Instead of Vengeance

Mercy! She felt better after a toke. Was it naive to be redeemed by a puff a smoke?

When he drove the beltway between Baltimore and the District of Columbia he invoked an inner mantra: Do not engage the serpent.

Her prose was a retelling of countless yesterdays. But she eventually grew tired of that approach. Nowadays she conjured voices for an infinite self. It didn’t matter if she told the truth anymore.

When he smoked weed he couldn’t read books. He could read, but he kept reading the same sentence over and over, which was annoying. So when he read, he’d sip a slow brewed dark roast instead.

She thought failure was a hoax so she removed the word from her lexicon in 1999.

He drove the distance between Maryland and Virginia countless times and he always succumbed to road rage. He couldn't shake it. He was seduced by anger and increasingly concerned. Driving was a miserable test of ego.

She appreciated an amusing page turner but she slowed down every now and again to ponder a bit of gospel.

He never liked the idea of declaring his lack of ambition. "So what do you do?" asked the barfly at the 2-for-1 happy hour in Midtown. His face wilted in reply. But if queried, "What do you obsess about?" He was fully attentive.

She used to drink red wine.

He enjoyed watching the Pittsburgh Steelers but he muted the announcers and the commercials. He didn’t talk to his family much but when he watched the games he thought about them.

She isolated herself from society yet delighted in the quotidian comforts of a liaison.

Temper is revealing, and the last time he drove to DC—he was cool as a cucumber. He practiced self reflection on a QWERTY keyboard and a yoga mat.

They are ready to write the next chapter.

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In Memory

"Don't hang up," I pleaded at the last second.
"Oh, okay," he said casually. "Let me fix my drink."
I listened to him get out of bed and light a cigarette.
"Just walking to the kitchen," he reported.
"Sounds good … love you."
"Love you too."

I met Kent in 1985. We both worked at the Ken Cinema in San Diego. He was a projectionist and I made popcorn. We eventually learned that both of us loved to boogie. So we played records and danced until 2am. Then we kissed on the couch which belonged to his roommate, Ernie.

Forty years later, we remembered all that—the get downs and the reefer and the beers on tap.

I became a fan of Barry White thanks to DJ Kent on Monday nights at the Whistle Stop, which was a casual, low-lit gay bar in South Park where Kent would often play the silky baritones of the Prince of Pillow Talk: "I've heard people say that, too much of anything is no good for you, baby … but, I don't know about that.” Kent and I would agree:

We can’t get enough of that L-O-V-E

I cherish my record collection. And I probably (👀, girrrrrl*) have some of Kent's vinyl in the bins. This makes me happy.

* Kent’s voice in my head.

❤️ Kent Landis Hartman ❤️
(1953–2025)

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The Collaboration

"I can't go any further, I'm done," he announced on wobbly legs that were quickly succumbing to the gravity of his overstuffed backpack. Like a severed marionette, Malcolm crumbled to the ground in slow motion while cursing the summer storm, "The indignity!" He lay motionless on the damp forest floor comforted by the scent of pine as he looked skyward, extending his tongue to catch a bit of rain, hypnotized by a swarm of mosquitoes contemplating his fate.

She turned around to observe Malcolm at 'I can't go any further' while searching for a peanut butter chocolate bar buried deep in the pocket of her cargo shorts, because she knew his performance would take a minute. Tiffany believed the end of Act II should sizzle with a dramatic ambiguity that aroused the audience, sending them scampering to the loo during the interval, anxious to savor the climactic denouement of Act III from the red velvet comforts of the orchestra section. Alas, she was the last one standing in this theatre of mud, all alone in the cheap seats accompanied only by the actor—her husband—who had obviously surrendered his motivation. She figured this was her cue, so she spoke from the heart, "Seriously? We're like 15 minutes away."

"How dare you."

"Just an hour ago, we were right down there,” she gestured with an open palm towards a placid field nestled in the folds of a hillside. “In the meadow, yes? Which is where we staged the theatrical ending of Act I, do you recall?”

“Perhaps.”

“I remember it clearly, my love. The first act was written, and rightfully so, performed, with aplomb. Well done.”

“You’re too kind.”

“However, this … (wagging her finger at his immobile pile of tragic mess) … second act is simply—redundant. You insist on rehashing your despair. Tell me how. Tell me how we’ve progressed the narrative from Act I to Act II, my darling? Or should I say, how dare us, for being idle and superfluous."

“Touché.”

Tiffany paused with a playful smile while taking a significant bite out of her travel snack. "Why would an audience gleefully dash to the restroom if there was nothing fresh to look forward to in Act III?”

“Possibly for a smoke, or?”

“Honestly, I think everyone is in their car right now, Malcolm. They walked blindly past the amenities and they’re heading home; a determined beeline straight to the liquor cabinet, shuffling about in their house slippers, searching for that—Miles Davis. Because you know why? We’ve bored their sweet twinkies off, hun. Now get your ass up, we’ve got work to do."

Epilogue

They arrived at their cabin in the woods fifteen minutes later, on budget, and on schedule. After removing their backpacks and making a cozy fire, Tiffany and Malcolm reviewed the particulars of their two-person play which was calendared for an autumn premiere at the Aretha Franklin Theatre on Broadway. They shared a kettle of chamomile and lavender made with organic herbs from their humble garden in Brooklyn.

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