| joe’s place He stands in front of the big picture window in the living room, peering out into the darkness. Waiting. A common practice. Every night—except for Sunday night—it’s the same thing. The gnawing fear in his stomach grows and grows. It’s a fear that stays with him, despite the repetitive nature of his vigil. Where is he? He should be home by now! Around 8:00 p.m., he gathers up his courage and, as usual, asks his mother if he can use the telephone. He dials the familiar number that he’ll remember for the rest of his life: 771-5656. "Joe’s Place." "May I speak to Sam Guthrie please?" "Hold on..." A clattering noise as the telephone’s receiver is placed on top of the bar. He can hear the sounds of the gathered people as he waits. Laughter. Swearing. The clinking of glasses. A cacophony of voices melding together. All representing an unseen force that keeps his father away from him, night after night after night. "Hullo?" "Hi, Daddy! It’s me!" "Hiya, Stevie!" "Ummmmm...are you coming home soon?" "Yessir. Jus’ a couple more minutes..." Listening to the slurred sound of the voice on the other end of the telephone, he feels relief. His father is still okay. And he’ll be home soon. He puts the telephone receiver back into its cradle and returns to the big picture window in the living room. He peers out into the darkness and waits once again. … # # # © 2001 Armand Costa |
| ARMAND COSTA is a freelance writer living in the great state of Texas. He has published numerous articles and short stories, and is currently hard at work writing his first novel. |
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