Hotel Doorman Passes the Time of Day, Mexico City  “New, that one’s suit, bargain sale somewhere but see, the woman with him: style, not ‘a la moda,’ just herself…and him? chingada! beltless jeans, baseball cap, leftist for sure (they’re all alike), that one hiding fat with shawls, ah! look, politician—silk shirt, chin shaved so close it shines (narcos buy Rolex watches, Chargers t-shirts, whores wear open shoulder blouses, spandex pants), banker that one, necktie with a bit of swirl (see the clasp?) and here? aerobic miss (who else could wear jeans that tight?) Faces lie but clothes? Clothes don’t hide what people want to hide. “   Lennon, after the First Hamburg Tour Drank orange juice, ate eggs his foster mother fried, watched re-runs on the telly, sketched obscene cartoons. Beyond the ironed curtains, Naugahyde,…

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“Prisoners of the Multiverse” is taken from a story collection entitled The Liar’s Asylum, just published by Black Lawrence Press. It first appeared in the New Orleans Review. ~ The defining and indelible event of our pre-college years—for me and for my cohort of honors-level classmates at Laurenville High School—was the suicide, at age forty-two, of our twelfth grade physics teacher, Vance Rottman.  We wouldn’t have been surprised if dowdy Miss Ayler, who so worshipped Virginia Woolf, had filled her pockets with stones and vanished into the Rappahannock.  Or if the fastidious Latin teacher, Dr. Ismay, had fallen on a vintage sword like his defeated Roman generals.  But the image of Vance—for that was what we all called him—bolting himself inside his gear-packed office, where only months earlier he’d rigged a working model of the…

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We sat side by side in the quiet café, a stone’s throw from the Parc de Sceaux, famous for its Château. Outside it rained. A woman passing with a dark blue umbrella stopped and peered at us. For a moment I thought she was going to come and join us at our table. She looked familiar, her face somewhat twisted, possibly anguished. Clearly the battle to remain an individual in the angst-ridden city had taken its toll on her. “Do you know her?” you asked, staring at a spot left of my head. “I do not,” I said, turning to see what it was you stared at. The waiter. “Monsieur,” he said, clicking his heels and bowing his head. “A bottle of rouge, please,” I said. He stared at me for a moment, his eyes…

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