LODGE 1229 by Kevin Joseph Reigle, Coors Light or a Yuengling

 Trisha poured Coors Light into a glass of ice and placed it in front of the empty stool. Just like every night she worked; the glass would remain untouched as the condensation dripped onto the coaster.

            “Keith saw Ray last week,” Bobby said to Trisha as she handed him a bottle of Yuengling.

            “Yeah, I heard that. Did you know the state director saw Ray, too?”

            “Get out.”

            “It’s true,” Trisha said. “The director told Keith he saw someone over in the banquet hall. When Keith went to look, it was empty. No one was there. They came back over, and the director saw that picture of Ray on the wall from the softball tournament and said, that’s him right there. That’s the guy I just saw.”

            Bobby shook his head. “Jesus, and he never met Ray before?”

            Trisha grabbed a rag from under the bar and wiped a spill she neglected earlier. “No, Ray died before the guy took over as state director.”

            “I don’t know how anyone doesn’t believe Ray’s not haunting this place.”

            “Did you say Keith saw him last week, too?”

            “That’s what Keith told me,” Bobby said as he drained the bottle and looked down into the dissipating foam. “He was out back smoking.”

            “Who was smoking, Keith or Ray?”

            “He saw Ray smoking. You know Keith doesn’t smoke.”

            “Well, I didn’t understand why a ghost would be smoking.”

            “Because Ray smoked,” Bobby said. “Ray always smoked outside by the cooler.”

            “So, if you smoke when your alive, you smoke when your dead?” Trisha asked, unconvinced.

            “Of course. Don’t you know how any of this works?”

            “I guess not,” Trisha said as a loud buzz came from a speaker. She pressed a lighted button under the bar.

             The glass doors unlocked, and Andy entered the lodge wiping his nose with a handkerchief, his hands streaked with oil.

            When Bobby saw him, he patted the empty barstool. “I’ve been keeping it warm for you.”

            “I bet you have,” Andy said, sitting on the stool. “How the hell are you?”

            “I’m doing alright, how about you?”

            “I’m here, aren’t I? Keystone Light please, Trisha.”

            Trisha pulled a bottle from the cooler. Andy took out his wallet and tossed a blue chip on the bar. Trisha dropped it in a glass bowl next to the register. She pressed an icon on the POS screen and turned her attention to the ringing phone on the wall.

            Andy spun the bottle between his hands, examining the label. “Did I ever tell you about my ex-girlfriend that had gastric bypass surgery?”

            “I don’t think so. That’s where you lose weight, right?”

            Andy exhaled and leaned back stretching his arms down by his side. “Boy, did she ever lose weight. You could barely recognize her. I bet she lost almost two hundred pounds.”

            “That’s a lot.”

            “It sure is,” Andy said, sipping his beer.

            “So, what happened?”

            “She left me.”

            “I’m sorry. What’s her name? Do I know her?”

            “Emily.”

            Bobby snapped his fingers. “Didn’t her family use to own a restaurant, or something?”

            “Yeah, it was a little place down by the water.”

            Trisha came from the other side of the bar to check on them. “You guys good?”

            Andy looked over her shoulder at the rack of bagged snacks on the wall. “Can I get some chips?”

            “What kind?” Trisha asked.

            “Sour Cream and Onion.”

            “Good choice,” Trisha said, pulling the bag from the metal clip and laying it on the bar. “These are my favorite, too.”

            “Is it still open?” Bobby asked Andy.

            Trisha took out her cellphone and pulled over a stool from behind the register. “Is what still open? What are you talking about?”

            Andy opened the bag of chips. “I was telling him about a girl I used to date. Her family owned a restaurant down by the water.”

            “I know the place you’re talking about,” Trisha said, not looking up from her phone. “It’s over by the lighthouse.”

            “Yeah, that’s the one,” Andy said. “They ended up closing it, not enough tourists anymore.”

            That’s a problem for everyone, isn’t it?” Bobby stood and adjusted his jeans. “Nature calls.”

            “Hey, don’t fall in while you’re back there,” Trisha said, dryly.

            “I’ll try not to,” Bobby said as he went down the hall to the bathroom.

            He pushed open the door and stepped into the darkness. The motion sensing light popped on, casting a harsh glow over the grungy tiles and stained wallpaper. Bobby caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror as he stepped up to the urinal.

            While reaching for his belt, the light flickered. A chill floated across his neck. “I don’t have any cigarettes, Ray.”

 

About the author 

 Kevin Joseph Reigle’s short stories have appeared in Beyond Words, Drunk Monkeys, Bridge Eight, The Dillydoun Review, Pensworth, Prometheus Dreaming, BQW, Bright Flash, CafeLit, and others. He is an English Professor at the University of the Cumberlands. 

 

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Callie’s Second Day by Kevin Joseph Reigle, red eye coffee

When eight-year-old Callie arrived at school wearing the same clothes as yesterday and came into the office announcing, "I'm here for my second day," I knew we had a problem.

             We don't often have children start their first day of school here at Martin Elementary in May, but it does occasionally happen. Never before though has a child just shown up with no warning and no paperwork. When Callie did, I had Mark, the guidance counselor, explain that she needed her parents to come in with her academic and immunization records.

            Now that Callie returned wearing the same sparkly pink jumper, I decided to try and take care of this situation myself. Today, I had a clear schedule, at least as clear as a principle's schedule gets in a post COVID world.

            Since Callie could barely see above the desk, I wheeled my chair around and sat beside her. "That's a very nice outfit," I started. "Didn't you wear that yesterday, too?"

            I leaned in to see if she smelled. Sometimes when we have issues like this it’s a sign that children aren't getting proper hygiene at home. She didn’t smell terrible, but I could tell from the stains on her clothes that they hadn't been washed.

            "It's my favorite," she said, showing her teeth, two missing from the bottom row.

            "You know, just because it's your favorite doesn't mean you should wear it all the time. You do have other favorites, right?"

            She closed her eyes tight, clenched her lips together and then started shaking her head. "No," she blurted out.

            "Well, you do have other clothes, right?”

            She shrugged. "I don't know."

            "Do me a favor and let your mommy know that she should wash your clothes before you wear them again." She looked up at me, confused. "Do you know what washing clothes means?"

            She huffed and then feverishly shook her head. I decided to move on. This was something I could bring up to her parents. What I really needed were the academic and immunization records so we could put her in the appropriate classes.

            I picked up the handset and slid the base over to the edge of the desk. The dial tone pulsed in my ear. "Can you tell me your phone number so I can call your parents?"

            She shrugged. "It changes."

            I placed the handset back in the cradle. "So, you don't know your parent's number?"

            "It's just my mom."

            "I see. Do you know your address?"

            "Not this one. This one's new. This daddy is new, too. He's not the same one from last week. But I like him better than the others."

            I had to think a moment before proceeding with the next question. I knew we were getting close to the point where I’d be required to notify protective services. "Have you gone to any schools before?"

            "Yeah, lots. I’ve gone to lots of schools."

            I’m not sure that was a better answer than the one I expected but at least I didn’t have to call anyone yet. She followed me to the outer office where my secretary watched her while I found the guidance counselor. I let Mark know Callie was back and asked about yesterday.

            “I ended up sitting with her in the cafeteria all day,” Mark said. “There was no way to contact her parents to come get her. The only thing she knew was the bus number she came on. So, when the bell rang, I walked her to the buses and made sure she got on the right one.”

            Mark volunteered to watch her again since we couldn't let her go to class without her immunization records. He followed me back to my office and I could tell Callie was excited to see him. I spent the rest of the day on the phone and doing Option 6 paperwork.

            At the final bell, I went to the lobby where they lined up for the buses. Mark was holding Callie's hand, waiting for the children to file through the glass doors. Teachers and administrators were at their stations making sure everyone got on the buses safely. I walked with Mark and Callie to bus 9 and asked the driver if he remembered the little girl.

            “Yeah, I think so,” the driver said. “She was only on the last two days, right?”

            “That’s right,” I answered.

            The driver raised a thumb and pointed over his shoulder. “Pretty sure she got on and off at the Iroquois Apartments.”

            I knew that was Section 8 Housing. “Make sure and keep an eye on her.”

            “You got it.”

            I watched Callie climb into the bus. She went down the aisle four or five rows and sat by herself. As the bus filled, I noticed no one sat beside her.

I thought about following the bus and seeing which apartment she went to, but when I told Mark, he thought it was a little drastic. I agreed even though something told me I should do it anyway.

            When Callie never returned to school, I knew I’d let her down. Mark reassured me we did what we could, and you can’t save them all. Maybe you can’t, but the times you don’t, never leave you.

About the author

Kevin Joseph Reigle’s short stories have appeared in Beyond Words, Drunk Monkeys, Bridge Eight, The Dillydoun Review, Pensworth, Prometheus Dreaming, BQW, Bright Flash and others. He is an English Professor at the University of the Cumberlands. 

 

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 Old Neighborhood by Kevin Joseph Reigle, macchiato

 

            There was something overly nostalgic about being in my old room. I half expected Caroline Schlitt to appear on the vintage television assuring me she was my late-night movie gal pal.          

            On the curved glass, once illuminated by tubes which undoubtedly burnt out during the Clinton administration, I could imagine the flickering USA Up All-Night logo segueing into a B-movie masterpiece.

            Through the bedroom window, the old neighborhood sprawled out over several blocks under the rising metal pillars of the suspension bridge. The buildings seemed frozen in time. Across the street, I could see the tattered green awning of Cirillo’s Fruit Market. The wooden display bins still filled with fruit ripening past their prime as Cirillo Sr. attempted to charm spinsters into purchasing spotted bananas.

            The businesses, the crumbling buildings, even the smell of popcorn coming from the Rialto was the same. Only the LED streetlight on the corner gave the game away. The modern marvel being the only hint that it wasn’t 1989 and my teenage self wouldn’t be loitering under the harsh glow of a long-replaced bulb waiting for Courtney to sneak out and join me.

            I left my old bedroom, passing by stacks of boxes in the hallway. At the top of the stairs, the stark emptiness of mother’s room forced me to look inside. Only the area rug remained. Even the four-poster bed had been taken away weeks ago.

            Outside, the For Sale sign hung from a metal gate. The final rays of sun disappeared behind the row of brownstones. Pools of rainwater sparkled with the glow of neon lights from the bar across the street.

            Far away, near the island of steel and concrete, jet engines roared. If the night was still, like tonight, their takeoffs and landings could be heard as the wind carried in from the harbor. The breeze made me wish I hadn’t forgot my jacket at the hotel.

            My Lincoln was parked around the corner, the only space I could find. As the heels of my Tom Ford loafers clicked on the pavement, I looked at the lone streetlight. The corner was empty. In fact, the entire sidewalk was. The few souls out and about earlier, were now gone. Even the bar was devoid of smokers lingering in the alley, banished from their fraternal right by the governor.

            Across the street from my car, children jumped up and down in a lighted townhouse window. A window I tapped on thirty years ago trying to get the attention of a certain raven-haired beauty. A girl who now could be anywhere. A girl, who if she ever thought of me at all, might remember me waiting under a streetlight so we could slip past the usher into the late-night movie at the Rialto.

            I couldn’t wait for my old brownstone to be sold. Whatever I hoped I’d find here, was gone.

About the author  

Kevin Joseph Reigle’s short stories have appeared in Beyond Words, The Dillydoun Review, Bridge Eight, Pensworth, Prometheus Dreaming, Bright Flash, The Yard, and Drunk Monkeys. He teaches at the University of the Cumberlands.