San Sebastian

#1: Get drunk and call someone. Submitted by Chris from Chicago.

After a friday teacher happy hour...

Josie: Hello.
Me: (shouted) Josie!
Josie: Hello?
Me: It's me, Sarah.
Josie: Oh! How are you?
Me: I'm good. How are you. I was just...picking a rose out of someone's yard. I was taking a walk. And I felt so guilty for picking it. Hold on, I need to sit down. OK. So I stuck a dollar to the plant, through a thorn. To pay for the rose. Now it's in a glass in my room. It's really pretty. Do you like yellow roses?
Josie: Yeah, they're ok.
Me: I like the way they look when they're on the way out, you know, when they're all...fluffy. And the petals are starting to fall off. I really like that. Do you think I should make some chutney? Like a bunch of different kinds. Should I send you some? Do you like chutney?
Josie: Sure, I like chutney.
Me: I'm love the world of condiments. I think I'll make some ketchup too. Catch up, ketchup. Getcha ketcha. Ha ha.
Josie: (pause) Are you drunk?
Me: Yes.

#2: Visit Mrs. DiClementi. Submitted by Catherine Noble, Mrs. DiClementi's neighbor.

I am standing in front of Mrs. DiClementi's apartment, holding a bunch of flowers from the bodega on the corner. She likes to put them in a giant old jam jar in her window; she waits until they are brown and all the petals are on the floor before she goes on to the next bunch. Inside, there seem to be empty cigarrette packs on every flat surface. They are the generic kind of cigarettes, the ones that are three dollars less than the famous ones, the kind on special at gas stations. Her fingers are brownish at the tips, from smoking them. Once the flowers are in the jam jar, she pulls a plate of peanut butter cookies out of the refridgerator, and even they taste faintly of cigarettes. I tell her about my class and my parents' visit and about the leaves changing at the park. There are faded pictures all over the walls; by the shag carpeting and the clothes, I know exactly when they're from. I like Mrs. DiClementi to tell me about the people in the pictures, especially about her brother in law, Nicky, who loved chicken cutlets and turned the backyard into a miniature farm, right there in the middle of Carroll Gardens. Mrs. DiClimenti makes some tea. Behind her, in the backyard, a neighbor has strung flowered housedresses out to dry. The breeze is making them sway and dance, which I point out to Mrs. DiClimenti. She takes a long drag on a Target brand cigarette and laughs, a smoker's laugh, an expert's laugh. There are ancient newspaper photos taped on the walls with yellowed tape. I start to count them as Mrs. DiClementi continues to laugh, and I'm not sure she's laughing about the dresses anymore or if the joke is private now. The sun is starting to set, and the tea is growing cold.


*This update typed while watching a documentary on the history and making of hot dogs.