Northern Liberties

FROM DEATH

When Boodle caught on that the driver was sleeping, he turned gingerly to the passengers in the back seat and, his finger resting vertically against his half-puckered lips, hissed to them a soft cautionary shhhhhhh. It was just before they all started screaming.

FROM WANT

Two things known about the driver—two essential things—were that he, Monk, had, that morning, decided to quit drinking and that he had, that evening, decided against it. In that way his day had been fairly typical. But his twin decisions were known to the rest of them, and in so knowing they were warned in advance, before Monk the driver drifted off and before the very reliable Saturn sedan drifted to follow him, before they all barreled north together on the Expressway with the confidence of a carload piloted by a conscious man. Monk had even given them all further warning with something between a grunt and a whimper. That was after he had attempted to rally himself with a series of blinks and finger snaps, which was after he had voiced his concerns about remaining awake, which was after, still, he had chatted briskly at any of them, at all of them, in order to keep watchful and perceptive. And this was all well after he had simply driven in silence, unsure as to why he was driving at all, since it wasn’t even his car.

OF RELIGION

They were parked on Allen Street in front of the suppressed Immaculate Conception RCC, upon which Conn was urinating. “Bury me in this crypt,” he shouted at the night. Two essential things about Conn were that he hated his girlfriend while they were together and that he loved her while they were not. That summer they were not, and he was drunk and dramatic over it. “I’m bled out,” he called to the Saturn, “so just bury me in this crypt right here.” In the car, Monk was sitting before the steering wheel, confused, and Boodle was slumped righteously in the passenger seat, muttering through his mustache. In the back, Hector had laid down his head and torso while his ass and legs continued to sit. Seamus was wedged in the corner, fuming, jamming his naked foot into a sopping Topsider. “You have antisocial tendencies,” Seamus spat at Boodle through the headrest, “and an immature sense of conflict resolution, and a penchant for overreaction.” “A great arm, though,” said Boodle. “If I get trench foot, I’m going to bayonet you in your sleep,” said Seamus, “and if I don’t get trench foot, I’ll just do it while you’re awake.” “Well I’m gonna pray that the Holy Spirit inspires you to follow a life of forgiveness and pacificity,” said Boodle, “and then I’ll be the one to bayonet you. In a monastery.” “Bury me!” shouted Conn again, leaning against the church wall. It was nighttime by the river, and the sky was red and low.

OF EXPRESSION

They were fighting over the passenger seat. Boodle tore the Topsider from Seamus’s foot as Seamus, hands on the door frame, attempted to launch himself into the Saturn’s cab. They ceased, momentarily equal and observant, as the shoe sailed down the night street and out of their range of vision. There was a shallow puddle-squish somewhere out in the darkness. Seamus swore, offered Boodle’s temple one final abdicating swipe, and jogged to retrieve it. “That was a throw,” said Monk, “that’s down by the dog park.” “Are we really waiting for this?” Conn demanded. “If we’re just gonna sit here, I’m gonna take a piss.” Hector crawled into the back seat to lay his torso down and moaned a melody that might have been a song. “You seem angry,” Monk said to Boodle as they listened to Seamus hobble-skip in the darkness. “Angry?” repeated Boodle, incredulously. “I’m the only one trying to have a good time.”

TO DUE PROCESS

First the Piazza, and then its lights, and then even its white noises of habitation disappeared into Philadelphia’s cloudy...