Pokey's day started out the way it always does. He fixes his cereal, pours the milk, and sits at the varnished table that belonged to his grandmother. She had this apartment before Pokey. When she died, Pokey was living with her at the time. Everytime he sits at the table, he remembers the day he tried to wake her before he went to work. The sun reflected off the floor, across her bed and onto the wall. She looked comfortable. Pokey wasn't sure what to do on that day. He went to work and called his mother to tell her that Nanie wouldn't wake-up. When he arrived home that night, his grandmother was gone and his mother sat at the table, having coffee and waiting for Pokey. This morning, the sun was missing from the south-facing window. The only sound was the scraping of the spoon on the bottom of the bowl.

As Pokey settles into the parking attentant's booth just inside the entrance to the parking garage, the first sounds of day filter in through the slight crack in the glass window. He hears the hissing of sleet, and the belching of the breaks from the butcher's supply truck as it lurches onto Katz Avenue. He looks up to see the puddles forming at the end of the deck .

Pokey reminds himself that if Mr. Gorlomi stumbles into the parking deck to get his keys, Pokey is to lock the door to the booth. Mr. Rocco told him, "Never give him his keys if he can't walk straight." Pokey gets upset when Mr. Gorlomi yells at him. Pokey just keeps the door to the attendant's booth locked and puts his headphones on. After a while, Mr. Gorlomi gets tired, or his bottle is empty, and he simply turns around and walks away shouting something over his shoulder. After those times, Pokey listens to Keith Jarrett on his cd player.

This morning Pokey hears Mr. Tayuka's cart before he sees him. Pokey walks to the parking entrance and smiles at him and his dog. He hands the dog a small biscuit. At one point, Pokey asked Mr. Tayuka what kind of dog it is, but Mr. Tayuka never answers Pokey. He looks off into the distance and continues to walk as if he sees the bus he needs to catch, or the vendor he needs to speak with. Except, as far as Pokey can tell, Mr. Tayuka rides no bus or speaks with anyone. As he turns to go back to his booth, he sees a startled young man running by. Pokey thinks this man is in pain, or maybe he's afraid of something.

Pokey Swain Apt. 111

Pokey Swain Apt. 111

Pokey Swain was worried about the impending cold weather. He had just left his mother's apartment twenty blocks away; she had given him his bag of early winter clothes. Lined galoshes, a flannel and wool plaid coat, the black stocking cap, which hangs on the back of his door, multiple pairs of cotton and wool socks that he will carefully arranged in the top drawer of his dresser. In the second drawer, he will place the flannel shirts and six pairs of lined jeans. His t-shirts and boxers were already in the second drawer. Before he boards the bus to see his mother on the second Thursday of every month, he will count the contents of his dresser. If his mother thought it necessary, she would provide him with more, after he had given her the carefully recited inventory of his dresser. She worried about Pokey and checked and doubled-checked his bag before he left.
"Don't let this bag out of your hands until you get to your room."
"Okay, Mom."
"Make sure you make it on time to dinner."
"Okay, Mom."
"Don't talk to anyone on the bus ride."
"Okay, Mom."
"Pokey, did you take a shower this morning?"
"Yes, Mom. But only a short one. The water was too cold."
"I'll call the manager. You pay on time and there's no reason why you shouldn't have hot water."
"Okay, Mom. The 4:15 bus will be here in 15 minutes."
"Take this thermos and don't leave it on the bus."
Pokey sits on the first row of seats that faces the opposite window and he watches the city move slowly by. He worries that the traffic will make him miss dinner. If he misses dinner, he knows that in the morning, he will feel foggy. He might forget to eat breakfast and be late for his job as a parking garage attendant.
He had missed dinner once before and was late for work. He didn't want that to happen again. Pokey would only order the early-bird special. The diner two blocks away served meatloaf as the special on Thursdays. Meatloaf, greenbeans, potatoes and rolls sprawls across a greasy white board that has long ago lost any semblance of being white. It now hangs precariously on the nail just inside the diner entrance. Years of grease, smoke, as well as the general grime that creeps into the diner every time the door swings open, has coated the daily-special board, the wall and most of the diner. Pokey's stool, the third one from the door, has a similar glaze. The tiled floor which was once white now carries the same nebulous grime. Each tarnished tile is outlined in thick, black lines of unknown density.
His thick brows furrow at the lines of cars trying to escape the city. Pokey reaches inside his coat pocket and unravels his headphones. He carefully places them on over his cap, pulls them into place and hits play. Coltrane, in mid-rift, fills his ears. Pokey closes his eyes and waits for Miles's trumpet to follow.