Chocolate Waters

THE QUEEN OF CURTAIN UP No need to mention her name. She's a fixture, like the mirror or the off-white bulbs behind the bar that spell NEW YORK, like the Broadway names that line the walls the diners scrutinize. She scrutinizes, prides herself on what she knows, minimizes what she doesn't, lets it fly away faster than the Greyhounds that she drinks. She drinks on the same bar stool every day, always on the West side, nestled against the mirror, her back curled up against it, eagle-like. She's sagacious in her way, outlasting three owners, that I know about. I know she's got a couple of kids. One of them stabbed her in the heart. It broke her heart but not her regularity. Away from Curtain Up she stands by herself in a corner and smokes, impatient to return to her NEW YORK, the celebrity names, the mirror that keeps her own reflection safely riding on that Greyhound going West. ********************************************** MR. L.A. I was getting on the bus and there he was - about 25, whitish, wearing a ratty tan overcoat and a rattier hat, surrounded by four of the most enormous suitcases I have ever seen. He asks me for a token. The request annoys me. I get on the bus annoyed. He sits right across from me, barricades himself behind the suitcases. His fear hangs out all over me, protrudes from his overcoat and seeps out the ends of his long beleaguered fingernails, enticingly.        "I'm from L.A." he explains.        "I was on my way to Paris when I got mugged. Can you help me?" His eyes are hazel. They explode into mine. I want to tell him about the time I was on the streets. "Where are you going?" I ask instead.        "To Bellevue." "Why are you going there?"        "I don't know. Can you help me?" "I have no money and your suitcases are bigger than my apartment, but good luck Mr. L. A." I offer, stepping off the bus. The wish sounds stupid. It clatters in my head like a token.

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