Run Run Run

Damp and downtrodden, sitting on a stoop wth dirt under my toenails. Shoes, socks, they were lost along the way. I'm catching my breath which doesn't seemed to have stopped running. Leftover lights give a sprinkling of levity and warmth. Where am I?

When I've collected myself and felt for my wallet and watch (in their respective pockets, somehow I always manage to get that right) I find a small twig. The plan is to dig out some of this dirt, scrape off as much as I can, minimize the leavings, minimize the questions. But after awhile one finetunes the lenses, picks up on less and less I suppose.

The only way I can stop myself is to stop running. Run away from the hair, the eyes, the body, the perfume, the opportunity. Run run run back to what I know, to what, really, I want. At least it's keeping me in shape.

Blue Pain

The cold, it pierces, it's wonderful and brutal. I don't trust an uneasy wind, but for some reason I'm at ease. A crisp face, plunged hands, darling smile. My darling, won't you smile with me?

Smoking and purple and quiet, a pain unlike any other this season. A new pain, a fresh pain, pain that stays and pain that remembers. Pain that is hasty, still, pain that is calm. Pain that will make itself known. I have to know it. We. We will have to know it.

When we leave it is all we can talk about. Subjects rise and fall but none come forth. We will either sleep or decide to keep going cross this plane of bad decisions. It will not matter which is which, which is now. But honestly, decrepit, we bury our faces, cringing at each word, each wind, as we continue to rise and fall.

The Devil's Work

You're the devil's work. The devil's. I don't know how much you know right now. Past comparison, beyond advantage, someone builds your potential. It is not you, and it certainly is not me. It is not of this earth. Our targets are grey, our knowledge is hazy, but individually we are sure. In this singular world we can say what we are doing. One work good, the other brave, one is gentile and the other will destroy. Few can solve our dull race. Few would want to. This is not chosen. It is in the fire.

Maps

He sold maps. When you'd pull in at a rest stop, go to the gas station, and see a collection of maps, he was the man who brought them there. He knew where he was going.

Nobody knew quite what happened. Bystanders said he suffered a massive heart attack and his car veered into the path of an oncoming semi. A series of instants and it was over. Although how a bystander could witness a heart attack from outside a moving car is anyone's guess.

His wife wasn't notified. It happened on a Monday, and she was called Friday. She and their daughter called everyone they knew, anyone they could think of, to try and find out what happened. Where was he? Where was he going? What was keeping him? Was he safe? Was he lost? They asked that last question not in seriousness, but because they had to ask something.

It was open and shut; heart attack, semi. Bystanders said the trunk flew open on impact, sending a hundred thousand maps scattering against the wind. Nothing caught fire, nothing was completely destroyed. But still it took five days to notify his family. And she would always wonder why, wonder what happened during those days. What she wasn't told, what someone was hiding. She would always hope that it was something. Because in those five days it could make sense.

Cut Time

My beautiful anger destroys the sound, picking doubtfully like a rainy suspicion. Selfishly, elegantly, outside our rare music, you fall in white-hot time. It is a smoldering chance, our chance, to be taken quickly or not at all.

We have fingers in our ears, and they are not moving.

Median

Sometimes when I open up my eyes I see the median, not as going up but going out, the landscape, snow perhaps. Each little light is there off in the distance, far away into the past. Blocks of white and blocks of black, split and freckled with a thousand stars. This is what I see when I wake up.

I used to pretend to sleep, coming home from dinner, that party across town. Seeing how long I could go, how old I would be, before my parents never carried me again. Seeing if somehow I could mew your false dream into a real one.

Cars are not the same anymore. Drives are not the same. Now I fall asleep and find the sleep is all too real. And after one eye opens, with the other close behind, I'll think about what it must be like to drive. Wondering if the driver sees this median the way I do. Wondering if he's thinking of turning, driving across that snow, and meeting those stars.

Why Can't Santa and Jesus be Friends?

Last year I auditioned for a hospital print ad. It was my first time getting called in as “Dad,” a horror that can be discussed another time. The audition consisted of my audition-wife and me asking our audition-children—two home-schooled brothers, ages five and two—about their favorite holiday.

“Christmas,” said the five-year-old.

“What’s your favorite part about it?” asked my wife.

“The presents,” he replied.

“Ooh, Santa bring you anything good this year?” I asked.

“We don’t do Santa,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, perplexed. “Well… what do you do?”

“We focus on Jesus,” he said.

I just stared at the boy.

“That’s awesome,” said my wife. That was the end of the audition, and I didn’t book the job.

“We don’t do Santa.” It seemed unthinkable. How could anyone, religious or not, exclude Santa from Christmastime? Why would anyone?

One of my favorite Christmas experiences is during our Christmas Eve church service. I grew up going to this church nearly every Sunday. It’s not a megachurch, where there are maps to help you find your way like in a mall. But it’s a sizeable church nonetheless, with a sizeable congregation, and they all come out to celebrate the little baby Jesus. The church’s services are typically a big theatrical production, and Christmas Eve is when they really bring the guns out. Each hymn is bolstered by a large choir, a full orchestra, and a booming organ. Everything is covered with poinsettias and gold ribbons. The readings are profound and the lay readers are endearing. There are moments of heart-pounding joy and thoughtful sadness. There is even an ill-advised light show.

But the most beautiful part comes at the end, when each member of the congregation – filling the sanctuary and pouring out into the hall – holds a small candle and passes around a flame while singing “Silent Night.” And by the end, there is no accompaniment, no organ or bells or band. There is only our voice and our light. And after the final verse, in the brief moment of shared silence before we extinguish our flames, you are reminded that you are part of a family much bigger than you could ever comprehend.

My other favorite holiday experience comes on Christmas morning, a tradition from my mother’s side of the family. When I was younger, that side would often gather together at my grandparents’ in Fairfield, IA: four daughters, their husbands, and all the little grandchildren. On Christmas Eve all the kids would sleep on the bottom floor of the house. Grandma would stock her second fridge with treats for the morning, because we weren’t allowed upstairs until a certain time (in fact, the top of the stairs was blocked by an impenetrable cardboard sign). On Christmas morning, we would eat our pastries, drink our juice, and then wait at the top of the stairs until Grandpa’s inevitable cry: “Oh no! Santa Claus forgot to come!” To which we’d all reply, “No he didn’t, Grandpa!” and run in for the frenzy.

It’s a tradition my family’s been carrying on ever since. We set a time for presents, and no one is allowed into the living room before that time. We usher ourselves into the kitchen, where we sip on orange juice and coffee and tap our feet. Then Mom walks into the living room and cries out that infamous line: “Oh no! Santa Claus forgot to come!” And my sister, Olivia, and I still reply, “No he didn’t!” And, lo and behold, lying by the fireplace, there are two groups of unwrapped Santa presents next to our stuffed stockings.

I’ve graduated from college and moved away, but the tradition still holds an immense power for me. The presents have gotten decidedly older and more mature, as have I. My toy saxophone and Brio train set have been replaced by an iPhone and a teeth-whitening certificate. And even though I know Santa probably didn’t assemble that smart phone, if anyone told me for certain that he didn’t, I’d cry out “Blasphemer!” and run them out of town.

You don’t do Santa? Because you want to focus on Jesus? What a dumb reason. Not because focusing on Jesus is dumb, but because it is entirely possible to do both. My parents did. You can emphasize the religious and spiritual side of the holiday for your children, and still awe them with a visit from the jolly old fat man. Awe. That’s what this season’s all about, isn’t it? Why wouldn’t you do all you could to inspire it? Christmas is a time where—however frustrating the practice might actually be—we torture ourselves over what will make the other person happy. If anything, Santa strengthens these sentiments: giving, selflessness, joy. Not to mention the whole “If you’re good you will be rewarded” aspect the two guys share. (And, frankly, I never understood the “Love your enemy” thing, I think giving them coal is much more fitting. Trump card: Santa.)

There is no reason why Santa Claus and Jesus Christ can’t be friends. And if you can’t figure out a way to make that happen, well, I feel sorry for you and worse for your kids, because you’re all missing out on something truly magical. Also, if your home-schooled son’s favorite thing about your Santa-less Christmas is presents, I’d say your plan didn’t really work anyway.

My parents moved last year. I don’t know where to look for my Santa presents. I don’t even know if there will be any. I’m worried that this year my mom will go into the living room, tell me that Santa forgot to come, and it will actually be true. And then I don’t know. Then I guess I’m an adult. And that may be the worst gift of all.

Precious Serpent

Long, white-hot oblivion; an eternity in a moment. Another precious serpent writing an old intention. Pauses, and laughter, and understanding.

But soon the tough pain sets, and neither buys it any longer, neither can buy with their deceitful bodies. They have lost the clock, and themselves.

Why so, Sirius?

We don't know exactly what this is, you and I. But we are certain that it is something. There is intensity, medicine; you witch. It must be so to go so long without and then to be so soon within.

Rotten mouth, tame success, something to do with animals. They flock to you, those flocks. It is a gift and I am envious. Although I look at you, and you, you're envious, too. I cannot say I am not pleased.

Nothing contracts, but nothing expands. And we will zig-zag until one of us collapses.

Reputation

I'll serve a foolish, nasty drink. There is an acidic comment, tossed toward this beautiful effect. It neither beats, nor traces, nor knows its home. It is simply made to unmake, it is what it thinks.

And as in a vacuous suicide, in some orchestral black hole, the drink is consumed carelessly. It is my wide-eyed reputation, burned by the war of rumor.

Ignition

We are participants in an ugly meeting of opposing confidence. Underneath our assignment everyone is altered, underneath everyone must be changed. It is a shadowed urge, shooting like a ghost, enlightening like the stars, forever as death.

The ignition spreads, it is our only option. She bears the argument, it is behind the daydream. This is a spiraling knowledge, and whatever decomposes will decompose.

Forty-five

She got the letter and the letter said no. She hadn't foreseen this. This was not an option, this was not a thing that was supposed to happen. Letters didn't say no, letters said yes, that was their job. So when it, this letter, this thing, said no, the tears would not stop.

Her father got home five hours later. Five hours of soaking pillows and snotty nostrils, runny mascara and the absence of lunch. He knocked on her door and, through some strength still inside her, she said "C-c-c-c-come i-i-in."

"I heard you got some bad news today."

The dam broke. "I didn't g-g-g-get in! My life is over! I d-d-don't know what I'm going t-to do with my life!"

He walked (and she only knew this from the sound of his loafers, for her head was buried deep in the pillow) to the window. She looked up at him, his back to her, arms stretch out on the frame, looking out at the world and larger than life. "I'm forty-five years old," he told her, "and I still don't know what I'm going to do with my life."

And with that he walked out of the bedroom, and she was ready for dinner.

Outside the Monsoon

Around the emotion we forbid it loudly. Outside the monsoon we're courageous again. The seething crack is among the truth, and we tell it lazily.

This mighty friendship splits.

Popcorn

Sometimes it's tough to know a person. Other times you're at the airport and overhear a person say, "Hey. Hold on, I'm licking my fingers. Yeah, I was eating popcorn." And you wish sometimes it were a little tougher.

Clap Clap

When did clapping with songs become a thing? Now everybody thinks they should clap with a song. Thinks they can clap with a song. But the average person has very little rhythm and very little patience. The two things needed to clap with a song and most people don't got 'em.

So you're in a crowd, and people get this notion in their heads. And they start, groups of them, and soon most of them have the same terrible idea. And it's a mess, it's not together, and I don't know how musicians deal with it. And the worst, the worst part of all, is that everyone loses interest. They just give up. You get twenty seconds of terrible clapping and then everyone is done. Me? I clap through the whole thing. And I'm the jackass.

In the Small Hours

There are certain things I'm taking to. A time of night I'm reaching more and more. I aim for dullness, as if I'm leading my senses off a cliff. I'm not truly happy unless I wake up at dawn, my lamp still on. Perhaps I'm fully clothed, now wouldn't that be something.

It started as a way of getting work done. The small hours were quiet, they were dark. The world was asleep and I could finally sit and think and act and do. Those hours were in fact small, and I felt big.

But like increasing cayenne on my eggs I became accustomed. I could not get the hours small enough it seemed. And it became a time not of work, not of creativity, but of the basest tasks. I could not do a thing until that time, and then there was no time to do any thing at all.

And so I lie here on my bed, shoes firmly surrounding my feet, wondering why I've woken up. Wondering when I will ever get back to sleep. Wondering just when it was I drifted away.

Already Ate

Something about the chicken is off. I pull the piece out of my mouth and rest it on the plate. Something about the entire meal is off though. I sit alone in my room, door shut, listening to my friends just outside it.

"Where's Danny?" one asks. "In his room," another says. "Why is he in his room?" goes a third. And I can only imagine this question is met with a shrug.

They are making dinner plans, dinner plans without me. Someone talks about my chicken, and whether or not I should be invited. I am of the school of thought that says you always invite. It's polite, and you never know. They don't know the chicken's gone bad, I haven't told them yet. I wonder now if I ever will.

I hear laughter and a few more bottle caps. Pizza, tacos, diner, grocery store. I look at my plate, my sad plate, remnants of sweet potato and a half-eaten breast. They settle on pizza, and I am so entirely hungry.

I finish the potatoes. I eat the chicken, even the piece I spit out. I open my door brandishing a clean dinner plate. They ask if I want to join them for pizza, and I tell them no, thank you, I already ate.

Coated

She wakes up and she gets high. She gets high before she says hi. I don't know what she's like the moment her eyes open. I've never looked over and seen them anything but bloodshot.

I have asked her about dreams. How she slept. What her day is shaping up to be. I have asked these questions and seen her get up, go to her spot, and get high before she says a word. She is talkative, but her words are coated.

She reciprocates, and I'll tell her what she told me, how I slept, my shopping list. And she sits there, listening, I think. Her eyes are glazed over, but with drugs or indifference I am not sure.

We are happy together and we do not fight. Not like we used to. For that, I suppose, I should be thankful.

Tooth Prize

She lets me use her tooth prize she had a name she had. Name for me she pushes me away she is prepared, it is late on a Saturday night. Her mother is calling out something nonsensical she has a name for me.

Spinning thimble nonsense dark smoke clouds blue black ink go green leaf. On leather porch chair. Finger twirling twirling twirling thimble as I said before. Protector of the silver light. Spinning all this indigo nonsense as lights from every angle tell me not to continue but I will not help it. Going from the ground, every single thing I think and feel is nothing. Nothing I have ever felt before and nothing I have never felt before. Or it is only but that which I cannot say what I am not smoke sitting in my black alone.

I see cars. I see accounts. I see nothing. But everything. And it is only a matter of time yes only a matter of the name she gave me.

A prize this damage on my legs, cut cross my forehead and isn't it funny how we feel right now.

Bedside Manner

Some people just know how to answer questions. I've never been one of those people. You look at Tom Cruise in Eyes Wide Shut and he has an answer for everything. It's a surface answer but it's an answer all the same, and it sounds just right. She says she's moving to Michigan and he says what a beautiful state it is, how much she'll love it, how good this step is for her. I would talk about the death of Detroit and that would be the end of that.

And, sure, he was scripted, a character. But these people exist in the real world. They have a bedside manner with everyone. Everything sounds so good coming out of their mouths. And you're too busy smiling to care that they're nothing saying much of anything at all. I envy those people.

Walking Man

I heard a ticking. Like water falling down. Like water falling down a drainpipe. Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick. I wasn't sure if it was water or the workings of some incessant machine. But it seemed to be getting louder. And then I realized it wasn't getting louder, it was being joined by another sound. And that sound was footsteps.

Step step step step tick tick tick tick step step step step tick tick tick tick.

The street lamps went out. Standing on my stoop smoking a cigarette I could feel someone, hear someone, coming down the alleyway between my building and the one next to me. I sucked on my dry three-week-old cigarette. I tried to suppress my cough though no one was around to hear it. No one, that is, but the walking man.

And the I saw my friend emerge, a bag of food in his hand. I breathed a sigh of relief. I tried to explain it to him. He looked at me with a cocked eyebrow and went inside. And when I saw the door shut I hacked a fume of cancerous smoke.

I looked below me to the Christmas light-encrusted bushes, and spat a long thick drool. I inhaled one last deep breath and exhaled, not quite sure where the smoke was ending and my own breath was beginning.

By Silas's Side

Silas doesn't much know what's good for him. He does what he likes, which isn't always the same thing. Sometimes it is but oftentimes it ain't.

Silas had a way with matches. He could take a matchbook, open it, rip one off, close the book, and light the match, all with one hand. I asked him how many hours it took him to get to where he could do that. He said he taught himself back in high school, practiced every day in Spanish class for two weeks. Went through a lot of matches in his lap and only got in trouble once, the final time, the only time he actually did it. He'd chew on matches from time to time, but those were a different kind, the strike anywhere kind. These were the chewing kind because—and I saw him do this multiple times—if a beautiful woman needed her cigarette lit he would flick the head with his thumbnail, kept the match in his mouth, and she'd have to walk right up to him, put her face just inches from his, if she wanted that fire. It was something you wished you'd thought of first. Goddamn, it was a good trick.

Silas hated smoking, but he loved to light those cigarettes. He was able to keep the two separate, he said. Just because he ain't a fan doesn't mean he can't help others along, especially when a beautiful woman gets involved. There's a hypocritical note in there somewhere, but I let him do what he wanted, he was going to do it anyhow. That's usually the case with these things. And usually the woman wouldn't offer him one in return, and when she did he politely declined.

What made me worry was when one woman did offer him one, and he did say yes. All my years by Silas's side and I never saw him act close to taking one, not even a consideration. So I knew this woman, she must be something. To Silas anyway. To get him to do a thing he always said he'd never do.

I didn't see him with matches after that. When I asked why he wasn't chewing he said he was ready for a change. When a beautiful woman asked if anyone had a light he didn't say a word. When he reached into his pants pocket he just took out keys. There was no fire anywhere on him. I asked if it was because of her, because of this smoking lady, and he said it wasn't, almost made like he didn't know what I was talking about.

One day he shows up, reaches into his pants pocket, takes out a box of cigarettes. He opens it up and half of them are gone, and in the empty space rests this lighter. Some cheap plastic thing, some drugstore add-on, some terrible green color. This bright green that maybe exists somewhere but I seriously doubt it. He bumps one of the cigarettes on the top of his hand a couple times and tosses it into his mouth, like he's been doing it his whole life. And he brings this green thing up and lights the smoke. I didn't know the man I was watching. I almost asked him his name, just to make a point, but truth be told there would have been more genuineness in the question than I care to admit.

I didn't spend much time around the two of them, and certainly not her. He moved into her place eventually, and a couple times was all I could take. Even when they weren't smoking you could feel it, that extra layer, deep inside the fibers of the carpet and resting on the blankets. I watched his teeth slowly yellow. I heard his voice, the voice I knew, the voice of my friend, fade away, replaced by some cut up voice saying words I didn't understand. And all this while I swore she looked at me the way you look at an enemy. And I probably did the same thing, truth be told.

Silas and I saw each other less and less and then not at all. I could count the years but it ain't a number I wish to think about. I hear things now and then from mutual people. I make inquiries from time to time, but I don't want word to get back. I like to think he makes inquiries about me, things he has to hide from her, this cigarette girl of his, this important bitch.

I'm sorry. I try not to be too bitter. I don't like being angry. It's just hard sometimes. I get the better of myself. It was going to be someone eventually. I just don't understand why it had to be her.

With the Strength of a Brick

Blood poured out of my mouth next to a pile of broken teeth and for the slightest second I couldn't remember whose they were. A quick sweep with my tongue and I felt better. I pushed myself onto my side, I hurt, bad, but not too bad, and figured I would be OK to stand. That's when I saw him. We had been so close and I didn't even realize.

I didn't think, I just acted. That's what people say, right? I think that's what I'm supposed to say, and really I think that's what I did. I saw him walking—I can't call it chasing exactly, I've seen chases I think and this didn't look like a chase. But he was walking after her and she was trying to get away. Trying, clearly, to walk faster than him, faster through the tears. And, boy, were they coming. He was yelling, what I couldn't tell. But there was this ferocity, how he was spitting out these words, such contempt. And she was crying so much. And when he grabbed her arm, well, I didn't think.

I ran down the hill to the sidewalk. I yelled at him to stop and they both turned on me, told me to shut up. That's what I don't get about girls. Clearly, I mean clearly, this girl is being bothered, clearly. Storming off down the sidewalk of campus while her idiot beau screams at her, is grabbing at her, looking this kind of violent. All I want to do is step in for a second, break it up long enough for her to get away a bit, maybe show this guy a thing or two. Although what do I know, I've never been in a fight. I'd like to think I'm scrappy but who knows? Anyway, in I come, doing the right thing I think, and she gets mad at me, too. She's telling me to shut up and go away just as much as he is. She wants to handle it herself, maybe, she doesn't want to have strangers fending for her. Or maybe she just doesn't want one more guy to deal with. Maybe that's it.

But I wasn't going to let it alone. I threw out things like What's your problem, You like to torment girls, and Calm down, bro. I got shoved a few times and shoved him back myself. I really didn't get to do anything more than that before she came at him with the brick. That shocked me, when you see actual teeth flying out of an actual mouth, and all the blood that comes with it. Only I didn't have much time for gawking. I was going to say nice job, or good going, or something, I don't know what. But before I could say much of anything she turned around and popped me one, right in the temple, and I went down. Just with her fist, but with the strength of a brick all the same. She muttered something to me, not sure what, but it probably wasn't nice.

And then faded in and out, and I came to, and I saw the blood, and the teeth. I pushed myself up off the stained pavement and looked around for her. But I didn't see her anywhere. I saw plenty of people, staring over, pointing, but I didn't see her. And when I looked down at my unconscious pal I could see what they saw. With the two of us there, with all that blood, who's to say which one was him and which one was me?

I Waited Ten

She waited five hours so I waited ten, but by then it was the middle of the night. She asked why I woke her up in the middle of the night. I could have said I didn't think she'd have her phone on, but that doesn't really apply to the millions I call my generation. All I could think to tell her was the truth, which was spite. She waited five so I doubled that. I knew she had her phone, she must have seen it, who doesn't have time, pick up a phone. This is our generation. So when she waited five I waited ten. And I was glad I woke her up, I showed her. Whoever she was.

One Answer

I'm a bad liar and I always have been. But really Tommy should have never come into my room. The door was closed, he didn't knock, and he should know better. But that's an easy thing to say.

It was some girl's purse, I told him. A girl who was over the other night. But that didn't sit right with him, he didn't hear anything, see anyone, and he's only hearing about it now.

Lipstick, tissues, some gum, a mostly empty wallets, easily canceled credit cards, a book of stamps. Laid out on the table, damning evidence. And idiot that I am with my knife still out. It didn't take him long to put it all together. Tommy's a smart guy. Me, not so much.

Things didn't exactly change after that, but they were never quite the same. There were jokes we couldn't make, things we couldn't do. I could never buy a round without a slight shift in his gaze. It was that one time, it was only once, and I wanted to tell him that. But I knew what he would say. And I knew that he'd be right.

I would never hurt anyone. But sometimes you can only see one answer. Sometimes you do a thing you don't want to do. But I would never hurt anyone.

Small Parts

He would tell them that he had to go. That he wasn't feeling well, or had a late night, or had something to do the next morning. He would tell them something. He did not want to be around them for any length of time longer than necessary, and did not want to be there at all but felt the obligation. He had to show some small sign of support. But more than that he needed to show that he was better, bigger, that he shouldn't be there in the first place. And perhaps that message were better served by not showing up at all. But there was that part of him, however small, the part that kept checking his hair and added cologne, the part that ironed his shirt and then ironed another. It was this small part that knew he wasn't bigger, or better, or anything of the sort. That he craved this kind of thing, these kind of people. And that he was going not because he had a message, or nothing better to do, but because he wanted to be there.

The Plane

"I haven't done it yet today," I tell her.

"So just do it," she says. I explain it's not a thing I can do around other people. "That's ridiculous," she tells me. But what does she know?

Habits are difficult, the ones you form yourself. It goes beyond what you want and what's good for you and becomes something so internal. There is not much that must be done save eating and drinking water, and even those needn't be constant. But to put something in your body, it is more than nutrition. It is more than exercise. It is breathing, it is blood, it is the very essence of life.

What does she know? What do I know? Perhaps the plane on which I am operating is faulty, insecure, inadequate. But for now, it is my plane, and it is good, and it keeps me in line. And I will have to think about these things another time, wondering if all of this has been for naught.

She is down the hall, looking at me, drinking. Smiling. And I do not know what to do.

Revolver

It didn't take much for her to imagine a life with him. Still, that never stopped her from going overboard. It was a drink of her own invention, if it could be called one drink. She was a bourbon girl, and she had her preference. The revolver was made by placing six shot glasses in a circle and filling them with Bulleit. Six glasses, six chambers, the name was obvious. And it was a special she would share with friends, usually, except tonight. Tonight she downed them one by one and gathered pieces of feelings she might call courage. Or if not that, whatever courage comes with distance.

What a face, what hair, what a black ensemble. He was what anyone would call tall, dark, and handsome, the kind of man whose entrance changes the soundtrack. There was an attractive self-contained violence to him. He sat like he was moving, and he drank neat whiskey.

Moira had seen him once before. Three or so weeks ago, at this very bar. She wasn't sure if it was the dim light or the weight of the drink that put him on this pedestal. He was a lover, a friend, a husband and father, a hero, hers, all at once and in an instant. She thought of nothing but villas and lovemaking, strong coffee and stronger language, silence and passion and all the good things. She had never imagined a fantasy quite so easily, or quite so fully. There was something about him that filled in all the gaps in her mind.

When she came to he was gone. She would ask the bartender when he left, if he was with anyone. She would go to the bathroom and sit in the stall for far too long. She would turn down water and order another revolver, firing through the chambers one by one. Throwing her head back, whipping her hair, trying to get someone's attention.

Our Own Waves

In a room marked "Vacant" we met, toweling off our sundried lotions. We both looked kind of perfect, the way the salt and the wind sculpt you over an afternoon, a patch of sand that hits you just right. There was something special about our anonymity, and we were both content on keeping it that way.

Throat, mouth, I was dry. She looked at me, her eyes changing with breaths, blue, then green, light to dark. There wasn't a light and if there was we kept it off, we would have kicked our shoes into the wall had we worn them. She was short, or maybe I just felt tall.

Lingering salt passed between us, back and forth, we were our own waves. Bright strips of color flashed when I could not keep my eyes closed. I'd like to think she'd say the same. That she saw something there, if only for a moment, some brief but sunny moment, and smiled.

Automator

When I wake up I turn the coffee maker on. I put the grounds and water in the night before so all I have to do is turn on the button. My oatmeal is in a bowl already in case I am running late. My water bottle is in the fridge, again, if I am running late.

I have a list of clothes, outfits, planned for every day of the week. I've been known to stand in front of the closet for hours, hours, not knowing what to wear, hating everything. So every Sunday afternoon I sit down and think about what I'll be doing and where I will be going and who I will be seeing and write out what I wear. And I stick to this list with almost no deviations.

I wear my father's moccasins around the house, but never on the bed. The inside fur is matted and torn, pieces of it missing. They do not smell particularly good. They have not aged particularly well.

I will drink a glass of scotch, neat, every night at eight thirty. Never more and never less. It's gotten to the point where I don't even think about it anymore. It just happens.

The lamps in my home are all specifically placed because they are all hiding water stains. I left the windows open during a storm. I wanted to clean things out. I do not think things through.

I have stacks and stacks of books, but no bookshelf. I like the essence of insanity that stacks of books give off. You can look at something like that and know a lot about a person, and I guess I would rather keep my mouth shout and have those books say it for me.

I never can remember falling asleep. I never can remember closing my eyes. As far as I am aware, I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and it is night. And then, just like that, it is day again.

Pins and Staples

"That's a weird bump."

What weird bump.

"On your middle finger."

I can't tell her it's there because of her. I can't tell her about the staples, how the skin grew over them. How they're a part of me now. She'd get upset. And it's strange to not want it to happen.

It's good she can't see my foot, covered in a dozen tiny spots, filled with a dozen little pins.

Beloit

It was her brother's sweatshirt really, but she had given it to me. It had been hers for a while, and I must have said something, and then she gifted it. It was blue with gold lettering. But not a crass kind of gold. A soft gold, some subtle, but there. Outlined in white.

It didn't really fit then, and it sure didn't now. Still, it felt good to have it on. Even though we hadn't spoken in years, probably never would again. There was something comforting about finding it buried underneath all those old clothes. Like I hadn't really thrown her away as much as I thought I did. As much as I meant to at the time.

I put my hands in the front pocket, the kind that covers your belly. There must be a word for that kind of pocket. Maybe there isn't. Anyway, I put my hands inside it, and that's when I felt it. The crinkle of notebook paper. I took it out. No name, to or from. Just a heart.

I didn't know, she hadn't told me, she had just given the thing to me. We had gone through the usual exchange, the giving back of stuff, and I had given it back to her clean. She insisted that I take it. I said no, it didn't feel right. She said she had given it to me, it was mine now, and I said OK. And somehow she must've slipped it in. That was the only time. Wasn't it? How did she know I would have the sweatshirt with me? Would she have given me the note anyway? Had she been in my apartment since then? Let herself with the key, gone through my clothes, left this here for me to find? When was I supposed to find it? It had been years.

I didn't open it. I couldn't. What if it were important, a desperate vow of love that melted the stone I keep locked in my ribcage. What if it were trivial. Or cold. Or hateful, spiteful, filled with so much rage that it ruined even the happiest of memories I still had somewhere. What if it were blank.

I'm not sure holding on to the sweatshirt is a good idea. I still haven't figured that out. But until I do I'll keep it there, amongst the sweaters, gathering too much dust. But, really, it's a small thing. It doesn't take up too much space to hold on to it. And if anybody sees it, if anybody asks, I have a cousin I rarely see, and he goes to Beloit.

Just One Bite

I think I could eat human flesh. I really do. And not even if my plane crashed in the mountains and I was stranded with the survivors. I mean if someone straight up offered it to me.

I don't think I could do it here, in America I mean. I don't think anyone here would understand, or even offer me some. But some other country, some tribe, some restaurant. Something where the person died of natural causes, or at least wasn't murdered. Maybe it would have to be in private. But I think I could do it.

You would. I think people would. I think people are scared of liking it. But if we all tried it, if we all sat down together. Just one bite. That's all it would take to change things.

That Clean China

We were makin' out, gettin' pretty hot and heavy, and all a sudden she stops to unload her dishwasher. No words. No "Oh wait but this." No nothin'. Just some tongue and then some silverware. And I knew I shoulda been pissed but I was really too busy thinkin' about how much I wanted a dishwasher of my own. And that thought, that thought musta been in my kiss somewhere. Not about the dishwasher, but about somethin'. That clean China, it had a golden edge runnin' round, I could see it. It was catchin' the light, just so, just right. And I could see how she'd choose that over me.

Two Daphnes

I know a woman, last name O'Reilly. She's got this daughter, named her Reilly. Takes a special kind of person to do that, and it just don't sit right with me. It's different if they're both first names; a guy's named Bob and he names his son Bob. Or if there are two Daphnes. But chopping off one letter and one apostrophe and calling it something different. It's like they wanted to name her something original but were too proud, or wanted to pass a name down but be original. Instead here's this kid, straddling this line that she probably doesn't even mind straddling. My mother's maiden name is MacDonald. I would rather have the worst, trying-too-hardest name in the entire world than be called Donald. I don't think I could live with myself. But who knows though. Listen to me now. Maybe I can't live with myself anyway.

Pangea

In reality, it's not that I've grown colder over time. I've always been like this. It's the world that's getting warmer. And I'm not talking about global warming, no, this is society I'm talking about. Everything's so cheery, so helpful, people are so eager to support each other at random. To tell a thousand strangers that they shouldn't give up. Nobody can do anything without a poster nowadays. And it's all a little too sanguine for my taste. It seems fake. That's all.

So much has been done by one person deciding to do it. Without a faceless crowd holding them up telling them everything is going to be all right. You'd this with this support system that we'd live in a better world. But do we? I'm going to answer my question for you. No. We do not.

No man is an island, OK, but too many don't even try. They want to be so landlocked, touched by whoever they can get to touch them. And if you don't want to be touched you're the bad guy. Me, I'm the bad guy. Because I don't want some stranger's greasy fingerprints all over my soul.

Same Light

I'm trying to think of what you could do that would estrange us. I don't know what it would be. It would have to be something horrible, and I mean on the far side of horrible, to get me to that place where I didn't want to see or hear from you. I can tolerate a lot.

I'm thinking you'd have to cut part of me off. Like I'd have to wake up with no ears, or no fingers, or a missing leg and a lot of blood or something like that. And even then I'd have to ask, "Well, did you have a good reason?" If you didn't cut out my tongue, that is.

Yes, I could forgive most horrible things. Murder, arson, betrayal, lies, all those things. Heck, I'd probably ask if you needed help burying the body. Which is an interesting thing to realize about oneself. That if I could tolerate that much, am I capable of doing it as well? Would you see me in the same light? Would you get your shovel?

It's hard to say. It's a difficult question to ask. And I don't think I would ever ask it. Because, as sure as I could ever be, there's that part of me that's scared of what you'd answer. And scared that, when I heard it, I'd never want to see you again.

Johnny Got Sick

Johnny got sick. Some kind of cancer. Brain cancer. It was going to make him waste away. So he decided to kill himself. So he wouldn't suffer. So he could die with some dignity.

He chose the guillotine. We tried to change his mind. But it was his decision. Only I couldn't tell. If the disease made the decision. Or if he knew what he was doing. And when the day arrived he laughed the whole way to the blade.

Pet

I wish I could go up to you and shake your hand and lick your face. Look at you with my big eyes. Scratch you until you run your fingers through my hair. Fall on my back and have you rub my stomach. Roll around and groan. Get your attention. Bring you a toy. Sleep at your face. Show you what I killed.

I'll worship you. I'll cherish you. I'll depend on you for everything, but I can give you something you won't get anywhere else. I will always be there for you. You can bury me when you're done.

University

I could crap out five-page papers. I could tell you five pages about most anything, it was just something we learned. Now I'd be lucky to tell you five sentences, with more than five words in each, about anything. And not just about French economics, or the XYZ Affair, or about what Gertrude Stein meant when she said "there is no there there." I'm starting to think I can't talk about me. About what I thought before I set foot in that place. There's no sense in opening a book if you don't open another, if the journey doesn't continue. One foot in front of the other, right? But one thing leads to the next thing and your feet get all messed up, maybe you trip on your laces and you forget about books and ideas. Or at least I did. Start chasing things unchaseable. You hit your peak when you're there, most people do, that's what they say, and I guess I was so scared it was true I just ignored it altogether. And it gets to be so you can't even start, and even if you wanted to you'd have no idea where to start, there's too much to make up, you've lost too much time. But you have so much time left.

Tendencies

Her face flashes. Brief moment. That's what moments are.

She hasn't forgotten. I'm upset, a little, by how much I haven't forgotten either. I am proud of how I forget, the things I choose to leave behind. It is a talent, one I'm glad I have. It makes things easier.

Another flash. No accident. A conversation.

It starts. Whatever we put down we pick it back up, more or less. Or if it's not the same we're fine with whatever it is. Whatever it is it's easy. Light. Late. And so you can pick it up. This is my tendency.

She looks good. I had forgotten that part the most. It is what it is.

I don't show her myself. Computer. Book. Glass. Distance. It's easy.

Daylight comes a little too quickly nowadays. I'll continue to play the game, never knowing who my opponent truly is.

Just Like I Like

He opens the door, finds my table and sits down. He's late and we both know it but we skip tat part and just say hi. "Have you ordered?" he asks and I say yes. "The Benedict?" he asks, which I don't answer because he should know I know. Right on cue our waitress brings us two Bloody Marys, flips our cups over and pours black coffee up to the brim. She asks if there's anything else, he takes a sip of the Bloody. "It's not goddamn hot enough." She's taken aback, naturally, and says she'll bring some hot sauce. "Tabasco." There is no hot sauce other than Tabasco.

We both drink our coffee. Mine tastes just fine to me, but the conversation he'd start if I drunk it isn't worth getting into, so I wait for the condiment. The coffee is good, strong, and I'm little surprised to see his face agree. He looks around and studies the decor. A fireplace that doesn't work, or isn't working; framed black and white pictures of turn-of-the-century husbands and wives; the odd animal statue; maroon, tarnished brass, earthiness. Warmth, warmth from the heat, warmth from the coffee, from the proximity of strangers and the Duke's saxophone section.  "I don't know why you picked this place," he says. The waitress returns with our Tabasco, he splashes it liberally in his glass and I mimic. "Cheers," he says, and drinks half.

That's all for a minute. He reads the back of the Tabasco label, which he must know by heart by now. He sips from both his glass and mug. I ask him how things are. "Things? What things?" Just life in general, I guess. "Hell. Fine. Life is a series of... difficulties." It's not the word I thought he'd choose, but it is not surprising. "I'm taking it as it comes, like I always do." I ask him if anything's come lately. "I'm not dating that bitch from down the street anymore, if that's what you're asking."

Our plates mercifully arrive. Eggs Benedict and chocolate chip pancakes with a side of bacon. I spread my metal cup of butter on top and between each flapjack before drowning it in syrup. "Thought you were eating healthier," he says. I mentioned this last month at breakfast, and it was true at the time. My mouth is full. "But I guess you can do what you want." He cuts into his saucy egg breakfast and takes a large forkful. Steam seeps from the place with the missing piece, he opens his mouth to help cool the food because his bites are always too big. And some things are just too hot, I think, and want to say so, so badly. My chips are melty, my bacon is floppy just like I like.

"She said I was too pessimistic. Too eager to look at the wrong side of things." I take a long drink from my Bloody and don't say a word. He laughs a little. "Well, sure. She knew that, though, going in. Wasn't like we were strangers or anything. Strangers, hell, that I could understand. If we hadn't known each other years. Then, maybe." He drinks his Mary up and eats another bite of Benedict, opens his mouth again. I see more steam. "And some things are just too hot," he says to himself. I can't help but smile, I can't help it, and I dunk my bacon in my syrup just like I used to.

The waitress swoops by with coffee refills, asks us how everything is. I can tell she wants to get in there and get out. He takes her free hand, I can see him squeezing it. "Delicious," he says. "Just delicious." She smiles, genuine, and leaves us to our meal. I reach across and take some of his hash browns. I'm feeling adventurous. He grabs a piece of my bacon, picks up the syrup bottle and pours the stuff straight on it. It runs off, some on his fingers, some on his eggs. "See, if this were cooked properly it would stay on there." He eats it, licks his fingers, dips them in his water glass. I take the syrup bottle from him. My problem is I always pour too much syrup on right away. Then the pancakes soak it all up. And before you know it I'm pouring the syrup all over them again.

Snowman

He sat in front of a leaf pile, struggling for dear life, hanging onto the last remaining cold degrees. Everything was melting away and returning to the earth. Everything covered was becoming uncovered, and slowly his body lost shape. His head sunk, his torso thinned, his nose was eaten by some neighborhood squirrel. His arms, great branches that once stretched out in defiance to the sun, now saw that they were no match for it, as each warming minute brought them closer to the ground. It was only the rocks that made his eyes and mouth, the buttons of his coat, that were untouched. These, in fact, appeared almost as if to grow larger, when really it was just the rest of him wasting away.

It was almost as if he were crying. It was almost as if he were bowing. It was almost as if he could feel these things that were happening to him. But he didn't. He felt none of it. He knew none of what was happening. But everyone around was watching. Everyone could see. And then, at the end, when he vanished, it was as if he was never there at all.

Don't Make a Garbage Can Out of Yourself

The first time I ever went out with him he invited me to lunch. And I thought, oh, OK, I can do that. And he said, oh, come over and I'll make you lunch. And I thought, oh, he must not be able to afford to take me out to lunch... But he lived in an apartment across from where the orchestra plays, that beautiful space downtown, so I thought, oh, OK, he must make enough to live in this part of town. So I went to his across-from-the-orchestra apartment, and he made—I love this—chicken salad in a scooped out half of a cantaloupe. You know how they do that with bread now, putting the soup in the bread? Well, they used to do that with cantaloupe. And I hate cantaloupe. It is a foul, foul fruit. It wasn't even slices of cantaloupe, at least that I could stand. It was an entire half of a cantaloupe, touching everything, touching every part of my food. And I didn't have to eat the cantaloupe, but it was there, it was there and I couldn't get away from it. But, luckily for me, I'm a girl, so I didn't have to eat all the chicken salad, not all the way down to that pale orange flesh. What a wonderful built-in excuse! It wasn't expected, it wouldn't have been very ladylike. So I ate some, and said it was delicious, because it was delicious. And I thought, well, at least he'll never have to cook.

And then I married him, and he didn't!

Somewhere in There

She walks in smiling. Pants with a sheen, cool sweater, lacy top. She's got a smile on. Smiling like she just saw something nice, just heard something amusing. She sits down with her kettle and cup, take a book out of her bag. Tea and reading, reading and tea. Time to time she smiles, but not at the words. She'll pause, look to the side, smile to herself. Maybe it is the words. The smile, it just doesn't leave. Not a hair out of place. Even her eyebrows say something.

I'm working, I'm writing, trying to concentrate, trying to focus on what I'm producing. But I can't help but feel like her eyes come my way. They don't stay there, but they travel every now and then. Or do they? There must be a word for the moment when your eyes and a stranger's meet. When you happen to look up at the exact same time. Something smaller than fate, but bigger than circumstance. Somewhere in there it lies.

She puts headphones on. I have the same ones. Not with me, of course, or that could be a way in. But there's no way in with this kind of thing, not in a place like this. All you have to do is change the beverage and suddenly the rules are different. I'm not even sure which rules there are, but I know that there are rules. I make my own and I abide by them. I don't want to end up in some news article.

I can't concentrate. She's got her stories, her music, her Earl Grey, what have you. She's content, I can tell, she hasn't dropped that smile yet. She doesn't need me leering, forcing myself on her, leaving her surrounded in this place to seep in embarrassment.

I pack. I get up. I put my jacket on. She takes her headphones off. Did she just look my way? Was that for me? So her ears would be unobstructed? To ease the pain of conversation? One less obstacle to hurdle? No. That's wishful thinking, that's crazy thinking, that's not the way the world works. That's never the way the world works. Not in any way that's real.

I walk by her to the bathroom. I say nothing. I wash my face and dry my hands. Biding my time. I walk out of the bathroom. One more chance. I walk by her again and out the door. It's freezing.

Puppy

I dreamt I had a puppy in a box. It wasn't mine, I was looking after him. I was in line, at a lawyer's I think, I was surrounded by people, none of them with animals. The puppy was peeing, and I remembered I had forgotten to take him outside. He hadn't been outside since the day before, hours and hours ago. He was holding it in, trying to be good, feeling some sort of pain but working against it. Until his little body couldn't take it any longer. But I couldn't lose my place in line, I couldn't take the puppy out. I couldn't draw any attention to it at all. What would these people think?

Curbing

We drove into the snow plowed up on the sidewalks in her neighborhood. We called it "curbing." Her car wasn't nice or new and we could beat it up. Not fast, but not slowing down, just ramming into the curb. It was fun, and we would laugh. You find things to do in winter, moved on from snowmen and forts. It was our high school way to play in the snow.

It was a big storm the night before, a lot of accumulation. The pushed up snow reached your waist, perfect for curbing. We drove into one, we drove into another. On the third we got stuck, had to dig our way out. It was a sign we probably should have taken. But we wanted to do one more, the snow was too good to pass up. So we did one more. What's one more?

 

We didn't see them but we heard the screams. We didn't see them but we saw the one running out. Stop, stop, stop, please, my friend, my friend, stop. We didn't see the hole for the door, or the holes for the windows. We didn't know it was a fort. We were all just trying to have fun.

Not for Trying

I couldn't breathe, but not for trying. I was sucking air into my mouth but that's where it stayed. I swallowed it, hoping some would find its way down the right pipe.

I was screaming, not that anyone heard me. Anyone that mattered. What wasn't filled with air was filled with a blanket and pillow. Strange that something so soft could feel so horrible.

I was thrashing, though it made no difference. The weight on top of me was going nowhere. I tried. I tried to get it to leave, to even falter, just a bit. But it was no use. I couldn't breathe.

Strange that something so light could feel so heavy.

I loved you.

Instant Coffee

He checks his phone, blasphemes, checks his watch, repeats. He speaks in grunts and groans and seems only to exhale. Show, second party! Relieve him of his misery, and me of mine! I have enough of my own griefs, I don't need his, to paraphrase Romeo. "Are you kidding me?" he asks. "Are you serious?" "Really?" "Really?" "Really?!" Whatever the obvious truth it is difficult to accept, and whatever the excuse it is unacceptable.

I get the feeling that nothing has come easy today. Certainly, he thought, I imagine, a cup of coffee would be easy. A cup of coffee would be simple, simple syrup, cream two sugars, strong and black, whipped cream please. Probably the highlight of his day. Who knows how long he was looking forward to it?

But things come up. Obstacles appear. Excuses are made. Lies are concocted. Time is taken into consideration and feelings aren't. But how hard is it to add them to the pile? Alas, it is easy one way, yet easier another. There is instant coffee, after all.

He executes the bathroom plan, hoping when he returns the thing he wants, the person, the words, will be there. This usually, somehow, works. But not for him, not this time. He tries his bathroom luck again, but still nothing. More exhales. He has a book, and by my eye it has been Chapter One for quite some time. Perhaps it is a fascinating page. Perhaps he is not reading. But, oh, sir! What if the book were wonderful?

He checks his watch and phone again, lets out the last of his air. Standing, putting on his coat, he turns to the window. His shoulders slump at the sight of the outside world, and how dark it has gotten. A reminder of how long he has been in this place, and yet, it being winter, how long the day has left.

Burial

She backed over my cat. She said it was by accident, she said she was sorry. She was crying, some sort of something that looked like crying at least. She said how terrible she felt, how horrible it was, how he didn't suffer, how she'd make it up to me.

It wasn't even that that bothered me. Of course it did, of course, it bothered me, my cat, my friend. But I was never part of any burial. He was under the dirt by the time I got home. No time for inspection, no time for goodbye. It wasn't her job to kill him, but that was an accident. The burial she did on purpose, and that wasn't her job either. And that's what I'd never forgive her for.

The Hard Pears

A week in a paper bag with a ripe banana did nothing, nothing. The hard pears were still hard pears, and now they smelled like banana. Fruit should never take this long to ripen, not once it's in the bin waiting to be bought. I wanted the pears today, I wanted them days ago. But what can you do? You just chuck 'em in a bag with a banana and grit your teeth and complain and eat apples or something.

But I was going to have those pears. Today I needed them, I needed those pears today, don't ask me why, don't ask me why the fruit beckons. It just beckons! It's the primate inside me, the neanderthal, the beast that just wants to bite into nature's juicy flesh. Plus pair it with a sharp cheddar.

I needed the chef's knife. That's how hard these pears were, I needed the stupid chef's knife. And I was angry, angry at the fruit, angry at life, just angry. It's not good to mix anger with knives, or maybe it's good for some people, for murderers, although murdering's bad, so I'll just stick with do not mix anger with knives. I'd gotten the plate, prepared the cheese slices, and was hacking away at the fruit on my bamboo cutting board. Why were they so hard? What was so complicated? Why did I pick these pears? Why did I pick any pears at all?! Why couldn't I wait a little longer? Why did my thumb hurt?

Bleeding, blood, trickling down. Maybe I only grazed myself, I thought, maybe this pink bit is just a flap. And I saw it, looking down, there it was, on the counter, a slice of my thumb, nail attached, sticking to the surface. I grabbed my thumb and pinched as hard as I could, hoping that would stop the flow, but it only seemed to squeeze out more. I dropped the knife (what was I still doing with the knife, was the thumb not enough, did I need to keep cutting?!) and got a plastic bag, filled it with ice, stuck my whole hand in the thing. That helped the pain subside. I tied a dish rag around the end to keep it on my arm. I didn't know what to do with the tiny bit. I chucked that in its own icy bag and called my neighbor. Next stop, hospital.

Well, they just chucked that second icy bag into the bio-hazard bin. A piece of me, however small, is in a landfill somewhere, buried with garbage and syringes and miscellaneous medical waste. Fantastic.

When I got home—gigantic bandage wrapped around my appendage blowing it up to cartoonish size—I looked at my bloody snack. I had forgotten all about it. I was so close to being done. I only had a couple slices left. But now, there, ruined, covered in blood, my pears and cheese. And the blood soaked into the wood. That's the problem with these wooden cutting boards. The juices, the liquids, they seep down into the fibers, they stain, they're harder to wash. I'd never get this blood out. Never.

Subject of the Pain

It was only a matter of time before your mantle cracked, the seething insides bursting forth and scorching all in your path. It was a drab little office and a drab little job, you were inconsequential and you knew it. Whether or not you woke up, got to that office, did your work correctly, made it home in one piece, was cordial the whole way through, it mattered not. The world would keep spinning, faster and faster. You would be replaced, or maybe not. Yes, you could disappear forever and no one, nothing, would be thrown. It was the last thought you had before slipping into a blank sleep, and it was there waiting for you every dawn.

But tonight you couldn't sleep. You were much too excited, or anxious, nervous, that burning core was thrashing wildly inside you. It was strange, but the closest you had ever been to this feeling was Christmas Eve. As a child, still believing, nothing matched the anticipation of that night, the wondering and the hoping and the straining for rooftop hooves. The only thing missing was an innocent smile. Though you were smiling still; was merely the innocence that was gone. And the only thing that finally got you to rest was trying to pinpoint the moment when you lost it.

The morning was like any other morning, it was never the morning that was in question. A glass of ice water to shock the body. Oatmeal, toast, banana, orange juice, coffee for the car. The brown paper lunch bag was usually packed the night before, but today you needed the bag for other things. You washed your hair, cleaned your skin. You clipped your nails and left early. You never left early. Were you eager? You were never eager. Were you smiling? It would seem so.

One traffic jam later you were at your drab little desk. You watered your cactus. No reason why that should suffer, it had done nothing wrong. Pricked you once, before you knew how to take care of it, before you knew what you were doing. But that's what a cactus does when you're not careful. It draws blood.

There was necessary paperwork. There were ringing phones. There were red pens, upset clients, there was a birthday. You stood amidst your coworkers, the vile word, mouthing the atrocious song. You even had a piece of cake. You stared at it, white frosting, green leaf, a center piece with a cutting of cursive speaking "DAY" to you. In many ways you were still that child, taking a bite, breaking the rest up with your fork and spreading it around the plate. You couldn't bear the thought of anyone asking you why you didn't eat the piece. You couldn't bear the questions.

It was cake before lunch, eating desert first because life is uncertain. The crowd dispersed, some to the break room, others to the corner, others back to work. You opened the refrigerator and saw your bag with your careful black name. But the bag, it was on a different shelf. Someone had moved it. Someone had felt its weight. Had this someone looked inside? Did this someone know? Were they looking at you more? Did they always look at you this much? Was it all in your head?

You quickly took the bag and went back to your desk, setting it next to your keyboard. You stared at your name, and as you did the world around you changed. It grew fainter, fuzzier. You were transported inside that name, could feel it getting closer, opening up, eating you alive. Things grew dark. And that which was already dark, grew darker.

You unfolded the top, reached in, felt the icy facade. It is a gale rushing through you, knocking things in and out of place. You remember everything. Your brain beats hard. You are the subject of the pain, my friend. But now you could be the author.

And you know. And that is enough.

Winter's Chin

It's snowing tonight is what they say. It's supposed to be significant, a significant snowfall, a sudden drop in temperature. People are going around talking about it, saying they need groceries but they don't have time, and oh they wish they didn't have someplace to be tomorrow. As if the snow never came before, as if it's never going to come again. As if it isn't some fact. Well, I don't have anyplace to be tomorrow, and I have food in my cupboards, so maybe some of you are even a bit envious of me.

What it is is the back and forth, this constancy of  vocalizations, approval and disapproval. They love this city, they love its people and its buildings, they love the water, they love the leaves, they love this city so goddamn much. Until any part of it turns against them. Until there are waves and wind, until the traffic and the potholes. Until that door opens and they sneak a peak at Old Man Winter's chin, and then all bets are off. Then in come the complaints, riding the back of every last flurry. And suddenly they can't stand this place no more, they're so cold, they can feel it in their bones, their eyelids are frozen shut, everything's ruined, how could anybody stay here how how how.

I don't want to be inside. I don't want it to be that I'm cooped up in this house, nowhere to go because I have nowhere to be, wrapped in a blanket and day-old sweat. Eating bowl after bowl of Cream of Wheat, slinging back microwaved coffee. Yes, I'm fine with the weather, I have nowhere to be. Yes, it's cold outside, but look at me here. Yes, inside this bed you could almost swear I was comfortable.

Certainties are the one things we should let slide, but we never do it. We hold them up and stick them in each others' faces. It's that time of year again, the time where we chastise the cold and wonder why we're here at all. Lucky people, a lot of you have choices. You're here because, well, I assume, chastisements aside, you want to be. Old Man Winter, he'll do as he pleases. I, for one, am envious of that.

Tiger Line

She was over on the other side of the bar, sitting on one of the old couches with her friend. Tatted up, short jean shorts, small white T, hair just a little dirty maybe, skin shining just a little bit, and we hit eyes a few times. Sometimes I can't tell but this time I could, our eyes definitely locked, and they definitely locked when the two of them walked past us to get more drinks.

"She's a cutie," said Nate. Nate was a good wingman, he'd do a good job.

"OK, this is what we're gonna do," and I told him my plan. It was just a line, but an interesting one, one that had to get the conversation flowing.

Her friend and she walked back through the crowd, beers in hand.

"Excuse me," I said, "can I ask you a question?"

"Sure." Bingo. Cute. Nice.

"Is it OK to get a tattoo of a farting tiger?"

"What?"

"Because I have a friend who just got one. I like it, but this guy here doesn't get why anyone would ever do something like that."

"Why'd your friend get it?"

"Well," I said, "I asked him that and he told me he feels in control a lot, but that things always escape him somehow." I glanced at Nate. This was his contribution. Clever guy to think of a detail like that. "So what do you think?"

"Well, I have a tattoo of a pile of shit, so." Nate and I laughed. She then very calmly pointed to her right thigh, where our laughs were stopped by a smiling coil of poop.

"Oh my god," Nate said, "you weren't kidding."

"Why would I kid about something like that?" She looked at us a little too seriously.

"So," I said, "which side of the argument do you land on? I'm going to guess pro."

"I think you should do whatever you want." And with that she and her friend went back to their somehow still vacant couch. Her tattoos shone just a little under the bar's dim bulbs.

"Well," Nate said, "what now?" He had finished his beer, I had gotten what I deserved I suppose.

Flattened

I remembered those letters, cursive big and little, the dashed line cutting them through. Just over the chalkboard, just like it was for me, for all us kids. Cursive. That's probably the first thing I learned that I ever forgot, that I ever realized, "Oh, I don't have to do you anymore if I don't want to." You forget a lot from school, and most of those thing I don't care about one way or the other. But the cursive, the cursive's one that bothers me. I'll say that's a regret.

"I'm not really sure what you're saying." It was my first parent-teacher conference. Apparently Sam was having some issues in class. This was the first I was hearing about it. "Is he being disruptive?"

"No, not exactly," Mrs... Mrs... his teacher said. Mrs. Harris, I'm fairly sure it was Mrs. Harris. It was a trip being in a room like this again. So many things came rushing back there was hardly room for anything new.

"Well, please explain it to me again, because I'm not getting it."

She scrunched her face, cycling through incidents, compressing them into a single synopsis.

"Sam's too nice."

You forget, looking at the world splayed out on a map, that none of it is shaped the way it's shown. Russia, Alaska, Antarctica, Greenland—and warm places, really every place—what we're seeing on that paper is not what anybody's standing on. You take what's rounded and flatten it you're not seeing what's there.

"He's too nice."

"Yes. It's upsetting the other children. And it's a little unsettling."

 It was the urge every kid ever felt, the urge to yell at your teacher, call her a name, tell her how truly stupid she's actually being. And here I was, finally in a place where I could do it, entirely inappropriate, a grown man yelling at his son's teacher. So I mustered up a courageous, "OK. How? Help me."

But she saw through me, a hint of scorn cutting through her scrunch. "There's no need for that tone, Mr. Wells." She remembered my name and it made me feel bad for a second before I remembered that I hated her. Plus she'd said every student's name in roll call five days a week for the last two months. "He helps other students with their homework, art projects during class. He volunteers to stay in at recess and clean the desks. My desk."

And she took a breath before saying, "And he always has a faint smile on his face."

"I'm not... I'm still not seeing the problem."

"It's hard for the class to believe that he doesn't have ulterior motives."

The cubbies had drawings taped up inside them, nice little colored-in-the-lines animals and rainbows, bright numbers and suns and smiley faces. Picture books. Pencil sharpener. Projector. George Washington. American Flag.

"I have to tell you, Mrs... Mrs—"

"Harris."

"—Harris, I think there are a lot of things about school that are a complete waste of time. But this takes the cake. I'm sorry that my son is volunteering to help you and your students. Perhaps you're not doing a good enough job teaching them and he's filling in the holes, I don't know, it wouldn't surprise me. So unless Sam's horrific faint smile has caused actual blood and protruding bones from little Jimmy and Susie or whatever kids concocted this asinine conspiracy with you, I'm going to kindly ask to be excused." And with that I got up from my tiny chair and walked to the door. But it wasn't enough. I needed more.

"Oh," so I added, "and you should let him clean your desk. It's fucking filthy."

Rodney

"The same people who are intent on selling the American people crap are the same ones who say we're a culture in decline. But that's capitalism. We're a functioning hypocrisy."

"I hear ya." I always heard Rodney.

"I feel like I'm surrounded by people who are constipated in an infinite number of ways."

"O...K..."

"Know what I mean?"

"Right up until that constipation bit," I said. Rodney had a tendency to lose me after a little bit, and it had been a little bit. He lit another one of those cigarettes that I had told him to quit smoking. I told him again.

"Yeah, I know, I know, OK? But this is the world we live in. We not only have the right to be stupid but are encouraged to exercise every day."

"That's the exact opposite of what I'm encouraging."

"OK, but you know what I mean. They encourage it, they. You know how much these things cost?" I suppose Rodney had a point. It was twenty degrees outside, he had that cigarette, and maybe it was just the ash and smoke but some part of me wanted one, too. Seemed warm. Seemed like it would warm me up. "They cost a lot," he said, "a lot. But I got money. And they know I do. And that's the kicker."

Clips

I don't know what people say, what the general consensus is, but most fares are fine. They're pretty OK, as far as people go. You run into the jerks, the drunks, the drunk kids (which is worse), the people who know how to do what you do better than you do and who are all too eager to tell you. I'm a good driver. I don't swindle, I'm fast but safe, I'm friendly, I'm not obnoxious, I'm good. But what am I supposed to say when someone starts clipping their fingernails?

"Excuse me," I said, real congenial-like, "could you please not do that?" She had her headphones tucked inside her ears, underneath some awful wig. Or I hope it was a wig. "Excuse me."

"Yeah?" I finally got as she pulled out an earbud.

"Could you please not clip your nails in my cab?"

She gave me a pause. "I wasn't." She knew what she did.

"I heard the clips, ma'am."

"That coulda been anything, this raggedy-ass cab, who knows what's wrong with it?"

"The cab's in good condition, ma'am—"

"Don't be callin' me ma'am—"

"OK, what is your name?"

"Psh, I ain't tellin' you my name." There's no reasoning with a person like this. She put the bud back in. I drove.

I don't know when things got so complicated. When everybody started getting so uppity all the time. I wasn't even asking her to do something. I was asking her to do nothing. I was asking her to sit there in the backseat and not clip her nails, I was asking—politely—for her to cease her current activity and merely sit there. It would have saved her energy! It would have been so easy. Following the rules is by and large an easy thing to do, but for all their stupidity people don't like easy sometimes. Sometimes they have to bend the rules just because. Just to see if they can. And then I'm the bad guy. I'm the bad guy if I don't want the floor and seats of my cab covered with some stranger's nail clippings. Then what will people think? Cabbies are not high up on people's respect lists. I don't need any help.

And then there it was again, the measured clip.

...

Clip.

...

Clip.

"Ma'am—"

"I ain't doin' nothin'." She still had a few things to learn about rule-breaking. Namely, don't deny before accusal.

"I can see the clippers. I'm looking at them in my rear view mirror."

"You should be looking at the road."

A person can only take so much, you know? I swerved off that road, hard, jolting, brake-slamming, pushing it into park harder than I ever had. I stopped the meter and made sure she saw me do it.

"There. Now it's got my undivided attention." They were gleaming, I don't even know how they got that bright, but those clippers were gleaming. Without the road moving under me I could hear the sanguine pop notes leaking from her ears. No wonder she couldn't hear me, she was too busy listening to how some guy did some girl wrong, how it'll get better from here, how she's always right. I could see the slivers strewn about the backseat, resting on her knees. Tiny crescents of protein, little pieces of her, that she was just going to leave there for me to clean up. You wouldn't cut your hair in a cab! You wouldn't pull a tooth! And she certainly wouldn't let me pull this crap in her vehicle. That's a highly doubtful situation.

"What the hell are you doin'?!" Irate, ill-mannered cow.

"I want you to clean up your fingernails and toss them out the window before I finish driving you."

"Oh whatever, I'll walk from here," and she went for the handle. And all those clippings, the ones on her legs, she brushed them off into the darkness. And I snapped.

"Hell you will!" I locked the door. Smart? No. But people don't always do the right thing. She reached through between the front seats and started hitting me, my shoulders, my neck, scratching me with those nails. All those clips and still long enough to scratch, and boy they got in there deep, they stung. She got the door open, jumped out, left it open, came running around the side. She kicked my door, bashed her giant knockoff against my window, called me whatever ethnic or religious slur she thought made sense by the sight of me.

And I just sat there. I let it happen. A few people gathered to watch her. What was going on in their heads? Crazy lady attacks cab driver for no reason. Another driver gets what's coming to him. Whatever it is it's a cycle all the same. Eventually she left, stormed off down the sidewalk, slightly bent over in terrible heels. And I moved to the back to pick up the clippings. This isn't my job. This is not what I'm paid to do. Not that she paid me for anything. This was coming out of my paycheck. My own blood, that was coming out of my neck. And the thing is, if I put them all together, she's not even the worst fare I ever had. Not by a long shot. You turn the light on, circle around, pick up somebody else, keep driving.