Decide you must, how to serve them best. If you leave now, help them you could. But – you would destroy all for which they have fought and suffered.

Rudy & Beatrice

“You know if that door’s locked?” Rudy yelled.

I hadn’t really checked. I was going for the same door he was coming from. So we both went to the main door and confirmed. This location was doing drive-thru only at 3 am.

I made some mental calculations. I still needed…processed, fried chicken and greasy french fries in order to get back on I-66 and make it safely home. This wasn’t as bad as the night I slammed Barbara Ann into a curb. But I made a promise to myself that night – I would never leave Falls Church again without taking some proper precautions.

Rudy didn’t have a car. I did. I invited him to hop in and asked him what he wanted to order. He pulled out the cash in his wallet. It appeared to be…one dollar. I told him not to worry about it. I would pay for it. He thanked me profusely and reiterated that he was a disabled veteran. That would make him the second disabled veteran I’d run into in the past few weeks.

We placed our order and Rudy began talking to me about the world as he saw it. Rudy, who was black, was considering voting for Trump. Something about how we really weren’t safe and maybe Trump had the right idea. He didn’t seem all that committed to it, though.

I half-heartedly gave a couple of my arguments against Trump. His automatic death penalty talk. But Rudy didn’t care. Frankly, I had stopped caring about Trump, Clinton, Sanders. All of them.

We pulled up to the window and received our drinks first. Then the big ol’ bag of fried food. Later, I would realize I had forgotten to order the barbecue sauce.

—

Earlier that night, I’d been on a sticky dancefloor in Clarendon with a Ukrainian girl who was visiting and knew a couple of my coworkers. It was, in my opinion, our first successful night out for the night shift.

I don’t know how the Ukrainian girl spells her name, so let’s just call her Beatrice.

Beatrice knew how to salsa dance.

With my judgment hampered by the rum and whiskey in my system, I, of course, told her that I was once a salsa instructor. And that proceeded to her schooling me on the dancefloor.

As always, I went for the flourish. What she called “Casino Style,” but which was really “Phil bastardizes salsa with a lot of American Swing-isms.” I feel like we eventually had some fun – I got a couple of dips in, but overall, she wanted the more direct salsa approach. Ironically, what she called “Colombian style.” Something I, the Colombian, have yet to master.

Earlier in the night, Beatrice almost gave me some insight into what it’s like to live in Ukraine with Putin breathing down the country’s neck. She lives in Kiev. One of my coworkers had gone for the easy political joke and asked her whether she’d seen a lot of guns in the US. This led to her looking at me and starting to mention the security situation in Kiev.

But I felt responsible for the group’s collective merriment. I had organized the night out and wanted to make sure we hit up at least one more bar. As fascinated as I was by this girl, I couldn’t get sucked in and see everyone else had a bad time. So I didn’t press her on it. I just had us move on to a bar with a dancefloor.

I’ll probably never see Beatrice again.

—

Rudy and I had our meal at the outside tables. It was December at 3 in the morning, but it was still 60 degrees.

Rudy told me about his ex-wife. His daughter. Mentioned a son. Mostly, he was lonely. And ready to find someone who he could just treat well, he said. Trying to avoid the mistakes from the past.

I gave him the Cliff Notes version of my own situation.

Afterwards, I bought Rudy a donut at the nearby 7-Eleven. He kind of tried to talk up this Russian woman who was buying cigarettes. I kind of interrupted to tell her, “Have a good night” and signal Rudy to stand down. He said it was really hard to find people in his apartment complex who speak English well.

Dropping Rudy off at his apartment, he said we should go Christmas shopping on Sunday and he could be my wingman. I laughed. “Maybe that’s what I need,” I said. Rudy offered to buy me lunch, since I bought the food this time.

I told him I’d try to be out at front of his apartment Sunday afternoon. That’s when I told him my name. “Rudy,” he said. And he shook my hand.

I watched him enter the apartment beneath a flickering security light. I knew I wouldn’t be there Sunday afternoon. After all, I had to sleep. I had to work. I had to go back to my regular life.

Tonight had been anomaly. A brief surfacing before going back under and wandering the oceans of the night shift. Corporate media work. Isolation.

There was no real time to meet the Rudys and the Beatrices of the world and keep them in your life.

The Metaphiction: Negotiations

“So what am I doing here?” I asked The Executive. “Am I selling you or are you selling me?”

She looked alarmed. “Beg your pardon?”

“This job. You know. The thing that could finally free me from this weird-ass nocturnal existence? The one thing you guys could do to actually make me give a shit again and possibly compel me to behave like a normal twenty-something in search of wealth and social respect. Do I have to sell you or do you have to sell me?”

She pursed her lips. She was not amused.

“Candor is one thing, Phil,” she said. “What you’re saying verges on disrespect.”

I grimaced in a way I thought was cute. “Sorry, Boss.” At that, she smiled a little. At least, I think she di–

The door to the office swung open. “PHIL, DON’T DO IT.”

We both looked up. The Executive sputtered. I groaned.

Standing in the doorway was yet another version of me.

—

—

https://twitter.com/PhiloftheBurbs/status/675000351297110016

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“Where are my friends?” Phil (The Third One) asked, bleeding profusely out of his left arm socket.

“Why…back at the trash tunnels.” The girl at the front desk leaned forward ominously. “Where they belong.”

Too weak to muster up the rage he intellectually knew he should feel, Phil frowned and turned a slightly lesser shade of green.

The Front Desk Girl titled her head. “Now, there’s one person in this Skyscraper who can maybe save your life, pal.”

“Don’t call me ‘pal.'”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She fluttered her eyelids. “Darling?”

“Uh…” Phil closed his eyes. His breathing came in ragged sighs.

The Front Desk Girl stood up from behind her glass table and slowly stepped toward him. “It confuses you, doesn’t it?” she said. “You’re not quite sure how people should treat you. Or what it is that you want.” She stooped down and hunched over, so she could be eye level with him and whispered, “You were allowed up to the Lobby for a reason, you know.”

“My…” Phil breathed. “My frien-”

“Shhhhh.” The Front Desk Girl placed one hot pink and perfectly manicured nail on Phil’s cheek. “Those who get left behind get left behind. Now think about it. If you bleed out here, all your efforts and all your friends’ efforts will have been meaningless.”

Phil glanced upwards, trying to focus on her eyebrows. “If I go…If I….”

“Yes, yes, yes. If you go, another one will take your place. But aren’t you sick of it, Phil? Aren’t you sick of waiting for some future version of you to get what should rightfully be yours? Why not you? Why not now?”

“Ch….Ch…”

“Shhhhhhhhh.” She was crouched down now, in the position of a detective observing a corpse. She cupped Phil’s chin in her bronze hands. “Let’s get you patched up, okay?”

—

Down in the trash tunnels, Theodora was staring at a broken picture frame that was hanging on to scraps of parchment. If she had to guess, she would say the frame had once contained a portrait, but like so many things in her life, she couldn’t really recognize where it came from or what it was meant to be.

Next to her, Blonde slid down the metal sheet wall until he was sitting in the same position, his thigh pressing against hers. The ground was sticky and disgusting.

“Veggie says she saw him fly through that hole in the ceiling. Dudebro thinks he’s alive. No one else is really sure.”

Blankly staring at the broken portrait before her, Theodora gave a flat response. “He’s dead. He’s always dead.”

Blondie bit his lip in discomfort. “You know…we could get up there on our own. We don’t have to wait for yet another Phil.”

“Okay,” Theodora said.

Unconvinced, Blondie sighed. “Or we can just stop. We can go home, you and me. We’ll deal with things together and we don’t have to fight anymore. Maybe it’s just not our fight.”

In the exact same tone, Theodora said, “Okay.”

Blonde, also known as Peter, shook his head and cradled his forehead in his hands. “Theodora, I’m your friend. I want to help you, but I just don’t know what you wa-”

“What I want doesn’t exist.” Theodora stood up. She grabbed a cigarette from her pocket and stuck it in her mouth. “I’m a person stuck in the future looking for someone who can only exist in the past.” She fumbled for a match, found one, but dropped it. Her last one. She shook her head and flicked the cigarette on the trash heap along with the broken picture frame. “So you know what?” She threw up her hands. “I’m just along for the ride. Let’s go home. Let’s keep fighting. It’s all the fucking same to me.”

She walked toward the end of the tunnel and left Blondie to contemplate in the sticky wreckage.

—

Almost as soon as I had burst into my own meeting, I disappeared from the doorway. The Executive, flabbergasted, made a face like a goldfish.

I scratched the side of my neck. “…Really sorry about that. Whenever I have a big decision to make, I tend to….multiply.” I winced.

She turned her head to look straight at me. Her expression shifted a little. “You can….You can do that?”

I nodded. And in addition to the abject horror in her expression, I started to see a faint glimmer of interest.

Phil at Work: Refugee Report, Week Two

2:30 in the afternoon. Bedtime for Phil, who has a 7:30 am deadline tomorrow morning.

But I feel like I made a breakthrough on St. Jane today.

A while ago, I asked one of my Twitter friends to do the kind of research I wish I could do at work, but don’t give myself the time to do. I asked him to look into the refugee crisis with a particular focus on the various NGOs trying to actually help.

Given the amount of time I can pay him for, we can’t go as clean with the writing or original in the reporting as I’d like. But it’s a start.

It’s a start to pushing back against how ineffectual I’ve been for the past 2 and a half years. It’s a start to reclaiming myself as someone with an actual purpose. Someone worth fighting alongside with. Someone worth fighting for.

And to keep going with this goal, I’m going to need a lot more money.

A lot more money.

—

Excerpt from St. Jane Media:

IRC is the humanitarian aid organization trying to place refugees in Dallas. In response, the state of Texas has resisted placement, claiming that the IRC and the federal government have bypassed the state’s rights by not consulting them on the placement. Last week, Texas filed a lawsuit because of the perceived wrongdoings by IRC and the federal government. They also requested a restraining order to stop the placement of the two Syrian refugee families. Texas dropped the restraining order on December 4, but will continue their attempt to sue the federal government.

The Texas Health and Human Services Commission (THHSC) filed their lawsuit against the U.S. State Department, John Kerry and the IRC, on Wednesday December 2nd. Their claim was, as Reuters writes, that ‘such a move would be reckless and met with a cut in funding for the agency.’ Texas also claims that the U.S. Department has violated their ‘statutory duty’ by not consulting the State before planning to place refugees.

IRC claims they will continue plans to bring refugees to Dallas, regardless of Texas’s resistance for them to do so. The Texas Tribune reports THHSC chief Chris Traylor threatened IRC if they continued in resettling two Syrian families. However, IRC will continue because the refugees are all legally permitted in the United States, and the two families have relatives in North Texas.

In its official statement, IRC says, ‘we are confident that the IRC has always acted in accordance with the law when it comes to our work to assist refugees who have been given sanctuary in Texas.’ IRC then summarized why their movement of refugees to Texas is legitimate, stating they’ve been working with Texas for 40 years and this has not been an issue. In addition, IRC says it has followed every law possible to complete the move. They closed their statement claiming, ‘Refugees are the most security-vetted population who enter the United States. Multiple U.S. Government agencies conduct rigorous security checks. […] Put simply, entering the United States as a refugee is the most difficult way to gain access to the country.’

NPR reports that,‘hours after the federal government filed its brief’ in the lawsuit, Texas Attorney General Ken Paxton announced Texas was withdrawing its restraining order request. The federal government claimed they gave Texas all the information they were obligated to regarding the two incoming Syrian refugee families. Ken Paxton released a statement saying the restraining order was dropped because of the federal government’s ‘willingness to provide more information about the incoming refugees’.

The State of Texas will continue suing the federal government, but IRC will remain able to move the refugees to Dallas.

In other news, Creative Review reports another NGO—Save the Children—‘has launched a photography project on Instagram, which features images taken by 12 Syrian teenagers who live inside the Za’atari refugee camp in Jordan.’

Over 80,000 refugees live in the Za’atari camp. For the past two years, Save the Children has taught photography classes at Za’atari, so the refugees can share their stories. The photography project called ‘My Own Account’ can be found on Instagram at @InsideZaatariand on Tumblr at insidezaatari.tumblr.com.

—

 

December Micro-Blogs: Worst Phil in America

I’m stuffing my face with combination fried rice while watching this Worst Cooks in America show.

Flashback to when I was shoving 7-Eleven egg rolls into my mouth while watching the entire Netflix collection of What Not to Wear.

See, the Phil from five weeks ago would be pretty damn happy right now.

But now I’ve got a decision to make.

Worse, I’ve got a situation where there’s no decision to be made.

*nibbles on some shrimp*

I’ve got to be a better cook than that.

In Which Things Converge And The Future Becomes Muddled

There’s a story I know, I just never remember how to tell it.

—

Years pass. The man in the tunnels has faced the giant spider and accepts the fact that he may be underground for a long, long time.

Deep into his journey, he hears an echo of a voice he once knew and sees a light blinking in the distance. He ignores this as a distraction, figuring his situation is playing tricks on him. He goes deeper and deeper and deeper, in search of a truth he’s afraid might never exist.

Until he finally…finally pays attention to that echo. Until he finally turns to the blinking light at the far tunnel and actually focuses.

Suddenly, he knows what’s important to him. Suddenly, he can justify all the time he’s spent just waiting in the darkness.

So he moves toward the source of the echo. That’s when the ceiling above him collapses. A ladder falls firmly in front of him. And for the first time in what seems like a lifetime, he sees a way out.

And as he stares dumbfounded at the red, angry sky above him, the blinking light grows dimmer. And dimmer. And dimmer.

—

I don’t know why I’m waiting to tell you how desperately I want to see you. I’m frightened. I miss you.

I wish I had just listened to you.

Phil Goes to Seattle, Chapter Four: Seattle

I was wandering over to the signs that said “light rail,” but my prospects for getting to my brother’s at a decent hour were slim. There was a guy just standing in the cold airport parking lot. He asked me if I needed a cab.

My instinct was to brush him off, because my first instinct for anyone offering me an alternative to my original plan is “no.” But, I mean. I thought about it. The guy took credit cards. The fare seemed reasonable.

So that’s how I ended up in Bill’s car talking about the rise of Uber and some of the sights in Seattle. He had a Native American ornament hanging from his rearview mirror, but I’m not sure if he was partially Native American. He did have really long hair.

Aside from the saturated rideshare industry, we talked a bit about my parents’ work as long-haul truckers. Bill was a straight shooter, very simple questions, very simple answers. I liked him.

He dropped me off, I gave him a cash tip, and I called David to let me in to his fancy schmancy apartment building.

There was a bitter chill in the air as I waited, which I took as a sign from the universe that I was – really, actually, in all likelihood – alone.

Phil Goes to Seattle, Chapter Three: Denver International Airport

It’s just me at this gate. Which means I get all the electricity, muahahaha.

This is where the lack of sleep – and the inordinate amount of beer – are hitting me, though. Thus, my mind is vulnerable. My brain is mushy. My feelings are….leaking.

I’m not too bad at traveling alone, I think. I don’t feel the need to overprepare. I’m confident that when I get somewhere, I’ll figure out my next step. Honestly, if I felt responsible for another person, it might complicate things.

But, let’s be frank, navigating the airport system alone can be…lonely.

Obviously, something happened to me this past week and I won’t be going into the specifics. Mostly, it’s stressed me out. Distracted me from this trip. Invaded the spare moments of my focus which I could be devoting to…I dunno, ending global poverty or something.

But it’s also made me…kind of happy.

I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m miserable about it.

But I’m feeling something again.

And it’s kind of justified all the other times in the recent past where I’ve felt like an emotional livewire. All the times when I’ve driven in the darkness, stared out into the sky and thought of someone in particular. All the memories that refuse to fade away in dreams or sleep.

I mean, not completely. Mostly, I feel like a fool for being so sentimental. For clinging to a time, person, and identity that just no longer apply.

And yet….

And yet….

It’s just me in this terminal and the other wandering souls who have flights this late, trying to get somewhere. It’s just me when I look out the window, still as fascinated by the way cities look from up high, just like I’ve been since I was a little kid. It’s just me and yet, sometimes it feels like it’s not just me.

It may just be an illusion. My mind creating a sense of companionship where there is none. But it’s a little welcome.

I may never sit next to this person on a flight. We may never travel together. The road is long and full of peril.

But. For the record. If you’re ever feeling like I’m there. I kind of am.

I would travel with you in a heartbeat. It wouldn’t really feel like baggage.

Phil Goes to Seattle, Chapter Two: BWI

I’m at Duclaw, because Tony told me to.

Tony didn’t tell me to drink three beers, but here I am.

They’ve been playing this Sirius XM Pop station and it’s been making me chair dance for two hours. I’ve been drinking since 9:30.

What did Phil say about airports?

https://twitter.com/PhilthePill/status/667371319558840321

*two hours later*

Oh, god, they’re looping back around to the same songs on the Sirius station. I’ve been here too long.

But I have nowhere else to go. 

Let’s see. I’ve met Joel. He’s on the laptop next to me. He’s from this area, but he went to school in Florida and he works in the aerospace industry in the Los Angeles area.

Okay, that’s all I know about Joel.

There’s my bartender. I don’t know much about her except she’s going to school and she has a boyfriend. There was supposed to be a second bartender, but she’s late. Something about her boyfriend and her car.

Still, it seems like the place is understaffed.

Oh, just learned my bartender’s boyfriend got her front row tickets to Taylor Swift. So there’s that.

Oh, Joel just left. I’ve still got some beer left.

I can’t finish the post until I learn my bartender’s name.

Or maybe I can. Maybe the obsession with names is…part of the problem.

There’s another worker here, maybe the table waitress? Anyway, I think I heard her say she has six kids. She has at least a ten-year-old who has danced to Fifth Harmony at a pageant. She and I slightly bonded over the music.

No names. I have a bartender who is overworked. We are all overworked and if life were fair, this woman could take like three weeks off of work after tonight.

Today.

It’s still the day.

I have two more airports to go.

Phil Goes to Seattle, Chapter One: Union Station

“Excuse me, sir…I didn’t mean to startle you.”

DeWard, the reportedly homeless black veteran, had approached me when I was alone at this Le Pain Quotidien. He said he was here with his wife (no sign). Hoping to get a hotel.

Calmly, I told him I was going to check my bank balances and I’d head on over to the Bank of America ATM and pay the fee to get cash. The small irony that I had abandoned BofA and swore never to give them any money burned a little in the back of my head.

I checked both Cardinal and Freedom First.

I had less money than I thought.

I went over to the ATM and took out $40. $20 for me and $20 for DeWard. I sat across from him after handing him the bill. We chatted. He asked where I was from. “Mainly around here,” I said. “Fairfax, Virginia. But I was born in New Jersey.”

“Oh, no kidding? Me too, I’m from Newark.”

I asked DeWard what brought him to DC. He said he was hoping to investigate about his VA benefits. Said he was with the Marines. I was a little surprised he’d have to travel this far, but, really, if I were in that situation, I’d probably want to go straight to the source of the problem myself.

Not that I was entirely convinced.

I wished him luck and returned to my table. A minute later, DeWard left.

I didn’t care if he was telling me the truth. I probably should have given him more than I did.

That’s the function I’ve chosen after all.

*sips coffee*

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