HeLen of Troy by Chris Pais, cafe latte

 My friend Helen of Troy, NY has a personality that could launch a flotilla of tugboats.  She is industrious and has a heart of gold, which she humbly claims is 10-carat, the minimum amount for an item to be legally classified as gold. She wears this heart on her sleeve for the world to see, but for her own sake, I often wished that she didn’t.

On a lazy Saturday a few months ago, my shopping list consisted of dirt-coated carrots, exorbitantly priced free-trade coffee, unwashed mixed greens and peaches with blemishes, dings and wormholes. It had also been ages since I heard live music by old men dressed in checkered shirts, red suspenders and straw hats playing in a band that included a washtub bass. I decided that the Farmer’s Market would be the perfect way of doing groceries and getting my music fix.  Helen lived a few blocks away from the market and I asked her if she would like to join me. 

‘Would I like a javelin in the eye? Sure, I’ll join you,’ she said.

I was surprised she said yes. I was looking forward to seeing Helen and had a spring in my step as I approached her house. I knocked on her door but there was no response. I knocked again and waited several minutes. As I turned around to leave, I saw her approach me from behind. It had been a while since I saw her but she looked exactly the same. It turned out that she had left her house through the back door and walked around to surprise me. Even though I’ve known Helen for a long time, I’m not always prepared for her antics.

‘So what do you think you’re doing here?’ she said. ‘Were you going to ask me if I’ve accepted Jesus as my personal savior?’ We laughed and walked towards the Farmer’s Market.  We knew we were getting close when we started hearing strains of folksy music in the distance and saw people in sandals and sunglasses returning to their cars with their loot of fresh produce bursting out of their jute shopping bags.

I’ve known Helen for many years; we have been through relationships, job woes, health scares, money problems and have shared the ups and downs of our lives, often over long hikes and tall drinks. We were in a few classes together in college and I was instantly attracted to her, but quickly realized to my disappointment that I was not her type. I was reliable and uninteresting, soft-spoken and well-groomed and she fell for unkempt, boisterous, self-important bad boys who are the envy of people like me. I never quite had the courage to tell her my true feelings and chose to suppress them over the years in the interests of keeping our friendship. I hadn’t seen her since her last relationship ended. This relationship was particularly unpleasant and left her in a sorry heap. I kept checking up on her and asked to meet for coffee or drinks, or a hike, but she refused. I was so glad she finally agreed to go to the Farmer’s Market with me.

‘So, what are you going to get at the Farmer’s Market?’ I asked.

‘I’m gonna get me a man. Organic. Non-GMO. USDA Choice. The Lord knows I haven’t had one in a while,’ she said.

‘Really? The last one you had was trouble and you swore off them,’ I reminded her, hoping that she would see the lapses in her past judgements and contrast the qualities I possessed.

The Farmer’s Market in our town is on a street in the business district, cordoned off on the weekend to host the market. Against the backdrop of pretentious glass-walled office buildings, hawkers ply their wares from makeshift tents and rickety tables with their dusty pickup trucks and colourful Volkswagen buses parked on the sidewalk.  There are stalls for wild-caught fish, mushrooms of every variety, cheese made from sheep and goat, heirloom tomatoes of every shape and hue, rotisserie free-range chicken, organic scented candles, massage services, tarot card readers, seasonal fruits, vegetables and freshly cooked food. Helen and I browsed through the stalls and we did not complain about the high prices of the merchandise. We were both firm believers in the ‘eat local’ movement and wanted to support our farmers.

Helen’s most recent relationship lasted many years, and longer than I thought it would.   They seemed happy on the surface but something was amiss. He said he was laid off soon after they met and he moved in with Helen. Looking back, I don’t think he had a job even when they met. I remember telling Helen that but she dismissed it. Soon the kids came. After working at a few odd jobs, he decided to quit and go to law school. He had Helen’s full support. While he attended classes and did his assignments, Helen worked and took care of the household. It was a struggle for her, but she was so much in love with him and was proud of what he was doing with his life.

After what seemed to Helen like many years of drudgery, he graduated from law school, found a job at a small law firm doing clerical work and Helen got a break when he started earning a paycheck. He took the bar exam and failed. After a few unsuccessful attempts at the exam, he convinced Helen that he should quit his job and study for the exam full time. Although she was tired and welcomed the wages he brought in, she agreed.

He finally passed the bar after several attempts and found a job with a prestigious law firm in the city. Two weeks later, he left her without warning, taking with him all his belongings and her prized coin collection. He hasn’t contacted her regarding the kids. Helen was devastated and it took her a while to feel whole again.

We picked up the things I wanted from the market and stopped at a stall selling lemons.  Helen wanted to try out a Moroccan recipe for preserving them using just one ingredient: kosher salt. ‘Minimalism, honey,’ she told me. She bought a bag of them and we sat on the sidewalk drinking our coffee and listening to the bluegrass band. I turned and looked at her a few times as she was moving to the beat of the music, and I was tempted to brush away the soft hair falling on her eyes.

The band stopped playing when it was time for the market to close. Vendors pulled down their awnings, folded their tables and loaded their produce into their vehicles. As we left the market and walked back towards Helen’s house, she said, ‘I set out today looking for a man, and all I got was some lemons.’

When we reached her house, she gave me a hug and said, ‘Let’s do this again’. She did not invite me in. As I walked away with my bag of groceries, the spring had decidedly left my step and I realised things will never change between Helen and me.

About the author

Chris Pais grew up in India and came to the US to pursue graduate studies in engineering. His work appears in Poetry India, Wild Roof Journal, Defunct Magazine and elsewhere. He lives in the SF Bay Area where he works on clean energy and tinkers with bikes, guitars and recipes. 

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The Festive Homecoming by Chris Pais, chai,

 

THE FESTIVE HOMECOMING

The sun has not risen but she is awake.  In a ritual unbroken for many years, she smears coconut oil on her hair, neatly braids it fastening the end with a rubber band, says her morning prayers and is ready to leave her one-room dwelling.  She snaps the rusty lock on her door that forever creaks on its hinges, ties the key to a knot in her sari and she makes the solitary walk to the main train station.  She hopes he will come home today.  At this hour, she rarely encounters anybody on the  narrow, twisted alleyways which are glistening with the remnants of a late night drizzle. It is festival season and some of the decorative string lights have been glowing all night, casting a colorful haze in her path.

At this early hour, things are slowly coming alive at the main train station.  Vendors are assembling their wares, brewing coffee and tea and cooking snacks for early morning travelers.  People who spent the night on the sidewalks are waking up to the sound of early morning pedestrians and the smell of freshly cooked food.  She enters the cavernous main hall of the station which is dimly lit and now merely a shadow of its previous glory.  She waits at the platform for the arriving overnight express and soon sees the lights of an approaching train.  Her heart races as it blows its signature horn because she is confident he will be on this train.  All she wants is for him to come home.  The train squeals to a halt and its passengers pour out like droplets from a showerhead.  She wonders what he would be wearing as she scrutinizes every face on the platform looking for him.  The passengers leave the platform with their luggage and soon the platform is empty.  She hangs her head over her chest and slowly leaves the station. 

Her employer will be waiting for her.  She will scrub floors, wash dishes and sweep the courtyard until her body aches.  She will do their laundry and depending on the strength of the fabric, beat it with a wooden paddle or against a large granite block to coax the dirt out.  As she hangs the laundry on the clothesline, she remembers the night he left home for the big city several years ago promising to come back with riches so she never had to work as a maid again.  I will be back by festival time, he said.  All she wants is for him to come back.  As she wrings the last drop of water from a large cotton bedspread, she knows he will return tomorrow.           

About the author

Chris Pais grew up in India and came to the US to pursue graduate studies in engineering. His work appears in Poetry India, Wild Roof Journal, Defunct Magazine and elsewhere. He lives in the SF Bay Area where he works on clean energy and tinkers with bikes, guitars and recipes. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Voicemail by Chris Pais, sparkling water

 

The phone range four times and a synthetic voice said “Please leave a message”. 

She gathered herself and slowly started speaking into the receiver, cupping her hands around her mouth, hoping to disguise her voice.

“Hi, my name is Sarah and I wanted to talk to you.  You don’t know me, and…what can I say, I don’t know you.  This is an unusual call.”

She didn’t have the strength to speak, but she steadied herself against the refrigerator and continued. 

“You know, your cell phone number belonged to my son until he jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge a few months ago.  He was twenty five.  Yes, I know.  A pretty young age to die, and a horrible way to go.  But he was a troubled kid.  In the end, he returned to the water that he really, really loved.  Adam had skin that was bronzed by the sun.  He had the brightest eyes you could think of, and the kindest smile.  In many ways, he looked like his father Jim.  I haven’t Jim seen since he left when I became pregnant with Adam.”

She teared up, her voice trembling with emotion.

“And Jim?  Jim was the first and only love of my life.  I’ve known no other man.  After he left, I just didn’t want to, I just couldn’t.  He was handsome.  Jim was a free spirit.  He was also very mysterious.  This drew me to him more.  We thought we’d have a lot of kids after we got married, but a few months after I got pregnant with Adam, he grew melancholic and distant.  Then he left without writing a note.  This broke my heart and I tried to hold it together.  For the sake of my unborn child, you know.  Life goes on…”

“Anyway, this call is not about me or Jim.  It is really about Adam.  I miss him.  He was all I had.  Like I said, he was a handsome kid with a gentle spirit.  We navigated the world together, Adam and I.  He carried the groceries home.  He loved the pumpkin soup I made in winter.  He wasn’t a very good student, but he tried hard.  He always liked the water.  He would sit by the window when it rained and watch the water run down the street.  He loved the wind and the sound it made.  He helped old women cross the street.  He really liked the water.  He would watch the ocean for hours staring at the distant waves, sometimes with tears streaming down his cheeks.  He wouldn’t say what he was thinking about.  Maybe he was looking for his father, but he wouldn’t say.  He didn’t say much.  He didn’t have many friends.  I always wondered if he would have been a different boy if Jim was around.  But you can’t think about these things too much.  Sometimes, the daily struggles of living make the pain go away.   Adam was a beautiful kid and a lost soul.”

She felt there was no point stopping now.

“Anyway, back to Jim.  A few months before he died, Adam told me that he had managed to find Jim and that they spoke a few times.  I was too angry and bitter to ask him more.  Why did he leave us?  How could he?”

“So, the reason I’m calling is if Jim called your phone while trying to reach Adam…. If you have heard from a Jim, Adam’s Dad, and he left his number, please call me.  I’d like to tell him what happened to Adam.  I’ve blocked my number, so here it is.  Please call me at area code four-one-five ummm,….

Well, on the other hand, maybe it’s just best you don’t get a hold of me.  I’m sorry. 

Bye.”

She hung up and slowly slithered down to the kitchen floor, dragging down the refrigerator magnets and sat on the cold tiles with pictures and notes from Adam strewn all around her. 

About the author

Chris Pais grew up in India and came to the US to pursue graduate studies in engineering. His work appears in Poetry India, Wild Roof Journal, Defunct Magazine and elsewhere. He lives in the SF Bay Area where he works on clean energy and tinkers with bikes, guitars and recipes. 

 

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)