Man With a Pen

By Paul Vigna Man With a Pen Write me	Short Fiction Ibby’s Falafel The yellow light hung over the intersection, blinking evenly, slicing the night with its glow every time it lit up. The cab rolled through the street. It pulled over in the middle of a short block, its engine humming in a dented rhythm. There was an exchange of cash, she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk. Hey, the cabbie said, how do I get back to the tunnel? Turn left here, go left at the first light, it’s about ten blocks down. Can’t miss it. She stepped back. The cabby rolled up the window and drove off. The intersection was starkly silent - it merely defined an empty space. A wind blew torn wrappers and other bits of garbage down the chill boulevard. Two urban toughs crossed the street against the red light, buzz cuts, puffy leather coats and baggy blue jeans. They looked at her flatly as they crossed. Dark hung over the night like an occupation force. Across the street a Cuban diner fought it off with green and yellow neon lights, Latin rhythm waving through the air. A deli across the street was full of white light salvation. Behind her was a small triangle-shaped park, a leftover patch between three roads, paved with cracked, uneven concrete blocks. Along a low wall four or five transients sat, eating cheap fast food and sleeping. In the middle of the park were escalators leading down the open grave pit of the Path station. A flat stone roof was erected over them, dim halogen lights beckoning nefarious safety. All was quiet. Most of the storefronts were castled behind steel gates. Streetlights fleshed out the hard blacktop. A car cruised by, heavy bass lines breaking the silence with a rising and falling Doppelganger effect. She walked down Grove along the small park’s edge, crossed Columbus, and waited for the light to change. She crossed to the other side of Grove. The Cuban diner had large plate glass windows, and inside she saw the smiling chirping tables, groups of laughter and nighttime camaraderie. She walked past them, down the block, on empty pavement, pausing for another red light. The place was wedged into a narrow storefront, just a door and two thin plate glass windows. A small green neon sign hung in the window, steadily beaming the words: Ibby’s Falafel. She walked through the open door. The walls were white-painted pressed tin. The half-dozen black Formica tables, all with two chairs, were empty. The only person in the place was a young Syrian kid. Middle-Eastern flavored rock-n-roll played through a tinny radio, a high-pitched fast rhythm. She walked up to the counter. Falafel, she said. For here? he asked with an accent. Yeah, she said. He grabbed the various ingredients, while she sat down in a window seat. There was no traffic, just the blacked-out storefronts of a tenement building across the silent street. The wind picked up and blew a white plastic bag down the street. Fall was in the thin air. Two young girls crammed themselves through an open window frame across the street on the second floor, looking into the same empty street. There were two or three other lights illuminating windows in the block-long tenement. One girl disappeared into the room, then the other fell back, shutting the window. The light went off, leaving a gap of pure black in the space before the window frame readjusted to the still darkness. Falafel, the kid said. She walked to the counter, counting bills. Two dollars, he said. Water, she said. He reached into a refrigerated case behind him and pulled out a plastic bottle of water. Three dollars. She counted three dollar bills and handed them to him. Thank you, he said. She picked up the water and a plastic basket holding the falafel and sat down. The falafel was good, and a cream sauce seeped out of a hole in the pita bread. She drank the water, watching a street lamp outside. Beneath was a circle of light, illuminating a parked car’s hood. The wind blew dead leaves down the street, with a chattering rustle. She picked out thick tomato chunks, and took another bite. Nobody was on the street. The storefronts stood stone faced and dark. The Syrian kid rattled knives, wiped down the counter. She took another bite. The wind mummered a whimper as it flowed down the street, a wide dark night. In a second story window, a light went out. She finished the falafel. I better get going, she thought.

Short Fiction
Ibby’s Falafel

The yellow light hung over the intersection, blinking evenly, slicing the night with its glow every time it lit up. The cab rolled through the street. It pulled over in the middle of a short block, its engine humming in a dented rhythm. There was an exchange of cash, she opened the door and stepped onto the sidewalk.

Hey, the cabbie said, how do I get back to the tunnel?

Turn left here, go left at the first light, it’s about ten blocks down. Can’t miss it. She stepped back. The cabby rolled up the window and drove off. The intersection was starkly silent - it merely defined an empty space. A wind blew torn wrappers and other bits of garbage down the chill boulevard. Two urban toughs crossed the street against the red light, buzz cuts, puffy leather coats and baggy blue jeans. They looked at her flatly as they crossed.

Dark hung over the night like an occupation force. Across the street a Cuban diner fought it off with green and yellow neon lights, Latin rhythm waving through the air. A deli across the street was full of white light salvation. Behind her was a small triangle-shaped park, a leftover patch between three roads, paved with cracked, uneven concrete blocks. Along a low wall four or five transients sat, eating cheap fast food and sleeping. In the middle of the park were escalators leading down the open grave pit of the Path station. A flat stone roof was erected over them, dim halogen lights beckoning nefarious safety. All was quiet.

Most of the storefronts were castled behind steel gates. Streetlights fleshed out the hard blacktop. A car cruised by, heavy bass lines breaking the silence with a rising and falling Doppelganger effect. She walked down Grove along the small park’s edge, crossed Columbus, and waited for the light to change. She crossed to the other side of Grove. The Cuban diner had large plate glass windows, and inside she saw the smiling chirping tables, groups of laughter and nighttime camaraderie. She walked past them, down the block, on empty pavement, pausing for another red light.

The place was wedged into a narrow storefront, just a door and two thin plate glass windows. A small green neon sign hung in the window, steadily beaming the words: Ibby’s Falafel. She walked through the open door. The walls were white-painted pressed tin. The half-dozen black Formica tables, all with two chairs, were empty. The only person in the place was a young Syrian kid. Middle-Eastern flavored rock-n-roll played through a tinny radio, a high-pitched fast rhythm. She walked up to the counter.

Falafel, she said.

For here? he asked with an accent.

Yeah, she said. He grabbed the various ingredients, while she sat down in a window seat. There was no traffic, just the blacked-out storefronts of a tenement building across the silent street. The wind picked up and blew a white plastic bag down the street. Fall was in the thin air. Two young girls crammed themselves through an open window frame across the street on the second floor, looking into the same empty street. There were two or three other lights illuminating windows in the block-long tenement. One girl disappeared into the room, then the other fell back, shutting the window. The light went off, leaving a gap of pure black in the space before the window frame readjusted to the still darkness.

Falafel, the kid said. She walked to the counter, counting bills.

Two dollars, he said.

Water, she said. He reached into a refrigerated case behind him and pulled out a plastic bottle of water.

Three dollars. She counted three dollar bills and handed them to him. Thank you, he said. She picked up the water and a plastic basket holding the falafel and sat down. The falafel was good, and a cream sauce seeped out of a hole in the pita bread. She drank the water, watching a street lamp outside. Beneath was a circle of light, illuminating a parked car’s hood. The wind blew dead leaves down the street, with a chattering rustle. She picked out thick tomato chunks, and took another bite. Nobody was on the street. The storefronts stood stone faced and dark. The Syrian kid rattled knives, wiped down the counter. She took another bite. The wind mummered a whimper as it flowed down the street, a wide dark night. In a second story window, a light went out. She finished the falafel.

I better get going, she thought.