Pioneer Square
The trains never stop. From the tunnel’s opening just below Pike
Place Market to its opening here, at King Street Station, they run all
day and all night. Often, around 2:00 a.m., a woman sleeps on the
street above the opening at King Street Station. She sleeps on a piece
of cardboard and under a thick blanket. The trains run below her. On
one particular night, there is a very long train making a journey to a
land that seems to have bought an entire state. Bridges, telephone
poles, toys, homes, people, animals—everything is going to this
amazing place. The engine is pulling a thousand freight cars. One after
the other, the wheels and cargo of the chained cars rumble and rattle.
The woman on the cardboard can’t take the noise. It is loud and
endless. Her mouth is open; her hands close her ears;
her legs are
up in the air and rocking from
side to side. Her screaming and
rocking
match the rattling and rumbling. The sad scene is very
real, but the correct place for it is
inside of a dream, a very
bad dream. CHARLES MUDEDE
Pike/Pine
As the last man out locks up the Eagle, six others form a loose
company on the sidewalk. The first to break away does so with a hardy
salute and saunters off with his shirt still unbuttoned and his round,
pink belly leading the way. Two men, one with a bottle-blond mullet,
the other with denim shorts and black socks bookending knobby knees,
pair up, turn away, and wait for the light to change. One of the
remaining three is wearing a Utilikilt and work boots. One has a
dilapidated Mohawk pulled into a topknot. The third is younger with
smooth caramel skin. Suddenly their laughter and easy stances are
interrupted by an awkward silence. AMY KATE HORN
North
Capitol Hill
It’s 2:00 a.m. in my neighborhood, near the deep ravine of
Interlaken Park, which is rumored by a recent series of flyers in a
child’s hand to be infested with coyotes. But the outside world is dead
right now. Inside, fruit flies are awake and emerging from the
Christmas cactus that sits on my kitchen table. I find it hard to
believe that the flies are actually coming out of the cactus—the
softening tomatoes on the counter seem more likely—but they’re
always flying in a more or less straight line from the cactus to
whatever fruity or fermented drink I have in front of me. If I smash
one, the cactus yields another. Only at 2:00 a.m. would I find myself
so preoccupied by the relationship between flies and a cactus. ANNIE
WAGNER
Central District
When will he die? If I coughed the way he coughs at night, I would
be dead in a week. The cougher lives in the apartment below mine. We
live in the Central District. His place is just like mine. The same
bathroom, the same living room, the same kitchen. The cougher’s bedroom
is below my bedroom. His bed is directly below my bed. We go to sleep
about the same time. But late at night, always after midnight, he wakes
up and starts coughing. It is a hard, mucus-thick, lung-deep cough. I
want to return to my dreams but his fit of coughing blows away any
drowsy mist that gathers around my head. It’s 2:00 a.m., his lights are
on, his lungs are fighting for life. CHARLES MUDEDE
Aurora
Seal’s Motel on North 120th Street and Aurora Avenue North would be
a sad, creepy place even if it weren’t this late, even if it weren’t
raining, even if that man weren’t reclining in his car at an angle that
makes him look dead. There is a woman just down the road with short
black hair, a short black skirt, and a shiny silver jacket. She’s
shouting and jumping. It’s hard to tell whether she’s happy or angry or
just high. She simmers down when she sees me approaching. “Are you
shouting because you’re happy?” I ask. “Or because you’re sad?” She’s
quiet, like she can’t decide. “I guess both,” she says.
BRENDAN
KILEY
