Matthew Jakubowski
The Lord in Action Behind the Counter
It’s a weird flex, man, and you’re barely even looking at it, you’ve been on your phone since I got here except for when you stared at that girl in the drive-thru instead of the huge gilt-edged Bible spread out on the table in front of you. Maybe you’re the manager of this Taco Bell on break showing your values or maybe this is just your lunchtime thing, hard to say, especially since I’m absolutely fried from driving eight hours solo to see family in Ypsilanti for Thanksgiving tomorrow, so maybe this actually is a church and in here my brain can perfectly simulate the experience of scarfing a Crunchwrap Supreme and soft-shell taco—actually two tacos—I ordered one, but the kid behind the counter gave me two, saying, “That’s on me, thanks for your patience, sir,” even though I only waited two minutes, before he shot back to work to keep this whole beautiful machine running smooth.
After I’ve eaten and refilled my Pepsi you finally start reading your Bible, maybe it’s Jesus and forgiveness or the plagues and ten commandments, either way you look tired and confused, you’re tapping both feet like you want to enjoy the Bible but it’s hard. I’ve got a couch in my sister’s basement waiting a few blocks away, then we’ll start cooking and—wait—am I supposed to invite you to Thanksgiving, is that what you’re angling for, sensing me watching you and wondering who you are?
Okay, maybe this has been a little set-up with the free taco, the Bible, the foot tapping, you all alone, trying to make me imagine I’ve got a choice so okay, I’ll bite—between you and the kid behind the counter, the kid wins. That kid is alive in the divine present seeing moments while he works so hard to go sneak people a free taco and he lets you do your pretend Bible-study and I get that you want to represent and I know the Good Book says judge not, so I won’t but I will say, for me, if I had to offer you anything, man, or send a good thought your way, I’d say for at least a minute or two look back there and watch the Lord in action behind that counter—just look at that hustle, look at that grace.
Big City Ghost
Ghost at the bus stop in a lime-green parka and silver snowboots pretending to be asleep. Ghost jumping up, running after the bus, and falling through a closed manhole.
Ghost winning every staring contest with the sewer alligators. Ghost subway surfing in a swimsuit, bursting out into daylight on top of the train and high-diving off a bridge, making no splash at all.
Ghost under the river watching fireworks on New Year’s Eve. Pious ghost on a lunch break in the lotus position three feet above the art museum steps. Ghost collecting garbage. Ghost in a cubicle. Ghost at the unemployment office trying to cheer people up, getting cursed out by an old lady with a rosary.
Ghost at the funeral home giggling in a showroom casket. Ghost hanging outside a hospital emergency room eating Flamin’ Hot Cheetos and laughing, then trying to calm down a bunch of angry families and ambulance-ghosts. Ghost in court, prepared to testify, but unable to be sworn in, hand passing through the Bible every stupid time.
Bored ghost reading Jane Austen on the subway and scowling. Ghost writing confessions in the best cafés, staring at sentences that almost seem true. Ghost with no memory of its death, dunking journal pages into yesterday’s lattes, watching truth turn to mush.
Ghost who hears and feels every last curse hurled at the landlords and the gas company. Ghost who figures out how to turn people’s heat and power back on, but can never figure out plumbing, which is impossible.
Ghost drawn to the park at night, quickly obsessed with watching things that happen only at 3 a.m. Ghost who sees too much but can’t stop looking, growing sick and invisible in an abandoned car. Brittle ghost who refuses to leave the city beaten and bitter. Ghost growing small to survive, hiding in the shadows of the ferns and the rats.
Ghost out in the street during a midnight thunderstorm, flowing back underground again with the rain and the garbage. Ghost humming an ancient song with other cherished souls surrendering themselves to the gloom of the sea.
Matthew Jakubowski (he/him) is a multi-genre writer based in Philadelphia. His debut chapbook of microfiction and flash, “Ghost in the Rain,” was published by Bottlecap Press in 2026. His stories appear in Identity Theory, Doric Literary, Boudin, Temple in a City, Scaffold Lit, Gone Lawn, Variant Lit, JAKE, and the Best Microfiction anthology. Links to his work are available at mattjakubowski.com/fiction
