On Noticing Things
Vignettes and occasional long-form stories on the tiny moments that make life full.
Run down
The wheels of her shopping caddy clacked against the cobblestone. A marigold was pinned on the side.
I leaned in from a distance. “Do you need help with that?” I asked, nodding toward the sets of stairs leading into the vestibule. I didn’t wait for a response.
“My knees hurt so bad,” she said, gripping the handrail. I positioned myself in front of her just in case.
The endpoint
The sun reflected off the spaceship-looking Motol metro station. I wanted to get inside before the sun melted any more of me.
He walked in my direction: buzzed hair, scruff, and a cast on his right arm. Near him stood a mirror image with a cast on his left arm. They never noticed each other.
I sat down in the train. My reflection looked back at me.
Bālā bālā
After hugs, Flora and Vicky led me through the door tapestry to the small office behind the store.
They gestured toward my usual seat and asked, “coffee, tea, or both.” I needed both. In between bites of red cherries we caught up on everything new and good and bad.
I rambled on about my blog. Flora’s face lit up. She turned her mobile toward me.
For her it's everyday
In the empty waiting room sat one man clutching his inner elbow. The machine assigned me a half-smudged 98. Within moments, the blinking display board summoned patient 86.
A nurse opened the door, rested her hands on her hips, and called out “86!” Her eyes opened twice as wide as they landed on me.
She asked about my number. I proclaimed it was 98. She laughed.
Going under
I agreed to the tour of the “botel.” Visiting the new client meant getting out of the office. We started in the restaurant on the lower deck with a menu preview.
He promised guests fresh, local ingredients. The adjacent vegetable and herb garden had dried and crusted over.
We adjourned to a VIP guest suite. The bathtub with a view of the Vltava was filled with dust and spiders.
Closing time
Once a week a man with a crane hoists the graffiti-laden green bubble into the air and releases its contents. A parade of shattering glass erupts.
Most nights the waiter from the pizzeria chucks a crate’s worth of bottles into the green bubble. The rapid fire of bottles smashing forms a 30-second marcato. The sound of cars and passersby returns.
He usually waits until I’m almost asleep to do it. Last night he came earlier.
Her dirty work
She opened a bottle of red that cost more than my rent. I sipped myself into another mission.
Linda peered through her gray curls and toasted me. Two of the crispiest-crust pizzas waited for us at Anchovies—under a different name. I only needed to make it back to her flat with them unnoticed.
Inside Anchovies, I asked the barman, “Do you have an order for Stanley?”
Heavenly ledger
Doug ran around with me attached to his back in Papa’s backyard. We both wore Atlanta Falcons sweatshirts—and even shared a name.
I met up with Mom and Dad yesterday for our weekly powwow. Doug’s name came up. They pointed out that he died back in 2022. “What, how?” I said.
Dad vanished from the screen. He reappeared with his folder of dead people.
Techno reigns
The windows in the Airbnb on the third floor flung open for 72 hours. The three Germans with their boombox set up camp for the weekend.
Each jumped to take a turn sitting in the window, puffing curls of smoke. One looked like a younger version of DJ Scooter. “Da ist” echoed up and down the street.
They stumbled out this morning at 10.30. The blonde one waved off the open bottle of wine.
Are we there yet?
At the other end of the car ride, Lukáš and Marek waited for him. Each visit could have been the first.
Bibo’s floppy ears tensed and rotated like a radar. Excitement gave way to sneezing fits. His tongue lapped around his black nose. He gasped for air through a yawn.
We parked in the garden. Bibo yelped for his valet to open the door.