Scott Garson

Des Moines Gymnopédie

I found the Ramones by the garbage cans next to the house that faced 28th—the one encircled in flights of stairs, each with a private door. I dragged the Ramones through the bushes and wiped off the cardboard. I stood them up. The Ramones wore jeans a lot like mine, straight-legged, with frayed holes in the knees. But the Ramones were taller. They wore black leather jackets, dark shades. They were in an alley. They leaned against a wall. I was twelve years old and about to bike to practice at the diamonds in the river valley. The Ramones could get through the back door, I was thinking. Sideways. They could be tipped.


Manhattan Gymnopédie

What’s your name again? No. Forget it, man. Tell me again how you’re in that band that might get signed to Matador. I’ll borrow the shiniest quarter from what we’re meaning to leave as tip. I’ll set it on end, watch it tremble. Snatch it from the spin of its fall. Do you like Marvin Gaye? What’s wrong with you anyway, bro? That jukebox is an actual wishing well. I’m dancing. Our quarter has rounded the bend. I’m floating in cigarette ash.


Scott Garson has stories on the way at New York Tyrant, New Ohio Review, Unsaid, Hobart and others. His collection of micros, American Gymnopédies, should be out soon from WWP.