemed kind of weird, like she was creepily watching him, which she in fact was, but...What about a comment about a current event or something culturally topical? But what? What if he had no idea what she was talking about? She could ask him what's in the pail, but that seemed too forward, it was far too sacred to ask him about right at the jump. Anything, she frantically searched her brain for anything. Anything, but a trite comment about the weather, she scolded herself, that's not charming. What about a comment about the fountain, it's beautifully carved marble sculpture of Poseidon, arced in a defiant pose, with trident in hand? That's going to have to suffice, she thought. She'll say something witty about the sculpture, like, don't you just love Poseidon? He is definitely my favorite of the Greek gods. They would have an entire repartee about the merits of Greek gods, that would extend well-past either of their lunch hours, and they will glance at the time, so surprised at the amount that had passed. They will share another knowing laugh and make plans to meet there the same time tomorrow...She snapped back into reality. Jack was reaching into his pocket for his sandwich du jour. It was now or never she thought.
As she opened her mouth to speak, a shrill scream seemingly escaped her mouth. It had come from across the park. A middle-aged mother was yelling for help besides an antebellum oak tree. Her little boy had climbed so high, he was barely in sight, just the bright blue stripe of his shirt was visible through the verdant foliage. He can't get down! Help, please someone! She hollered. He had managed to catch his foot in a knotted hole in a huge branch. He began to sob and panic right along with his hysterical mother. She was really starting to wail now. No one knew what do for a moment. Someone murmured call the fire department. He has asthma, she shouted, and his inhaler is down here. She waved it in her hand, like a white flag of surrender. You could faintly make out his respirations from high atop the city. This entire dialogue took less than 20 seconds, but it seemed in slow-motion with the fray it created. At first, it seemed like Jack didn't notice, really, what was going on. But then like someone branding him with a red hot poker, he flew off of the ledge, throwing down his precious lunchbox in the process as he raced over to the antiquated oak. A crowd had gather around the base of the tree, while the mother pitifully reveled in all the attention. Jack pushed his way through the crowd to the trunk. He was going to climb that damned tree, she thought. Not only is he the most arcane man she's ever seen, but a hero, too? This really is who she had been searching for. As Jack made his way adeptly up the tree, surprisingly swiftly, for a man of his size, the crowd cheered and applauded.
Suddenly, she realized the lunchbox was right next to her foot on the cement. She had been so captivated by Jack's bravery she had lost sight of it for a moment. There it was, inches away from her. She looked around, everyone had made their way to the scene. She bent down further to look at it. It looked more plain up close, not so recondite, after, she thought. She knew how much he revered it. She picked it up gingerly and placed it on the fountain ledge. It was heavier than she anticipated, blooming her curiosity. Quite an audience had gathered now, with no one paying the slightest attention to her. Jack had made it up to the little boy, he was unwedging his foot from the cavernous knot. Her curiosity got the better of her. She unlatched the the tarnished clasp of the lunchbox as quietly as she could, as if someone could hear her over the din of the crowd. It snapped back against the chipped metal. Still no one looked in her direction. With her hands on either side of the secretive pail, she slowly lifted the lid, it made an eerie squeak as it raised on its hinges. Her heart began to beat almost clear out of her chest. She felt like everyone could feel it pulsate through the ground. Still no one noticed her as she glanced about. Her face burned red hot once again, as the excitement overtook her. The lid was totally open now, but she was purposefully looking away. She winced her eyes shut and turned toward the lunchbox. She lingered in this moment just a second too long, letting the anticipation build up before she flashed open her eyes. Her eyes were filled with psychotropic dots of color from staring up at the sun. She couldn't quite identify the brownish red mass at first, while her eyes adjusted. A strange and dark odor filled the air. After a few seconds, an abhorrent image came into focus. In the dented, antique, yellowed lunch pail lie a bloodied, putrid, rotting human heart. She let out a near-silent inhalation gasp drawing the decay deep into her lungs. She was temporarily paralyzed, completely entranced by the perverse contents of the pail. It looked just like the one her biology professor grotesquely kept in a jar on his desk back in high school, but only fresh and rare. She used to stare off into space at it while he would prattle on about capillaries and vessels. She suddenly snapped back into the present. She flipped the lid of the lunchbox closed, and latching it in one swift motion. Her stomach was in knots, turning, somersaulting over and over. She could feel the vomit raise into her esophagus. That rancid smell still lingering in the air. She abruptly arose and broke into a run, no longer caring if anyone spotted her. She made her way to the street side of the park and past the bodega. Her lean legs flew like lightening across the urban landscape. After a few blocks, and completely out of breath, she leaned over the nearest garbage can and commenced to vomit. She puked for what seemed like hours, more vomit than she even thought possible, the contents of her stomach, a murky off-peach thickness, wholly emptying into the can, while she clutched the edges for dear life. She wretched and heaved her entire gangly frame over the trash. Water or tears poured out of her bloodshot eyes, while snot dripped from her nose in a long, gelatinous rope. Finally, days worth of digestion expelled, she collapsed onto the bench next to the garbage can. Her face was pocked with burst capillaries around her eyes; a million tiny, bright red dots. She wiped her face on the hem of her dress. She didn't care what she looked like at this point, she just wanted to rest for a minute before taking off again. She finally gained what little composure she had left, and used it to stumble her way into a cab to take her home.
It had been a little over six months since the incident at the park. She was finally feeling like her old self again. Winter was showing no mercy, as usual for February in the city. The park was scarcely littered with patrons, as blizzard after blizzard raged on. She hadn't been to the park since, she moved her people-watching outfit over to a coffee shop near her apartment. Jack invaded her thoughts every now and then, but it was starting to taper off. She even found herself dating again, the idea of a man's touch repelling her less and less, but no one that really sparked her interest. It was nearly Valentine's Day, she remarked to herself and she entered her building. She took out her mailbox key and absently turned it in the lock, like a thousand times before. She reached into the tarnished brass slot and pulled out a stack of correspondence. She closed and locked her mailbox in one continuous motion. She thoughtlessly leafed through the letters and catalogues. Just bills and junk mail, she thought. Until she reached the bottom of the stack. There was a pop of red among the stark, clinical white. A romantic vermilion hue pigmented the rectangular envelope. It was addressed in a handwriting she didn't recognize. Her heart began to palpitate. The guy I have been seeing must have sent me a Valentine, she realized. She strode toward the elevator and excitedly pushed the button. She was almost giddy. The familiar ding of the elevator reaching the ground floor sounded and the doors opened. She entered and pushed eleven on the wall. As the mirrored-steel doors closed to reveal her smiling reflection tearing open the crimson envelope. I can't believe Richard sent me a Valentine, that was so thoughtful, she silently commented. She reached into the paper prison and pulled out what looked to be one of those antique, old-fashioned heart-shaped Valentines. It was outlined in real fabric lace, ever so slightly yellowed with that credible patina, gorgeously overlayed with thick vellum and gold leaf. It was a tad garish for her tastes, but it was remarkable. She opened it to read the calligraphied message on the inside. I've enjoyed our time together so far, here's hoping you'll be my Valentine. You've stolen my heart, now it's time for me to steal yours. As she glanced down to see the signature, it didn't say Richard, in a fancy script, teeming with curly-ques and flowery swirls, was the name Jack. She stopped cold. At first fear washed over her, causing her hand to shake the Valentine uncontrollably. Her head began to pound as blood raged into her temples. Her aural senses began to fade in and out, in a tremolic fashion. Her entire body felt feverish and clammy. The sound of her rapidly hastening heartbeat was all she could make out. Blum-blum. Blum-ba-blum-ba-blum. Ba-blum-ba-blum-ba-blum-ba-blum. And just when she thought her chest might implode, splattering the interior walls of the elevator with various bodily goo, the ding of the elevator reaching its designated floor rang out. It pulled her back from the brink, her heart rate gradually slowing. Her hands settling down enough to reach for her keys. She exits the elevator and manages to steady herself enough to walk up to her apartment door. Her keys jingled and jerked more than usual as she turns the deadbolt. As she slowly swings the door open, an eerie creak is reverberated into the hall. She peers anxiously into the apartment, half-expecting to see a shadowy, familar figure in the darkness. But there is no one when she flips on the light, nothing, not a hair out of place in her fastidously-kept apartment. She sighed, audibly. Was it relief that ran down the curve of her back or a hint of disappointment? Just then, a familiar squeak of the window sash being struggled open echoes from the bedroom. Her heart begins to intensely pound once more, nearing its threshold with each thunderous beat. The thud of heavy boots hit the wooden floor. Her breath catching in her throat, she begins to gasp and pant. Her eyes dart about the room, her thoughts racing wildy as she contemplates her course of action. Someone is casually striding down the hall in the most deliberate way. She fumbles for the door handle, her hands moist with sweat. The deafening sound of the footsteps breaks for a brief moment. She can just make out a faint aroma of motor oil and cheap cologne. As she is about to turn the weathered brass knob, a twisted, wry smile suddenly forms across her lips as she allows the knob to slip through her fingers. She inhales deeply; a calmness overtakes as she locks the door behind her. She relaxes her body against the grained oak. The plodding of boots ceases as a shadow stops at the edge of the entryway. Some indeterminant force propels her towards the darkened outline cast upon the floor; he is definitely the most interesting person she has ever met, she thinks to herself.
A few days had passed and she was back at her fountain ledge, watching the ignorants lead their sparse, shallow lives. She had almost forgot about Jack and his growing- in-mystery lunch box, when he strode casually to the spot in which she first laid eyes upon him. There he was, clutching his lunch box like a brick of gold, letting out a barely audible sigh as he sat on the ledge. Her heart begin to beat rapidly, so loud she thought he would hear. She felt her face flush with the rushing blood that filled its chambers. That anxious-feeling welled up in the pit of her stomach, leaving her catatonic for a brief second. She snapped back and sat, perched on the edge of her seat, waiting to see if he brought another bizarre pocket lunch. She didn't have to wait long, as he drew another wrapped sandwich out of his coveralls' pocket. Tuna salad on white this time. The smell was unmistakable. Who is making these sandwiches? Is he? Does he have a little wife somewhere that makes him his lunch everyday? And if he keeps his lunch in his pocket, what the Hell is he keeping in that lunch pail he clings to? This is definitely the most interesting person this park has ever hosted, she decides. After finishing his tuna, he heads to the street side and around the corner, to be gone again, leaving her with an empty feeling swimming around in her gut.
This identical scene goes on for the rest of the week. The abstruse blue-collar sits beside her on the fountain ledge, pulls out his homemade sandwich from his "Jack" pocket with one adroit paw, while grasping his dented old lunch pail with the other. He eats his lunch so quickly, one would be hard-pressed to even recall if it ever existed. She can't take her eyes off of him, seated there next to her every day, she begins to anticipate his arrival. She gets that excited feeling when she sees him cross the greenscape of the park, making his way over to the fountain. Her heart flutters the tiniest bit when he sits beside her. She realizes, morosely, that this is the happiest she has been in a long time. This is the part of her day she looks forward to the most. Watching this unappreciated lumberjack eat his lunch while obsessing over an old metal box. She can't help wondering what's in that pail of his. The way it hangs, in his gargantuan mitt when he walks back to the street, seems like it contains something. Could it be old love letters, perhaps? She fantasizes. Business papers, maybe? Stuff he doesn't feel comfortable leaving in his 5th floor walk-up on the bad side of the city. What if it's his cherished teddy bear from childhood that can't stand to go anywhere without? He feels ridiculous though, so he stuffs it into an old lunch pail, she chuckles to herself. It's probably just a few mechanics tools, she figures.
The next day, she anxiously awaits Jack's arrival. She practically dances in her seat. She can't seem to keep still, tapping along to an imaginary rhythm with her slender fingers on the coarse cement of the ledge. She was more anticipatory than usual, for she had decided that today was the day she was going to talk to him. What she was going to say, she had no idea, but she avowed to make some kind of idle chit-chat. He was usually here by now, she thought. The hour was getting late and she needed to return to work in the next 10 minutes or so. She nervously looked down at her watch again, as if willing time to freeze for her sole benefit. She heard the metallic clink of the lunch pail before she spotted him just across the park. He plodded his way over to his usual stretch of cement, his eyes never far from his coveted lunchbox. He ran his considerable hands, ever so tenderly, up either side of the lunchbox, converging at the top. She longed for him to run his masculine hands up and down her body like that. Was this just a nervous habit or was there something in that pail that he really loved in that sweet manner? She needed to speak before he started to inhale his sandwich. But what would she say? She hesitated. She wanted something quasi-clever and charming to just roll off her tongue. Something that they would look back on and laugh, at how quirky and bold she was, years down the line in their too-small studio apartment that they never would have the heart to move from. She could ask him about what kind of sandwich he had brought that day, but that seemed kind of weird, like she was creepily watching him, which she in fact was, but...What about a comment about a current event or something culturally topical? But what? What if he had no idea what she was talking about? She could ask him what's in the pail, but that seemed too forward, it was far too sacred to ask him about right at the jump. Anything, she frantically searched her brain for anything. Anything, but a trite comment about the weather, she scolded herself, that's not charming. What about a comment about the fountain, it's beautifully carved marble sculpture of Poseidon, arced in a defiant pose, with trident in hand? That's going to have to suffice, she thought. She'll say something witty about the sculpture, like, don't you just love Poseidon? He is definitely my favorite of the Greek gods. They would have an entire repartee about the merits of Greek gods, that would extend well-past either of their lunch hours, and they will glance at the time, so surprised at the amount that had passed. They will share another knowing laugh and make plans to meet there the same time tomorrow...She snapped back into reality. Jack was reaching into his pocket for his sandwich du jour. It was now or never she thought.
As she opened her mouth to speak, a shrill scream seemingly escaped her mouth. It had come from across the park. A middle-aged mother was yelling for help besides an antebellum oak tree. Her little boy had climbed so high, he was barely in sight, just the bright blue stripe of his shirt was visible through the verdant foliage. He can't get down! Help, please someone! She hollered. He had managed to catch his foot in a knotted hole in a huge branch. He began to sob and panic right along with his hysterical mother. She was really starting to wail now. No one knew what do for a moment. Someone murmured call the fire department. He has asthma, she shouted, and his inhaler is down here. She waved it in her hand, like a white flag of surrender. You could faintly make out his respirations from high atop the city. This entire dialogue took less than 20 seconds, but it seemed in slow-motion with the fray it created. At first, it seemed like Jack didn't notice, really, what was going on. But then like someone branding him with a red hot poker, he flew off of the ledge, throwing down his precious lunchbox in the process as he raced over to the antiquated oak. A crowd had gather around the base of the tree, while the mother pitifully reveled in all the attention. Jack pushed his way through the crowd to the trunk. He was going to climb that damned tree, she thought. Not only is he the most arcane man she's ever seen, but a hero, too? This really is who she had been searching for. As Jack made his way adeptly up the tree, surprisingly swiftly, for a man of his size, the crowd cheered and applauded.
Suddenly, she realized the lunchbox was right next to her foot on the cement. She had been so captivated by Jack's bravery she had lost sight of it for a moment. There it was, inches away from her. She looked around, everyone had made their way to the scene. She bent down further to look at it. It looked more plain up close, not so recondite, after, she thought. She knew how much he revered it. She picked it up gingerly and placed it on the fountain ledge. It was heavier than she anticipated, blooming her curiosity. Quite an audience had gathered now, with no one paying the slightest attention to her. Jack had made it up to the little boy, he was unwedging his foot from the cavernous knot. Her curiosity got the better of her. She unlatched the the tarnished clasp of the lunchbox as quietly as she could, as if someone could hear her over the din of the crowd. It snapped back against the chipped metal. Still no one looked in her direction. With her hands on either side of the secretive pail, she slowly lifted the lid, it made an eerie squeak as it raised on its hinges. Her heart began to beat almost clear out of her chest. She felt like everyone could feel it pulsate through the ground. Still no one noticed her as she glanced about. Her face burned red hot once again, as the excitement overtook her. The lid was totally open now, but she was purposefully looking away. She winced her eyes shut and turned toward the lunchbox. She lingered in this moment just a second too long, letting the anticipation build up before she flashed open her eyes. Her eyes were filled with psychotropic dots of color from staring up at the sun. She couldn't quite identify the brownish red mass at first, while her eyes adjusted. A strange and dark odor filled the air. After a few seconds, an abhorrent image came into focus. In the dented, antique, yellowed lunch pail lie a bloodied, putrid, rotting human heart. She let out a near-silent inhalation gasp drawing the decay deep into her lungs. She was temporarily paralyzed, completely entranced by the perverse contents of the pail. It looked just like the one her biology professor grotesquely kept in a jar on his desk back in high school, but only fresh and rare. She used to stare off into space at it while he would prattle on about capillaries and vessels. She suddenly snapped back into the present. She flipped the lid of the lunchbox closed, and latching it in one swift motion. Her stomach was in knots, turning, somersaulting over and over. She could feel the vomit raise into her esophagus. That rancid smell still lingering in the air. She abruptly arose and broke into a run, no longer caring if anyone spotted her. She made her way to the street side of the park and past the bodega. Her lean legs flew like lightening across the urban landscape. After a few blocks, and completely out of breath, she leaned over the nearest garbage can and commenced to vomit. She puked for what seemed like hours, more vomit than she even thought possible, the contents of her stomach, a murky off-peach thickness, wholly emptying into the can, while she clutched the edges for dear life. She wretched and heaved her entire gangly frame over the trash. Water or tears poured out of her bloodshot eyes, while snot dripped from her nose in a long, gelatinous rope. Finally, days worth of digestion expelled, she collapsed onto the bench next to the garbage can. Her face was pocked with burst capillaries around her eyes; a million tiny, bright red dots. She wiped her face on the hem of her dress. She didn't care what she looked like at this point, she just wanted to rest for a minute before taking off again. She finally gained what little composure she had left, and used it to stumble her way into a cab to take her home.
It had been a little over six months since the incident at the park. She was finally feeling like her old self again. Winter was showing no mercy, as usual for February in the city. The park was scarcely littered with patrons, as blizzard after blizzard raged on. She hadn't been to the park since, she moved her people-watching outfit over to a coffee shop near her apartment. Jack invaded her thoughts every now and then, but it was starting to taper off. She even found herself dating again, the idea of a man's touch repelling her less and less, but no one that really sparked her interest. It was nearly Valentine's Day, she remarked to herself and she entered her building. She took out her mailbox key and absently turned it in the lock, like a thousand times before. She reached into the tarnished brass slot and pulled out a stack of correspondence. She closed and locked her mailbox in one continuous motion. She thoughtlessly leafed through the letters and catalogues. Just bills and junk mail, she thought. Until she reached the bottom of the stack. There was a pop of red among the stark, clinical white. A romantic vermilion hue pigmented the rectangular envelope. It was addressed in a handwriting she didn't recognize. Her heart began to palpitate. The guy I have been seeing must have sent me a Valentine, she realized. She strode toward the elevator and excitedly pushed the button. She was almost giddy. The familiar ding of the elevator reaching the ground floor sounded and the doors opened. She entered and pushed eleven on the wall. As the mirrored-steel doors closed to reveal her smiling reflection tearing open the crimson envelope. I can't believe Richard sent me a Valentine, that was so thoughtful, she silently commented. She reached into the paper prison and pulled out what looked to be one of those antique, old-fashioned heart-shaped Valentines. It was outlined in real fabric lace, ever so slightly yellowed with that credible patina, gorgeously overlayed with thick vellum and gold leaf. It was a tad garish for her tastes, but it was remarkable. She opened it to read the calligraphied message on the inside. I've enjoyed our time together so far, here's hoping you'll be my Valentine. You've stolen my heart, now it's time for me to steal yours. As she glanced down to see the signature, it didn't say Richard, in a fancy script, teeming with curly-ques and flowery swirls, was the name Jack. She stopped cold. At first fear washed over her, causing her hand to shake the Valentine uncontrollably. Her head began to pound as blood raged into her temples. Her aural senses began to fade in and out, in a tremolic fashion. Her entire body felt feverish and clammy. The sound of her rapidly hastening heartbeat was all she could make out. Blum-blum. Blum-ba-blum-ba-blum. Ba-blum-ba-blum-ba-blum-ba-blum. And just when she thought her chest might implode, splattering the interior walls of the elevator with various bodily goo, the ding of the elevator reaching its designated floor rang out. It pulled her back from the brink, her heart rate gradually slowing. Her hands settling down enough to reach for her keys. She exits the elevator and manages to steady herself enough to walk up to her apartment door. Her keys jingled and jerked more than usual as she turns the deadbolt. As she slowly swings the door open, an eerie creak is reverberated into the hall. She peers anxiously into the apartment, half-expecting to see a shadowy, familar figure in the darkness. But there is no one when she flips on the light, nothing, not a hair out of place in her fastidously-kept apartment. She sighed, audibly. Was it relief that ran down the curve of her back or a hint of disappointment? Just then, a familiar squeak of the window sash being struggled open echoes from the bedroom. Her heart begins to intensely pound once more, nearing its threshold with each thunderous beat. The thud of heavy boots hit the wooden floor. Her breath catching in her throat, she begins to gasp and pant. Her eyes dart about the room, her thoughts racing wildy as she contemplates her course of action. Someone is casually striding down the hall in the most deliberate way. She fumbles for the door handle, her hands moist with sweat. The deafening sound of the footsteps breaks for a brief moment. She can just make out a faint aroma of motor oil and cheap cologne. As she is about to turn the weathered brass knob, a twisted, wry smile suddenly forms across her lips as she allows the knob to slip through her fingers. She inhales deeply; a calmness overtakes as she locks the door behind her. She relaxes her body against the grained oak. The plodding of boots ceases as a shadow stops at the edge of the entryway. Some indeterminant force propels her towards the darkened outline cast upon the floor; he is definitely the most interesting person she has ever met, she thinks to herself.
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