by Cameron Mays

                  (Plain Press April 2025) I was probably eating a squid-flavored snack on a stoop on Detroit Avenue when I flagged Kosciusko from his bicycle. He rode in drunken form. Slowly, each leg exerting enough force to push the bicycle forty-five degrees to the opposite side. I waved to him because I thought he was a different drunk. Though I was wrong I had run into this drunk before. I first met Kosciusko further down Detroit several months ago. He needed directions to a Madison Avenue pizza place. His story made no sense. He had paid too much and needed to apologize to the owners for the inconvenience. “I’m Polish, this is what we do!” he told me. I never got his name, so I dubbed him Kosciusko. He squeezed the brakes, and the bike scraped to

a halt.

                  “How was your Dyngus Day?” I asked. — “It was good, I stopped by Gordon Square.”

           “Drink any Polish beer?” — He shook his head and produced a small plastic water bottle from his coat. — “Vodka. Want some?” — “No thanks”.

                  He took a big gulp, and we chatted about his ex-wife. His choice of topic, not mine. “She’s with this fat guy now. He looks like that guy, you know? Peter Griffin? She’s with Peter Griffin, man. I know I wasn’t a great husband, but at least I wasn’t Peter Griffin.” He offered me vodka once more; I shook my head. I asked if he listens to the radio.

                  “Yeah, I listen to George Noory. 1100 AM.” — “Talk show?” He nodded. “What about?”

           “Everything. UFO’s, Bigfoot, government secrets.” — “Do they talk about animal human hybrids?” The first time I visited New York, a man in Washington Square Park was listening to a podcast about the topic that fashioned itself in the breaking news format.

                  “Yeah, sometimes. They do it all.” — “What time is it on?” — “1 AM to 5 AM.” — “You stay up until 5 AM listening to the radio?” — “Nope, I play it while I sleep. I take it in passively.” — “That works?” — “Yup. It’s actually why my wife left me. I’d play it when we were married, and the radio told her to leave me for Peter Griffin.” It began to rain, and I lost interest in talking to him. I cautioned him on riding in inclement weather. He shrugged and continued westward.

                  I saw him again on Detroit Avenue exactly one week later when I heard the shrieks and scolds of a woman. The door to a psychic reading shop swung open and Kosciusko was thrown onto the sidewalk.

                  He smiled as if I didn’t bear witness to recent events. The psychic bursts out. “If you bums want to talk, go across the street!” The psychic’s dog shot out of the store, a golden retriever puppy. “Get my dog, you bum!”

                  Kosciuszko lumbered after the playful dog in dizzy circles. “Here, Bailey! Here, Bailey!” he called. Several times, the dog brushed against the psychic’s long dress. She refused to pick it up and sequester it into the store.

                  The corralling of Bailey seemed as if it may take all evening. I bid farewell and good luck to the old drunk. He smiled and waved, then returned to his task. I walked home slowly, around one step per second. The weather was warm. The pear trees flowered but did not stink.