The Grind

Smoky wired banter,

Hanging crepe, raucous laughter,

Whispered asides unveiled.

Dreams flapping in the wind,

Like pages of unread books.

Books stained with coffee,

Dreams stained by fear.

Inhaling the present,

Exhaling the past,

Pondering their shared reveries,

Stuck in the daily grind.

Phoebe couldn't focus on her writing at the Grind. Only in her dark apartment in the wee hours of the night could she use her ink as a weapon to battle her demons. She never failed to flail as it was the only thing she knew. The coffee shop provided solace where everyone could relate to her frustrations. Here, she merely talked in circles, shared anecdotes, and felt her crush deepen. Her maddening yen for the silver haired professor. He was on sabbatical, working on a novel and was the most accomplished, complex man she knew.

She'd sit there for hours, purging stories of times in psychiatric hospitals, her dose of current medication, and listening to similar stories from depressives, alcoholics, and even a schizophrenic who was off his medication and spent most of his time pacing. Everyone encouraged him to lay off the caffeine.

Paul, who preferred panties and Depends to boxers was her closest confidante. He was a master at musical trivia, crossword puzzles, and an artist who sketched abstract portraits with Sharpies. Paul was homeless by choice, manipulative by trade, and empathetic to a fault. He tended to internalize everyone else's problems; particularly Phoebe's. Paul had enough on his plate, attempting to grow breasts with soy hormones on his 6'7" frame. The results were nil and his disappointment turned into jealousy of the female anatomy.

The rumor mill churned and she found the elusive professor's name was Robert, as in Robert the Bruce, the great King of Scotland. His sparse gray chest hairs and roman features made her moist but she was an accomplished dreamer, not fit for such a successful man. Phoebe was a mere poet on disability; admittedly an imaginative talent, but not fit for a world outside The Grind. However, he approached her one day, drawn in by her assisted blond hair and narrow amber eyes, and engaged in a cerebral conversation. They surprised each other with commonalities about spirituality and literature and swapped their writing, each impressed beyond measure.

The next day he took her aside from Paul and the AA crowd who were still yawning from their meeting. Boldly, he gently stroked her calves while ogling her breasts. Why didn't she shave today! Wow, shocking move, but she had wanted him for ages and, and....

"Want to go in my Jacuzzi? It might get rid of those shivers"

Shivers her ass, that was pure stubble. "Why not"? She said with a certainty she didn't feel. Truth be told, she was intimidated as hell by this older, more sophisticated man. He grabbed her hand with a firm grip and they rushed to his convertible sleek sports car. Phoebe was too dazed to notice the make, she was just aware enough to be impressed. With exhilarating speed, she finally felt liberated from the binds of her life. The thought of the churning Grind nauseated her for she was transfixed with a new world of riches.

"We're here", he mumbled under bated breath. She nodded her head for the first time she was at a loss for words. He spanked her ass in the elevator on the way up to his Bel Air penthouse.

"OUCH"! Phoebe cried involuntarily. Oh great, now he'll think I'm a prude. He said nothing as they entered his splendid place. A small voice in the back of her head reminded her that professors didn't make this kind of money but she hushed it and pondered her next seductive move. All she could think of was to make eye contact, but she was astonished the second she gazed at Robert's wide eyed grin. She had seen enough crime shows to realize what he held; a rape kit filled with masking tape and rope. The next moment she was rendered unconscious.

Jolts of electric shock
Spark doubts of my humanity

Sliced to the bone
A reminder to know I'm alive
Suicidal high tide's waves
Floating amongst the dead

Ephemeral friends
Exchange horrors of life
Short lived relations
Bond for days of tedious trouble

Structured days
Remedial classes
Try to keep us in line
Can't touch a battalion of trauma

Upon Phoebe's return from the psych ward, she was jonesing for her caffeine fix. She was also fiending for her friend's support. Paul had arranged a surprise party to welcome her back. She couldn't muster up much enthusiasm though she partially portrayed a healed soul to the crowd of fans. Fans of her poetry, fans of herself. This sentiment brought about a sincere smile that lit up the Grind's smoky porch. She never did relay her trauma, even to Paul, though he helped heal her wounds with his tall tales and corny jokes. When asked if she had anything to report she grinned and said "There's no place like home".