Five shorts by Kim Chinquee
On a High Wire
On TV, a man walks on a tightrope over Niagara Falls. His clothes are skin-tight. I could have gone to watch in person, since I live so close, but that place is my temple when it isn’t crowded. I imagine a Slinky, crawling down the stairs on the farmhouse where I grew up. My sister and I each had one. I can still hear the sound, the rhythm of it when it descended.
My first time at the Falls, I was alone. Had gone to Buffalo from Michigan to give a reading. I stopped at the Falls after. It was February, cold, parts of the water frozen, but the splash was still so present, sending off misty clouds that could be seen miles away on the road as I approached it. I felt the chill, heard the whoosh and whirl, and the power of the Falls reminded me how small all my giant thoughts are.
By chance, I moved to Buffalo years later.
The guy on TV has been on the local news, leading up to his big feat: a two-year battle between the United States and Canada. He was required for the first time, by law, to wear a harness. Four years before, he set a Guinness World Record for riding his bike on a high wire. He comes from a family of acrobats: a seventh-generation boy of The Flying Wallendas.
On TV, he takes careful steps. I think about the Slinky, the momentum. I know little about physics.
I’ve been in Buffalo eight years. I take out-of-towners to the Falls; my son, my mom, my niece, two old friends from high school, and three of my then boyfriends. An older famous man who tried to court me. I went there once at night with a man and his daughter when the ground was icy. The girl got too close to the rail while the man was busy taking pictures.
I prefer the American side, where there are more trails, and more room to walk along the river before it falls, where I see birds land on rocks, despite the Falls, and stay there. The Canadian side is always crowded, and a hill lines popular attractions like the Wax Museum, Guinness World Records, Applebees, and Chiles.
Nik Wallenda is ten years my youth. He moves along the rope with ease. The cameras are on him.
Sometimes people jump into the water, letting the Falls take them. To this date, it’s been over five thousand. Only few survived.
A lot of people get married there.
When my mom came, we stood in line for a ride called Maid of the Mist, where we put on silly blue things like garbage bags over our heads. We stood on a boat, which took us to where the water fell, after the Falls sent it. A tour guide talked on a microphone, reciting to us and about thirty others about the gorge’s history. We let the mist splash on our faces, and looked up at a rainbow.
After that we went to Hard Rock Café and drank cherry margaritas.
I like going to the Falls alone. I sit on a bench and watch the water, seeing others with their families. I go there with my notebook and my pencil.
As Wallenda nears the other side, I think I see him wobble. I root for him, though I know he’s an expert.
My first time at the Falls, I was alone. Had gone to Buffalo from Michigan to give a reading. I stopped at the Falls after. It was February, cold, parts of the water frozen, but the splash was still so present, sending off misty clouds that could be seen miles away on the road as I approached it. I felt the chill, heard the whoosh and whirl, and the power of the Falls reminded me how small all my giant thoughts are.
By chance, I moved to Buffalo years later.
The guy on TV has been on the local news, leading up to his big feat: a two-year battle between the United States and Canada. He was required for the first time, by law, to wear a harness. Four years before, he set a Guinness World Record for riding his bike on a high wire. He comes from a family of acrobats: a seventh-generation boy of The Flying Wallendas.
On TV, he takes careful steps. I think about the Slinky, the momentum. I know little about physics.
I’ve been in Buffalo eight years. I take out-of-towners to the Falls; my son, my mom, my niece, two old friends from high school, and three of my then boyfriends. An older famous man who tried to court me. I went there once at night with a man and his daughter when the ground was icy. The girl got too close to the rail while the man was busy taking pictures.
I prefer the American side, where there are more trails, and more room to walk along the river before it falls, where I see birds land on rocks, despite the Falls, and stay there. The Canadian side is always crowded, and a hill lines popular attractions like the Wax Museum, Guinness World Records, Applebees, and Chiles.
Nik Wallenda is ten years my youth. He moves along the rope with ease. The cameras are on him.
Sometimes people jump into the water, letting the Falls take them. To this date, it’s been over five thousand. Only few survived.
A lot of people get married there.
When my mom came, we stood in line for a ride called Maid of the Mist, where we put on silly blue things like garbage bags over our heads. We stood on a boat, which took us to where the water fell, after the Falls sent it. A tour guide talked on a microphone, reciting to us and about thirty others about the gorge’s history. We let the mist splash on our faces, and looked up at a rainbow.
After that we went to Hard Rock Café and drank cherry margaritas.
I like going to the Falls alone. I sit on a bench and watch the water, seeing others with their families. I go there with my notebook and my pencil.
As Wallenda nears the other side, I think I see him wobble. I root for him, though I know he’s an expert.
Cement Shoes
It’s Whirlpool Park, and the water does much more than swirl here. The docent tells us it’s over eight hundred feet deep and there’s a reason for the whirl. A reason why it’s become illegal for anyone to be on the water here.
It’s below the Falls, and we’ve been to the Falls, this tour group and me, on the Maid of the Mist with our ponchos, getting so close to the underside. My sister is visiting. I want to make her happy.
I’ve lived in Buffalo for fourteen years. This is her first visit. Her daughter’s come to visit, our mom has come, my son and daughter-in-law, too. Friends from high school. My local friends ride our bikes here on a regular basis, though I often like to come alone: the ride along the water is a constant: starting in Buffalo, the bike path along the Niagara River, and the closer one gets to the Falls, the closer one can feel the rush, the quiet of the birds, the wonderment of it all.
We look over the rail, this group and me. I’ve been to Niagara Falls so many times. I figured the tour would be a nice thing to do as a host for my sister.
I’ve hiked at Devil’s Hole, and ask the docent, where’s that in relation?
He says, I’ll get to that later.
He says, A lot of folks have lost their lives here.
I say, What happens to the bodies?
The docent makes a joke about shoes made of cement.
In the distance, I start to see a humped scarecrow drumming on a pizza.
My sister and I don’t talk about our dad, who claimed to light up a freighter. He claimed to be the only one on it.
It’s below the Falls, and we’ve been to the Falls, this tour group and me, on the Maid of the Mist with our ponchos, getting so close to the underside. My sister is visiting. I want to make her happy.
I’ve lived in Buffalo for fourteen years. This is her first visit. Her daughter’s come to visit, our mom has come, my son and daughter-in-law, too. Friends from high school. My local friends ride our bikes here on a regular basis, though I often like to come alone: the ride along the water is a constant: starting in Buffalo, the bike path along the Niagara River, and the closer one gets to the Falls, the closer one can feel the rush, the quiet of the birds, the wonderment of it all.
We look over the rail, this group and me. I’ve been to Niagara Falls so many times. I figured the tour would be a nice thing to do as a host for my sister.
I’ve hiked at Devil’s Hole, and ask the docent, where’s that in relation?
He says, I’ll get to that later.
He says, A lot of folks have lost their lives here.
I say, What happens to the bodies?
The docent makes a joke about shoes made of cement.
In the distance, I start to see a humped scarecrow drumming on a pizza.
My sister and I don’t talk about our dad, who claimed to light up a freighter. He claimed to be the only one on it.
Dog Island
As I pull into the lot of the dog park island, I say to my puppy, Where’s my hat?
She’s eager and jumping all over in her seat. My vehicle is mostly all about dog stuff, triathlon stuff. Not always the cleanest. I’ve had this one for exactly one year. The one before was a sedan, Mercedes.
I don’t really need my hat. It’s a warm day for October. But then I find a cap, in the back. It’s not exactly a good hair day.
The puppy sees all the other dogs coming in and out of the park. It isn’t a typical park. There is one fence here, in and out, and it leads into a twenty-acre island surrounded by a creek on all sides.
The puppy isn’t really a puppy anymore. She’s a year-and-a-half, but she still acts like a puppy.
There’s a walking path at the park and one loop around is half a mile. There are a lot of the regulars here: Cornpop, Dinner, Munchie, Hunter, Pepper. Moose.
I put on my cap, put my leash on my puppy. Her name’s Geneva, after the place where I found her. At an Airbnb where I was staying and the hosts had a litter. I wasn’t there to find a puppy. I was there to compete in a Half Ironman in Geneva.
After we cross the bridge and enter the island, crossing through the gates, I take off her leash. She runs. She sprints. She’s a black Goldendoodle and almost everyone thinks she’s a Poodle.
We run into more of our regulars: my triathlon friend with her Weimy, her dog Moose. Our other friends who have two other rescues. We do laps around the park and our dogs play and frolic and run. We keep walking, talking, and the dogs play and follow.
We talk of things like football, food, and when the dogs jump on us, we say holy cow. Other dogs come in to play, and some of them play nicely. Some growl, showing teeth. We stay close. We’re on watch. Some of the dogs go into the water.
I call out to my puppy when she runs deep and down. She comes back, frolicking. She teases other dogs, asking them to play. She sprints with them. She challenges them to chase her.
I talk with my friends about the history of the island. It’s manmade. Was a part of a way to fix the Erie Canal’s sharp curve to help with boat traffic. There’s a boat house that was burned down, but the bricks of it remain. In the 70s, trees were planted on the island. In 2014, it turned into a dog park.
We call out to our dogs when we can’t see them. Moosie! Moose! Geneva!
They swim. But not far enough to escape us.
When I drive here, I take the highway. It’s only ten minutes. When I drive home, I always opt for the route that runs parallel to the creek, a path I know so well from bike rides. When I drive home from the dog park, I can see the pretty sunset resting on the creek, the water, part of what was/is the Erie Canal. I imagine what it was like, when the Canal was active, with all of the boats, congested, celebrating, maybe even struggling, going all the way to Albany and beyond.
She’s eager and jumping all over in her seat. My vehicle is mostly all about dog stuff, triathlon stuff. Not always the cleanest. I’ve had this one for exactly one year. The one before was a sedan, Mercedes.
I don’t really need my hat. It’s a warm day for October. But then I find a cap, in the back. It’s not exactly a good hair day.
The puppy sees all the other dogs coming in and out of the park. It isn’t a typical park. There is one fence here, in and out, and it leads into a twenty-acre island surrounded by a creek on all sides.
The puppy isn’t really a puppy anymore. She’s a year-and-a-half, but she still acts like a puppy.
There’s a walking path at the park and one loop around is half a mile. There are a lot of the regulars here: Cornpop, Dinner, Munchie, Hunter, Pepper. Moose.
I put on my cap, put my leash on my puppy. Her name’s Geneva, after the place where I found her. At an Airbnb where I was staying and the hosts had a litter. I wasn’t there to find a puppy. I was there to compete in a Half Ironman in Geneva.
After we cross the bridge and enter the island, crossing through the gates, I take off her leash. She runs. She sprints. She’s a black Goldendoodle and almost everyone thinks she’s a Poodle.
We run into more of our regulars: my triathlon friend with her Weimy, her dog Moose. Our other friends who have two other rescues. We do laps around the park and our dogs play and frolic and run. We keep walking, talking, and the dogs play and follow.
We talk of things like football, food, and when the dogs jump on us, we say holy cow. Other dogs come in to play, and some of them play nicely. Some growl, showing teeth. We stay close. We’re on watch. Some of the dogs go into the water.
I call out to my puppy when she runs deep and down. She comes back, frolicking. She teases other dogs, asking them to play. She sprints with them. She challenges them to chase her.
I talk with my friends about the history of the island. It’s manmade. Was a part of a way to fix the Erie Canal’s sharp curve to help with boat traffic. There’s a boat house that was burned down, but the bricks of it remain. In the 70s, trees were planted on the island. In 2014, it turned into a dog park.
We call out to our dogs when we can’t see them. Moosie! Moose! Geneva!
They swim. But not far enough to escape us.
When I drive here, I take the highway. It’s only ten minutes. When I drive home, I always opt for the route that runs parallel to the creek, a path I know so well from bike rides. When I drive home from the dog park, I can see the pretty sunset resting on the creek, the water, part of what was/is the Erie Canal. I imagine what it was like, when the Canal was active, with all of the boats, congested, celebrating, maybe even struggling, going all the way to Albany and beyond.
Three Mile Island
At the dog island, the leaves are like soup in the rain. My dog runs and jumps, flying over obstacles. She gets on top of tables, arrowing her nose in directions, her front leg angled like a corner. When she hops down, her ears flop like pigtails.
It’s Halloween, and there are hardly any other dogs here. I walk with my umbrella, my sneakers squishing on the ground, around puddles, the piled leaves under my feet like drowning pillows. The ground is orange and yellow, covered with fallen leaves, and it’s hard to see the trail, though I know where it is from all my other times here. Today smells like rust and rum.
I see another dog called Smokey the Bear, a brown lab mix who has a sisterhood with my Goldendoodle, Stallion. I say hello to Smokey’s human dad, a tall man wearing a Bills jersey—he played ball in college. He’s maybe my age, fifty. I don’t know his name. At this park, we mostly just know dogs’ names. Smokey and Stallion are girls, and sometimes we get questioned why both of them have boy names.
He says, Good game, huh?
Last night, I was at the Bills game. I took a shuttle from downtown. The Bills played against my hometown team: The Green Bay Packers. I saw team members getting on their bus. I waved to Aaron Rodgers.
Our dogs zoom around together, then wrestle, their legs tangling up like buckles, then untangling and back to the chase.
I say to him, Of course!
He says, How was the vibe there?
Lots of Packers fans. I wore gear from both teams. Everyone I ran into seemed to get along. Surprised it was so cordial.
The dogs run through puddles, roll. Then they chase each other to the water. We see them getting in. The water used to be part of a throughway—the Erie Canal. This island is manmade, a way to smooth out traffic rounding a tough corner. It’s twenty acres. Now with such tall trees, one pedestrian bridge, a gate. Across the way is the Casino, a boat house that burned down, except for its brick, now painted with murals. There are shelters, bathrooms. On a good day, tons of dogs, and of course their owners. No bikes are allowed here.
He says, Sloppy day, huh?
I fold my umbrella, as the rain’s subsided. Another white dog, Potato, joins the mix. I see his owner, a woman who lately has been talking about her work for the election. She’s dressed up like a sheep, with a white hat, wooly white coat.
Hey, she says.
Hey, we say.
We walk down to the water while the dogs bathe.
I say, I like your costume.
Baaa, she says.
The man in the Bills shirt says, You won’t stay very white soon.
She says, Ha! I’m wet.
I'm wearing an eggplant-colored coat, something I found at a thrift store called The Juggler. It’s warm. This year, I didn't bother with a costume. The game seemed enough. I’ve been to several games at Lambeau Field. This was my first Bills game.
I want to keep walking so I call out to Stallion and she follows me up the hill, along the trail, while the others stay behind. I jog with her a little.
The rain starts up again, so I open my umbrella. The sky gives clues of thunder.
In the car, on the way home, I see signs all over that read, Pass the bread. My stomach rumbles. I say, Is this a trick?
Stallion’s in the passenger seat, alert and upright. She’s dirty, wet. Her tongue hangs.
I say, Treat?
It’s Halloween, and there are hardly any other dogs here. I walk with my umbrella, my sneakers squishing on the ground, around puddles, the piled leaves under my feet like drowning pillows. The ground is orange and yellow, covered with fallen leaves, and it’s hard to see the trail, though I know where it is from all my other times here. Today smells like rust and rum.
I see another dog called Smokey the Bear, a brown lab mix who has a sisterhood with my Goldendoodle, Stallion. I say hello to Smokey’s human dad, a tall man wearing a Bills jersey—he played ball in college. He’s maybe my age, fifty. I don’t know his name. At this park, we mostly just know dogs’ names. Smokey and Stallion are girls, and sometimes we get questioned why both of them have boy names.
He says, Good game, huh?
Last night, I was at the Bills game. I took a shuttle from downtown. The Bills played against my hometown team: The Green Bay Packers. I saw team members getting on their bus. I waved to Aaron Rodgers.
Our dogs zoom around together, then wrestle, their legs tangling up like buckles, then untangling and back to the chase.
I say to him, Of course!
He says, How was the vibe there?
Lots of Packers fans. I wore gear from both teams. Everyone I ran into seemed to get along. Surprised it was so cordial.
The dogs run through puddles, roll. Then they chase each other to the water. We see them getting in. The water used to be part of a throughway—the Erie Canal. This island is manmade, a way to smooth out traffic rounding a tough corner. It’s twenty acres. Now with such tall trees, one pedestrian bridge, a gate. Across the way is the Casino, a boat house that burned down, except for its brick, now painted with murals. There are shelters, bathrooms. On a good day, tons of dogs, and of course their owners. No bikes are allowed here.
He says, Sloppy day, huh?
I fold my umbrella, as the rain’s subsided. Another white dog, Potato, joins the mix. I see his owner, a woman who lately has been talking about her work for the election. She’s dressed up like a sheep, with a white hat, wooly white coat.
Hey, she says.
Hey, we say.
We walk down to the water while the dogs bathe.
I say, I like your costume.
Baaa, she says.
The man in the Bills shirt says, You won’t stay very white soon.
She says, Ha! I’m wet.
I'm wearing an eggplant-colored coat, something I found at a thrift store called The Juggler. It’s warm. This year, I didn't bother with a costume. The game seemed enough. I’ve been to several games at Lambeau Field. This was my first Bills game.
I want to keep walking so I call out to Stallion and she follows me up the hill, along the trail, while the others stay behind. I jog with her a little.
The rain starts up again, so I open my umbrella. The sky gives clues of thunder.
In the car, on the way home, I see signs all over that read, Pass the bread. My stomach rumbles. I say, Is this a trick?
Stallion’s in the passenger seat, alert and upright. She’s dirty, wet. Her tongue hangs.
I say, Treat?
Staying Up All Night
Today the dog island’s like a ghost town. Today’s the first day of any sign of snow. Today the Bills are playing. I watched on TV until halftime.
My puppy runs around like steroids in her glow-in-the-dark collar. It isn’t dark yet, but I plan to stay until dark and since last week’s time change, it gets dark out early.
The terrain is sloppy, wet, and slippery, like stepping on berries. I’m wearing layers, covered by my rain jacket and my snow pants. I wear a hat.
There’s hardly anyone here, and now that the leaves are mostly fallen, the trees stand like sticks, and allow windows onto the other sides of the island: a bike path and some homes, and more trees on the other side of the water.
I do laps around the island, my puppy running off, always coming back to find me. She romps around, her tongue hanging.
After a while, the sun shines, peeking through the trees. The sky turns blue, dotted with small clouds.
I don’t know where else I’d rather be. It’s quiet here. I get in my steps. The landscape shifts and changes when the wind does.
I imagine living here, staying up all night. Lap after lap after lap. Spending hours here without any food and never feeling hungry.
My puppy runs around like steroids in her glow-in-the-dark collar. It isn’t dark yet, but I plan to stay until dark and since last week’s time change, it gets dark out early.
The terrain is sloppy, wet, and slippery, like stepping on berries. I’m wearing layers, covered by my rain jacket and my snow pants. I wear a hat.
There’s hardly anyone here, and now that the leaves are mostly fallen, the trees stand like sticks, and allow windows onto the other sides of the island: a bike path and some homes, and more trees on the other side of the water.
I do laps around the island, my puppy running off, always coming back to find me. She romps around, her tongue hanging.
After a while, the sun shines, peeking through the trees. The sky turns blue, dotted with small clouds.
I don’t know where else I’d rather be. It’s quiet here. I get in my steps. The landscape shifts and changes when the wind does.
I imagine living here, staying up all night. Lap after lap after lap. Spending hours here without any food and never feeling hungry.