The Day John Kennedy Died
by Daniel Felsenthal
Alfred sat in French class and drew stars on his binder. Robert wondered if his erection was visible through his jeans. Marsha practiced her verbs. Rhiannon stared at Marsha. Vera worried if she would be accepted to the Stars Club. Mrs. Rachlin ran into the room and cried.
Alice stood on the balance beam at the gymnastics competition. Bertha watched from the bench and silently hated her mother. The judge stopped the competition and cried.
Mrs. Weatherbottom cried.
Principal Filstein cried.
Jeff and Wayne cut school. On their way to the theater, when they heard the news, they saw the movie, anyway.
In bed sick, Marcus thought, What if I’m the only person in the world with a consciousness, and everyone else is just a figment of my imagination?
6,521 deaths were reported in the United States alone.
Across town, Raymond Kennedy (no relation) lost his dentures, although he left them on his nightstand, he could have sworn.
Wallace chewed a cigar for the first time since he got married.
Billy turned four.
Mark turned thirty-eight.
Chiu stepped on a landmine and lost his leg below the knee.
Mike saw Jesus in a sullied tissue.
The manager docked Bo’s tips at the pump house because he came to his shift wearing a pin he got at the protest.
Miguel Ángel lied about dipping his finger in the frosting of the cake, and because his mother told him “acciones tienen consecuencias” he thought he was responsible when he heard what happened en los Estados Unidos.
1,214 newborn children in the United States were given the name John.
Max said, “We’ll remember where we were today for the rest of our lives.” His wife, Delia, took a diet pill, stared in the mirror.
Anna, who lived alone, told no one she found blood in her stool.
Aaron saw an aura of red when he set the name “Jack Ruby” in the Kansas City Metro Times.
In love with Walter, Brian wrote, “I got blown here 11/22/63,” on the steps of the Washington Monument in Baltimore. He thought that the traffic on the streets below had stopped for him.
Mr. Talib, whose wife was a talented seamstress, let the people watching television in the window of his store come inside.
“I’m sorry to be the bearer of more bad news,” said the shaken priest at Lester’s funeral service, realizing, a moment later, the lapse of his tact.
Rod and Barbara had sex for the first time in eighteen years.
A game between the St. Louis Hawks and the New York Knickerbockers was cancelled.
Venus was visible through city smog, tiny, reddish.
Wilson pulled the page from his typewriter. “My first novel,” he cried.
A comet streaked across the sky.
Aida finished her shift at the carburetor factory and took the bus home. “Nothing will ever be the same,” said her neighbor in the foyer. She iced her feet and wished that he was right.
Daniel Felsenthal is a music writer for Pitchfork and the Assistant Editor of NOON. His short stories, essays and criticism have appeared in a variety of publications, including the Los Angeles Review of Books, the Village Voice, The Baffler, The Believer, Hyperallergic, Kenyon Review and BOMB, among others, and in 2019, his novella, Sex With Andre, came out in The Puritan. Read more of his stuff at Danielfelsenthal.com and find him on Twitter @D_felsenthal.
