Good Evening, My Friend |
Issue 12
|
|
The weekend after Gabe got fired from the auto repair shop for accidentally causing an electrical fire, he took a Greyhound up to Albany to see his grandfather at the memory care center. The moment he’d been dreading for the past three years had finally come - his grandfather didn’t recognize him anymore. “Don’t take it personally,” the nurse said, as if that was supposed to make him feel any less depressed about the situation.
When Gabe got home, he hopped into the shower and attempted to wash away his streak of motor oil and misery. He squeezed out a glob of shampoo, more than he intended, and it slid off his palm and splattered onto the porcelain. “Money down the drain,” he thought to himself. He tip-toed out of the bathroom and into his cramped box of an apartment. Rusty nail heads protruded from the wooden floorboards like mushrooms. Going barefoot in that place was to play a game of fate with tetanus. The stench was putrid. Mice would steal crumbs of food, and cockroaches were roommates who didn’t pay rent. All the critters gave him the shivers, but he didn’t have the heart to kill them. After eating a bowl of stale cereal for dinner, Gabe crawled into his creaky bed and stared at the water-stained ceiling. His world felt a lot more empty, and his walls felt a lot more suffocating. He couldn’t stop thinking about the state of his grandfather. Maybe next time he’ll know who I am, he hoped. Or maybe he won’t. Maybe the time after that he will. Or maybe he won’t. Then Gabe began to ponder if there would even be a next time. Just then, he heard the sound of a screech out on the balcony. He looked through the window and saw two yellowish eyes piercing the shadows. The glow of the city lights revealed a speckled coat of brown feathers and a pair of antenna-like ears that stood at attention. “An owl,” he whispered. Perched upon the balcony’s railing, it was the most exquisite creature he’d ever seen. Before he had the chance to exhale his halted breath, the owl flew off into the deep violet sky. The following night, Gabe heard the screech again. His eyes widened and his heart raced as he leaped out of bed. The owl had returned to the balcony. It had its back turned to the window. “Good evening, my friend,” he whispered. The owl slowly turned its head all the way around and locked eyes with him. It was a glare that was as wise as it was curious, and as calming as it was intimating. He recalled how his grandfather told him that seeing an owl means good luck. And off it went. The owl continued to make an appearance on the balcony every night, until the night that it didn’t. Maybe tomorrow, Gabe thought. He would stay awake until his eyelids got heavy, but the owl never showed. One day, Gabe concocted a plan to lure one of the mice from his apartment into a plastic container and use it as bait. It was his hardest, sweatiest job since he had work. When the sun set, he placed the container with the mouse in it out on the balcony and waited all night for the owl to swoop in. But the owl was nowhere to be seen. By the time the sun rose, he’d accepted that the owl wasn’t coming back. The next day, he used the remaining money from his last paycheck to purchase a Greyhound ticket and go see his grandpa up in Albany again. Maybe when I tell him about the owl, he’ll remember me, he thought. Or maybe he won’t. |
Zach Keali’i Murphy is a Hawaii-born writer with a background in cinema. His stories appear in The MacGuffin, Reed Magazine, The Coachella Review, Lunch Ticket, Raritan Quarterly, Another Chicago Magazine, Little Patuxent Review, Flash Frog, and more. He has published the chapbook Tiny Universes (Selcouth Station Press). He lives with his wonderful wife, Kelly, in St. Paul, Minnesota.
|