by Curtis X. Meyer

My friends and I stand on the corner outside a local teahouse, discussing
a pair of shootings that took place the week before: The tragedy at Fort Hood,
a day later 8 wounded in an office building downtown; the lone death a 26 year-old
newlywed only there to deliver mail, his son a month old; the story a headline
on CNN; the incident taking place practically in my backyard. Didja hear a guy

got stabbed on Halloween on Park Ave? Jared says. He points
to the next block. We are walking distance from ground zero.
It happened ‘round midnight. I’m quick to mention that means
it actually was All Saints Day. Nevertheless, by then

the only thing open on the richest street in town was the wine bar,
hosting a costume party at the time. Cops think he was mugged
leaving the parking lot of the bank out back, most likely after
withdrawing from an ATM. I can’t imagine why anyone wouldn’t
bother help get him to a hospital, until I envision a ghostly figure

approaching the tables of the outside patio, appearing through the autumn fog
illuminated by streetlights, clutching his side, stumbling like a zombie in attempt
to keep the best parts of him from spilling out. A gathering of yuppies and
college boys dressed as pirates and vampires with their girlfriends disguised
as nurses, sporting headbands with devil horns and purple cat ears looks on.
Battling unconsciousness, he tries to scream, Help me. I’m dying, and a tide
beats the words to his mouth. Before he collapses on the strip, someone
looks up from his glass and plate of cheese to say, Hey man, nice costume.

real.