Devolution

What would I give my life for? Oof, that's, uh, haha, that's a difficult, um... I don't know what I would die for. I don't know that there are a lotta things worth dying for. I guess in my life... If I had kids, that would be one. Or however many of them there are. I'm assuming, I mean, that seems to be a fairly standard choice and, ya know, with what you hear about mothers lifting gravestones off their children, stories of superhuman strength and whatnot, in times of, uh, ya know, in times of crisis and yeah. So maybe that, maybe kids. Wife... maybe. But I been married once before and I gotta tell ya it'd have to be a lot different kinda marriage. Kinda like savin' yourself though right? Kids, I mean. I mean that's probably what motivates it, you, the hero. Maybe subconsciously, ya know, your brain is sayin', "Hey, that's you right there, that's part of you. That's your line, that's your succession, that's your name, that's your blood, that's your future. Save yourself." And maybe the conscious you just recognizes that as "That's your kid." Maybe people don't directly hear those things. But they do. They hear 'em. Or maybe it's like that old zen story. Man goes to see the zen master, asks him, "Master, what's the secret of happiness?" Or something, he asks him something like that. Master replies, "Grandfather dies, father dies, son dies." And maybe that's a kinda morbid way to go about these things but yeah. Yeah. It's beautiful if you stop and think about it I think. I think the zen master had something there. Haha, that's sayin' something isn't it? "I think the zen master had something there. I think this expert knows what he's talking about." But of course, yeah, ya know, experts today, oof, they're vilified aren't they? I mean someone says something and they get back "Prove it" so they throw out "I'm an expert" and they get back "So?" and it's all so depressing. There are people out there who know far more than I do and that's a good thing! I mean I know plenty, but if we're just gettin' by on what I think? Yeah, no, haha, no, I don't think so. Makes you wonder how we made it this far. Makes you think of those evolutionary diagrams goin' in reverse, our craniums gettin' smaller, our knuckles dragging on the pavement. Everyone gettin' hairier and tearing things with their teeth and... I don't wanna go back to that world. I'm surprised anybody does. But they must want it right? I mean, they gotta. People are making choices, people in power, and choices have consequences, and it goes beyond you. It goes way beyond you, further than you could possibly even think. Goes to me, you, your neighbors. Man. I hope somebody does something about all this. We're supposed to get better. People are supposed to get better. Otherwise... So yeah. If I had 'em. Yeah. I'd say I'd die for my kids.

The Human Skin

He sat in thick air and caught what breeze he could. An old t-shirt, sleeping shorts, yesterday's briefs. He could feel the barrier of grease on his forehead, resting against his hairline. He'd eaten little that day and still hadn't cleaned his teeth. He could taste lunch. Eggs.

His scratched at his hair and drew back shiny palms. He picked at bumps and discovered dried blood under his fingernails. Bugs in the night, some sort of invader. Nobody just bleeds in small random spots.

Blinks were slow and breaths were shallow, nothing seemed to do its job completely. So why should he? His vision twisted and focused in and out until seemingly nothing would bring him back into the room. The water was not being drunk as it should. Condensation formed. The coaster dropped to the table with every sip. The water never stayed cold. Nothing was doing its job.

It had been two days since he bathed. His fingers felt smooth in their uncleanliness. You rarely ever sense your odor but when he did he inhaled deeply. Out of his skin seeped smell, oil, the natural things. His privates stuck together. He sat and sweat. He was covered in himself.

People clean too often. We're not meant to clean like we do. Our skin faces the world every day and we coddle it. The largest organ of the body, our shield, our first line of defense. Lotioned and massaged and protected within an inch of its life.

His skin felt used. It was made for using. A thin thing, but tough, strong. The only thing keeping him together.

Double Disjointed

"And I said, 'Listen to me, if some girl walks up to me and grabs my penis, I'm gonna get an erection!'"

"You said that, Marvey?"

"I approximated, Harvel."

"Approximated's the way of the future, seems to me."

"Seems to be."

"Shortcuts."

"Shortcuts!"

"Saw Frank Langella's new film."

"Good guy, good person, good human being."

"Guy can carry a movie. And they cast the bit parts really well. It was good so I stayed 'til the end, 'cause, ya know, they'll tell you it was shot in Canada or something, Technicolor, ya know."

"Always made in Canada, these movies. How's about American?"

"Hey, Jack! How's about America?! Good movie though."

"I once carried my sister to the hospital, eleven miles to the hospital I carried her."

"And?"

"Not my sister!"

"Carried the wrong one?"

"Found out she was adopted! Parents were upset, they had no idea."

"Parents never do, seems to me."

"Seems to be."

"Blind is what they are. And it's our fault! They're ours! But our parents. And theirs before. Everyone. Guiding their children deaf and dumb through a sea of awakening fears."

"Poignant of ya, Harvel."

"Read it on the back of a matchbox. Where's my goddamn matchbox?! Grandkids, always stealing from me."

"You're holding the matches, Harvel. You're holding 'em in the hand of yours I'm looking at."

"Don't end with prepositions, Marvey, you oughta know better'n that."

"We all oughta know better, Harvel. Since when has that stopped anyone?"

How She Was

"What do you mean you don't eat meat?"

"I don't know how to be any clearer than that."

She had a point. "Do you... do you eat fish?"

"Is that meat, Gary?"

"I mean, not... no, not really."

"It's flesh."

"It's sea meat, I guess."

"Which is meat."

"Kind of." Now her salad and her eye rolls and her pauses made all sorts of sense. "Jeez, Kay, I wish you had said something, I wouldn't've brought us here."

"It's fine."

"Since when do you not eat meat?"

"Since a long time, Gary. You haven't seen me in a long time."

It was true. I hadn't seen her in a long time, which is what prompted this whole thing. The day rolled around where, well, it was our anniversary, or not really but it was the anniversary of the first time I'd seen her. But I'd told her that story, about that day, she knew how important it was to me so I couldn't phone her then, I had to wait a while. I should've phoned sooner. But boy, I'll tell you, it was good to see her when I did. She walked into that smokehouse the way she always walked. Kay has this really auburn hair, I mean this sunset hair, this freckled skin and these dark eyes that too many people think are cold. I like them. They were mine once. She's got character, Kay, and I know people mostly mean that as a nice way of saying ugly but I don't mean that a bit. When you see her you really notice her, you're glad that different people look different, and she's one of those. God put his mark on her.

"So... how's tricks?"

"Do you mean work?" She knew I did. "Work's fine, it's been a little hectic since my promotion but—"

I stopped halfway through the rib. "You got the promotion?"

"You have sauce on your chin."

"I didn't know you got the promotion." She shifted her eyes, lifted her brows, shrugged in that I don't know what to tell you kind of way. Ooh, I remembered that. She would do that all the time. No, thank you. "Is it what you wanted? I mean I know you wanted the job, but is the job what you thought it would be?"

She prodded at her walnuts and gorgonzola or whatever the heck was on her plate. "It's fine."

"Well, you're just leading a fine life aren't you?"

"Gary—"

"Everything's fine. Everything's fine. Everything's fine, haha!" She gets real quiet when I do stuff like that. Or when I did stuff like that. Just sits there and stews at me. I was reverting back to my old habits, but so was she so I guess that made it even. Made it a clearer thing why we didn't stick together, at least in my mind. "Sorry," I said to her. "Sorry."

"It's fi..."

I smiled at her. "You can say it." She smiled back, and that was nice. "I just wanted so much to catch up with you, hear how things are going down your way. Details, you know? That's all. Maybe I'm not entitled to lots of details which is fi—haha, which is OK, but still. How are you?"

It felt like we passed the hump. I wiped my mouth and licked my thumb while she prepared her response. I saw there was more silver in her hair. She'd always had a strand or two, but I could see more now, at the roots. She was dying it. Thought I saw a little rash on her neck, too, but I could've been wrong about that. Kay, she just looked at me there, her little mouth almost shaking it seemed, like her tongue and teeth were doing all sorts of work behind the scenes. I wanted to tell her that it was OK to cry. I kind of was hoping she would tell me the same thing.

"Enough about me," she finally said, "I want to hear about you. How are you? How's the book?"

So I told her how things were going, that the general nature of things was pretty good, I felt like I was on the up-and-up. I was done with my book and had even gotten some parties interested in it, was meeting with one of them later on in the week in fact. She said she was happy for me.

I finished my half-slab, she ate a bit more of her salad. We never got back around to how she was, or why she stopped eating meat in the first place. People change, I suppose. Leaving that smokehouse all I knew is that she said she was fine. I'll have to go by that I guess. I shouldn't have waited as long as I did. I really shouldn't have.

Ginger Ale Parable

He hadn't had a stomach ache in years. It was his ginger ale intake.

Once, on a plane, as a ten-year-old, he had started feeling queasy. His mother suggested ginger ale, because of the bubbles, but not Coke because that has caffeine. And, sure enough, the pale dry drink did the trick. The bubbles tickled, the stomach settled, and he landed with his lunch in tact.

This got his little mind going. Ginger ale became his cure. Math quiz? Ginger ale. Talking to girls? Ginger ale. Yelled at by parents? A quick nip of hidden ginger ale was all he needed. And then he thought, if a drink after helped the stomachache go away, a drink before would prevent it entirely.

He decided he better have some on hand all the time. He snuck it onto his mother's shopping cart. He bought it at school. He had friends purchase it and put it in his locker. He sold drinks on the bike path and kept the ales for himself. He would stop in a store and get a bottle or two before class, before work, before heading home. It started as one small glass in the morning. Then one in the morning and one at night. Then he added one at lunch. And when he got older the glasses got bigger. Then there were glasses in between the glasses, and then those glasses got bigger. Pretty soon he carried a flask with him wherever he went, and sometimes two. He would wake in the middle of the night, fearful that his stomach might turn, and gulp down flat ginger ale.

His stomach never turned again, and his teeth rotted out.

The Great Wall

You ever been to China? Yeah. Well, I've been to China. Beijing. First off, let me just say how straight to holy hell the place is going. Smog, ugh, the smog, you could see it draped over the city flying in. Covered, just covered. But anyway, I decided while there, on business, that I should climb the Wall. Ya know, the Great Wall. Ya know it's the, uh, the only manmade, uh... structure—no—wonder! No, structure, maybe... Anyway, it's the only one of those that can be seen from space. Or it used to be, there's probably more now. And let me tell you they are not kidding. I mean these Chinese were not messing around. The thing is... big. And I mean biiiiiiig. A colossal fucking failure, but big. So, I get there, and I'm climbing. Or walking, I'm walking up the steps and let me tell you, no StairMaster could prepare you for these babies. 'Cause it was built with no way to, there's no, uh, ya know, keeping things the same—uniformity! There's no uniformity to these babies. Some's are a foot, some's four inches. Your legs can't get used to anything! It's like the weather here, the miserable winters and the miserable summers and our blood doesn't know what's what. But anyway, after a while, going to the top, I start getting pretty sweaty. I'm mean I'm pretty fucking gross. And I have to take this series of breaks to catch my breath and whatnot. And I notice all these Chinese guys passing me by. Old guys, old Chinese men. And I further notice that they are all wearing suits. Suits. With dress shoes. And they aren't stopping. They aren't even slowing down. They just keep going. And any pain they're feeling, they're feeling alone. Gotta hand it to 'em. I don't know if it's the genes or scared into 'em by the Red Army when they're kids or what, but they do not falter. I'll tell you, they do not blink a muscle. We could all learn a thing or two from them.

Tom's Gut

Tom's gut hung far too close to his privates for his liking. He closed his left eye. He wasn't sure what this would do but he thought he would try it.

"Nothing." He closed his right eye. "Dammit."

Tom observed himself in the mirror, at this pale, amorphous thing that had once been beautiful. He didn't often use the word beautiful to describe a man, unless it was a particular kind of man, and that particular kind of man used to be him. He was in there somewhere! Aching and yearning for freedom! And Tom was going to let him out.

"Hun!"

"Huh?"

"Hun!"

"What, what is it?"

"Hun, I'm going to do something about this weight."

"Ugh, thank god." In the bathroom Linda cringed, hoping he couldn't hear in her reaction the years of hoping and praying she had done for this moment. She danced a little dance and calmed herself down. "Good, good for you, Tommy! You show that fat who's boss, sweetheart!" She walked into the bedroom to find him poking and prodding his naked frame in front of their only bedroom mirror. "Oh my god, what are you doing?"

"Seeing what needs taking care of—did you say fat?"

"Well," she thought, "...no. I mean. Well, what would you call it?"

Tom stared down at his crotch-covering belly. At the meals and seconds and thirds, and the cookies in the morning, at the bottomless beer mugs, at the sitting when he could have stood, time he spent with the guys, time that could have spent with her, with the kids, time where he didn't do anything and he could've been doing something, gas station cheeseburgers and entire frozen pizzas, failure after failure at work, missed opportunities and missed advancements, feeling sorry for himself, TV and movies and that damn groove in the couch where he always sat, he stared at the young man inside him who had made these decisions. Who still wanted to make them. Who was only not going to because of one woman.

"A life."

"There are lots of lives, Tommy."

"But this one was mine. And I didn't spend it well."

Linda crossed and wrapped her arms around him. "Oh, hush! That's just not true and you know it." She gave his belly a playful squeeze. "Maybe there were a few misspent days... But you have nothing to be ashamed of."

He placed his arms over hers. Yes. I do.

That night he went out for a celebratory drink with the guys before he cut out drinking. After a couple of rounds he got the bartender's attention.

"Say, that blonde who was in here last night. She been around at all?"

"Haven't seen her. Why?"

Tom sipped on his penultimate beer. "Oh, no reason."

Notes Not Played

She never wanted to move in with me. I asked her and she said yes, she even said it right away. But even then there was a rehearsed tone to it, one I wouldn't pick out for a while. She knew it was coming, could see it like something flying off a flatbed toward the windshield. You can't really swerve. You can speed up or you can slow down.

Moving day didn't help much. It was August, brutal heat and brutal humidity. Her building had an elevator, and my place only had a few steps going up to it, so there were things in our favor. But the air was so thick with our own sweat that you could tell it didn't bode well. Our eyes stung with it, our grips were sloppy, and it became a day of "Let's just get this over with." That isn't the way to start something. Not something that's going to last.

She wanted to wait until marriage. Or at least an engagement. To me the move was something that happened before those things, so that you weren't walking into the unknown with even less knowledge than you already had. So you could see how things fit together day and night after day and night, see if they changed shaped. And eventually I convinced her, or wore her down, did whatever I did so that when I asked the final time I got what I wanted. But I swear I thought it was what we wanted.

Indian summer hit. The sweat stayed. My place was a step down from what she was used to, I didn't have air, just fans, things to take the edge off. They only ended up adding more edge to things. Murder rates go up when it's hot. This is just another version of that.

I'd only had a few roommates before then, and they were all guys. Some I knew, others I was stuck with. She'd never lived with anyone besides her parents and her freshman year roommate she hated. Maybe that had something to do with it. I guess it was the first time either one of us had to put some effort in to make something work. You can't throw a punch or flat out ignore the person. I guess you can. But not in something that's going to last. At least not in my book.

We were cold in the winter. Worst winter this city had seen in decades, well before we were born. We came from warmer places, too, we were dealing with all sorts of new problems. I bought blankets. I wrote and wrote and wrote my landlord. One guy can only do so much. I thought about making her a sweater, but my fingers just couldn't work those needles the way I wanted them to. It doesn't matter what you want to do sometimes, if you just plain can't do it.

It wasn't in the sleeping, or the eating, or the anything too specific. It was in those little moments. A guy I knew once who I didn't much like at the time talked to me about jazz. It's the notes they're playing, sure, but it's equally the notes they're not playing. It was a new concept for me, music being the notes not played. I didn't really get it at the time, sounded a bit off the mark. But a few months with her. I understood.

I never liked the thaw. You put up with all that cold and you want some reprieve before you have to deal with the sweat again. But it was such a shallow, grey window. She ruined three pairs of white shoes and the place had a rat problem. We'd sit and read and hear them moving around in the walls. She would look at me. I'd have to look away because, even though it was rats, it was almost nice to be hearing something else for a change.

Before she said yes we had spent some time apart. When I met her I knew right away that she was the one. Just like in the movies. And we were so happy for a time. And when things got bad and we split, it was the worst pain I'd ever felt. I hope it's the worst I'll ever feel. But slowly I started to feel better. I even began looking at other girls. And then she and I reconnected and we figured some things out, and we wanted to give it another go. I had asked before and she'd always said no, but this time she said yes. So, hell, this is probably all my fault. You meet a person, you feel that feeling, you have that certainty, and suddenly it's gone? You may get her back and I even hope you do. But there's always going to be that voice. That voice that's telling you if it happened the once then it could happen again. And if it happened once and you got over it, well, then maybe that's the way it should be.

I'd look at her in her chair, our bed, and I was happy most of the time, some form of it anyway. But those voices plagued on me, wore me down. The first, telling me that she was it. The second, telling me she wasn't. And I got quiet. Scared. Didn't tell her any of this. I couldn't. I didn't want to hurt her. And then she left. I guess I said everything I needed to say.

Converter

I'm sucking down week-old sparkling white grape juice, eating the rest of tonight's food that was supposed to be tomorrow's leftovers. These wide noodles were calling my name, even though I had a plan, a budget, but darned if I wasn't going to answer their call all the same. Flecks of sauce get on my shirt and mostly I just leave them there, I'm well beyond the point of caring. The big ones though, those I scoop up with my finger, get those back in my mouth where they belong. Cripes, is this really happening?

Then the TV goes dark. The light on my little black converter box disappears. Something, somewhere, is glitched up. So I get up off the couch, miracle of miracles, and go to the box. I press power, I press reset, I press everything you're supposed to press in every conceivable order and still nothing. So I go to the power strip. Turn that off and turn that on. Still nothing. So I do it again because why not? And nothing. Now I'm getting upset, because I'm supposed to be sitting on that couch over there feeling sorry for myself.

I take the box into the kitchen where I keep a few small tools, screwdrivers and little things. I actually open the thing, unscrew and pry to see what and where the problem is, as if I even know. Everything looks normal, far as I can tell. I poke a few wires and jiggle the cord in back. Mostly I'm worried I'm making it worse. Sounds about right.

Back into the living room we go and I plug the box back in, but to a different socket this time, just in case. Still nothing. I press a few more buttons and pound the remote and zilch. So I start yelling at the thing to work, work, damn you! But all I'm faced with is darkness. There's just no talking to some boxes.

I sit back down on the couch. The noodles, they're room temperature now, and I just don't have it in me for a return trip to the kitchen. I drink the juice. It's flat, which is to be expected. I thought it would help, this sparkling grape juice. The bottle, the bubbles, the fact that grapes are involved. Thought I could trick my body, pull one over on my mind. But it's just not the same. And my body and my mind know that. But still I'm doing all right. Things could be a lot worse. Things used to be. So yeah, things could be a lot worse.

Carol Jean-Luc Martin Me

Carol Reed. Jean-Luc Godard. Martin Scorsese. Each of these guys showed a hero staring into the bubbles of a drink, and there they saw their troubles. Troubles in the bubbles. They were seeing faces and hearing voices and knew what was in their soul. Well, let me just tell you that I tried that out. I tried it out the other day and it's nothing of the sort. I was pouring coffee, I was pouring fizzy pop, I was pouring beer after beer, and still I saw nothing. I looked in mugs and steins and Dixie Cups. I knocked them over, on the floor, on the counter, on the tabletop. I tried all of a goddamn night. I wanted so badly to see something. I stared and I stared, sure I did! I was even naive enough to think that sneaking up on the liquid would produce something. Some kind of answers. But I didn't see any answers that night. No more than I've been seeing, no more than I ever saw. It was just a lot of spilled drinks. And I was so thirsty.

The Underworld

We're going to the opera tonight. I don't really wanna go but Janice wants to, she got a deal on these tickets, got them from a friend or something, so I figure we'll go. Do you think they'll have those little binoculars there, she asks me. I say how should I know. I tell her to call and ask but she won't do it, it's embarrassing, and I'm sure as hell not gonna call. She wants to know, she'll have to call. Janice says maybe she'll go out to the store and buy some and I say we've got binoculars around here somewhere. She wants the real small ones though. She wants to fit in. Can't say I blame her.

Only went to the opera one other time in my life. I was a kid, something like nine or something, with my parents. We were in the very back or close to it and we needed binoculars, too. (Did they give them to you there? No, I think we brought them from home, I dunno, it was a long time ago.) It was some Italian thing, I don't remember, there were English subtitles and I'm pretty sure most operas are Italian. That's the impression I get anyways.

The one we're seeing tonight is Greek. I mean it's a Greek story, probably not in Greek, but probably not in English either. It's about a man who travels to the underworld to get his wife back. I don't know much about it but I guess it's a famous story. Undying love, devotion, all the things that operas are about I imagine. Janice wants to go to dinner before and have dessert after, make a real night of it. We don't have much nights anymore so I figure she's entitled. I made a reservation at this seafood place she's been hinting at wanting to go to. I got a couple ideas for afterwards. I took a decent amount of cash out of the machine so when I pay I can plop down a set of bills, not just some plastic thing, and she can see. Not so she can see how much I'm spending exactly, not to make her feel bad or anything. She's my girl, it's my job. I just want her to see that I'm willing I guess, trying out more of the stuff she likes. That I can go out and show her a good time. I'm trying to anyways.

The underworld. Lord, I can't even think about what that must be like. To see your girl dying and whatnot, seeing her get pulled away from you, forced into some other reality. That's insanity, it's insane, and then you go off after her. He probably didn't even know if he was gonna make it back. But if she's gone, if the girl you love gets taken from you, I guess you gotta do what you gotta do to get her back. You gotta work at it, you gotta embrace that underworld, show it who's boss. Otherwise, well, why'd you even talk to her in the first place?

Feel the Bad Thing

There's a feeling you get in your stomach. You don't know if you're starving or about to vomit. It's confusing, feeling both very full and very empty. You're not sure what move to make, whether or not a sandwich will upset you. You go through a list in your mind: banana, toast, water, something with bubbles, something to settle the stomach. But does it need settling? You'll go on and on and on, driving yourself crazy, pulling apart this feeling, trying to understand it. Sitting on your couch and thinking maybe it'll just go away on its own, or at least go one way or the other, you could feel worse, at least that would be a change. You're not even sure which you'd choose, better or worse. You're almost thinking worse, right? You could stand to feel a bit worse. For some reason you could stand to feel a bit worse. Then you're thinking about it, you're thinking about feeling worse, and suddenly you feel it. You can feel the change. But now you're not even sure if it's real or if it isn't, if what you're feeling is what you're feeling. Time to pull the trigger. Gag on something, vomit, get it over with. Feel the bad thing and move on.

I Wonder Where That Woman's Going

I wonder where that woman's going.

She catches my eye, this one person

staring at the Arrivals and Departures,

a purse in her hand and a bag on the floor.

Waiting in the security queue now with my shoes half off,

waiting to get glared at by the guards who love their jobs.

And there she is again, putting on her tan suede cowboy boots.

Maybe she's going somewhere west. Maybe they're just for fashion.

I keep watching her as she goes to get an overpriced Diet Coke.

A girl with piercings in a Slipknot t-shirt, babies and German businessmen,

but still I study this ordinary woman. I wonder where she's going.

I stop to get a Coke and some Chex Mix to hold me over until I get my small ginger ale. Classmates I know and don't know are standing and sitting, talking, waiting to leave. My flight just had to get stuck at the farthest possible gate, didn't it? Figures. These black boots I have on may be fashionable, but they're not very practical for walking. There's a couple of open seats close to some cute girl. Maybe I'll sit there. The man next to me eating his turkey sandwich just thanked a man in camouflage. Why didn't I do that? I just listen to my iPod and eat my Chex Mix, sitting and watching. There's a man with an American flag on his shirt. I wonder if he thanked the soldier.

There she is, straight across from me,

just a few rows away, drinking her Diet Coke.

She get a call on her cell phone and answers;

she laughs and smiles, talking to her friend,

or maybe it's a relative. Is that who she's going to see?

I wonder if she knows I've been watching her.

I wonder if she watches other people she sees.

I wonder if she's noticed me, too.

I don't mean to stalk or be creepy, but sometimes

there's one person who pops up everywhere you go.

We're sitting in a large area for two flights.

Detroit or Minneapolis, where's she going?

Maybe I should thank her for helping me pass the time.

Trick Knee

It's hot. It's summer and no air conditioning, we've got who knows how many people in this place. Couple dozen, I think. We don't turn the fans on either. Sweating out the bad stuff maybe. Kirby's got beers and I've got my gin, Drea has bourbon since she's one of those girls. But generally we're having a good time through the sweat. Stuck somewhere between the floor and the ceiling.

I go into the next room and see Chelsea on the pool table, sitting there, tipping back High Life into her wide open mouth, resting that bottle on her bottom lip and it's almost like I can't stand it. One more night is all I want, but she's talking to Miller, that asshole, because he's a charmer and even I have to concede that point. He's talking about Singapore again, and it's actually a great story, but I swear to god if I have to hear it one more fucking time. She laughs, he says right, so they must be at the cart tipping over. He takes her empty and walks by me. Don't even fucking think about it, Fuck you, we say. I move in.

She hasn't spotted me yet so I roll the 8-ball across the table and it gently taps her. She turns around. Hey, Yo, and I walk over. Singapore again? Yeah. The cart? Ugh, that fucking cart, and I know we're on the same page. She picks the 8-ball up. I wonder why they chose the 8-ball for that psychic toy. I tell her it's from the Three Stooges but she doesn't seem impressed by the history. She asks where the Stooges got the idea and I shrug, so that's that then. She asks me how I'm doing. I say great. She shakes the thing and looks under it. Very doubtful. I amend to I'm doing OK I guess, I'm getting by. She shakes and looks again. Yup, that's the one. That's the one for all of us, isn't it, and I agree with her. So far we're pretty agreeable. Things are looking good, looking up, even if it is a hundred or whatever degrees. But no one wants the air on. Why are we doing this to ourselves?

I lean in, drunk, and ask her if she ever thinks about that night. She says she's thirsty so I give her my glass of gin and repeat the question. Yes. She does. She thinks about it. Well, what do you think about it. I don't know, I just think about it, just generally I guess. Generally good or generally bad. I don't know. You gotta know. I don't have to know anything, why, what do you know. I have an eye on the hall because Miller should be back with the beers by now, but he's not. Good old reliable Miller, always never there when you need him not to be.

Hell with this, I just go for it, shoving my tongue in a little more forcefully than I mean to. And though she's caught off-guard she doesn't seem to mind, reciprocates even, here we are being equals. I get a little closer to her, nestled inside her legs hanging off the table, and she wraps one of them around one of mine. But I got this trick knee, and she knows but she forgot about it, and that's the leg she wraps herself around. So it goes out, I can feel the cap unlock and lock again. I buckle, it's a split-second thing, I never know when it's gonna come or how much it's gonna go but when I do it hurts and there's nothing I can do to stop it. So I buckle, and fall, and clamp down on her tongue.

Iron. Screaming. She pushes me away, violent, throws herself off the table, runs into the bathroom. I feel around in my mouth with my finger, hoping to god I didn't bite a piece of it off. I either didn't or it's miniscule or I swallowed it, but any way you shake it I'm thankful that it isn't there. She's hurting somewhere though, bleeding, and maybe a piece of her is missing. Well, there's nothing I can do about it now. I had my chance.

And of course by now everyone's in. Miller's the first, drinking both beers, smiling at me and having a ball of a time. People are sweating and drunk and smelly and that's all. They got nowhere to go so they might as well be here. Someone asks me what happened. I don't say anything. Someone says I have blood running down my chin. I believe them. Someone says hey does anyone else's mouth taste like blood and I am only slightly surprised when three others say yeah.

In a Name

Candice often picked at her name. Candice. Can. Dice. Can Candice dice? was a question one might ask. What is it to dice? another might say. Throw dice? Gamble? Can Candice gamble? Can Candice dance? Can Candice can-can? Can Can can-can? This would go on sometimes. Children notice things, and their minds make connections.

Candice was named after her grandmother, although that was not entirely true. Grandmother was a -dace, no -dice. And Candice would ask her mother why she named her -dice and she would respond oh, I just like it better that way. But she felt there was something more behind it. No. There was something else.

But she liked it, Candice, not Candace, something different, something else. She liked being connected, she liked being unique. Separate and together in her own little way. And when she used to lament the spelling her grandmother would stop her. "Don't ever be ashamed of your name. It's beautiful, just like you. It's your own! You have one spelling and I have the other. So each of us is special, and we'll always be reminded of the other one." She would smile her wonderful, soft, wise smile. And when her grandmother passed away it hurt more than if their names had been spelled the same. Now one was gone, one entire half. And she was left all alone.

She thought she saw her mother smile at the funeral. She looked at the name in the leaflet and thought of her own. She realized now that her mother never really spoke of her grandmother, and that when she was playing with -dace her mother was nowhere to be found. Candice thought about her name, and what was going through her mother's mind when she gave it to her. She will be different. She will be better. And you will always be reminded. A half-tribute, a slap in the face.

Candice, twelve years old and dressed in black, ran up to her grandmother's casket, past the arms of her mother, the arms that were trying to stop her, and cried. She was sad and happy at the same time. Sad to lose her grandmother, one of her best friends. Happy that, although her mother had hatched an evil plot, it had failed spectacularly.

Old Music

Going through his sheet music made him sad. He saw the dates: ten years ago, twelve years ago, fifteen years ago. Songs he played when he was a child that he now struggled through. Sharp notes, flat notes, notes like Beautiful! Each line and phrase rushed a memory through his brain, a feeling through his core. He remembered what was happening around each of those pieces, who his friends were, what school was like, what pets were alive, what his parents were doing. He remembered only needing five dollars in his pocket and a bike helmet. He remembered little neckties. He remembered orange soda, pool parties, driver's tests, baseball, frozen pizza, musicals, girls, fights, tears. He remembered video games he wanted and never asked for. He remembered thinking the length of pencils was important. He remembered breaking his first heart, and then his second. He remembered being on the trampoline, flat on his back, contemplating the stars with his friend. Was there life on other planets? Would they visit anytime soon? Would they be like us? What would they have done?

He played old music and it made him sad. It brought him back to a time which was not only simpler, but a time in which he was better. He had let himself go, his talents fade, his fingers forget. Had these things really happened? Did these memories exist? Does life truly go that fast?

He knew it would always be there, that this feeling would never really go away. He would keep learning new music, and having it hurt him. That's what life is.

Candle Wicks and Burning Minds

The boy lit the candles like his mother asked him. "When is a candle living?"

"What do you mean?" his mother called from the kitchen.

"I mean," started the boy, "when do candles live? Is it living now?"

His mother paused, and walked to him. "Well, sure, yes, the candle is living now."

"But how do you know?"

"Well, what is a candle's purpose?"

He thought for a moment. "To give light."

"Right! Exactly, to give light. And when a thing is carrying out its purpose, it's living its life. So, right now, these two candles are living."

He smiled. But then the smile was gone. "But... they're dying." His mother cocked her head. "Aren't they? They're burning. They'll get shorter and shorter, they'll melt all over the place. And then they'll be all stubbly, and... they won't be anything anymore."

"Well, that's true," she said.

"So weren't they living in the cupboard? All big and whole and not melty?"

"But a life in a cupboard isn't much of a life, is it?" He shook his head. "And if you have something to do while you're here, you should do it, shouldn't you?" He nodded his head. "So, now what do you think?"

He looked at the candles, the flickers against the slowly growing pools of liquid wax. "I just don't know."

The boy left the dining room and went upstairs. The mother watched him go. She turned her attention to the two burning sticks. Suddenly, she didn't have much of an appetite anymore.

Crisp White Awful

Showered and clean and dripping. He used a new soap, something with lotion, something that kept his skin breathing and soft. There was green tea in his shampoo, his conditioner, the scent of green tea stayed with him. Freshness, wisdom, clarity. He took time with the part in his hair, fixing it and fixing it, delicately. And when it was perfect he took the brush, the wood-handled one hundred dollar brush, and brought the hairs back and to the side. He used pomade, scooped it with his fingers, rubbed it with his palms, eased it through the follicles and reapplied the comb and brush. Toothpaste, floss, wash, rinse. Stinging mint and alcohol, germ-killing twinge and cool inhales. He had underwear that made him feel attractive, socks that stayed up. A sturdy pair of jeans that caught the light and gave a flash of deep indigo brilliance. He had a crisp, new, white shirt. A shirt that fit him. A clean white shirt, one that made him feel cleaner for putting it on. And he did, slowly, sliding his arms in, caressing every button, smoothing the front and sleeves and sides. Ah, yes.

But wait. Something was wrong. Up there, do you see it? There on the tip of the right collar. A spot. Some awful, off-white, almost-yellow, small-but-terrible, soul-crushing kind of spot. It undid his entire morning. It was all he could feel. He must destroy it.

He ran, ran, to the bathroom. He got a towel and applied soap on soap on soap, water cold and water hot. He scrubbed, he dabbed, he cleaned and he cleaned. He had to get rid of it. It couldn't be there. It would wreck the shirt and the day and he could not allow that to happen. So he worked, and he worked, and he worked.

After he was done the spot was gone. It was white again. But the fabric was worn, the cotton had been bruised. And the right corner of the shirt curved in and under. He ironed and ironed, but it would not be flat. It would be curved, there, forever, to remind him of what he'd done.

Worn Skirts

He hadn't worked in a while. That is, he hadn't had a proper office job behind some desk in a while. Nothing that made him rise by 7 and leave by 8 so he could get to work by 9. He'd left the corporate world, the forty hour weeks, he took lunch when he wanted. He got up when he wanted which was later than he should. He was his own boss and his own employee and he had a kind of happiness of sorts. He was doing what he wanted, at least. But he was getting up today, early, to meet a friend downtown. He was taking the train, early, and it had been a while.

When he walked he didn't notice anyone in particular. This was not his crowd, there were no regular players. There were no nods, no winks, no smiles of recognition. Nothing that said, I know you but I don't. When people passed he'd get whiffs, traveling scents that pleased him or didn't. And on the platform he noticed how generally decent people looked, all sunglasses and gym bags and headphones and slacks. But when the train pulled up and the doors open, he was suddenly in a garden, a garden he'd forgotten.

Young professional women. Each one smelled good, smelled better than the last. Hit him in the face with it. Soft skin, rough skin, freckled skin, skin. Rose and blue and cream, black, striped, green and yellow, plaid, everything was there. Blazers tailored perfectly. Darted shirts (blouses?) that drew his eye to the bust. There were heels, high heels, open shoes and maraschino toes. And the skirts. He wondered how long it had been since he'd seen a proper one. A skirt that was being worn. He looked at all the skirts that filled the train, their various lengths, their various legs. The high waist. The fit. The pleats that formed when they spanned two thighs. God, these women were so beautiful, so much better than he was, they were so much. Their hair was reason enough to find an application and fill it out.

But one by one they all got off. There were no nods, no winks, no smiles of any kind. These were women he recognized, but he was nobody they knew. The doors opened at his stop. His friend would be waiting for him. He would drink a black cup of coffee, pouring the creamer in, watching it swirl and change into something different, into something delicious.

Friends, Good Friends

But if she sat on his bed, that meant something, right? Especially if she sat down first. He should have made a move then. But she got up after only a couple of minutes. But maybe he was supposed to do something in those couple of minutes. He didn't know!

Or in the kitchen, with only one dim light on, shoving cake in each other's faces. That was it. That was the moment! He was kicking himself now, oh boy, was he ever. Laughter, he thought, laughter is the key here. Something silly, something stupid, something where he knows that, right now, they're both happy.

But wasn't he happy? Weren't they happy like this? As friends, as good friends? There was happiness there, there was love, there was trust. And that's not something he wanted to break, not unless he was sure. And a thing like this is never sure.

Or the door, right when she walked in, or right when she was about to leave. When they were close, when it was dark. That's when he should have done it. Yes, the door was the time. So she could have that there for her, that escape, that refusal. So that she could make it quick, and he could get to bed, thinking about all the things he should have done, the words he should have said.

Screeners

"How many people you screened today?"

"Uno."

"Ah."

"Her name was Iska."

"Ooh, foreign, nice."

"It was a thrilling experience."

"Sounds like."

"I bet the next one's gonna be equally thrilling."

"Equal amounts of thrills."

"So many thrills, all day long with the thrills."

"This job, she is a roller coaster."

"She's like if a roller coaster made a baby with a rocketship and she were the baby."

"That's what this job is like."

"Interviewing people who can't put sentences together—"

"Who can't put two words together—"

"Who can't put their names together—"

"And they act as if we should get them the job—"

"Like we should give them the job—"

"That simply by existing they have earned the job—"

"You've earned my boot in your butt."

"Language, language, spies are everywhere."

"I don't care if a floor coach hears me. You'd have to burn this building down and be standing next to the ruin with a bucket of gasoline and a piece of paper stamped with the words THIS IS MY PLAN TO BURN DOWN THE BUILDING WHERE I WORK for them to fire you."

"Empty threats, this place."

"Empty promises."

"It's like if a threat made a baby with a promise and had its guts scooped out with a spade—"

"That's what this job is like."

"And how."

"I wish I didn't have to do something I hate to do something I love. I'm forty years old and I spend a third of my day asking the same questions to the same people getting bossed around by a twelve-year-old so I can spend my entire night in a theatre the size of my coffin. And for what. Why?"

"Everyone does something they hate to do something they love. You're not original. You're not even a remake."

"I guess."

"Just another story."

"I suppose."

"Another tale in the cosmic anthology."

"Now you're reaching."

"Gotta reach for something, buddy. Gotta reach for something."

A Meditation

She spoke of chakras and meditation and was not how he remembered her at all. Was not how she used to be. She spoke of center, and peace, and natural highs. He wished she still dressed how she used to dress because he was selfish. She was better, in all good ways, and she was different in ways that should not matter, really.

They were having a good time, a good time. They laughed, and at the end of it there was a silence. She looked at him, and he at her. And after a moment he started laughing again.

"What?"

"I don't know, this is funny, it's... weird."

"What's weird?"

That a decade could go by and you could still be so beautiful. "Sitting here, looking at each other."

She continued smiling. "It's just a transfer of energy. It makes some people uncomfortable." Well, he wasn't going to be one of those people. So he held in his laugh and looked at her. He broke a little but regained composure. They were smiling, staring, feeling something, and then their smiles faded.

The lights felt darker. The room felt larger. He did not know how long they sat there. He wasn't sure what time it was when he walked her home. He didn't think about the time. He didn't think about whether or not to kiss her, he just did it. And when he called her again, and she said she had started seeing someone, he got good and drunk, and sat in front of his bedroom mirror, staring, laughing, feeling nothing.

Confidence

She crashed through the bathroom door. The hook, no matter how she grasped, escaped her fingers, but eventually she got it in the loop. Safe, for now.

She waited for the water to turn ice cold and splashed it on her face, again and again and again. She took deep breaths, which she was certain would slow down the alcohol. Leaning on the dripping sink, studying her dripping face, she got close enough to the stickered mirror to see her own pores, the ones on her nose. They were big, and obvious, and many. How ugly she was.

She unhooked the door and went back out, pushing through the young crowd, the stupid crowd, the drunk crowd of people like her in one way or another. She found her friend and grabbed her face.

"Tell me you know me."

"What?"

"Tell me you know me!"

Her friend understood.

"I know you."

"You know me!"

"I know you!"

And that was all she needed. She left with him, to the cab, to the apartment. She left with her purse, the purse with her phone, the phone with the missed calls and texts, the boy wondering where she was. But had she picked up, had she even wanted to, she would not have known how to answer.

Bones and Blood

Routine. That's the way out of this. Routine. Routine routine routine. Eat my meals when I eat my meals. But I don't want my meals. Deep breaths low and down, filling, rich. Try. Slow, deep, breathing. Eat my meals.

Still here since Friday night. Only Tuesday now but still it hasn't gone away. What is this thing? I expected it to. Not entirely, no, I suppose, a lingering would be expected. But this. No lingering, no, strength, strong, stronger. Growing and growing and building and building, feeling on top of feeling on top of feeling like a pile of clay in the pit of my heart.

Slow deep breathing, eat my meals.

Hard to breath and I can feel it when I do. Hurts to breath, doesn't go away, hard to breath and when I do it hurts. Fingers like they're shaking. They're not. But the bones, the blood, the muscle and veins, it all quivers just beneath the surface. Beneath the surface it's shaking. Beneath the surface it's violent. The bones and the blood. I'm worried that beneath the surface it's all I have.

Slow deep breathing, eat my meals.

Eat what? And why? To gain what? Strength? No. Nothing strong as this. What food? What drink slakes this thirst? But I must. I will squeeze down my bread and water with a fist if I have to which I do which I hate. I will toss and turn and scream out loud and never know peace. I must struggle. I must struggle, to maintain the routine.

Slow deep breathing, eat my meals.

I must struggle. I must do something.

Remnants

She kept the letter under her pillow. She had kept it there for years, since she was eight years old, since she was old enough to tell that something was wrong. She watched her parents fight and hiss and hurt each other's hearts, then she watched it all be OK. But still she wrote this letter. To let them know what it was doing, what it did to her. To see and hear and feel these things. How it gnawed and numbed her in equal measure. And it was years before she didn't see herself as collateral damage, before she made it past this unfeeling thing she was.

She looked at the letter from time to time, when things got bad, even when things were good. The scratch of a child, the margins, the choice of word. The drawing of a stick figure, a girl, a bow in her hair, a frown on her face, a tear on her cheek. She had grand ideas of what the letter might do, what it would do. It would heal past, present, and future. It would give her a baby brother or sister. It would be picnics and Disneyland and a puppy. She was so sure of it! Why could she never bring herself to give it to them?

The three of them faded away from each other in their respective time zones. The letter yellowed and left remnants each time she read it. She read it less and less now, so she could preserve the thing, so she could remember that once, one day, years and years ago, somebody had at least tried to do something. Even if that something was small, and unfinished, and ultimately nothing.

A Good Shoe on a Hard Floor

He woke and felt the drool spot on his pillow. He flipped it but saw an identical spot, and realized he must have already done this in the night. So he turned the pillow so the opening faced left, which he really hated to do. His mouth was parched and his throat was sticking together, but his glass of water was far too far away, and he could not bring himself to reach. And looking at it, without a straw, even if he was able to bring it to his lips it seemed too big a feat to drink it.

His roommate, Jack, was getting ready for work, he could hear him, those hard-soled shoes, that business outfit. Those shoes taking steps with purpose, with a plan. Walking back and forth and all around he wanted to yell out at Jack but knew that it wasn't warranted and, also, the dryness. But he wanted to say to him, Hey, pipe down, I'm sleeping. But if the two of them could go out on the town and drink the same amount in the same places, and one of them with somewhere to be, then he really didn't have the right. But he wanted the right.

His legs were tangled and his sheets were awry. He was pretty certain that the bottom tag was up by his face, and he regretted not turning on the fan last night. Not that he was in a particularly good state at 4:45 when he shuffled his feet from the drool-spotted couch to the bed. He was a warm, dry, crumpled mess, his head hurt vaguely, and all he had to do was get up. The simplest of things, the hardest of mornings.

There was nothing in the refrigerator. There was a half-eaten burrito on the counter (he had gotten it there somehow). There wasn't enough coffee in the bag or enough money in his wallet to buy a cup. There were nondescript aches and pains from a youth slipping away. There was mud on his bedroom rug.

Looking out at the sunlight, the trees, and the shapes they made together, he couldn't think of a single thing to do with his day. It was hot outside and cold inside and he couldn't get quite right. He made his egg sandwich, he read up on news, he did all of this in his pajamas. As the hours ticked away and the TV shows passed from one to another, he thought about what he would tell Jack. When Jack got back he would ask him how his day was, and he would have to tell him something. Screens flashed before him and they told him nothing. Books stared blankly and still there was no coffee.

He got into the shower. Jack would be home soon. He thought about what he could say, but each lie sounded exactly like that—a lie. But he couldn't tell him the truth. Could he?

Shampoo slid into his eyes. He rubbed conditioner on his face, forgetting what it was. His eyes and face felt wrong. Things were in the wrong place. Everything was in the wrong place. And sometime, soon, he thought, he would have to set them right.

A key slid in, the front door opened, and he heard a good shoe on a hard floor.

Rain Drizzle Rain Pour

Clouds came in like ghouls. They had a plan. Everyone's running for cover and cars and trees, even though lightning, and I'm telling this to people, lightning gets attracted to trees. Nobody listens to me. I'm standing out in the open though, enjoying my beer. What's a little rain? Sure enough it lets up in due time. People reverse their retreat, tails between their legs, getting everything back out. This is what I don't understand about the masses. So tables get recovered, food gets redistributed, bottles and cans go crack and fizz. It's a light misting but of course people don't seem to mind this. This is refreshing, not like that hooligan shit from five minutes ago. People are talking about their kids and their jobs and their schools and their activities that happen after school. They're talking about fish, about weekends, about grandparents and upcoming holidays. Then sleeves and trousers, they start getting spotted. And that's when the rain comes back. Just as before. But, lo and behold, nobody moves this time. They start laughing a little even. No rain is gonna make these people crawl back into their hovels, no sir, not this time, not if it's just gonna lessen up. I crack another one of my own beers, I like 'em good and strong. There's a cooler with two dozen of 'em, and when I take this one out that makes it blackjack. Looking around here, at people getting wet, people getting wetter, seemingly happy still, enjoying their weather. Enjoying their goddamn stories. Just took one lesson. But this rain, now, this rain had other ideas, it was here to stay. It was going to make an impression. Everyone looked darker now, goddamn sponges, wringing each other out, laughing. And whatever that next boom of thunder did it did it well, because sheets now, buckets. And people are just out there, laughing, dancing in the street and jumping in puddles and suddenly everyone's the same age. I dumped those twenty-one beers onto the street, and as I closed my door I thought I heard, "No, don't know who that was." But maybe I got water in my ears.

What I Do Now

"You're a fool, man. You got toys runnin' down your sleeves, it's not real." Marty was drunk, and when he got drunk he talked like this. Not that he wasn't drunk for good reason. His wife had left him and we were tying a few on. We tied them up good and tight.

"I dunno if she ever, you know, bub, if she loved me?"

"I know."

"Yanno?"

"Yeah."

Marty was the one guy I'd been friends with since grade school, since I was old enough to pick my own friends. I kept a few acquaintances from those days, but he was the one that always stuck around. Marty got kicked out of that school for setting off firecrackers in the girls' bathroom, twice, in one day. When he came back for junior high I got him all caught up, and after he got kicked out of there I did the same thing in high school. It's hard when you're a kid sometimes to keep those friends that you don't have class with, that you don't see everyday. It's easy to get into habits. Marty tried to do right. But that rascal streak in him was the streak that usually won him over.

"We need more dri—we need more drinks! innkeeper!" He always used that word in bars. I don't know if he thought it was clever, or if he used it ironically, or what have you. Party of Marty always seemed to be someplace else, another time, or somewhere. The innkeeper poured two more ryes and Marty raised his glass.

"I'monna toast now, bub." I pulled my drink over to me. Marty spoke carefully, that difficult three-sheet careful. "I'm, I'm going to say... good riddance!" He laughed and drank. "To all the riddances out there, bub, and may they all be goddamn good and well played." Marty had been having an affair with a married woman from work. She wanted him to leave his wife, do all kinds of things.

Marty started slipping off his stool. "Think we better go."

"No!" He slammed his tumbler down on the bar. We were picking glass out of his hand most of the night, always finding some new shred when we thought we were all done. "Always getting kicked out," he said on the corner curb. "Help not wanted, and you've got goddamn kids, bub, and look at you, haircut, I don't..."

Marty pushed himself up and crisscrossed into the intersection. "I'm gonna get up in the middle of the night, eat snacks, hear the goddamn birds chirpin', yeah. Put the TV on. You remember when we found that old TV by the railroad tracks?"

"I do."

"Yeah. Yeah. That sure was somethin'. All those bugs, makin' that broken thing their home. As if there were another kind." We both had a good laugh at that. "This," he sighed, "this is what I do now."

When I crawled into bed Chloe woke up. "I don't want you seeing him. I don't like it."

"He's a bit unstable right now, he needs me."

"Right now?"

I'd had lunch with Marty for thirty years. And if you have lunch with someone for thirty years you stick by them no matter what happens. That may be a luxury I can afford to think, but if you got it, hell, flaunt it.

I got out of bed and went to the den. I turned on the TV and grabbed the phone. It picked up after one ring.

"Channel three, bub. Channel three."

You Somewhere

It hurts. I won't lie and say it doesn't. Not that you asked. But I think you should know.

I will try to keep this short. I much prefer simplifying, getting something down to an essence. Which might seem callous but that is what this was. The second, the moment, when you walked through that open door, dark hair, dark clothes, fair skin, perfume inside me. Perfume that dug its way into my stomach and has been resting there ever since. A sense and a softness so singular, I deepen my breath and reduce my blinks so that I may take in as much of you as I can.

I sit in a car and move away from you against my will, traveling at an average speed through an unknown part of a nothing state that contains you somewhere. I watch the other cars that easily pass my by, hoping to see you for a final brief moment, even though I don't know what you drive or even if you drive at all.

Why am I here, and you there? Why is the world such a cruel and dark and unforgiving and treacherous place? How can something fill you up and empty you all at once and leave you feeling both ways?

This is different. We are different. We are different from how we were that night, we both said it, we aren't like that, we aren't that way. I am saying we already.

And I can only hope that if you wrote you'd be writing similar words. Maybe you do. Maybe you are. Words about a wrenching you feel. One that came quickly and without warning, a surprise that you don't fully understand but want to so badly. A question that you don't know the words to but will hopefully search for, hopefully with me, hopefully not too long from today.

I will write to you, think of you, say your name, and die.

Positive Side Down

There was a little girl, Bonnie, six, blonde in a pale blue dress, eating with her family on the grass at the nearby harbor. They were grilling, they had salads and fruits and Bonnie was allowed to have decaffeinated soda. She liked Sprite but one day she would have a Coke like her daddy.

She had her scooter with her, and she was using it on the sidewalk by her family's afternoon claim. "Don't go too fast." "Come and finish your food." "Stay where we can see you, OK, sweetie?" These were all things that were said to her. But she wanted to play.

Bonnie decided she would go under that bridge over there. She knew her parents wouldn't be able to see her, so she waited until they were preoccupied, backs turned. If she got there fast enough she could explore for a few minutes before anyone realized she was gone.

She took off.

The bridge crossed over that part of the water where the lake turns into the harbor, she didn't know what it was called. But underneath this bridge it was colder. You couldn't see many of the pretty boats. You couldn't see many of the families enjoying the day. There were cigarette butts, and trash, and stains on the sidewalk. There were small, grey, dead fish. And there were a lot of them.

Bonnie rested her scooter against the railing, one big enough to keep people from falling in but not so big that they couldn't jump over. One fish caught her eye, and she walked up to it. It was only a few inches long, and rested next to an old AA battery. She got on her knees, propped herself up with one hand, and slowly reached out with the other. She poked the fish. Nothing. Her grandparents and pets were all alive and she had no real comprehension of death. She poked it again. Nothing. She decided she would pick up the fish, and she did. She stood, the drying dead thing between her finger and thumb. Then she reached down and picked up the battery. She squeezed the fish, just a little, just enough for its mouth to open wider. She held the battery over its mouth, positive side down, and shoved it inside.

Her parents didn't believe her when she said the fish blinked, that it started flapping around right there in the palm of her hand. They didn't believe when she threw the reincarnated fish in the water that it swam away. They were too upset that not only had she disobeyed them and gone out of sight, alone, without asking, but that she was playing with dead animals and garbage, in something of an almost sinister way. But Bonnie had seen these things. And she couldn't understand why her mommy and daddy were acting like this. She couldn't understand why telling them what happened wasn't enough.