Green grapes, cold from the refrigerator, will always remind me of Leonardo da Vinci. A sickly child, I was affected by everything. Chasing a toy beneath the couch I had somehow consumed a dust bunny. As the tiny creature hopped down my bronchial tubes, it left a fit of coughing in its wake. Asthma followed, tubes spasmed and my body doubled over on itself. At three years old, it did not have far to travel.

My father lifted me from the floor where I was trying to hack out a vital organ or two and sat me on the couch. He held my inhaler to my lips. As I sat, drinking the air and shuddering from the adrenalin dump, he brought me a bowl of grapes to soothe my throat.

Years later I would drink whiskey, smoke cigarettes and consume narcotics in defiance of the very health I’d had to fight so hard for and be comforted.

But then it was grapes, and a large book of da Vinci’s engineering sketches, his flying machines, his tank with the blades that revolved around the base.

“To chop the legs off of enemy horses.” My father explained as he sat next to me and turned the pages. It was the efficiency of the idea rather than the horror that widened my toddler’s eyes.

At twelve he gave me “Now and on Earth,” by Jim Thompson when I asked him for a book to read. The book has a few plots, but I remember the Oakie family and looking at my father after finishing the book. I remarked that this man’s family were draining him dry of everything, money and life. That their every word and gesture carved pieces out of him

My father had looked impressed with me, and then his eyes went a little sad and a little wild. I wondered then as I do still about that reaction.

When I needed refuge, he was there. When I needed to be thrown from the nest, he was there.

I say that to say this: Happy Father’s Day, Old Man. I love you.

Long ago, in a place that never existed, a man and a woman fell in love. The man was from one city, and the woman was from another. These cities sat close together on the borders of separate countries and there was a blood feud between them.

It had been years since the feud had last bubbled over, but the flame beneath it had never gone out. When the man and the woman fell in love, they kept it secret as long as they could. But love cannot be hidden for long, not from so many eyes.

And neither the man nor the woman were what might be called shrewd. Just as well, if they’d been calculating enough to hide something so powerful, they may never have fallen in love at all.

The two cities used their love as an excuse to rattle the sabers of war, and there were cries of “temptress” and “seducer” tossed back and forth over the battlements. The cities were large and the war preparations took time.

Meanwhile, the woman discovered that the man was really rather boring and the man found that the woman was not calm enough to suit him. They fell out of love and tried to explain the situation to their leaders, but it made no difference.

Cries of “heartbreaker” and “lunatic” flew through the air now.

The man and the woman found themselves puzzled and alone. At least their two cities had forgotten them now that the war effort had its legs under it. With caution, the man and the woman began to see each other again. They were meeting in a field within sight of both cities when a trebuchet within one city launched the first boulder against the walls of the other. It’s not important who fired first.

The man and the woman looked at each other, she saw his calm solidity and he saw her exciting pulse. Because of her pulse, she was able to ask:

Want to get out of here?

Because of his calm solidity, he was able to answer:

Yes.

Taking each other’s hands, they turned and walked away forever.

Author’s Note: A small number of you will recognize this story, as it’s from the near-beginning of this tumblr. I am re-posting it for fun, because it’s one of the true ones and it took place in the bar where the reading is on Sunday.

“Matilda, you should dance with Justin.”

I hate my birthday.

I usually find some way to spend it at work and away from everybody. Except that tonight I wasn’t at the office, I was at my part-time job at the door of the bar. Right now, I was guarding it against nobody and using cigarettes to mark out the hours.

Early September and it still felt like August. Students were still away doing whatever it is they do when they aren’t here, tipping poorly and drinking Brooklyn lager for $3.

I found a way to make myself feel okay with telling people it was my birthday. Told myself that it was kind of a mean, angry thing to not tell them, and that I was being childish.

I gave myself permission. I convinced myself I was really doing it for them. Man, I’m full of shit.

Now, it’s never a good idea to get your bouncer drunk, but I guess there’s a special dispensation for birthdays. Whiskey was getting poured into me regularly by 11. We were all lucky nothing jumped off.

Shock and fucking awe, I started to have a good time. Enjoying the smiles over the thick edges of shot glasses. Last call arrived and we closed up shop, guiding the stragglers to the door.

Johnny was behind the bar, Matilda on the floor taking care of the tables.

And then Johnny says:

“Matilda, you should dance with Justin.”

I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because he really wanted to dance with her but had a girlfriend. Who knows why anybody does anything? Maybe he just wanted me to have a good time. Maybe he just wanted Matilda to have a good time.

Drunk, wonderfully drunk, I opened my arms and Matilda walked into them. Tom Waits came from the stereo and I’d never noticed before that night that “Innocent When you Dream,” is a waltz.

My arm went around her, and there was a tangible click. A soft yielding as her flesh connected to the muscle of my arm, and I pulled her close. There are few things in my life that have ever felt as right. Under the watchful eyes of the music and nobody, she tried to teach me to dance.

“C’mon, it’s just a box step.”

“A what?”

“A box step, here, I’ll show you.”

There’s magic in the world when a pretty girl with pretty tattoos is trying to teach you to dance on your birthday. An even greater magic rises when she laughs because she can’t stop leading, and you can’t learn the steps.

“Okay. Lets just two-step.” She gave up. I can’t dance, but I’d never stepped on a girl’s toes before that night.

We two-stepped, and when the song ended I swept her low to the ground and lifted her off her feet. She threw her head back, laughing and her legs wrapped around my waist. By the time I’d set her feet back on the ground I was in love.

Sometimes it happens that way, I guess.

Okay folks,

Last time I’ll bore you with this.

This Sunday on June 3rd, myself and a number of other writers will be reading at New York City’s first Noir at the Bar event at Shade Bar on the corner of 3rd and Sullivan Street in the heart of Greenwich Village. Starts at 6pm and the readings will continue until 9, or until we’re all too hammered to speak.

I’ll be reading sometime between 6 and 7pm.

I got my start writing crime fiction for webmags like Thuglit, Demolition Mag, Plots With Guns, Pulp Pusher, Big Pulp and more so I’ll be reading something along those lines.

Locals please roll through and hear some great crime fiction. And fuck it, it’s a bar. Drink until all of our writing sounds better. It’s a time-tested method.

As what’s either a bonus or something… not sure what the opposite of a bonus is, I used to work the door of this place on Saturday night. If you go back through the archives, you can find some of the stories I wrote about being a half-assed bouncer.