{"id":8191,"date":"2020-01-31T23:23:52","date_gmt":"2020-02-01T06:23:52","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8191"},"modified":"2020-01-31T23:26:27","modified_gmt":"2020-02-01T06:26:27","slug":"people-who-live-in-invisible-houses","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/?page_id=8191","title":{"rendered":"People Who Live in Invisible Houses"},"content":{"rendered":"

Robert P. Kaye<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Unable to impel herself out the front door, Stevie climbed the spiral staircase to the widow\u2019s walk. The InvisiCoat on the roof deck reflected cumulonimbus and flaming sunset such that exiting the stairwell looked equivalent to plunging into a volcano. A blotch of berry-colored bird poop gave shape to the far rail. She launched before she could talk herself into retreat, staggering across the void, which proved solid underfoot after all. Her heart banged death metal double bass against ribs as fingers grasped the top rail. She took a deep breath and glanced down.<\/p>\n

The tacky purple splotch beside her hand wasn\u2019t bird crap after all. It was paint, and not the invisible kind. Still tacky. More purple adhered to the side of the house below her toes, refracted in the dissimulated surfaces of surrounding houses also clad in InvisiCoat. A view that left her nauseated.<\/p>\n

Fighting vertigo, she looked over the side of the house to where a two-dimensional face the size of a billboard levitated beneath her toes. The squashed ellipse of a mouth howled in existential agony. The horrified eyes rolled upward. Hands covered ears to block out the infinite scream passing through all nature. A purple watch cap the same shade as the paint on the rail crowned Bruce\u2019s self-portrait homage to Munch\u2019s The Scream<\/em>.<\/p>\n

The implications were clear. Bruce would be headed to jail for violating his parole, earned for similar crimes. As the only normal one in the family, she had an obligation to save him, but she had failed.<\/p>\n

Confronted with yet another twist in the downward spiral of her life, Stevie laughed. The echo bounced back from the coruscated buildings of the Starlite Gated Community.<\/p>\n

Hinges creaked across the void. A rectangle of light opened and someone stepped onto a balcony suspended in midair. A camera clicked. A glass circle inside a black rectangle lowered to reveal a familiar face.<\/p>\n

Arcadia. They\u2019d lived next door to each other most of their lives and gone to school together, but were never friends.<\/p>\n

Stevie forced a smile. \u201cLooks like we got graffiti bombed,\u201d she said, sweeping a hand toward her feet.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe assume this won\u2019t be a problem?\u201d Arcadia said.<\/p>\n

\u2018We\u2019 had to mean the Starlite Gated Community, which mandated cladding all structures in InvisiCoat, the visual judo of refractive metamaterials that warped ambient light, offending the visual cortex into a state of denial. A world of spray-on funhouse mirrors, as Uncle Mel, inventor of InvisiCoat, used to say.<\/p>\n

\u201cGuess we\u2019re overdue for a paint job anyway,\u201d Stevie said. They\u2019d been getting letters from the Neighborhood Council for years, but a new application of InvisiCoat was something Dad apparently could not afford. He had not practiced law since before Uncle Mel died.<\/p>\n

\u201cGreat,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cBecause invisible paint only works if everybody maintains their investment.\u201d She pivoted and the pane of light from the door vanished into refracted blood red sunset.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Stevie rapped yet again on the Fortress door. \u201cDad, you in there?\u201d she called. He hadn\u2019t emerged from his basement cave in over a year. \u201cIt\u2019s about paint.\u201d<\/p>\n

She had agreed to not disturb him except for emergencies and a narrow list of subjects, which included paint.<\/p>\n

The door sucked open and a great bear of a man filled the space, beard halfway down his chest, ropes of greying hair to his shoulders. The ghost of Uncle Mel. He wore a headset mic, like a ground control flight director. \u201cMake it fast. I\u2019m busy,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

Busy? She had lost hope that the door would open. The speech she\u2019d intended to shout through the barrier was replaced by the memory of the call from Martha, Wife III, saying she was going on a little vacation and could Stevie come stay with her father and cousin Bruce? Discovering on arrival that Dad had holed up in his Fortress, Bruce had been arrested and Martha wasn\u2019t coming back. Stevie needed a place to hide, but this was more than she expected.<\/p>\n

\u201cBoss?\u201d echoed a voice from inside. \u201cThe guide says we\u2019re going to have to double the bribes.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust a sec,\u201d he said into the mic, swinging it away from his mouth. \u201cWhat\u2019s the problem?\u201d He dangled a game controller by the miniature steering wheel.<\/p>\n

This online multiplayer game, or whatever, seemed to have consumed him. At least it involved other people. An overpowering miasma migrated from room to corridor.<\/p>\n

\u201cBruce painted a huge self portrait on the side of the house,\u201d she said, striving to project enough calm to prop the door open.<\/p>\n

\u201cOkay. And?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s on probation. We can\u2019t let him go to jail. Not after what he\u2019s been through.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBoss?\u201d somebody said.<\/p>\n

Dad turned back to the flat screen on the far wall. Two men wearing baseball caps and ear pieces stared up the hood of a jeep-like vehicle. The landscape behind could have been Mars. It looked so real.<\/p>\n

Dad swiveled the mic back into place. \u201cJust get us to Lake Baikal,\u201d he said. The room was a mess of couch\/bed and takeout containers evolving into terrariums. He turned back to Stevie. \u201cWe\u2019re at the Mongolian-Siberian border. Are we done here?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo.\u201d Stevie glanced at the hood of the vehicle approaching low buildings, a striped barrier and a soldier with an automatic weapon. She wondered why the shooting hadn\u2019t started. \u201cWhat are we going to tell the police? And the Neighborhood Association?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cTell them to piss up a rope. That\u2019s my legal opinion. Are we done here?\u201d<\/p>\n

The vein in his temple throbbed. If she pushed too hard he wouldn\u2019t answer the door next time. \u201cI\u2019ll let you think it over,\u201d she said. \u201cJust don\u2019t leave town.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cVery funny,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

The door shut. She charged upstairs to Bruce\u2019s room and pounded on the door. No answer, but it was unlocked. The room looked spartan as ever, redolent of teenage boy. A computer screen cycled through early twentieth century masterpieces. Crumpled sketches littered the floor. No Bruce.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Ten thirty-seven pm and the Waffle Shack remained frozen in time. Same pitted linoleum tables, deformed counter stools, depopulated pie case. Same ageless waitress behind the counter chatting with a couple of uniforms. Stevie glanced into the corner that used to serve as the stage for the open mic, echoes of panic making her fingers itch.<\/p>\n

Bruce sat in a booth next to the windows with a cup of coffee and a plate of naked chicken bones, the cartilage gnawed off the ends. His face doppelganged the mural except for the lopsided grin and big ears concealed under the purple watch cap, which she\u2019d spotted through the Waffle Shack\u2019s fishbowl windows. Edward Hopper meets Looney Tunes.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d he said as she slid into the booth.<\/p>\n

\u201cAt least take off the stupid cap so the cops don\u2019t spot you the same way I did,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

She\u2019d forced herself behind the wheel of the car, triggering a flashback of Dave slamming on the tour van brakes, her slumped with cheek against the cold window trying to sleep. The whoosh of the loose cymbal hurtling over the bench seat where her neck rested a minute before, the bite of the brass edge embedded in the windshield. Van totaled, tour cancelled, comeback dissolved. Technically not a comeback if you\u2019d never arrived in the first place. She\u2019d cruised the alleys looking for Bruce, hand checking the position of the headrest.<\/p>\n

Bruce nodded to the counter where two patrol officers sat with their backs turned. \u201cI could tag their squad car and they wouldn\u2019t notice as long as my jewelry doesn\u2019t ping.\u201d He plucked up a pant leg to show the ankle bracelet.<\/p>\n

\u201cSo why doesn\u2019t it?\u201d She knew he\u2019d been going out at night, but figured he was too smart to do anything that would further circumscribe his freedom. Another bad guess on her part.<\/p>\n

\u201cWorks on GPS.\u201d Bruce took a small black box from his pocket. \u201cNever leave home without home.\u201d<\/p>\n

The kid was a tech wizard, but what thrilled him were Impressionism, Expressionism and Fauvism. He absorbed all the art history she\u2019d learned in college inside a month, inspired to hack the creative side himself. They negotiated a laissez-faire approach to education that bordered on neglect.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got to cover that thing before they haul your ass off to jail,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo way am I buffing out my burner. Besides, InvisiCorp applies every ounce of InvisiCoat. It\u2019s not like you can get it at Home Depot. Jail is a small price to pay. You have to suffer for your art.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t you think you\u2019ve suffered enough?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

After the brothers fell out over licensing InvisiCoat to InvisiCorp, Uncle Mel found Emily on the internet. They had Bruce, a late-in-life surprise. There were happy for years out at Mel\u2019s desert compound before glioblastoma killed Emily in a matter of months. Uncle Mel died a couple years later from exposure to all those chemicals, or an aneurysm or heartbreak, or all of the above. They found Bruce out there alone, eating the survival rations and living through a computer screen. He\u2019d buried his father next to his mother. He was twelve.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat suffering?\u201d Bruce said.<\/p>\n

Time to change the subject. \u201cWhat\u2019s in the backpack?\u2019 She tapped the lumpy bag with her foot, generating the singular hollow chime of spray cans.<\/p>\n

The young guy cop at the counter barely turned around, but the older female officer gave them a hard scan. The waitress placed a couple of to-go cups on the counter with the check and said something to the cops and they laughed, then settled up. They headed out the door without looking back.<\/p>\n

\u201cThat was close,\u201d Stevie said.<\/p>\n

A whistle came from outside. Bruce peered through the dark window. Stevie saw nothing beyond the reflection of her own face, stressed and old. When had she given up wearing makeup?<\/p>\n

\u201cGotta go,\u201d Bruce said. \u201cCrew\u2019s here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got a crew?\u201d She\u2019d assumed he was like Mel. Like Dad. Like her.<\/p>\n

\u201cHell yeah,\u201d Bruce said. \u201cIt sucks to be alone.\u201d He scooped up his backpack and slipped out the door, fast as a lizard.<\/p>\n

The little shit.<\/p>\n

The waitress sauntered over with the coffee pot to make sure the check got covered, a maneuver Stevie had employed many times when waiting tables. Carol, the name tag said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou want anything?\u201d Carol said.<\/p>\n

\u201cNo,\u201d Stevie said. \u201cI used to play here at the open mic. Like ten years ago?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThere was an open mic?\u201d Carol lay the check on the table and walked away.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\u201cGood morning.\u201d Arcadia said. She wore a skirt and matching jacket. Business casual to walk next door. The tight ponytail made her look like a movie velociraptor, upthrust chin indicating she expected an invitation to enter.<\/p>\n

No police, no warrant. \u201cIt\u2019s under control,\u201d Stevie said, operating on too little sleep and too much coffee. \u201cWe\u2019re handling it.\u201d No way was she coming inside. The place was a mess. At least Stevie wasn\u2019t in gym shorts and a t-shirt.<\/p>\n

Arcadia tilted her head. \u201cDidn\u2019t you used to do music or something? You won the talent contest.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSecond place,\u201d Stevie said. First went to the captain of the football team for his crappy juggling act, because he was popular. That still stung, but then Arcadia probably knew that. \u201cWeren\u2019t you into all that CSI stuff? You were going to be a crime scene investigator or something?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAn overcrowded field thanks to TV,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cI worked for Child Protective Services for a while. My parents have health issues, so I moved back to help them out. You know how it is.\u201d<\/p>\n

Stevie saw the parents riding bikes and loading golf clubs into their car, tanned and healthy. The opposite of shut-ins. She recognized the smell of burnt dreams. \u201cSure,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m working with the Neighborhood Association while applying to law school,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cAs I\u2019m sure you know, the CCRs mandate a consistent appearance of invisibility. Invisible paint only works if — \u201c<\/p>\n

\u201cEverybody does it,\u201d Stevie said. \u201cCCRs?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCovenants, Conditions and Restrictions. I sent pictures of the vandalism to my contacts at the police department. Is the kid with the rap sheet still living here, by the way? Bruce?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019ll handle it,\u201d Stevie said. Bruce did his early work down in the flats where nobody much cared if graffiti paid homage to C\u00e9zanne or Kandinsky. He\u2019d been busted as soon as he did something in the Starlite Gated Community where they took such things seriously because InvisiCoat cost a small fortune.<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe this is best for all concerned,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cYou\u2019re way overdue on repainting and Bruce could benefit from professional help in the appropriate institution. His crimes are an obvious cry for help. Maybe you need to think about yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n

Arcadia reached out and touched Stevie\u2019s elbow.<\/p>\n

Stevie had a compulsion to shove her down the stairs, but wasn\u2019t convinced it would kill her before she cried out for help. \u201cThanks so much,\u201d Stevie said. \u201cYou\u2019ve been unbelievably helpful. We\u2019ll take care of the problem.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s already solved,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cUnder the terms of the CCRs we\u2019ve arranged for InvisiCorp to send a crew out tomorrow.\u201d<\/p>\n

She executed an upthrust chin smile and pivoted down the steps before Stevie could reconsider the shove.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Dad flung the Fortress door open, a grizzly with a buzz cut, stubble a uniform length except for the bald spot and wispy locks behind the ears missed by the clippers. Shorn, he looked thinner, and older. The food containers were cleared away, a small mountain of black trash bags tucked into one corner. He smelled better. He still wore the headset. \u201cWhat is it?\u201d he said. \u201cWere almost at Lake Baikal. It contains a fifth of all the freshwater in the world.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCool,\u201d Stevie said. She recapped the conversation with Arcadia, wondering if she could block the door with her body if he tried to shut it. Whether she would someday have to bury him in the weed jungle of the backyard.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got makeup on,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou cut your hair,\u201d Stevie said. \u201cBadly.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally?\u201d He looked crushed. \u201cThere\u2019s a delegation coming to welcome us. I wanted to look good.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t have to look good to play a fantasy game,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat game?\u201d he said. \u201cThis is virtual tourism. I\u2019m doing pioneering work here. A remote expedition around Lake Baikal. It\u2019s the deepest rift lake in the world, with more than thirty unique species. Don\u2019t you read my blog?\u201d<\/p>\n

The flat screen contained men in baseball caps, others with fur hats. A church with a gold onion dome. It looked very real. \u201cAre you driving from here?\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t be absurd.\u201d He held up the game controller. \u201cThis aims the cameras. It\u2019s the culmination of years of planning.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cBoss?\u201d said a voice.<\/p>\n

Half a head filled the screen. Dad turned the wheel. After a short lag, the picture centered on a man in a baseball cap. \u201cThe Mayor\u2019s expecting you. There will be vodka.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI have an appointment,\u201d Dad said. \u201cJust so you know, after this we\u2019re going to New York to give a talk on Lake Baikal and how internet tourism can help people like us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cPeople like us?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cA predisposition to panic disorders like agoraphobia can be triggered by a traumatic event,\u201d he said. \u201cGetting out more might help you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHelp me<\/em>?\u201d She didn\u2019t fear open spaces. Not as much as walking out on stage. Or driving. Or leaving the house. \u201cNew York?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah.\u201d He inhaled sharply. \u201cAfter Lake Baikal. It\u2019s thirty million years old, the oldest lake in the world. An inland sea. Read the blog.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMaybe later,\u201d she said. \u201cBruce is going to jail if we don\u2019t do something.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNot while I\u2019m still a lawyer.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAre you still a lawyer?\u201d Stevie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI think so.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cThen you\u2019d better read the CCRs,\u201d Stevie said.<\/p>\n

\u201cI wrote the CCRs.\u201d He looked back into the room like a wild animal about bolt, but he did not shut the door.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

His enormous body draped over the rail of the widow\u2019s walk like some inland Siberian sea lion suspended in midair. Stevie fought off vertigo and tried not to think about falling through the mostly invisible deck flecked with droplets of aquamarine. \u201cDad, these people want to talk about paint,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

When she\u2019d answered the door, Arcadia stood on the top step, the cop from the Waffle Shack on the walkway, thumbs in her utility belt. A truck with an InvisiCorp logo and ladders idled at the curb. Stevie had spent hours cleaning the house, pointless since they had all trudged straight up the spiral staircase to the roof.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou need to cease and desist,\u201d Arcadia said, breathless and shriller for the climb.<\/p>\n

Dad undraped from the rail, caterpillar fur on face and head studded with diamonds of sweat. Blue-green paint streaked overstuffed coveralls. Ropes and pieces of equipment festooned the railing, all spattered in ellipses of sea and sky. \u201cI don\u2019t think so,\u201d he said, drawing himself up to grizzly height.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s going on?\u201d the cop said, hand on her Taser.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m painting my property,\u201d Dad said.<\/p>\n

\u201cMore paint,\u201d came Bruce\u2019s voice from over the side of the house.<\/p>\n

Dad hauled up a bucket, empty except for a roller and a paint screen of blue diamonds.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s great you\u2019re covering that eyesore,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cBut the CCRs stipulate the use of InvisiCoat to maintain consistent privacy.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah, but it\u2019s not really invisible, is it?\u201d Dad said. \u201cMore like car sick camouflage. You might not know this, but I drew up the CRRs and the Starlite Gated Community articles of incorporation, which is the relevant authority here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t know that,\u201d Arcadia said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWe\u2019re not covering the face,\u201d Bruce said, his purple watch cap gophering above the mostly invisible plane of the deck edge as he ratcheted himself up with mountaineering ascenders. \u201cWe\u2019re using a background to create an outline effect. Like Manet and Vel\u00e1zquez.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cReally makes it pop,\u201d called another voice below the edge. One of Bruce\u2019s crew.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe Homeowner\u2019s Association kept sending those letters saying I had to paint,\u201d Dad said. \u201cSo I told my nephew to go for it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to use InvisiCoat,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cOr incur substantial penalties.\u201d<\/p>\n

The vein in Dad\u2019s temple throbbed. It looked like he might charge, or try to escape off the edge of the building. Or make a break for the Fortress. The cop flicked off the strap holstering her pistol and drew her Taser.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat about the legal description of the property?\u201d Stevie said. They\u2019d had a chat while she tidied up his haircut.<\/p>\n

\u201cRight,\u201d Dad said. \u201cBasically, the Starlite Gated Community is over there.\u201d He described an invisible boundary with a flat hand. \u201cAnd we\u2019re over here. So I can do whatever the hell I want. Feel free to look it up.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI will,\u201d Arcadia said. \u201cIn the meantime, that kid is going to jail.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe\u2019s supposed to be wearing an ankle monitor,\u201d the cop said.<\/p>\n

Laying back in his harness, Bruce hiked his leg onto the edge of the deck and peeled back skinny jeans to display the bracelet.<\/p>\n

\u201cHe hasn\u2019t left the premises,\u201d Stevie said. \u201cHe\u2019s just dangling from them.\u201d<\/p>\n

The cop\u2019s twisted grin suggested she remembered the Waffle Shack but considered the point not worth making, perhaps because cops couldn\u2019t afford to live in the Starlite Gated Community. She holstered the Taser and re-snapped the pistol strap.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou can\u2019t paint the whole house blue,\u201d Arcadia said.<\/p>\n

\u201cAquamarine. But, you\u2019re right,\u201d Dad said. \u201cIt won\u2019t go with the winter part of the Lake Baikal mural.\u201d<\/p>\n

Stevie smiled. Arcadia didn\u2019t know she was getting off easy. Bruce and his crew were currently into Hieronymus Bosch.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

After returning from New York, Arcadia took to going up on the azure widow\u2019s walk with the crappy pawn shop guitar she\u2019d had as a girl, thrashing out chords against lines transcribed from napkins and PostIt notes stuffed into purses and backpacks over the years. One evening she received a text message from Arcadia. \u201cDrinks?\u201d it said.<\/p>\n

They took an Uber to a dive bar down in the flats. Arcadia wore jeans and a t-shirt. She drank beer, then switched to rye.<\/p>\n

\u201cThe weird thing is,\u201d she said. \u201cMy parents like the murals. They say it\u2019s a break from all that isolation, even if the fish do look like goblins.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWeird,\u201d Stevie said.<\/p>\n

Arcadia unburdened about the cost of working at Child Protective Services and bombing the LSATs, terrified she\u2019d never get married and have kids the way she\u2019d expected. Also terrified she would, because she\u2019d seen how horribly it could turn out. Afraid she might never have the courage to move out of her parents\u2019 house.<\/p>\n

Stevie told Arcadia about Dad at the presentation in the hotel ballroom, film of the expedition projected onto the screen as he explained assistive internet tourism and Lake Baikal, which really is an inland sea. He seemed to forget the audience, but then he had a fear of open spaces, not public speaking. How Bruce had roamed NYC until three in the morning while Stevie got sick smoking half a pack of cigarettes, unable to go beyond the hotel taxi stand to see the band she loved perform in Brooklyn.<\/p>\n

They drank far too much. They pledged to sign up for a spin class together and support each other.<\/p>\n

Stevie awoke the next morning with a crushing headache in an empty house. After returning from New York, Dad announced that he was going on a trip in actual meatspace to pursue a theory about the Nazca Lines, something about land use agreements writ large. He took off in the care of the guys in baseball caps. Bruce\u2019s confinement had expired and he\u2019d begun attending public high school down in the flats. His drawing skills improved with the great art teacher who demanded original work derived from life experience. Bruce rarely came home.<\/p>\n

Nursing the hangover, Stevie skimmed the labyrinthine archeology of Dad\u2019s blog, peering at pictures of the dark compartment of the Land Rover for a glimpse of Dracula prowling the high desert. She searched for clues he might be coming home.<\/p>\n

Money wasn\u2019t an issue. Apparently the licensing deal with InvisiCorp had been very lucrative. Dad had suggested she buy a better guitar. Or a music studio. She still had trouble leaving the house.<\/p>\n

That evening, she managed to drive to the Waffle Shack, hoping to run into Bruce and his crew. She was that desperate. No Bruce. Just Carol, the waitress.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey,\u201d Carol said. \u201cWhat would you like?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCoffee and wings,\u201d she said. \u201cAnd a job.\u201d She didn\u2019t know why she said it. It seemed like rock bottom.<\/p>\n

Carol pointed to a sign on the door. Help wanted. \u201cYou got experience?\u201d<\/p>\n

She could already see it. Starting up the old open mic. Trading shifts to accommodate band practice. Heartbreak and disappointment and suffering. Paralyzing fear until the instant she started to play.<\/p>\n

It made her fingers itch. The trick not looking down.<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. I got experience,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

ROBERT P. KAYE<\/strong>\u2019s stories have appeared in Penn Review, Potomac Review, Hobart, Juked, Fiction Southeast, The Los Angeles Review<\/em> and elsewhere, with details available at www.RobertPKaye.com<\/a>. He facilitates the Works in Progress open mic at Hugo House and is a fiction editor at Pacifica Literary Review<\/em>.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Robert P. Kaye     Unable to impel herself out the front door, Stevie climbed the spiral staircase to the widow\u2019s walk. The InvisiCoat on the roof deck reflected cumulonimbus and flaming sunset such that exiting the stairwell looked equivalent … Continue reading →<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"parent":8190,"menu_order":1,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"nf_dc_page":"","jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-8191","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/P15duy-287","_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8191","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=8191"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8191\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":8214,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8191\/revisions\/8214"}],"up":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/8190"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/www.jerseydevilpress.com\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=8191"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}