Mason Yang
On summer blue days I dream of a gorilla. The western lowland gorilla, to be precise. I didn’t pay it any mind when it happened the first time. I was fourteen then, too preoccupied with summer school geometry and the discovery of naked women on the internet. But somewhere there, swirling between the sharp polygons and shapely ladies, the gorilla grew from an ember of afterthought to a bonfire of evocation. On the kindled nights I saw him, a temple bell was struck. The dream echoed in the wrinkled valleys of my mind until it drowned all else.
Eric Clapton’s “How Deep is the Ocean?” kicked it off. His was a more bluesy folk take on the Irving Berlin original, a popular jazz standard since its 1932 release. Though I enjoyed many of the other versions, particularly the ones by Chet Baker, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald, Clapton’s remained my favorite. It sounded contemporary, it was contemporary, and I liked contemporary things. At exactly the 1:55 mark, when the first of Clapton’s solos began, the black canvas stippled with color. Each sporadic dot informed the next, and a full scene was soon rendered like a watery Seurat painting. A ceiling fan rattled overhead and washed the room in a yellowed light. Candles in showy sconces sat unused on striped walls. Linen curtains swayed like the branches outside open windows.
Then, there was the gorilla. The western lowland gorilla, to be precise. He sat on a handsome armchair with his legs stretched forward and ankles crossed. Gold half-moon glasses rested on his snub nose, and his shirt and slacks were perfectly tailored. Yet, he had the top three buttons loosened with the sleeves rolled up his thick, sleek arms. Yacht Chic-Casual was how I would describe it if I had to. With one hand, he shut off the radio and raised the volume on the box television. With the other, he sipped Dom Perignon from a glass. His bedazzled rings always looked impossibly small for his sausage-like fingers.
The TV displayed a digital clock and between the eighth and ninth second of 6:55 p.m., the gates opened. California Chrome, the favorite in the morning line, stumbled and bumped into the horse beside him. It didn’t set him back too far, but it was Commissioner and General A-Rod who challenged each other for the early lead. Commissioner clocked in a 24.06 at the quarter-mile mark, and Tom Durkin, who was calling his twenty-fourth and final Belmont Stakes, announced that Tonalist just moved into fourth. I took a glance at the gorilla but his eyes were locked on the screen. His mouth, slightly open. Durkin then called the half-mile a “reasonable forty-eight and two-fifth seconds.” Commissioner maintained his lead with A-Rod right there with him.
The race really picked up at the mile mark. At this point, the gorilla hunched forward off his chair. His knuckles, barely above the hardwood. My guess was that he didn’t want to leave scratches with his jewelry. With time ticking away, Commissioner hung tough by the inside rail, Tonalist fought for position between horses, and California Chrome labored late. The gorilla shrieked, revealing a gold-capped incisor in his mandibular left. It was a photo finish that went to Tonalist. You’re breaking my heart, kid! the gorilla said. He put away his drink and turned the radio back on. Clapton’s “How Deep is the Ocean?” was just finishing up.
Eric Clapton’s “How Deep is the Ocean?” kicked it off. His was a more bluesy folk take on the Irving Berlin original, a popular jazz standard since its 1932 release. Though I enjoyed many of the other versions, particularly the ones by Chet Baker, Nat King Cole, and Ella Fitzgerald, Clapton’s remained my favorite. It sounded contemporary, it was contemporary, and I liked contemporary things. At exactly the 1:55 mark, when the first of Clapton’s solos began, the black canvas stippled with color. Each sporadic dot informed the next, and a full scene was soon rendered like a watery Seurat painting. A ceiling fan rattled overhead and washed the room in a yellowed light. Candles in showy sconces sat unused on striped walls. Linen curtains swayed like the branches outside open windows.
Then, there was the gorilla. The western lowland gorilla, to be precise. He sat on a handsome armchair with his legs stretched forward and ankles crossed. Gold half-moon glasses rested on his snub nose, and his shirt and slacks were perfectly tailored. Yet, he had the top three buttons loosened with the sleeves rolled up his thick, sleek arms. Yacht Chic-Casual was how I would describe it if I had to. With one hand, he shut off the radio and raised the volume on the box television. With the other, he sipped Dom Perignon from a glass. His bedazzled rings always looked impossibly small for his sausage-like fingers.
The TV displayed a digital clock and between the eighth and ninth second of 6:55 p.m., the gates opened. California Chrome, the favorite in the morning line, stumbled and bumped into the horse beside him. It didn’t set him back too far, but it was Commissioner and General A-Rod who challenged each other for the early lead. Commissioner clocked in a 24.06 at the quarter-mile mark, and Tom Durkin, who was calling his twenty-fourth and final Belmont Stakes, announced that Tonalist just moved into fourth. I took a glance at the gorilla but his eyes were locked on the screen. His mouth, slightly open. Durkin then called the half-mile a “reasonable forty-eight and two-fifth seconds.” Commissioner maintained his lead with A-Rod right there with him.
The race really picked up at the mile mark. At this point, the gorilla hunched forward off his chair. His knuckles, barely above the hardwood. My guess was that he didn’t want to leave scratches with his jewelry. With time ticking away, Commissioner hung tough by the inside rail, Tonalist fought for position between horses, and California Chrome labored late. The gorilla shrieked, revealing a gold-capped incisor in his mandibular left. It was a photo finish that went to Tonalist. You’re breaking my heart, kid! the gorilla said. He put away his drink and turned the radio back on. Clapton’s “How Deep is the Ocean?” was just finishing up.
****
The details of the dream were well-documented by my own efforts. For starters, it only occurred on clear summer days. The temperature or humidity had no effect, and what I did that day also made no difference. But a single cloud absolutely wouldn’t do, not even a haze or a fog. It just had to be summer, and the sky had to be clear and perfectly clear. Not once had these conditions been met and the dream did not follow. Not now, and not in the past eleven summers that it governed me.
For the first four summers, namely my high school years, I didn’t say a word about the gorilla to anyone. I was already a pretty standoffish kid and I worried that people might find it weird and shut me out. But I never stopped thinking about him. The dream stirred my mind even as the seasons changed. During math exams, the gorilla appeared before any formula or postulate. Orwell’s Animal Farm was a story of zookeepers and great apes. The summer before college was a clear one. The few friends I had would invite me for parking lot football or swims at the local pool, but I spent my time in the quiet company of the gorilla. It was only after I left for college that I shared the details of it with anyone. In the cut off kinship of the dorm room, it felt only fair to tell my best friend.
It must’ve been the Cincinnati Zoo,” I told him. “I don’t think I could’ve been any older than six when I first saw them."
“Uh-huh.”
“I looked into it, y’know. Well, first I had to figure out he was specifically the western gorilla, and not the more photogenic eastern one. Anyways, the scientific name for them is Gorilla gorilla gorilla. Can you believe that? I mean seriously, who thinks of this stuff?
“Right.”
“They could do so much better than that. I mean, even I could, honestly. Y’know, if I switched majors and started now, I bet I could be the next Jane Goodall or Dian Fossey or something like that. I think it could suit me. Bioscience would look good on me, wouldn’t it? Maybe that’s what I oughta do with my life. It’d be funny at the very least. No more accounting. I’ll go from taxes to taxonomy.”
“Yeah.”
That second semester of college ended up being my last, and I moved back in with my aunt. To be honest, I thought college was far too mundane. I wasn’t keen on cultural clubs, and big sports games were a miss. It wasn’t my style. I stayed in my own lane, did my own thing, just as I always did. It was boring.
For the first four summers, namely my high school years, I didn’t say a word about the gorilla to anyone. I was already a pretty standoffish kid and I worried that people might find it weird and shut me out. But I never stopped thinking about him. The dream stirred my mind even as the seasons changed. During math exams, the gorilla appeared before any formula or postulate. Orwell’s Animal Farm was a story of zookeepers and great apes. The summer before college was a clear one. The few friends I had would invite me for parking lot football or swims at the local pool, but I spent my time in the quiet company of the gorilla. It was only after I left for college that I shared the details of it with anyone. In the cut off kinship of the dorm room, it felt only fair to tell my best friend.
It must’ve been the Cincinnati Zoo,” I told him. “I don’t think I could’ve been any older than six when I first saw them."
“Uh-huh.”
“I looked into it, y’know. Well, first I had to figure out he was specifically the western gorilla, and not the more photogenic eastern one. Anyways, the scientific name for them is Gorilla gorilla gorilla. Can you believe that? I mean seriously, who thinks of this stuff?
“Right.”
“They could do so much better than that. I mean, even I could, honestly. Y’know, if I switched majors and started now, I bet I could be the next Jane Goodall or Dian Fossey or something like that. I think it could suit me. Bioscience would look good on me, wouldn’t it? Maybe that’s what I oughta do with my life. It’d be funny at the very least. No more accounting. I’ll go from taxes to taxonomy.”
“Yeah.”
That second semester of college ended up being my last, and I moved back in with my aunt. To be honest, I thought college was far too mundane. I wasn’t keen on cultural clubs, and big sports games were a miss. It wasn’t my style. I stayed in my own lane, did my own thing, just as I always did. It was boring.
****
“Summer’s almost over,” my aunt said. An immutable cycle. caused by gravitational attraction, axial tilt, and a big ball of gas. Planetary was what it was.
“Relax, Auntie. I’ve got some work lined up.” I loaded tea leaves into the French press. “Some agency saw me last spring when I worked that ship port down the way in Baltimore. ‘Full-time hand model,’ they said. The lady actually scanned my hands right then and there. Just waiting on a follow up now.”
“What? Your hands are far too rough and knobby for that sort of thing. I always told you to stop cracking your knuckles, didn’t I? And then you went on and took all of those labor jobs. You used to have such pretty hands too—don’t you remember? All the church ladies used to say the same thing.”
“New trends are sweeping through the industry right now, if you could believe it. Ugly, ugly hands, Auntie. Gone are the days of angelic daintiness. They’re looking for the kind of hands our ancestors had when we used to fight the dinosaurs. It’s all part of this holistic message about appreciating our common roots.” The kettle started to whistle. I poured its contents into the press and watched the leaves swirl and stain the water a pleasant amber. Our best science couldn’t predict the precise movement of each leaf. They’d say there was too much disorder, too much uncertainty and randomness. Entropy was what it was.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know… Hey there’s that new coffee shop downtown—I’m gonna check it out today.”
“People your age,” she sighed, “should have degrees and proper, steady jobs, y’know. Not DoorDash, drop shipping, and dog walks.”
“What’s the point, Auntie? I’m like the ultimate freelancer.” I pushed the tea leaves down to the bottom of the press. “And there’s a great deal of pride in that, I think. A real passion in just getting through the day and being alright about it. I’m happy, right?”
“People your age usually help pay rent too.” Again, she sighed. “It’s never too late for that degree. You were always a bright kid, so do it online if you have to. Maybe you could do the numbers for some rich jerk and rack in loads of cash.”
“Sitting behind a desk all day wouldn’t suit me much.” I poured tea into her cup then mine. “With things like that there are real expectations for you. Well, there are still expectations in washing dishes and whatnot but you get what I mean. Could you really see me going corporate, anyhow? It’s just a nicer chair to take better naps in. It’s a bigger and comfier office to watch your life go by.”
“Or more money, you brat.” She sipped her tea.
“I wouldn’t have the patience for promotional schedules anyways. I gotta move around, y’know? I’m a renaissance man after all.”
“Just say you’re good for nothing.”
“Harsh.” I sipped the too-hot tea.
“And full of it.”
“Relax, Auntie. I’ve got some work lined up.” I loaded tea leaves into the French press. “Some agency saw me last spring when I worked that ship port down the way in Baltimore. ‘Full-time hand model,’ they said. The lady actually scanned my hands right then and there. Just waiting on a follow up now.”
“What? Your hands are far too rough and knobby for that sort of thing. I always told you to stop cracking your knuckles, didn’t I? And then you went on and took all of those labor jobs. You used to have such pretty hands too—don’t you remember? All the church ladies used to say the same thing.”
“New trends are sweeping through the industry right now, if you could believe it. Ugly, ugly hands, Auntie. Gone are the days of angelic daintiness. They’re looking for the kind of hands our ancestors had when we used to fight the dinosaurs. It’s all part of this holistic message about appreciating our common roots.” The kettle started to whistle. I poured its contents into the press and watched the leaves swirl and stain the water a pleasant amber. Our best science couldn’t predict the precise movement of each leaf. They’d say there was too much disorder, too much uncertainty and randomness. Entropy was what it was.
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I don’t know… Hey there’s that new coffee shop downtown—I’m gonna check it out today.”
“People your age,” she sighed, “should have degrees and proper, steady jobs, y’know. Not DoorDash, drop shipping, and dog walks.”
“What’s the point, Auntie? I’m like the ultimate freelancer.” I pushed the tea leaves down to the bottom of the press. “And there’s a great deal of pride in that, I think. A real passion in just getting through the day and being alright about it. I’m happy, right?”
“People your age usually help pay rent too.” Again, she sighed. “It’s never too late for that degree. You were always a bright kid, so do it online if you have to. Maybe you could do the numbers for some rich jerk and rack in loads of cash.”
“Sitting behind a desk all day wouldn’t suit me much.” I poured tea into her cup then mine. “With things like that there are real expectations for you. Well, there are still expectations in washing dishes and whatnot but you get what I mean. Could you really see me going corporate, anyhow? It’s just a nicer chair to take better naps in. It’s a bigger and comfier office to watch your life go by.”
“Or more money, you brat.” She sipped her tea.
“I wouldn’t have the patience for promotional schedules anyways. I gotta move around, y’know? I’m a renaissance man after all.”
“Just say you’re good for nothing.”
“Harsh.” I sipped the too-hot tea.
“And full of it.”
****
Marvin and Vandross played on the radio for the brief drive downtown. I found parking where it was free and more Vandross played in my headphones as I walked the remaining twelve minutes. Thankfully, the gray clouds hid me from the summer sun.
The coffee shop was a pretty place, but almost all coffee shops were pretty. The white brick walls were covered in fliers showcasing a wide variety of drinks, cakes, and pastries. Paper lanterns hung low from the exposed pipe and ductwork, and incense mixed with the scent of light roast coffee. Boutique Industrial was how I would describe it if I had to.
On my way to the register I saw a small chalkboard displaying their song of the day. “Don’t Let Me Down” by the Beatles was a tune that I was fond of and quite familiar with. Originally recorded in the 1969 Get Back/Let it Be sessions, they publicly debuted it in their January 30 rooftop concert. The lyrics were by Lennon, of course. The song was about Yoko after all.
“Now there’s a familiar face!” It was the girl working the counter.
“Who, me? I thought this place just opened up.”
“Yeah, but I know you. Definitely.” She tilted her head as she said it. “High school biology, second period.”
“Sophomore year?”
“Nope. Freshman.”
“Oh.”
The conversation paused.
“Ouch,” she said. A yawn escaped her mouth, but it was quickly stifled by her hand. “Well I guess that checks out. You were always kind of in your own world, I guess.”
“Was I?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
A second pause.
“Hey, so, um… So you really like this song or what?” I said smoothly.
“Huh?”
“John Lennon and them. The chalkboard.”
“Oh, someone else does that.” She peeked over the counter. “Yeah, not gonna lie, I never heard of it.”
“Cool, yeah, me neither.”
Pause three.
“Sorry,” she said, giggling, “were you gonna order anything?”
Marvin and Vandross played on the radio for the brief drive downtown. I found parking where it was free and more Vandross played in my headphones as I walked the remaining twelve minutes. Thankfully, the gray clouds hid me from the summer sun.
The coffee shop was a pretty place, but almost all coffee shops were pretty. The white brick walls were covered in fliers showcasing a wide variety of drinks, cakes, and pastries. Paper lanterns hung low from the exposed pipe and ductwork, and incense mixed with the scent of light roast coffee. Boutique Industrial was how I would describe it if I had to.
On my way to the register I saw a small chalkboard displaying their song of the day. “Don’t Let Me Down” by the Beatles was a tune that I was fond of and quite familiar with. Originally recorded in the 1969 Get Back/Let it Be sessions, they publicly debuted it in their January 30 rooftop concert. The lyrics were by Lennon, of course. The song was about Yoko after all.
“Now there’s a familiar face!” It was the girl working the counter.
“Who, me? I thought this place just opened up.”
“Yeah, but I know you. Definitely.” She tilted her head as she said it. “High school biology, second period.”
“Sophomore year?”
“Nope. Freshman.”
“Oh.”
The conversation paused.
“Ouch,” she said. A yawn escaped her mouth, but it was quickly stifled by her hand. “Well I guess that checks out. You were always kind of in your own world, I guess.”
“Was I?”
“Yeah, I’d say so.”
A second pause.
“Hey, so, um… So you really like this song or what?” I said smoothly.
“Huh?”
“John Lennon and them. The chalkboard.”
“Oh, someone else does that.” She peeked over the counter. “Yeah, not gonna lie, I never heard of it.”
“Cool, yeah, me neither.”
Pause three.
“Sorry,” she said, giggling, “were you gonna order anything?”
****
She told me that she was “basically the manager,” and that her parents opened up shop after finding success a few towns south. She couldn’t say too much about giving me a job then and there, but she told me to meet her in forty minutes after her shift ended. I thanked her, ordered a coffee, and lounged at the Boutique Industrial tables listening to their music. There, I watched people pass me by through the transparent cracks of the paper-plastered windows. One twirled their hair with a pencil and chewed bubblegum with an open mouth… Another limped with such haste it looked like a gallop… A young cyclist bore an uncanny resemblance to their bike… Two Dutch Shepherds pulled their owner along from red, braided leashes…
To be truthful, I didn’t remember anyone named Alma from high school. That was her name. Alma. Nothing about her features or demeanor seemed particularly familiar. My head began to hurt trying to recall the eleven-year-old memories. At least the coffee and music were decent.
Fifty-four minutes passed, and she came out to greet me. She looked completely different outside of the visor and apron she wore for work. It wasn’t familiar, just different. “I’m starving,” she said. “Mind if we do this over dinner?”
To be truthful, I didn’t remember anyone named Alma from high school. That was her name. Alma. Nothing about her features or demeanor seemed particularly familiar. My head began to hurt trying to recall the eleven-year-old memories. At least the coffee and music were decent.
Fifty-four minutes passed, and she came out to greet me. She looked completely different outside of the visor and apron she wore for work. It wasn’t familiar, just different. “I’m starving,” she said. “Mind if we do this over dinner?”
****
Alma picked out a diner a couple blocks away and flagged down a waiter soon after we sat. I wasn’t really a fan of the diner, even before we set foot inside. I could tell it was established recently despite its retro facade. There were jukeboxes just for show, and contemporary music played overhead from stereo speakers. There was no Aretha Franklin, no Al Green, and no Otis. There were no rips in the vinyl booth seats, no dead bugs in the lampshades. There was no charm in a place like this. It was too clean, too neat, too well thought out. And it was a stolen valor of sorts. A poser. Like the Pink Floyd and Nirvana tees with pre-faded graphics. A commodified, kitschy little thing. It didn’t seem like they put much effort.
Alma said she couldn’t think on an empty stomach so we sat in silence for a good little while. Through the far-too-clear windows, I searched for people to watch but found nothing. When the lull became unbearable, Alma snagged an abandoned newspaper from the coffee counter. With it, we started a game where she read headlines and I guessed if they were real or made-up. The world was much more frightening than I had thought. Regardless, I enjoyed sitting there with her. She looked good. Pretty, even. Beautiful, maybe. Pretty, but unfamiliar. I couldn’t really describe it beyond that.
Alma said she couldn’t think on an empty stomach so we sat in silence for a good little while. Through the far-too-clear windows, I searched for people to watch but found nothing. When the lull became unbearable, Alma snagged an abandoned newspaper from the coffee counter. With it, we started a game where she read headlines and I guessed if they were real or made-up. The world was much more frightening than I had thought. Regardless, I enjoyed sitting there with her. She looked good. Pretty, even. Beautiful, maybe. Pretty, but unfamiliar. I couldn’t really describe it beyond that.
****
The waiter brought our food one item at a time. He was a dangerously thin looking guy and the imprint of his skull really came out on his milky face. His cheekbones pitched high and away while his jaw hung low and inside. Perhaps the more notable feature was his unusually strong brow, and perhaps the most notable feature was the large birthmark in the top right corner of his sloped forehead. He asked us for coffee three times before leaving.
“Alright,” Alma said between bites, “the chances of you getting a job are pretty, pretty low. Besides some managerial stuff we seem to be pretty good. Sorry to make you wait for some crappy news.” She had ordered two eggs over easy, hash, and a couple biscuits with sausage gravy.
“No worries. I wasn’t married to getting a job here,” I said. For me, a bowl of colorful cereal and a cup of orange juice with double pulp. “You look great outside of your work clothes, by the way. I hope that’s not weird to say.”
“No, not at all,” she said and grinned. “Thanks.”
“Any chance I might do some managerial work? I studied to be an accountant, y’know.”
“Hmm… You got a resume I can steal?”
“Yep, right here.” I pulled out the thrice-folded paper from my back pocket.
“Jeez, man. Talk about a wanderer, huh?” Her eyes tracked the paper up and down. “I always imagined you studying some sort of bioscience thing, though.”
“What?”
“Y’know, ‘cause the gorillas? The western lowland gorilla, to be precise. You were the gorilla guy!”
“The gorilla guy?”
“Excuse me.” Alma cleared her throat and used the window’s reflection to pick at something stuck in her teeth. The dark glass began to freckle with drops to a low rolling thunder. “Hey you wouldn’t happen to have a car would you?” she said. “I can totally cover dinner.”
“Alright,” Alma said between bites, “the chances of you getting a job are pretty, pretty low. Besides some managerial stuff we seem to be pretty good. Sorry to make you wait for some crappy news.” She had ordered two eggs over easy, hash, and a couple biscuits with sausage gravy.
“No worries. I wasn’t married to getting a job here,” I said. For me, a bowl of colorful cereal and a cup of orange juice with double pulp. “You look great outside of your work clothes, by the way. I hope that’s not weird to say.”
“No, not at all,” she said and grinned. “Thanks.”
“Any chance I might do some managerial work? I studied to be an accountant, y’know.”
“Hmm… You got a resume I can steal?”
“Yep, right here.” I pulled out the thrice-folded paper from my back pocket.
“Jeez, man. Talk about a wanderer, huh?” Her eyes tracked the paper up and down. “I always imagined you studying some sort of bioscience thing, though.”
“What?”
“Y’know, ‘cause the gorillas? The western lowland gorilla, to be precise. You were the gorilla guy!”
“The gorilla guy?”
“Excuse me.” Alma cleared her throat and used the window’s reflection to pick at something stuck in her teeth. The dark glass began to freckle with drops to a low rolling thunder. “Hey you wouldn’t happen to have a car would you?” she said. “I can totally cover dinner.”
****
The rain didn’t bother me much. My head was a beating drum, beating hard enough to repel the drops themselves. The diner was somewhere closer to the parking anyways. I drove back to the diner and Alma got in the passenger seat.
“Sick ride, dude,” she said, fixing her hair in the visor mirror. “Manual?”
“Uh… Yeah. Manual.” At least being close to Alma was pleasant. She looked nice. She smelled nice. Alluring, but unfamiliar. My head was still pounding.
“Sick,” she said again. From her pocket she summoned a cigarette. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Nah, you got it. I don’t mind.”
Alma cracked her window just enough to flick ash. “Rain totally, totally sucks.”
“I don’t mind it much. Especially in the summer. Cools things down, y’know? I never really liked the heat.”
“Well, I sure love me some sun.” She leaned forward to blow smoke out the window. “At least tomorrow’s supposed to be clear.”
“Is that so?” I said, squinting through the rain.
“Yeah. Not even a haze, apparently.” She flipped between channels on the radio and settled on a station I recognized. Steely Dan’s “Deacon Blues” colored our conversation with synthesizer and bass. It always played smoother in the rain. “Sorry if it’s abrupt, but why didn’t you finish college? I just saw it on your resume and was curious.”
“Nah, it’s cool. College just wasn’t much for me, I guess. I didn’t really dig the environment and I never could sit still much.”
“So, being a college dropout—out of your own choice by the way—I take it you don’t think much about ‘moving up in the world,’ so to speak.” The lit cigarette between her fingers was a good tool of emphasis. It was very much like the brightly-colored pointer sticks my grade school teachers used.
“Think of it like catching snowflakes on your tongue. You bust your ass trying to get it to happen, but it’s almost never worth the effort when it does.”
“So instead,” she said, “you just stand there and get wet. And cold. You stand there and watch other people play the game?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
“And how exactly does this qualify you for a job?” This time she didn’t bother blowing out the window. The streetlights and smoke mixed a muddy blue in the car.
“Beats me. You’d know I’m honest, at least.”
Alma laughed. Or coughed. It was pretty hard to tell. “Okay, okay. I’ll speak it over with my dad tonight. I might be able to hook you up.”
“What, really? I mean, thank you, I—”
“Wait, wait. Stop right up there.”
“Right where?”
“Right here.”
“Here?”
“Stop!”
The car glided another seven or so feet before coming to a halt.
“Yep, perfect,” Alma said.
“You sure about the bus? I seriously don’t mind the drive. I mean it, I really do. I feel like I owe it to you now anyways… Dinner and a maybe on a job is pretty nuts.”
“Don’t sweat it.” She opened the passenger door and flicked her pointer-stick-cigarette to the curb. “The bus is what I usually take, so it’s perfectly fine.”
“Got it… Hey, uh, you smell really nice, by the way… Is that weird to say?”
“No, no it’s not! Don’t worry,” she said. “Nothing wrong with being yourself, I think.” She scrunched her face up and smiled. “Come to the shop tomorrow expecting good news. No promises, but I like your chances.”
“Alright then. Get home safe,” I said. “And thanks again, Alma.”
Before leaving the car, she leaned in towards me as though to say one last thing. Close enough for me to smell the smoke on her tongue. A quiet and earnest scent. A scent that seemed to speak. She lifted her hands close to my face. A wind-up dancer with intricate, machined pieces. Any harsh twist or turn might cause her to break. I felt the heat coming off her hands and face and wondered if she could feel mine. When I thought to move towards her, she closed her eyes and turned away. From the bus stop’s canopy she waved me goodbye and goodnight.
I drove home with my window half-open to clear out the smell of cigarettes. The rain didn’t bother me much. Besides, “Golden Lady” by Stevie Wonder always played softer in the rain.
“Sick ride, dude,” she said, fixing her hair in the visor mirror. “Manual?”
“Uh… Yeah. Manual.” At least being close to Alma was pleasant. She looked nice. She smelled nice. Alluring, but unfamiliar. My head was still pounding.
“Sick,” she said again. From her pocket she summoned a cigarette. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Nah, you got it. I don’t mind.”
Alma cracked her window just enough to flick ash. “Rain totally, totally sucks.”
“I don’t mind it much. Especially in the summer. Cools things down, y’know? I never really liked the heat.”
“Well, I sure love me some sun.” She leaned forward to blow smoke out the window. “At least tomorrow’s supposed to be clear.”
“Is that so?” I said, squinting through the rain.
“Yeah. Not even a haze, apparently.” She flipped between channels on the radio and settled on a station I recognized. Steely Dan’s “Deacon Blues” colored our conversation with synthesizer and bass. It always played smoother in the rain. “Sorry if it’s abrupt, but why didn’t you finish college? I just saw it on your resume and was curious.”
“Nah, it’s cool. College just wasn’t much for me, I guess. I didn’t really dig the environment and I never could sit still much.”
“So, being a college dropout—out of your own choice by the way—I take it you don’t think much about ‘moving up in the world,’ so to speak.” The lit cigarette between her fingers was a good tool of emphasis. It was very much like the brightly-colored pointer sticks my grade school teachers used.
“Think of it like catching snowflakes on your tongue. You bust your ass trying to get it to happen, but it’s almost never worth the effort when it does.”
“So instead,” she said, “you just stand there and get wet. And cold. You stand there and watch other people play the game?”
“Yeah, that’s pretty much it.”
“And how exactly does this qualify you for a job?” This time she didn’t bother blowing out the window. The streetlights and smoke mixed a muddy blue in the car.
“Beats me. You’d know I’m honest, at least.”
Alma laughed. Or coughed. It was pretty hard to tell. “Okay, okay. I’ll speak it over with my dad tonight. I might be able to hook you up.”
“What, really? I mean, thank you, I—”
“Wait, wait. Stop right up there.”
“Right where?”
“Right here.”
“Here?”
“Stop!”
The car glided another seven or so feet before coming to a halt.
“Yep, perfect,” Alma said.
“You sure about the bus? I seriously don’t mind the drive. I mean it, I really do. I feel like I owe it to you now anyways… Dinner and a maybe on a job is pretty nuts.”
“Don’t sweat it.” She opened the passenger door and flicked her pointer-stick-cigarette to the curb. “The bus is what I usually take, so it’s perfectly fine.”
“Got it… Hey, uh, you smell really nice, by the way… Is that weird to say?”
“No, no it’s not! Don’t worry,” she said. “Nothing wrong with being yourself, I think.” She scrunched her face up and smiled. “Come to the shop tomorrow expecting good news. No promises, but I like your chances.”
“Alright then. Get home safe,” I said. “And thanks again, Alma.”
Before leaving the car, she leaned in towards me as though to say one last thing. Close enough for me to smell the smoke on her tongue. A quiet and earnest scent. A scent that seemed to speak. She lifted her hands close to my face. A wind-up dancer with intricate, machined pieces. Any harsh twist or turn might cause her to break. I felt the heat coming off her hands and face and wondered if she could feel mine. When I thought to move towards her, she closed her eyes and turned away. From the bus stop’s canopy she waved me goodbye and goodnight.
I drove home with my window half-open to clear out the smell of cigarettes. The rain didn’t bother me much. Besides, “Golden Lady” by Stevie Wonder always played softer in the rain.
****
“So? Any good job news?” my aunt said. She was washing her dishes when I got through the door. The fresh air did little for my headache.
“I think so. We’ll know for certain tomorrow.”
“It’s just barista work so I’m sure you’re fine. I just hope that there are cute uniforms, at least.”
“I’m up for managerial work, Auntie. I talked to Alma, the owner’s daughter. She was a friend of mine in high school, apparently.”
“A friend from high school?”
“Apparently.”
She cut off the water and wiped her hands on her apron. Steam billowed up and vanished in the lights. “It’s gonna be a bright one tomorrow,” she said.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I think so. We’ll know for certain tomorrow.”
“It’s just barista work so I’m sure you’re fine. I just hope that there are cute uniforms, at least.”
“I’m up for managerial work, Auntie. I talked to Alma, the owner’s daughter. She was a friend of mine in high school, apparently.”
“A friend from high school?”
“Apparently.”
She cut off the water and wiped her hands on her apron. Steam billowed up and vanished in the lights. “It’s gonna be a bright one tomorrow,” she said.
“Like you wouldn’t believe.”
****
I slept that night thinking of Alma and woke very much the same. Her toothy grin, that breathy giggle. A scrunched up face in smile. Her scent danced in my mind while I shaved and searched for something decent to wear. My aunt made sure we prayed before peeling our hard-boiled eggs, and she prayed again as I got into the car. “Golden Lady” continued to march on in my head while I drove. Free parking was found in a different spot and I walked sixteen minutes to the Boutique Industrial coffee shop. The sun made it a sticky walk. Inside, the incense wasn’t yet lit and the chalkboard read the same as yesterday.
“Good morning. Is Alma in yet? I know it’s a bit early.”
“Alma?” the man said.
“Alma.”
“You must have the wrong place.”
“What? No, no, I saw her just yesterday. Right here, behind that counter.”
“Sorry.” He shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you.”
“Okay, well in that case… How about the owners? Are they in? She said she was their daughter.”
“I’m the owner.” His weight shifted to one side. “And I have no daughter. Or wife, for that matter. Are you pulling some sort of stunt here?”
“Uh—no, sorry. I’ll get out of your hair.”
I returned to the summer heat already in a deep sweat, and the cicadas buzzed in tune with the fog inside my head. I untucked my shirt, rolled up its sleeves, and loosened some buttons. I clicked the first name still saved in my contacts.
“Alma?” the first one said. He was someone I used to ride the bus with on the days we both went to school. An unyielding slacker was how I remembered him. “Last name? Did she mention a last name?”
“Is Alma not distinct enough for you?”
“Not nearly. I work in first and last names.”
“It doesn’t really come up in conversation.”
“So that’s that.”
“Hmm,” the eleventh one said. He and I never met in person, but we used to play video games a bit. An incorrigible fool was the best way to put it. “What did she look like?”
“Okay, well, she sort of had hair that—”
“No, no, no, no! C’mon, man! You remember, don’t you? Let’s say five is true average.”
“Oh, right… Right. Your scale. On your scale, maybe… Uh… Maybe a seven-point-eight? A strong seven-eight though. Like a nine on my scale, at the very least.”
“My code is golden, my friend. There’s not a shot that I know her. Only eight-fives. Eight-fives and up. That’s how I roll, man.”
“Wow,” the twenty-sixth one said. We often ditched class and walked the halls together. There wasn’t much else to say about it. “So you really hit it off with a girl—for what was probably the first time in your entire life, by the way—and you’re telling me you didn’t get her digits? Real amateur hour, huh? Way to go rook.”
“It’s not like that! She knows something about the gorilla. I swear. I have to find her…”
“Really? The gorilla? You talk about him like he took your virginity or something. But hey, I can’t really judge, can I? If that’s how you wanna swing, that is.”
“Alright.”
“Hey, do you wanna grab drinks or something? How’s tonight work? I’ve been meaning to ask about borrowing some—”
Back home, I hid from the sun and searched for answers. Pushed aside were the books I had purchased but never read. Miscellaneous papers were tossed to the floor, and my chair was cleared of its unsorted laundry. From the desk’s drawer, I retrieved the laptop I used in high school and searched its files for freshman biology. Group projects, lab reports, incomplete homeworks, and no Alma. My aunt made me stop for lunch before I searched the remaining files from freshman year. History, English, Algebra, and no Alma. I went on to sophomore year. Then junior. Then senior. I searched through digitized editions of my high school’s yearbook and my aunt made me stop for dinner before I looked into the Boutique Industrial coffee shop. Websites, social media, property records, and no Alma. I searched the car for anything. A trace, a hair, a scent. Nothing.
My phone rang from my pocket. It was my college roommate.
“Hey, been a while,” I answered.
“Do you have any idea how many people asked me about you? What’s this about Alma?”
“You know her?”
“Am I supposed to?”
“I don’t know, I'm working on it right now. She said she was from high school and I just saw her yesterday. Really spoke with her and all. She’s gone now, though. Up and disappeared. Completely and totally. A hundred percent. She knew something about the gorilla, too. Mentioned it pretty much out of nowhere. You remember that, right? It wouldn’t make sense for her to know. Wouldn’t make sense at all.”
“Hey, hold on, I thought you got over all of that. I mean, we’re like twenty-five now… You gotta figure something out. Surely something.”
“I get by, and that’s all the figuring I need. Seriously, do you think you could help me out with this? The gorilla and Alma, I mean. I’m thinking there’s finally some answers here.”
“Sorry, I got nothing for you. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
“Sure thing.”
He hung up, and I retired to bed. I watched the ceiling fan turn its lazy, wooden arms. Outside, the frogs and crickets chirped their tunes for one another. How deep is the ocean? How high is the sky? Stains of yellowed light on striped walls. Unused candles. And linen curtains, too. A gorilla with rolled-up sleeves and rings too small for his fingers. The Belmont Stakes. Commissioner, General A-Rod, and Commissioner again. Tom Durkin and the photo finish. A gold-capped tooth. You’re breaking my heart, kid!
Mason Yang is a writer from South Brunswick, New Jersey and a 2025 graduate from the University of Maryland, College Park. More at: www.mason.rocks
