When his novel “Catch-22” was all the rage, Joseph Heller visited my college. I was obsessed, too awed to speak up.
Thwack, he throws hard — way harder than I ever did. His fastball audibly sizzles as it comes in.
I liked being in a classroom. I felt solid in ways I did not in the hallways and beyond. Except his classroom …
I lick the knife and drift back. Guava trees flutter in the tropical breeze.
Today I am grown and driving, the road is paved. I am going to the church of my childhood to face my fears.
On a humid August night, walking down a crowded street off the boardwalk, I spot him. Dark shoulder-length hair. Scraggly beard.
We have been hiding from the virus for a year now, and winter has kept us holed up inside for months.
Feeling sluggish, like someone put two stones behind my eyelids, I slip on the white, cotton gloves my mom bought for me to wear to the shops. A friend of hers says they are the same type of gloves epidemiologists wear on the subway.
The Print button is not highlighted; only the Cancel button offers itself in bright blue. I scroll back and forth, up and down, growing dizzier by the second, but can find no other options.
I was dating through Match.com. One date was visiting my home on a Saturday afternoon when her ex-husband raced into my driveway in his Jeep.
I inch our ancient Toyota through a police checkpoint into the parking lot, open all doors and the boot, while sniffing dogs strain against their leashes.
Found myself an awkward early. No coffee shops, bars, or convenience stores nearby. I continued toward Mass Ave. Really, I paced the same blocks, searching for prints of cottontails in small brownstone yards.
Too bad people sit home with TV than go look at something real. My wife agrees, says they’ll see photos on the news instead. I don’t feel smarmy, just sad.
I walked from room to room, the lights were off. I panicked and picked up my pace, searching.
Jump into the car with Jenny to seek the unexpected. In Kennebunkport, a sign reads “Garden Party.” We look at each other, smile, and turn right.
The captain was keen to any aberration of motion or sound that indicated something amiss in the rough seas. No rest until we crossed the Strait of Georgia …
When the layers of clapboard decay and peel upward from the foundations of 200-year-old houses, they release an olfactory bouquet that my dog cannot resist.
June 1969. Nancy and I are 16 with fake IDs at Passim in Cambridge.
The Zoom session with the judge was about to start and, in five minutes, those ties that bound them so closely together disintegrated, at least legally.
An eerie whirring rises from the lake, drawing us closer. Woolly tuques pulled low over our foreheads, my husband and I shuffle down the snow-covered path toward the shore.