Four of a Kind

by Mathieu Cailler

Langston Hughes, Pablo Neruda, Lucille Clifton, and Dylan Thomas moved into the house next door. One evening, a few days after they got situated, I baked a peach pie and brought it over. Langston invited me in and began to eat the pie directly out of the dish with a spoon. He made me promise not to tell. I nodded. After he finished, he invited me to the back room where they were all playing poker. Lucille pulled out the chair next to her and gave the seat a tap. I sat, and Pablo asked me if I wanted a homemade cigarillo. I nodded. We lit up and shared a clover- shaped ashtray. Dylan smiled my way, scribbled notes on a legal pad beside him, and asked me to deal the cards. I shuffled and decided on five-card draw. Lucille won hand after hand. After the card game, Pablo asked me to play the piano. Langston agreed and said they heard me practicing—at least they thought they did—earlier in the day. I told them they were right. That’s what I did for a living. But as I went to play some of my original pieces, my fingers cramped, and my face flushed. Panicked, I drew a breath, steadied myself, and performed what came easiest: Scott Joplin, Phantom of the Opera, the theme from Jurassic Park. I played some Bill Evans, too. Not long after, Dylan walked me to the door and told me it had been lovely and that next time I should play some of my songs. He flipped on the outdoor lights and winked. He let me go quite gently into the good night.

My Evening with Marilyn

by Mathieu Cailler

Marilyn Monroe invited me over for a drink after we chatted at my book signing. My heart rattled like a speedbag being pummeled by Marciano, but I mustered up enough strength to say, Eight o’clock all right? And she smiled and passed me a note, folded into a triangle.

At one after eight, I sounded her doorbell, and she answered, wearing a navy robe, no makeup, her hair less hair-sprayed than at my book signing. I feel like I’ve known you forever, she said. I know what you mean, I answered, even though I didn’t. She poured me a gin and ginger, and we sat at her yellow-lit kitchen table. She ate two hard-boiled eggs, and we discussed Ulysses. I told her I enjoyed Some Like It Hot, and she abashedly nodded. She passed me her journal and told me to read the ninth page. I laughed. Is this Lenny Bruce? I asked. Nope, she said... all mine. She touched my hand. Time stopped. At quarter after nine, I told her I had to catch a plane, and she told me to call her, handing me another triangle note. I said I would certainly do that. I regretted using the word “certainly,” though. I downed the rest of my drink and crunched on an ice cube as she walked me to the door. She waved from the stoop as I slid into my taxi. Call me Norma! she shouted as the cab headed off.

Mathieu Cailler is the author of seven books: a novel, two short story collections, two volumes of poetry, and two children's titles. His stories, poems, and essays have appeared in over one hundred publications, including Wigleaf, the Saturday Evening Post and the Los Angeles Times. He has received many prestigious awards, including a Pushcart Prize; a Readers' Favorite Award; and accolades from the Paris, Los Angeles, and New England Book Festivals. You can connect with him on social media @writesfromla or visit his website at mathieucailler.com.