Johnny walked toward his mother, ten steps to the rose bushes, fifteen to the geraniums, twenty to the exotic flowers, thirty to the Easter egg tulips and peppermint candy flowers, and ten more steps to the stairs of his back porch. Johnny stopped at the foot of the porch and turned his face to the sun setting in the sky. The white clouds had turned to silver, and the yellow sun was now a red ball at the bottom of huge splashes of blazing pink, bright purple, and royal blue. Johnny smiled. It was the most wonderful sunset ever. 

The Hide

by Bernice Holtzman

         The bar displayed no name, unless you looked up. Most people didn’t. Not in that neighborhood. But they knew where to come and they did. They called it “the Hide,” because you could. He parted the thick black curtain that served as an entrance and stepped inside. The air hung heavy with the smell of ass that night. He breathed it in hungrily, expectantly, savoring. The moon outside was high and full, like his loins.
He took his regular position at the bar and waited. He never had to wait long. He heard a girl order a wine spritzer, no ice, with a maraschino cherry. He smiled. “We don’t do cherries,” the bartender said. Some looked away, but no one mocked her. She was the girlfriend of the bisexual, beloved mascot to most, and protected by all. The bartender asked him what he was having. He was always having the same thing, vodka cranberry, but the bartender always asked, and he always answered.

The man next to him had male pattern baldness and was drinking his vodka neat. Male Pattern gave him a hard stare and said, “You smell nice.” “I smell better at my place,” he replied. No one wasted anyone’s time at the Hide. Twenty minutes later Male Pattern had him with his piggies pointing at the cracks in the ceiling. From that superior position he surveyed the room. And then he saw it. The photo. Her hands were behind her neck, tangled in her long hair, sideways eyes twinkling, and dewy lips parted in a Mona Lisa tease. It was Maraschino Cherry. Male Pattern’s tension reached a crescendo, and as his train roared into the happy ending station, he cried out, “You’re…” “Rock Bottom,” came the answer. The bisexual. As if he needed further confirmation, next to the photo was a bottle of My Beige by Rabbit. Rock Bottom’s signature scent. Even if you’d never met him, you knew that. “You smell nice.” How had he not seen it coming? True, the ass smell at the Hide had been particularly pungent, but still. He shouldn’t have let his guard down. That was the thing about My Beige: It hit you like a frontal kick to the groin while you were busy watching your back. Before you knew what you were doing or why, your pants were hanging over the back of a Salvation Army chair and you were right up to your short hairs in a guy you were no match for and never would be, while his girl winked down at you from his flea market bookcase.
Male Pattern got dressed. This was a lesson. The dark was a bad place to be in this town. He would have to start going to the Hide more, or else not at all. Damn My Beige. Damn Rabbit.

Rock Bottom parted the black curtain entrance for the second time that night. She was where he had left her, still nursing her wine spritzer. God, he loved her. Sometimes he thought, It could just be you and me, baby, but they both knew it would never wash. The world needed Rock Bottom, and vice versa. She wanted it that way too.

He took an Eighth Avenue Deli bag out of his pocket. He reached inside and with a flick of his wrist she heard a familiar pop. He dropped one of the contents in her drink. A maraschino cherry. He could be so sweet. He put his lips to her neck and gave her a raspberry. “They don’t do cherries,” he smiled. “But I do.”

ã 2010 Bernice Holtzman

Bernice Holtzman is an author of poems, short fiction, autobiographical pieces, two (so far) children’s stories, and all manner of clever commentary. Her work has appeared in The National Poetry Magazine of the Lower East Side. That was 30 years ago, and she’s still talking about it.