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You are all women to me; that, as I understand it, is the nature of marriage. You tolerate me with grace, as all women do, more or less, so wear the pink pants for me, if you don’t mind, the pants I’d have all women wear, and all of you please walk up ahead and climb the stairs, but do turn back to look at me with your billion eyes, and make a silhouette of one or two breasts each, and in return I’ll do whatever, whenever you tell me. And lose the shirts, please, if that’s okay. You wanted the vote, I know, you made that clear, you marched for that. And you appear to want to be consulted, not merely informed, on issues that don’t concern you, which puzzles me, but tell me anyway, while you’re in those pants, of course, and I’ll consult you. Anything more complicated than that confuses me. For example, you seem, and by you I mean your plural most delectable selves, you seem to support contradictory viewpoints, when what I’m listening for is a single clear word of unambiguous longing, longing for me. Otherwise I’m paralyzed by doubt. I’ve taken a poll, the only way I know how, by asking you the same questions relentlessly since the day we met. The results, as they say, are in. By a small margin, women agree I’m a reasonable if not an overwhelming candidate for serious coupling, not entirely unattractive, to some degree a provider. And that’s supposed to satisfy me. On balance, if I had my life to live over on that basis, I just, I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t put myself through it. According to the same poll, the countless men I represent approve of me. If my opinion counts for anything.
Original Copyright © February 05, 2007
Revised Copyright © February 04, 2026
When the wall’s blank, I’m just another subway rider; when it’s been graffitied, I’m a duty cop looking at evidence; when it’s a page of autobiography, it sees me like a mirror, like your cousin from the Bronx; but it ain’t art, and I’m no critic. The taggers call me Ugly Joe or Officer Ugly. They’re clever like that. Can’t even write their own names legible. When they’re bustin my chops, they use stencils and a picture they made from my department ID. It’s a favorite topic for your vandalwriters, my supposable sexual practices: Ugly Joe Blanks Blank sort of genius. But this guy. This guy tells a story I recognize from the neighborhood, one wall at a time, with page numbers. Except we don’t find them numerical over the years we’re chasing him. There are gaps. Now that we snagged a CCTV image—Vic Damone haircut, subway worker’s uniform—I see how he managed it, ladder and a bucket, maybe a clipboard, on what grounds was he reasonably suspicious, my sergeant would ask. Hours it must take. First the primer, gotta let it dry, then a wall of sentences, neat page number, signature you can read, no swear words, no threats. Hardly seems criminal. I’ve been to his schools, his church, his subway stop. He’s born at Montefiore, same as me, page 146. You think he’s an art school kid, but no—steelwork, dockwork, hump and grunt. Dad’s a cop, retired like mine. We know his height at age 15. We know his best girl’s complexion. There’s things we don’t know, like why not on paper, instead of places only I seem to find. Maybe Earsnot, Dybyk335, maybe they know. I’ll ask them, next time I detain them. If [stricken] ever is arrested, it’ll be some rookie doesn’t appreciate the significance.
Original Copyright © February 01, 2007
Revised Copyright © January 31, 2026
Very Short Novels 