The Collector
by Ron Kolm
I’m a collector. I hunt down runs of literary magazines and signed first editions of tricky prose, and place them in university library archives. I collect comic books and the Jokers from decks of playing cards. I also lust after die-cast model cars; mostly Hot Wheels. I have hundreds of them – maybe thousands — some on display, but most of them stashed away in boxes.
As I’ve gotten older, it’s become more difficult to compete with younger Hot Wheels collectors. They line-up outside the doors at Toys R Us and, when the store opens, they shove the mothers with their kids aside as they race to see who can get to the pegs first. I usually come in last. So, in order to get the newest releases I’ve had to hook up with a ‘dealer’ — a guy who spends most of his waking hours tracking down product; some for himself, some to list on eBay, and the rest for schmucks like myself.
My dealer’s name is Ken, and he’s a prison guard who works the night shift at Rikers Island , which means he just barely makes it to the store before it opens. But he’s buff,
so no one fucks with him — he always gets to the Hot Wheels display rack first without having to hustle — the other guys part like the Red Sea when he walks by.
Anyway, I took the day off from work and made plans to meet him on the Toys R Us parking lot in Long Island City on the morning of September eleventh, 2001. My wife and I sent our two sons off to school and then walked across Northern Boulevard towards the store. His car was parked pretty far away from the entrance, even though the lot was mostly empty. We noticed as we approached that his car doors were open, and his car was surrounded by several young girls all wearing red t-shirts, who seemed to be listening to the car radio, which was turned up real loud. Then we saw in the distance a plume of smoke rising into the sky from the city’s skyline; more specifically, from one of the World Trade Center towers.
“Seems to have been hit by a small plane,” Ken told us when we got to his car.
“Man, New York City firemen are the best,” I enthused. “They’re probably inside putting it out right now.”
Moments later a manager came charging out of the store, shouting, “I don’t give a fuck what’s going on! If you don’t get your asses inside and punch in I’ll fire all of you!” which quickly dispersed the crowd.
I looked back at the skyline — one of the towers had disappeared and smoke was now pouring out of what used to be its twin. When we heard on the radio that planes were flying into things, my wife left to get our youngest son, while I flagged down a car service to Astoria to collect our oldest.
A Summer Day
by Ron Kolm
“Come meet me in Soho ,”
You said on the phone,
“I’m staying in a place
Where we can be alone.”
I take a subway downtown
And find you waiting
On a loading dock
In front of a loft.
You seem frazzled,
And though it’s a warm day
That doesn’t seem to be
The problem.
“He came back,” you say,
And it dawns on me
That you’re probably in
Some sort of relationship
With the guy who lives here.
You sit on my lap for awhile,
And we talk a little,
But it really is too warm,
So I apologize and tell you
That I have to get back to work
And as I walk over to the E train
A growing puddle of sweat
Stains the front of my shirt.
Early Spring Evening
by Ron Kolm
Loose gravel crunches
Beneath the legs
Of your wrought-iron chair
As you move closer
To the tiny marbled table
In the outdoor garden
Behind the Centre Pub
On St. Mark’s Place.
We’ve been holding hands
For hours while we talked
Under a string of gently
Swaying Chinese lanterns
And, as you lean forward,
Smiling up at me,
You let me cup your breasts
Without saying anything.
Death is a Soldier
by Ron Kolm
What he really is
Is a middle-aged guy
Wearing camo,
Who reads a lot of books
On military history and dreams
What the World would be like
If Hitler had won the war.
He sits in a neighborhood bar,
Hunched over a White Russian,
Watching TV.
Every time he looks up
At the screen
Something happens:
A tsunami slaps Southeast Asia ,
A mudslide hits Argentina , a
Volcano erupts in Iceland .
He nods sagely
And sips his drink
As these disasters occur
In real time.
Even as he stares
At his now empty glass
And wonders whether he should
Order another, his mind dances
Like an old typewriter carriage
Over a list of the living,
And each name he happens upon
Represents a life extinguished.
This is hard work, he thinks,
Yes, I’ll have one more –
I’ve earned it.