The Patellar Reflex

Psumner turned a corner. It was too cold now for his jacket and no one was out walking. He glanced at himself in a shop window and scowled. He felt fine. 

Old Town had been decorated for Christmas. A twenty-foot tree by the door and real garland behind the bar, an enormous wreath in the center of the garland wishing everyone a Merry Christmas with a glittery sign they must have bought in the sixties. 

Psumner hadn’t been listening to Sarah. He was staring at the owner of the bar hanging candy canes on the tree. A mess of silver hair and glasses askew on his face, he always wore a sport coat over a polo shirt and khakis with penny loafers. In the summer he lost the coat. Old Town is Psumner’s favorite bar. The candy canes stopped about seven feet up the tree.

“It’s the music, I think,” said Sarah. She pushed her curly hair up onto the top of her head. It fell back exactly the way it had been. The light from the windows glinted off her glasses, eyeless for a flash.

“Yeah.” Vague Psumner.

“Around Christmas.”

“I’m seeing someone.”

“I’m telling you I’m unhappy. Always at Christmas.”

“Because of the music.” 

“I don’t know. That’s part of it. That’s what brings it out.”

“They say suicide goes up around Christmas.”

“The holidays.” They laughed.

Burl Ives played on the sound system.

“You’ve been single long enough,” said Sarah.

Psumner walked north on Broadway. Anthea smiled at him over coffee. He thought about the easiness of their coming together. Over the past few years Psumner had developed a state of constant availability to every woman. An offhanded flirt who’d perfected the open-ended sentence. Since Anthea that had fallen away. He’d begun to notice a new comfort some women seemed now to enjoy around him. If he ever thought about it closely he might feel strangely about this, but he didn’t. He thought about Anthea. A graceful walker with a long neck and a quick smile. There was no seduction. No wedge he’d needed to develop. That had caught him off guard.

“Chuck, did you know Sumner was dating someone?” Sarah had asked when Chuck arrived. Chuck was drunk as any Texan Psumner had seen. Beefy with hooded eyes with bags and an unnaturally pale face. He wore his shirt tucked in. 

“Oh yeah?” Chuck had a hard Texan stare. Psumner hadn’t wanted Chuck to be there. Chuck and Sarah had been friends years before they met him. “That’s great news man.”

“Sure,” said Psumner.

“He felt he had to tell me,” Sarah said.

“I didn’t say that.”

“You asked me to meet you. When was the last time we had a drink?”

“It’s Christmas.”

“Like I’m some kind of goddamn rite of passage. Did you know that, Chuck? He felt the need to run it by his ex.”

“Oh hell yeah,” said Chuck. “Listen buddy, I’m ‘own buy you a shot. What’re we drinkin’?”

“Kentucky Gentleman,” said Sarah. That had been a joke between the three of them.

“The only corked whiskey,” said Psumner.

Chuck ordered shots and leaned on the bar. Happy now, he wore a constant half-smile. He stared at Psumner’s belt buckle when he spoke.

“Sumner,” he said, “Great job, buddy.”

Psumner caught a downtown R train at 23rd Street. There was a man standing across from him wearing an elf hat. The most unhappy man. When he was younger, Psumner had seen someone who he thought looked just like him. Remarkably similar. He began telling friends he’d seen his doppelgänger. He knew this wasn’t the case. You live your life building a brace of stories to share with friends and some of them stick. He thought occasionally about what his doppelgänger might be doing with his life. Might he be leading the secret life Psumner wished he had? And what exactly did he wish for? Might the doppelgänger wonder about him? Psumner considered for a moment that he might be the charmed one. Sarah had been right. He’d needed to meet with her. Nothing is real until you tell someone. He thought it would be a good idea to tell Sarah. She’d reacted like Sarah. Irritable Psumner. 

When he was with Anthea Psumner found himself speaking in the incredibly long-term. He was not normally given to do so. Realistic Psumner. He thought again about the places which would be ruined for him when they broke up. He could never return to the coffee shop, nor the bar, nor that one restaurant with the upstairs. Is it worth it? Psumner thought about poetry. 

The R stopped running at Union Square. He had to transfer to the L then take the G to Fort Greene. 

Everything ends. Psumner thought about Sarah and her downturned mouth. Had it always been like that? Would he eventually make Anthea unhappy? Sarah had broken up with him. Things were going too well. Uneasy Psumner.

Fort Greene was quiet. He walked down Clinton Avenue under the trees. It was already dark. 

Anthea sat at the bar of Roman’s, elbow on the bar, her chin perched on her upturned palm. Low lighting on the white tiled walls. Brightly colored framed mosaics at regular intervals around the room. Tiny white tiles for the floor. Psumner half-recognized the music under the din of the crowd. No one on the streets; everyone was at Roman’s.

Psumner was hot. He stripped off his jacket and sat down, feeling under the bar for a hook. 

“Goddamn it,” he said. Anthea took his jacket and hung it on her hook. “Sorry I’m late.”

“I just got here.”

“The R stopped running.”

“It’s okay.”

“They didn’t even announce anything. The doors just stayed open.” Psumner looked around for the bartender. He was chatting with a waiter at the service bar. “Maybe someone jumped on the tracks.”

“Jesus!”

“I mean, I don’t know. Might have gone down like that.”

“Or there was train traffic.”

“It stopped running,” he snapped. “What are you drinking?”

“He hasn’t come over.”

“Fucking Brooklyn.”

“I just got here,” she said. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Totally.” Anthea leaned in, he kissed her cheek.

“You’ve been having a great day.”

“I have been, thanks.” Psumner wondered what he was doing.

The bartender came over and they ordered cocktails. Psumner looked around the room. Four seats away at the bar was a woman Psumner knew. She sat with what he took to be her boyfriend. He remembered they lived together, and had done for a while. Psumner thought that it was a small world. The smallest ever. 

“How are you?” he asked and took a drink.

“I’m good,” she said after a pause. 

“Great.” He wasn’t looking at her.

“You’re distracted.”

“I’m fucking great.”

“Okay. I’m going to the bathroom.”

Anthea got up. Psumner glanced over at the woman four seats down the bar. She met his look, then looked away. 

Anthea came back. He looked into her face. The band of tension that had been tightening in his chest since he’d left Old Town snapped. It evaporated. Things were okay. Look at her. Psumner becomes overwrought. He finds himself untrusting; himself and those around him. He obsesses and it paralyzes him. There is no moving forward while running scenarios in your mind: they never pan out the way you think they will anyway.  The coffee shop, the bar, and the restaurant with the upstairs would never be ruined. He would visit them with Anthea forever. 

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, he thought. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

He leaned forward and kissed her. She smiled.

“I love you,” he said. He hadn’t meant to. They hadn’t said it yet. He hadn’t thought it over. He wasn’t worried if she’d say it back. He felt it and out it came. She smiled.

“Psumner,” she said.

He beamed. 

Suddenly pain exploded in his jaw. When he thought about it later, he wouldn’t say it was actual pain immediately, more of an immense pressure coming from the inside of his face. He was on the floor. Looking up he saw the woman’s boyfriend standing over him. Psumner tasted blood and swallowed. His face felt three inches too thick on the left side. He felt the jagged edge of a molar with his tongue. It had broken and the edge had cut deeply into the inside of his cheek. 

Our children will have crooked teeth, he thought, then began to laugh. This was right. This was the shoe he’d been waiting for all day. Something like this. It didn’t matter now, though. This was already the past. Psumner didn’t believe in punishment.

Tableau: People around the bar in various states of standing or stooping form a bowl around Psumner. He lays on the floor, the bottom of the bowl, laughing loudly, blood streaming out of his mouth dripping on the bright white floor. The boyfriend is about to kick him in the stomach, the woman from four seats down the bar glares at her boyfriend, Anthea’s hand has shot to her mouth, but stopped just before her fingers cover it. 

Psumner, still laughing and looking up at her, manages, “That was all before I knew you...”

The Refractive Period

Psumner finished the last quarter of his beer in one pull and went to the bar. Everyone needed a drink. Chuck and Amanda were playing pool when he came back.

"What you need to do is get your dick wet," said Chuck. "Clear your head right up."

"Yeah," said Psumner, frowning, "really get some skanky on there."

"Let a girl park your Cadillac in her garage for a while."

"It's nice to hear how boys think about these things," said Amanda, watching Chuck clear the table.

"Only people whose names rhyme with fuck can say things like that seriously," said Psumner. His beer was about half gone. He told himself to slow it down. "I don't think his name is even Charles. I think his parents just called him Chuck. They knew something about him."

"A circus gypsy named me," said Chuck, all Texan deadpan. "Said she saw my future. Eh, you know where I heard that line? About the Cadillac?"

"A Romanian gypsy," said Amanda. "They're always from some country they don't have anymore."

"A porno," said Chuck, and he delivered the line, deep voiced and slow, making it a question. "But seriously, dude, maybe pull an Asian."

Ruminative Psumner. He finished his beer and bought another even though it wasn't his turn. He wasn't paying attention to this conversation or had any of the previous ones that night. He responded automatically with what he thought were funny things to say. Kept those bastards off his back. Buck up, they seemed to want to say. He didn't want it.

Chuck let Amanda break the next game, and when she didn't sink any of the balls, Chuck stepped in and began cleaning house again. Psumner said he was going to smoke a cigarette.

"Maybe I'll buy Sumner a shot," he heard Amanda say to Chuck. "Maybe he wants one of those."


Psumner left the bar and walked down Third Avenue to Fourteenth Street where he cut over to Union Square. Phantom vibrations coming from his phone in the back right pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out to check almost twice a block: nothing. The Virgin Megastore was closing. They were even selling the shelves. It was depressing. Another vibration from his pocket. Amanda had written. Some guys were milling around the entrance of Virgin.

"Say dude," one of the guys said to Psumner. "You like hip-hop?"

"Do you like Jesus?" he responded. Combative Psumner.

"Motherfuckah, don't blaspheme!"

"What does that even mean?"

Psumner turned away and descended into the subway. He was upset about Virgin. It had been a touchstone of his in this city. It was loud and obnoxious and you could never tell where the movie was playing they were blaring over the PA system. But he always bought DVDs from them and sometimes a quaint CD. He was a man of habit and this part of his habit was being taken away from him. Plus, there's something to be said for physical browsing. He could never get the hang of strolling through Amazon. He rode the train out to Brooklyn and found he'd lost his headphones.


Psumner bought six Modelo Especials from the deli near his apartment. He drank one in his room and looked at the internet. He drank most of another, slowly. Beer was beginning to make his mouth sweet and his head thick. Naked Psumner. Nearing bed time. It was very late. He picked up his phone and called a car service. He'd only just pulled on his pants and had opened a beer when he heard a horn outside.

He told the driver the address in Manhattan and sat back. This was the right move. This was John Cusack. His heart was beating in his throat and his head had cleared. They listened to Arabic news driving down the empty streets.


Psumner stepped out of the car and looked up at her apartment building. He found her window and tried to discern if there was any light peeking out from the sides of the curtains. There was no way of knowing. What do you do? Tacky to ring the buzzer, her roommate might be home. It was late. Only cigarette butts on the sidewalk to throw at the window. And he only had his keys in his pocket. Risky. He smoked a cigarette. He texted her hello. No response. He called, no answer. But that didn't mean anything.

Or it did. It meant she didn't want to speak with him. She didn't want to see him. She wasn't home. She was asleep. She was out. Who would she be out with? She was ignoring him. He looked at the front door of the building. She was opening the door in front of him the first time he'd come over. He'd trailed the back of his fingers up the back of her thigh. Best to ring the bell. He stopped. What humiliation was waiting in the intercom? This is Psumner's flaw. Proud Psumner.

The city was changing around him and had become hollow. He was no longer in charge of his own destiny. Psumner leaned on the bell and the blood rushed in his ears. He could hear no cars. Was that the merest flicker of light at a corner of the curtain? There was no answering crackle at the intercom. Psumner saw only overgrown sidewalks in a ghost city. I'm not ready. I'm not ready. I'm not ready.


Psumner hailed a gypsy cab and told the Nigerian driver his address.

"How much you pay?" the driver asked.

"Like eight bucks?" They laughed and laughed. The driver named an extortionate price and Psumner agreed. He was too tired, and what's the point? They crossed the Manhattan Bridge back into Brooklyn and followed yellowed street corners to his neighborhood past Prospect Park. He and the Nigerian smoked cigarettes, and at a stoplight Psumner saw a tattoo on the driver's neck of two hands clasped in prayer. Fingers pointing up, so angels can land on them.


Back in his room, Psumner thumbed through his Google reader. He sipped the now warm and flat Modelo Especial he'd left on the nightstand. An underground militant revolutionary pop singer was marrying a liquor and movie heir. It's a funny old world. He scanned the pages flickering past, not really reading, but following the text. A grey wall had risen in his mind; thoughts representing the past weeks, surrounding finally any pretense of a public face. If these thoughts were put into words it would sound a repeating phrase, throbbing and hopeless.

Psumner clicked a link in one of the blogs and found himself looking at a product page on The Duluth Trading Company. He blinked, finished his beer, and realized that he dearly wanted a Fire Hose fabric Chore Coat.