Penelope Weiss
He Grew
People often tell me the story of their lives. He was no exception. He sat down at my table where I was having scrambled eggs and coffee at midnight at my favorite coffee shop on Avenue A. He said he started out as a shy little boy with stubby legs. Then he couldn’t stop growing. He grew every day and even at night. He told me that the full moon shaved off some of its metallic beauty and fed it to him through the window of his bedroom in little slices that tasted like cheese and apples. He said the moon’s motions were so delicate he couldn’t describe them. His parents had given him a small wooden flute for his 6th birthday, and he played it every night for the moon. When he turned 12, the moon said, Enough. You can play your flute, but you’re a big boy now, don’t waste your life.
He grew even bigger, and when he was 18, he left his parents’ apartment on West 82nd Street. He took his flute and told his mother and his father not to call him, he would call them, but he never did call them. He lived down by the boat basin for a while and walked through the city on his giant feet every night. He climbed up and down fire escapes and spooked drivers and bicycle delivery men when he ran across the street in dark clothing. Sometimes he left footprints on the hoods of parked cars. Often, he would sit on a park bench and play his flute for the moon.
He stole food from the outdoor market in Union Square and from that fruit market on 8th Street that never closed its doors until a few years ago. He left rinds of cheese and cores of apples all over the sidewalks, but nobody reprimanded him. He told me, I eat well, and cheese and apples are biodegradable. I’m not wasting my life, I’m the giant who never gets caught.
Finally, at 3 a.m., I realized I was listening in my sleep. I told him I had to go home, but we agreed to meet again in two days. That would have been Friday, maybe a little earlier than midnight, at the same coffee shop.
I was there on time, and so was he. It’s been 20 years now since we’ve been meeting at the coffee shop. I’m almost ready to retire from my job, and he’s got a bit of gray in his shaggy hair. Every time, when I say it’s time to go, he takes out his flute and plays a little melody to the moon.
Diving Is Hard Work (Blue)
.jpg)
Nobody Named Nelson
I heard this story from a neighbor, who heard it from a friend of hers who lives in Bella Blue’s building down the block on Riverside Drive.
On the morning of her 93rd birthday, Bella Blue woke up, brushed her teeth, put them in, and walked slowly to her breakfast table. She sat in her favorite chair and waited for her grandson Nelson to come by to make her a pot of black tea and set out the bagels and cream cheese he would have bought at Zabar’s on his way over to her apartment.
Her cats, Chernobyl, Three Mile Island and Fukushima, sat on the cushions in the bay window and waited for their breakfast, too.
But nobody named Nelson opened the front door with his key. Nobody named Nelson left a message on the phone to let his grandmother know he had lost his front door key. Nobody named Nelson opened the apartment door with his upstairs key.
By lunchtime, Bella Blue was still in her favorite breakfast chair. It was a comfortable chair. She sat quietly; thinking about nothing in particular. Her cats sat quietly on the cushions in the bay window. The sun warmed their hungry bodies.
By evening, Chernobyl, Three Mile Island, and Fukushima sat in a circle around Bella Blue. They were cold and hungry. Although there had never been any mice in Bella’s building, the cats hoped they could conjure some.
Nobody named Nelson came to rescue his grandmother, who had gone into a serious meditative state and died a few hours before sunset, still in her favorite breakfast chair, still waiting for her pot of black tea and her bagels and cream cheese from Zabar’s.
An upstairs neighbor finally called 911 after he heard the cats yowling in Bella Blue’s apartment. Many neighborhood people came to the funeral, which was held at a neighborhood funeral home. Nelson also came to the funeral, but he was silent when people asked him about the day his grandmother Bella Blue died.
Penelope Weiss grew up in New York City and now lives in Shrewsbury, Vermont. Storiana, her collection of stories, was published by Casa de Snapdragon Publishing and is available on Amazon.
He Grew
People often tell me the story of their lives. He was no exception. He sat down at my table where I was having scrambled eggs and coffee at midnight at my favorite coffee shop on Avenue A. He said he started out as a shy little boy with stubby legs. Then he couldn’t stop growing. He grew every day and even at night. He told me that the full moon shaved off some of its metallic beauty and fed it to him through the window of his bedroom in little slices that tasted like cheese and apples. He said the moon’s motions were so delicate he couldn’t describe them. His parents had given him a small wooden flute for his 6th birthday, and he played it every night for the moon. When he turned 12, the moon said, Enough. You can play your flute, but you’re a big boy now, don’t waste your life.
He grew even bigger, and when he was 18, he left his parents’ apartment on West 82nd Street. He took his flute and told his mother and his father not to call him, he would call them, but he never did call them. He lived down by the boat basin for a while and walked through the city on his giant feet every night. He climbed up and down fire escapes and spooked drivers and bicycle delivery men when he ran across the street in dark clothing. Sometimes he left footprints on the hoods of parked cars. Often, he would sit on a park bench and play his flute for the moon.
He stole food from the outdoor market in Union Square and from that fruit market on 8th Street that never closed its doors until a few years ago. He left rinds of cheese and cores of apples all over the sidewalks, but nobody reprimanded him. He told me, I eat well, and cheese and apples are biodegradable. I’m not wasting my life, I’m the giant who never gets caught.
Finally, at 3 a.m., I realized I was listening in my sleep. I told him I had to go home, but we agreed to meet again in two days. That would have been Friday, maybe a little earlier than midnight, at the same coffee shop.
I was there on time, and so was he. It’s been 20 years now since we’ve been meeting at the coffee shop. I’m almost ready to retire from my job, and he’s got a bit of gray in his shaggy hair. Every time, when I say it’s time to go, he takes out his flute and plays a little melody to the moon.
Diving Is Hard Work (Blue)
.jpg)
Nobody Named Nelson
I heard this story from a neighbor, who heard it from a friend of hers who lives in Bella Blue’s building down the block on Riverside Drive.
On the morning of her 93rd birthday, Bella Blue woke up, brushed her teeth, put them in, and walked slowly to her breakfast table. She sat in her favorite chair and waited for her grandson Nelson to come by to make her a pot of black tea and set out the bagels and cream cheese he would have bought at Zabar’s on his way over to her apartment.
Her cats, Chernobyl, Three Mile Island and Fukushima, sat on the cushions in the bay window and waited for their breakfast, too.
But nobody named Nelson opened the front door with his key. Nobody named Nelson left a message on the phone to let his grandmother know he had lost his front door key. Nobody named Nelson opened the apartment door with his upstairs key.
By lunchtime, Bella Blue was still in her favorite breakfast chair. It was a comfortable chair. She sat quietly; thinking about nothing in particular. Her cats sat quietly on the cushions in the bay window. The sun warmed their hungry bodies.
By evening, Chernobyl, Three Mile Island, and Fukushima sat in a circle around Bella Blue. They were cold and hungry. Although there had never been any mice in Bella’s building, the cats hoped they could conjure some.
Nobody named Nelson came to rescue his grandmother, who had gone into a serious meditative state and died a few hours before sunset, still in her favorite breakfast chair, still waiting for her pot of black tea and her bagels and cream cheese from Zabar’s.
An upstairs neighbor finally called 911 after he heard the cats yowling in Bella Blue’s apartment. Many neighborhood people came to the funeral, which was held at a neighborhood funeral home. Nelson also came to the funeral, but he was silent when people asked him about the day his grandmother Bella Blue died.
Penelope Weiss grew up in New York City and now lives in Shrewsbury, Vermont. Storiana, her collection of stories, was published by Casa de Snapdragon Publishing and is available on Amazon.
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