The shadow boy sat on the sidewalk and sighed, “I lost my Father. He was a fighter pilot behind enemy lines in Atlanta. When Napoleon met his Waterloo; they shot him like a dog.”
Trina nodded sagely, “That’s exactly what happened to my Father.”
Madison scowled and popped a seam.
“Do you think he’ll come back to the window?” The little shadow boy sipped
his tea.
“I think he will.” Trina replied. “Let’s have a cupcake while we wait.
Rob Goldstein 2019
Trina and Her Doll, Madison
I wrote this for the monthly #writingprompt from D. Wallace Peach
Trina liked empty cities the best and this is her best memory of New York.
She looked up, the Sun rose, partially eclipsed by a big black Moon.
Trina sat primly on the only bench on Queens Boulevard when she saw the shadow of a little boy skipping rope.
She quickly opened her journal and wrote, ‘In theland of tall thin shadows’
Then she pulled a piece of chalk from her skirts, dropped to her hands and knees, and drew a hopscotch court. The shadow boy stopped skipping rope and came closer.
Trina stood. “Hello,” she curtsied. “I’m Trina, and you?”
“I am a child of the Universe,” replied the shadow boy.
“I see.” Trina searched the ground for a small stone to use as a marker. “You have a right to be here?”
The shadow boy shook his head, “Maybe yes, maybe no.”
Trina laughed: “Did you lose your boy?”
“I think so. Have you seen him?”
“This is my world. No one comes here, not even shadows.”
“I don’t have a right to be here?”
“Strictly speaking, no.”
Trina found a stone and tossed it onto the court. “What happens when you vanish?” she asked.
“I don’t exist.” The shadow boy replied.
Trina was appalled. “You stop thinking?”
“I think so.”
“How awful!”
“But I always come back when the little boy goes out to play!”
“Always?”
“Yes.”
Trina reached up and hid the Sun behind her big black moon.
Queens Boulevard went black and the shadow boy was gone.
Trina was sad.
She reached into her skirts and found a torch, then she opened her journal and wrote, ‘They sleep without dreams’
The Shadow Boy
‘In the Land of Tall Thin Shadows’ (c) Rob Goldstein, March 2019
Bonwit Teller opened his eyes to a foggy San Francisco morning.
He threw off the comforter, angrily pulled down the shades, and
crawled back into bed.
The phone rang
“Hi Bonwit, it’s Jerry. This is your wake-up call per your request.”
“Hi Jerry”
“Are you up?”
“Yeh”
“That was a helluva rant you gave last night”
“Which one? I was drunk.”
“About Old Man Lazaro.”
Bonwit sat up.
Jerry continued: “You made Old Man Lazaro look like a jackass.”
Bonwit sighed: “I guess I owe him an apology. I say wicked things
when I’m drunk. Thanks for the wake-up Jerry.”
Market Street looked like an Exodus scene.
“Let my people go,” Bonwit heard a beggar say.
He dropped some cash into the beggars’ cup and hurried into
the underground.
He saw another beggar sitting cross-legged in front of the
ticket machine.
His sign read: “Dying from AIDS. Please help.”
Bonwit dropped some cash into his cup and hurried onto
the platform.
Bonwit was desperate for the train to arrive.
He thought of Old Man Lazaro: his face boyish, yet old, kind, yet cruel.
Bonwit spat on that face and remembered his rage at last night’s dinner.
Lazaro compared Bonwit to a General in a noble army:
“That’s what you are.” Lazaro said. “The sales force is your army. They depend on you for supplies and protection. Your people need you Bonwit.”
“I’m just a fucking travel agent and you’re just an old queen!” Bonwit drunkenly snarled.
Bonwit rose from the station and entered the Pyramid.
Bonwit thought; I am truly a pain in the ass.
As if I don’t know why I’m here
He smiled benevolently at the housekeeper. “Good morning Violet.”
’’Morning Mister Teller.”
“Have I met my obligations to you this week?”
“I got a paycheck if that’s what you mean?”
“I’m so pleased.” Bonwit replied.
He entered his office and rang his secretary: “Mary, will you call the Whiskey Shop and have a bottle of Macallan 1939 delivered to Mr. Lazaro?
“Yes Mr. Teller. Mr. Lazaro is in his office. He wants to meet with you.”
Bonwit entered Lazaro’s office and took a seat.
Lazaro glared at him. “Bonwit, darling! You’re late.”
“I walked this morning.”
Lazaro laughed. “I’m removing you from the Booth Account. Shirley
complained this morning.”
“About what.”
“She said Baxter’s tickets were late.”
“I had those tickets printed and sent before Shirley ordered them.”
Lazaro shrugged and smiled. “Maybe she has it in for you. Maybe she doesn’t
like old queens.”
Bonwit returned to his office and crossed to the picture window
behind his desk.
He studied the expanse of the Bridge and the shimmering blue
waters below.
(c) Rob Goldstein 2015-2019
‘Behind the Pyramid’ (c) Rob Goldstein
First posted May, 2017-Revised and re-posted January 2019.
“Oh that ain’t what I’m doin’” I said. “I gotta little Sister at home and Momma
says I gotta set a good example by screwin’ every girl I see!”
Well, he drove me around, tryina get me to say I pushed drugs.
“I bet you’re gonna turn that little Sister of yours into an addict!”
“Oh I wouldn’t do that at all sir! I warn her every day against such wickedness!
God strike me dead if I don’t!”
I guess we wore each other out.
The cop took me home to the projects.“Keep up the good work with yo’ Sistuh!” he sneered.
Bobby and The Queen of Hearts
At the Stardust a drunk ex‑priest named Mother Rachel did the weddings.
One guy dressed like the bride and the other wore a tuxedo.
At the Stardust the Queen of Hearts drag show was the major event.
The drag queens wrecked every dress shop on King Street.
On the big night the butch dykes wore three-piece suits and their women wore gowns.
Mother Rachel was emcee and he’d open every show with a report on how safe the Greyhound Bus Station was to cruise. “The place is jus’ hoppin’ with Vice! He said, “So ya’all be careful. OK?”
There was one drag queen named Miss Tillie who always did My Life.
At the end of the song where Shirley Bassey screams,’ This is myyyy liiiiife,’ Miss Tillie ripped off his wig and thew it at the crowd.
Then at the close of the show, everyone in the Stardust joined hands and sang There’s a Place for Us.
Street Art by Eclair Bandersnatch
The Stardust and all other artwork (c) Rob Goldstein 2017 – 2018 All Rights Reserved Save
I thought I’d drop you a few lines since this week makes five years since we left Iraq.
I know you say you ain’t the same without ur leg but I hope
ur feeling better.
I’ll feel hella better when I throw out these pills for crazies.
Why does the fuckin’ V.A. give me pills when I say I need food?
Why don’t shrinks know people go crazy from hunger?
My partner died of AIDS last year so I got no one to talk to so I went to Reno last month.
That was a big mistake, but the ticket was a free one way so I figured I’d go see family.
My sister wouldn’t let me meet my nephew ‘cause I came out gay.
Her holy roller husband kept sayin’ he’d shoot me for Jesus.
So I spent the rest of my food money for a one way back to Frisco.
My family can kiss my faggot ass!
Oh well, that’s life for crazy fags and stupid war ‘heroes’
I keep hoping you’ll send me a card so I know ur alive.
I’d call but I can’t buy a phone.
I get $300 a month disability and it costs $200 for a week in a crap hotel, so’s I won’t have a place for the next three weeks, but please write to that address I sent anyways.
Please.
Love,
Zack
The writings of the homeless men and women who sleep on Clarion Alley in San Francisco
