Thursday, July 31, 2014

The Anomaly

A little bit of hair gets in my face so I run my fingers through it. Something happens. I feel something. I search around, the right side of my head, to see if anything seems out of place. I'll find this thing, bug, debris, whatever it is. Get rid of it.

My nail hits a bump. Not a bug, small pimple it feels like, fastened to my head whatever it is. I push on it, I pick at it, it remains the same. It doesn't hurt, it isn't sore, it isn't big or small, it isn't terribly anything. Odd, I think. I don't recall this being here... Its presence mystifies me. I've run my fingers through my hair, I'm combed, I've scratched and poked, I've popped pimples on this head before. I feel like I would have come across it.

I go to the mirror and bow my head, hoping that my top peripheral will just be able to make it out. It doesn't work. My eyes can't both stay attached and see the anomaly. I find a hand mirror to try and direct the reflection my way, but that doesn't work either. I get a camera from my desk and hold it above the area, snapping picture after picture, two dozen in all, with flash and without. I don't see it. I don't see it, but I feel it, it's there. And there's no one around to ask for help.

Toothpick, I think, and I scurry to the kitchen to retrieve one. I feel around again and find the spot and, holding the hair aside with one hand, bring the toothpick in to do some work. First I put it next to it, just feeling the side. Nothing too quick now, don't want it to hurt. But it doesn't. So I move the point on top of it. Press gently. Gently but firmly. Nothing happens. Firmer. Still nothing. I remove the toothpick briefly to see if its covered in any substance, blood, puss. But it's clean. So I put it back, and this time I really give it a go. I push the thing in. I stab myself. And I can feel it, I can feel it going in, but still it doesn't hurt, and whatever it is I've bested it now, I can tell. I swivel the toothpick around, make sure the thing is good and depleted. But again, as I inspect the toothpick after the job, I see nothing. The toothpick is as clean and sharp as ever.

I feel around again with my finger. I need to get to the bottom of this. And I feel it, this thing, whatever it is. And it's there. I scrape and I scrape and I scrape at it, hoping for blood, for skin, for anything that would give me some sign that I'm winning. I feel hairs falling past my ears and neck, collateral follicle damage. I am going to destroy this thing, I am, I will, I must. It is not better than me, it is not smarter, it has no brain, it serves no purpose. It's just there. It has just shown up demanding occupancy. Not on my head. Not on my watch.

And the truth is, I pick at it until morning. I am on the floor, eyelids burning. Puddle of hair in my lap, bald spot like a surgery patient. But still I cannot see it. I look in the mirror and it isn't there. But it is, it is there. I feel it. I can feel it under my nails, on the top of my head, a part of me, living.

Wednesday, July 30, 2014

There Be Dragons

It's painful to watch them walk away. When the words you want to say are what you hope will keep them there, yet what might hasten their exodus. A special kind of pain, reserved for those who nearly yearn for it, who hold it close when it hits. They are happy to own something, to have control over this at least. It is a circumstance composed of at leasts, and you have gotten used to it by now. This is what it is. And, yes, you could take the steps to change it but that way lies uncertainty, that way there be dragons. And, yes, here you may be standing in your own living hell but at least the fire is one you've stoked yourself. At least this devil you know by name.

Tuesday, July 29, 2014

From Fashion to Crime

Every single shirt had pit stains, even the dark ones, they had stains with lines of dried white sweat-salt outlining them like some horrible corpse. He had to leave soon! He would be late! One of the great things about being a girl, he thought, is that you can share clothes with your friends. You can't really do that if you're a guy, he thought. Could you? He'd never tried it. Should he try it now? It couldn't hurt. Could it?

There wasn't time to go to a friend's and his only roommate was sleeping. He opened the door, oh so carefully, and crept in. The roommate, Malcolm, stirred. Robbie, the trespasser, remembered now that the boy was sick, and he didn't like being wakened when he was healthy, so this was great. Robbie shut the door almost completely to preserve the darkness, but now he could not see the closet. He took out his phone and activated the flashlight, keeping as much of it hidden as humanly possible. He slid the closet door open creeeaaakkkkk and Malcolm stirred rustle rustle rustle. He grabbed the first shirt he saw, a dark denim number that he remembered looked pretty fashionable, well-tailored, striking without the flash. He grabbed it delicately and escaped. The perfect crime!

She was looking straight at it. The too tight buttons. The slivered gaps between said buttons. The shoulder seam that didn't quite reach his shoulder. All these little things. And it occurred to him, as he spoke on deaf ears, that he didn't didn't raise his arms, didn't reveal the place where the pit stains would have been. Not once.

Monday, July 28, 2014

Gutterbirds

We are tourists. We gather at the fountain. Our children lie in dirty water on the dirty ground. We are carrying a thousand cameras, in our pockets, in our hands. We set them up for these sculptures and memories. We have hats and maps and terrible sunglasses. We've come to walk these streets with our chins up high and our socks even higher. We know your language and if we don't we get by, but none of that matters.

We hear you talking, we hear those whispers. You hate us because you have to share. Because you have to take an extra step. You are out of your routine and it's enraging. Like you've never taken a picture. Like you've never been anywhere new. Like your mind isn't rotting from too much television and soon you won't be able to remember any of these things you've done. Who do you think you are?

We are tourists. We are locals. We are all children. None of us are proud of every pair of sunglasses we've ever worn. We wanted to think your streets are special. But it's all pigeons, really, just like everything is. Can't you see that? Don't worry, we won't be coming back. You can keep your gutterbirds.

Sunday, July 27, 2014

If You Take the Thing

Jack jumped on the train. After a night of busy drinking he was jumping a lot actually. But that's how he felt, jumpy, happy. And as he swing around the pole to sit on nearly uninhabited car he smelled that smell. The culprit was easy to spot, just over there on the other side. He let thick smoke loose from his lips and the two of them locked eyes. They laughed, together, almost instantly. Jack took that as an invitation and jumped over.

"I knew someone was having a good time!"

The other man smiled and nodded his high little head. His hand outstretched a microscopic dirty-looking roach. Hell, Jack thought, why not? So he took the thing, not knowing how, and took a hit, or at least what he could of one seeing as how he was nervous he'd suck in the thing itself. He took another hit and heard

"Really? There are cameras."

and looked around to see one of the other gentlemen on the train, standing, looking at these new friends. Not looking down on them, but just finding the whole thing rather curious. After all, he was right, there were cameras.

The roach man got up and opened the emergency door to the next car. Jack followed, stubbing out the roach on the new blue seat. Jack had never passed between cars while the train was in motion. It was a night of questionable firsts. But it was an easy thing to do, far easier and far less terrifying than he'd made it out to be. But moving to the next car wasn't enough. What if someone had been watching that camera? What is there were cops around? What if there were officials waiting at the next stop? Is this Jack's own paranoia or did his inhales help the fabrication?

The train stopped and he jumped through the doors and ran up two more cars. He had to distance himself. He had to put this all behind him. Luckily, he only had one more stop to go. A short ride to safety.

Which he made. And he was safe. He walked down the stairs and down the street in triumph. He had taken chances. Just said yes! Was this living? He wasn't sure. It was something.

A sharp and throbbing pain in his finger. Jack went to dull it in his mouth but there was no relief. His canines felt a bump. Examining the finger he saw a raise, a burn. That goddamn roach had burned him. He took the thing, not knowing how. What else was he supposed to do? It was so small! He just had to grab the thing and do it! But if you take the thing, thought Jack, and you don't know how, he supposed you just might get burned.

Saturday, July 26, 2014

Toward, Against, Across, Down

"Noxious is poisonous, but obnoxious is annoying."

"Basically, yeah."

"So the ob lessens it."

"I guess?"

"How does that make sense?"

"Don't ask me, I don't make words. Gimme that joint." I handed the thing over to Justin. This is the kinda shit we talk about when we get high. Words become horribly fascinating.

"So... so... is, like, ob, is that Latin for less?" He was squinting hard, the kinda squint that really holds in a breath.

"I don't think so," I said. "It doesn't seem very Latin."

"There's a lotta stuff that doesn't seem Latin, dude, but it's, like, really Latin."

"What's the difference between Latin and really Latin?" I took the joint from him, finished my beer, opened another. We were drinking, too.

"You know what I mean."

"I don't! What is the different between Latin and really Latin?"

"It's like," he opened another beer, "It's like, there's Latin and there there's Oblatin." I tried to hold it in but beer shot out my nose. "Ha! Your aim sucks." He drank and thought for a second. "So... Which one of us is the ob?"

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean?"

I did. "You mean which one of us is the Objustin?" He nodded. "I don't know. I guess I never really thought about it. Why would I think about it? Have you thought about it?" He shrugged, telling me that he had. "How many times?" He shrugged, telling me no. "You think I'm the Objustin!" He laughed, and shook his head. "You're the Objustin?" He nodded, slowly, took a hit of the joint, drank from his beer.

"I," he exhaled, "am most definitely the Objustin." There was a length of silence between us. "I notice you're not jumping in to claim the opposite." We laughed. "Which is cool, ya know? It's fine. It's not a bad thing necessarily. I'd rather be annoying than poisonous."

We laughed again. I knew it. He knew it. What else can you do?

"Gimme that thing."

Friday, July 25, 2014

The Smell My Hands Give Off

I raise my hands to my face. Trying to lessen some tension between my eyes. I am distracted though, breathing in through my nose. I smell my skin.

I smell my skin and it is foreign to me. Foreign and at once familiar. How can something that covers your entire body give off no scent to you at all? I do not know why that scent that surrounds me should escape me, when I feel as though it is the scent I should know the strongest. It is me, it is my own. It is one of the things I bring to others and I do not know it at all.

Is it the clothes I wear. The soap I use. The detergent I've bought. The sheets in which I sleep. The air in my room. The dust on my floor. The clothes from today. The clothes from yesterday. The furniture I've had for years. What is it exactly that gives me my smell? Something within, something that escapes me, something in cells and follicles that is brought out by the sun. Something I cannot put my finger on.

I know when the smell is bad. Why do I not know when the smell is good? Why is the good thing invisible? I feel like most of the time there is the good thing, and it's the good thing I don't know. I do now know it at all.

What do others think when I get near. Where do they think I live. What do they think I do. Do they think I'm clean. Are they getting the right impression. Do they know who I am. Am I making sure they know who I am. Am I doing enough.

All I had to do was bring my hands to my face. Was think a thought. A thing unrelated. It's a domino effect, it is. All I wanted to do was press my fingers in between my eyes. Relieve the tension. I don't want this skin plaguing on my mind. I don't want this scent to be the only thing I try to sense. I want what the others have.

Thursday, July 24, 2014

MLB-709

I saw you driving today! An old white Corolla license plate MLB-709 so I'm pretty sure it was you. The Baseball. You always hated that nickname but I always thought it was pretty clever. I waved at you but you must not have seen me. Which is weird because you were looking in my direction and I was waving pretty hard. Maybe there was some glare though, that's probably what it was. Did you see me? It's OK if you didn't, it's just weird.

I thought you moved out of the neighborhood! Anyway, that's what I heard, Jason told me. Or he told me he heard that you moved. I tried to get some more info out of Lucy but you know how she is. So anyway, I thought you moved out of the neighborhood but there you were! Although I guess you could've been driving somewhere nearby. Seems like a weird place to be driving though, I don't know why you'd be on your old street if you didn't still live there. I should've looked at what parking permit was on your windshield. Oh well, next time!

Not that I was just like walking around your street for no reason! I wasn't even walking on your street, I was at the intersection, just a few houses down from you. Or from old you. Or not old you but the you that used to live there. Haha you know what I mean. You never look old, you didn't look old today. You still look really good. Really pretty and put together (at least from the chest up since that's all I could see!). Did you cut your hair? It looked shorter. Maybe you just styled it differently? I thought you hated short hair. Or maybe you just hated my short hair haha. Hm...

Things with me are pretty good! I just started this new administrative assistant job. It's pretty boring I guess but it's OK. I'm just answering phones and making coffee and telling clients to wait and rescheduling and blah blah blah. Everyone likes me better than the girl who trained me though so I guess that's good. I guess I'm an improvement over some people.

How are things with you? I feel like we haven't talked in a really long time. I know you're leaving Macy's soon. Right, is that true? Do you not like it there anymore? Did the hours get to be too much? Not enough potential for the future? Someone offer you more money? Did you decide that's not what you want to be doing anymore? Are you staying in the corporate world? Going back to school? Taking some time off? So many questions haha!

I also wanted to tell you that I've been on a couple dates. Nothing that serious or anything. Just a few dates with a couple different girls. They were both... meh. I guess. They were both fine, whatever, nothing egregious. I don't know I just feel like that's info you should have. I saw you at that coffee shop last week with some guy, the one we went to with all the couches (duh you know you were just there!). He had glasses and some hat on I think? I think you were both wearing hats. It's a little warm out for wool beanies but whatever, if that's what floats his boat. Who is that guy? Have you been seeing him long? What's he do? Where in the city does he live? Haha look out more questions! I'm just curious.

I miss you! I really do! Let's hang! I still live in the same place. If you're still around the area we could hang out, grab some coffee at that place or something. It'd be good to see the old Baseball again, too! Up close and personal, not from the corner or your street or anything. And even if you don't live in the area it'd still be nice to get together. I wish you would write back, or call, or text, or stop by or whatever. It would be really nice to see you. Even if was for just an afternoon or a couple hours or cup of coffee or whatever. I don't think that's too much to ask (I know how you hate it when I ask for things!). Or at least when I wave you could wave back.

Blecch. Sorry! Anyway. It was really good to see you, I'm sure I'll see you around. Write. Me. Back. I really miss you. OK OK OK. Bye!

Wednesday, July 23, 2014

Swedish Meatballs

Microwaved Swedish meatballs sat before him, a former favorite, getting cold, congealing in their Scandinavian puddle. The sitter, she wouldn't even let him reheat them.

"No fun until you finish your meal."

Finishing the meal is no fun, he thought. He looked at the noodles. Were they turning grey? My lord, the sauce was grey. Had it always been grey?

None of this was making any sense to him. He used to like them so much! What was it that was driving him away so suddenly? That turned bite after bite into prodding after prodding? It happened in the middle of the meal, as well, which his mind could not figure. How halfway through something you loved so much, you could just stop loving it. And when all you wanted to do was eat.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014

Corpus Vile

He tells her some lie. Some false relationship, an unreliable number. He speaks in smiles that seem almost real. And she believes them. He knew she would.

He buys her what she wants. More of the same. Dim lighting and laughter give the right appearance. He gives the right appearance. He has changed. His hands are soft, large, strong. They practice with skill. To every move and word he takes a scalpel.

She opens. She is sorry. She misses this thing. He knew she would. He is clever like that.

Darkness and familiarity. A great sigh. Stories and fashion, music and heat, people are bound to react. It is almost too much to take. Too much to control. But if you let go. If you stop caring. Realize how small you are. How small every thing is. Might you control it then?

She breathes and they breathe together. Darkness and familiarity, but newness, one unique to the other. She is comforted. He is reborn. This is what it feels like. This thing to be repeated.

He almost begins to care. And leaves. He is still learning.

Monday, July 21, 2014

Even the Girls

"He's covered in grass."

"Covered in dirty grass."

It was true, I was covered in dirty grass. Waking up sloggy after a yard night's sleep. My head ushered in every noise and every noise ricocheted like a bullet off a basement wall. Cars, birds, humans, some indecipherable drone. "What happened?"

My friends looked at each other, sending back and forth telepathic you-tell-him-no-you-tell-hims. I peeled off grass shards and brushed off dirt, felt the little line imprints on my cheek. I pushed myself off the ground and that's when the queasiness surged. Then there was vomit everywhere. "What. Happened."

All the information at once. "Ricky" "It was Ricky" "You guys" "You guys were talking at the party" "Remember the party" "He had those pills" "Roofies" "He was talking about roofies" "You remember Jessica" "Of course he remembers Jessica" "Ricky had been drinking" "Drinking a lot" "Too much" "He always drinks too much" "That's not the point" "Get back to the story!" "Ricky was eyeing Jessica" "You both were kinda" "Yeah kinda" "And he was talking about these pills he had" "The roofies" "Yeah the roofies" "And good Jessica was looking" "Yeah how she was looking real good and everything" "And so he was talking about giving her one of the pills" "No not giving he was" "Or yeah slipping her one of these pills" "Putting them in her drink!" "And we all know what that does" "So you were telling him not to" "You were telling him not to do it" "You were being civil" "You were using your words and everything" "You guys were talking and" "And Ricky got real mad" "Real mad" "He didn't understand what you were freaking out about" "And it didn't look like you were freaking" "Yeah no way!" "But Ricky's getting pretty pissed off" "Yeah dude he is pissed" "Like pissed off" "And then you guys spent so much time talking" "Do you remember any of this?" "He said he didn't remember!" "Not really he didn't!" "Do you remember any of this?" "So anyways you guys were talking" "Arguing" "Yeah arguing or whatever for so long that Jessica" "By this point Jessica had just left" "Yeah she left with some friends" "And that was it" "Yeah that was it."

I couldn't look at them because of the sun. But I couldn't look at my puke either. So I shut my eyes. That helped a little. "Help me up." They hoisted me off the ground, and that's when the new pain hit. "Guys. Why does my ass hurt, like, intensely bad? Why is it sore?"

You-tell-him-no-you-tell-hims.

"Guys."

"Ricky" "He was mad at you" "Yeah he was real mad" "Like re-e-e-eally mad" "But he was faking that he cooled off and" "Yeah and well" "Well" "The pills he was talking about" "The roofies" "He slipped some into your drink" "And then they" "Oh my god I can't believe they did this" "It wasn't rape or anything dude" "Yeah don't worry you didn't get raped" "But uh" "Uh yeah they did spank you" "Yeah" "Yeah" "Like a lot" "There was a line" "A long line" "Taking turns spanking you and hitting you with things" "Rolling pin pillow rulers shoes" "And people were laughing" "Even the girls" "And everyone was doing it" "Even the girls!" "People figured well it's not sexual or anything" "Yeah you weren't being penetrated" "You weren't getting raped or molested" "Yeah so people figured it was OK" "People are messed up man" "Yeah people are totally messed up."

I rose my hand to signal the end of this. "Did you guys join in?"

"No" "No way dude" "Never" "We would never do that to you" "Not for free" "Shut up he's joking" "Sorry yeah no" "No we would never."

I signaled again. "But you didn't stop them, did you?"

There was a long pause. Gaping open mouths like a couple of goddamn idiots. "There were a lot of people" "Yeah there were like tons of people there."

I nodded. "It's fine." It wasn't, but I was going to need my share of friends after that night. "They dragged me out here?" They nodded. "OK," I said. "Thanks for... thanks."

"Yeah no problem dude" "Sorry about all this" "Yeah sorry" "This is the worst" "Totally the worst thing" "You need help getting inside?"

"No," I said, "I got it."

I walked past them and to the front door. My parents would be home tomorrow, so any damage could (hopefully) be undone by then. I opened the door and took a look around my house. It was funny. Everything was fine.

Sunday, July 20, 2014

Contact

I have my contacts in. My glasses, they fog, when it's crowded, when it's warm. A face goes up close to mine and they get smudged. They fall down my nose. They're cumbersome. I'm not sure when to take them off, and then I can't see you.

Each eye itches. Each eye stings both with air and the lack thereof. There is a layer between the contact and me. There is always a layer.

I wear these so there is no fog, so there are fewer steps. So I can always be sure to see you. Even with the lights off. I wear these so my finger isn't always pushing the glasses up my oily bridge. They sit crooked, I can feel them sitting crooked. No one's ears are perfect, certainly not mine. So I take them off and I wear these because I think I know what's going to happen.

But it doesn't. You go to where the host stays, I go to where the guests go. I'm alone where the guests go. One leg out of the blanket looking at the moon, the moon which I never see. And now I see it all too well.

Saturday, July 19, 2014

Later

I have an old umbrella with a busted hinge. There's rust and it creaks when I walk, I still get a little wet. I have several drawings an ex-girlfriend made me. I have a drawing an ex-girlfriend's sister made me. I have a dirty, sticky pair of headphones somewhere in one of these drawers. I have a pair of pants I stopped wearing after I washed them with a candle in the pocket. I still don't remember what that candle was doing there.

I have crusty shoes with holes and slashes and when I put them on they hurt. I have every tee I bought through school growing up. I have a line of figurines on my bedroom windowsill that gather dust and do not move, preserving their patches forever. I have a sweater vest still it its original packaging. It will come in handy one of these days.

I have an old printer that sits in the corner of my office, next to my new printer that I use daily. Furthermore, I have an old laptop in my top drawer. Sometime I will bring it in so everything can be taken off it, if it's not too late. My old desktop, that's in the garage in a box marked LATER. In that box are cords and wires and connectors, an old VCR, and some videotapes. The first video I ever owned, The Adventures of Robin Hood, the box shredded, the corners held together with masking tape.

I have old torn bed sheets. I have my father's bag. I have my grandfather's hat. I have an unframed Warhol print sitting on my desk still it its original packaging. I have books on magic and books on how to play blues guitar, I have more books I haven't read than books I have. I have your picture here somewhere, of the night we danced. None of this bothers me. I have time.

Friday, July 18, 2014

Engines

I hear engines revving, speeding past the window of my room and I think, "Why on a Sunday night" and "Technically it's Monday morning" and "What do they have to prove and to whom" and "Maybe they're just having fun." I've always been a firm believer that fun should never be made at another's expense, not if that another don't deserve it. And me, right then, I was that another, probably one of a good few, and I doubt any of us deserved it much. Kept awake at night in the middle of the desert. It's this heat. It's got everyone on edge, even the locals. They need to lash out. They got to drive fast.

I've only been in town two days. Difficult thing to get used to, the desert. Never seen so much sand in my life, I can see it in the air even, I can taste it in my food. Maybe I'll get used to it, maybe I'm overreacting, I don't know. There's enough people here makes me think it must be one or the other. All these people is something I don't understand. The sand, the heat, scorpions and gila monsters, cactus forest after cactus forest. Everything here is designed to hurt. What wagon stopped here and said, "Yup, this looks like a dandy spot"? Maybe they had no choice. Maybe they had to come.

I wonder how many people out there in this place are like me. Not the old ones, living out the last of their days, enjoying just how goddamn dry everything is. But the people here starting over. The people getting away. How many of those suckers are out there? How many are listening to these engines revving, revving, revving outside my dusty door? How many are getting a good night's sleep?

So the next morning I'm groggy, I'm groggy and tired and the coffee just ain't doing it. And here I am sitting in some uncomfortable green chair waiting to see Mr. Shuler and start my first day at this new job. Analyzing warranties in this material handling corporation. Yup, just as glamorous as it sounds. It's fine and I get the job done and then I can pay my bills. I'm best at a desk, surrounded by walls, pen in my hand. Mr. Shuler shows up and he wants to shake that hand and immediately give me a tour of the place. I say OK. He's nice, despite the rug. We all have our vanities.

After the tour of the place we're back at his office and he shakes that hand again. He says it was good to meet me and makes like he's going somewhere. This is when I inquire about the position and when I start since I thought it was today. He says he's confused. I tell him the analyst position, the warranties analyst, I was told there would be a position here waiting for me. He gives me this half-smile, cocky-damn-eyebrow look at me and I can tell he wants to laugh. He never told me there would be any position. I say I know it wasn't him but it sure the hell was somebody. He doesn't like my language I guess, and I sure as hell don't like his. I was promised a job. That's why I'm here. That's one of the reasons I'm here.

He can't help me. Maybe something will open up in the future, but future's an awful big word. I don't thank him and he doesn't thank me, and even though the building is air conditioned and cold as hell by the time I'm at my car I'm sweating. Couldn't have walked more than a hundred feet. This is what I'm talking about, about this heat, this place. Who's here that don't got to be?

I sit in my car but I don't turn my engine on. Don't roll the windows down neither. I just sit there and sweat, I expel. Take out my wallet and take out Janet's picture, which I shouldn't do. But I do it. And I take out the one of Brian and Melissa. I look at them and I grit my teeth. The sweat's through my undershirt, my shirt, it's gotta be at my jacket now. Sweating through a one hundred dollar sports coat. But I just look at them. And I grit my teeth. I ain't rolling these windows down.

Thursday, July 17, 2014

Those Birds

"Ugh, those birds," said Grandmother. She set down her book and walked to the window by the front door.

"What kind of birds are they?" I asked.

"I don't like these birds that nest on our porch, teach their little ones to do the same."

I set down my book and joined her. I looked out the window. Couldn't see the birds she was talking about. "Well... But now it's like you have pet birds, and you don't even have to feed them."

"Pet nothin'." She didn't take my positive spin, just sat down and opened back up the mystery.

I kept looking out the window, determined to see at least one little bird. I looked up toward the ceiling of the porch, the pillars, examined the ledge where I might find a nest. At all the places where, if I were a bird, I'd put my nest. I looked and looked, saw nothing. I did hear a chirp or two after a minute. And there, flapping past me, went a bird. Dar, brown, maybe even black, but not a blackbird. Small, skittish, could fit in the palm of your hand. It landed on a portion of the ledge I'd looked at and disappeared from sight. And then the chirping grew.

I looked around for the book of North American birds. I wanted to know what this guy was, who these intruders are. What Grandmother was so riled up about. But then I heard a side door open and close. I looked out the front window again. There was Grandfather, looking up at the birds, book in hand, big smile on his face. Darned if that didn't put a big old smile on mine.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

Poor Creature

He had a sign made of cardboard, soggy on the corners. Fallen on very hard times, please help. God Bless. The handwriting on these signs is never very good. His was though, which lent some credence, or if it didn't do that then it made him stand out from the others. He had a blue duffel bag and a backpack, also blue, stuffed. He sat on a colorful, vaguely-Mexican-looking rug with fringe, which was folded in half. There was a wide-brimmed hat he'd placed on the sidewalk. Inside of it couldn't have been more than eight dollars.

As I walked by him something caught my eye. Another head sticking out of his shirt. A second glance confirmed it was a cat. I don't know all the different kinds but it was grey, some stripes, a tabby cat maybe. I stopped walking and lingered. I made it to seem like I was looking at some poster ad, for a bank I think it was, while watching him. The man lifted his shirt and brought the cat out. It curled up, content, and he pet it's striped, grey fur. I walked by him again and watched this.

Fallen on hard times. OK. Let's say for the moment that I believe you. Should the cat be made to suffer, too? Should it have to bear any weight of your choices or your karma, whatever the universe has planned for you? I stood there, now by an ad for shoes, watching the tail go back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. I walked over.

"What's its name?"

"Simon."

"That's a good cat name."

"Thank you," he said, smiling. I nodded, and smiled back, though he wasn't looking at me.

"How much for him?"

"I'm sorry?"

"How much for Simon?" I took out my wallet. The man kept looking down and petting. "I have probably over a hundred dollars—"

"I don't want your money."

"You can have everything in—"

"Thanks." He kept petting that poor creature. I didn't understand.

"You sign says—"

"I don't want your. Money."

I knelt down beside him. "Listen. I get it. I've had pets, and I was also sad to see them go. I have a cat now, Simon won't be alone, he'll have a friend. I'll be able to give him a better life." I could see that the man, whatever his name was, was crying. Not weeping, not sobbing, not a sniffling, slobbering mess. His tears were just escaping. It crossed my mind that perhaps I was the one who upset him.

"I saw you walking and watching and hovering around me. You don't get it. He's happy here with me. You think I would ever dream of letting him go hungry? Simon's not a pet. He's the only thing giving me a better life. You think I'd let that go for a hundred dollars? You think he'd let me?"

Stunned, shocked, I couldn't blink my eyes. Kneeling there clutching my wallet like a fool, watching his tears trickle down into the lines of a broken smile. Watching Simon, eyes closed, purring, without a care in the world, while his tail moved back and forth. Back and forth. Back and forth.

Tuesday, July 15, 2014

What Gentlemen Do

She has that white leather jacket that looks real good but feels like shit. Fake, faux, faux leather, affordable. That's how they get you with that, it looks good. Then you try it on, then you pick it up, feel it, taste it. Then you realize, oh. Oh, now I understand the tag, why the decimal is where the decimal is. That's how they get you, and that's how she got me.

She has legs, sure, I mean she walks around, but somehow I didn't notice how short they were. Because she's got this torso, you see, this elongated midsection with a belly that sticks out just a little. Not a lot. Just a little. High wedge heels that, again, look good, until you look at them longer and longer and you're thinking how can anybody walk in these and then she walks and you can clearly see, oh, they can't. But she wore all black, all black with that fake white leather. So she seemed lean, she looked sharp, she popped in a bag of duds.

She's a friend of a friend of a friend. She was at the bar already, alone, which I found curious. She had some clear drink on ice with citrus wrapped around the edge, no surprise there, five'll get you ten. She'd already had—and I say had, I don't say bought, because a girl like this, she hasn't bought a drink in a while—probably two or three. She's feeling good. My friends and I, my friends' friends, we're all feeling good. What's to not feel good about? We're young enough. We've got jobs that pay us money. And this place, we're real friendly with the staff, so we'll get at least some of this comped.

We're introduced. Her name is Kira, which I have a real fun time saying. After a few drinks that K starts to feel real good in the back of my mouth, I find myself whispering that first syllable over and over just to feel the breath pass my soft palate. Almost a couple times I think she hears me. Maybe she does. If she does she won't say anything about it to me and I thank her for that. She's got turquoise nails I see and I'm thinking thank god they're not red. Because red, white, and black, that's a very sixth grade way of thinking what's cool. I look at her a little longer than one should when meeting for the first time. I hadn't felt her jacket yet.

A few of us break off for darts and somebody buys us a round. I say that I'll grab one later, of course hoping that it won't actually come to that. Kira's hair goes from dark to light, brown to blonde, ombre is what they call it. That only makes me think of Paul Newman, which is a strange thing to be thinking of when you're looking at a girl's hair. We get paired up together. She asks me if I'm any good at darts. I say I go from bad to good to bad again. She laughs. She's the same way. We're starting the game and I motion to her and her first dart doesn't even hit the board. No need to start bad, I tell her, you can skip it and go straight to being good. I get a healthy laugh out of this one. Her second and third darts both hit, marking off two fifteens and a twenty. Laughter really is the best medicine. A couple turns later I hit the first bullseye. We cheer, we high five, and I immediately whip around and bullseye my second. We are overjoyed, we are. And so I go in for my prize, and I kiss her on the cheek. She comments on the fact that it was just the cheek, seems almost impressed, and I tell her I wanted to be a gentleman. She asks if that's what gentlemen do and in one fell swoop I tell her I have no idea what gentlemen do, and plant one on her hard. This is the coolest thing I have ever done or will ever do. I throw my third dart over my head, and apparently my buddies have to stop a guy from attacking me. Our favorite bartender brings us shots of tequila and she licks the salt off my hand. We lose the game, but who the hell cares? My work, on this night, is done.

The cabdriver asks where to, and I just ask her what's her address, I don't check with her first, I don't ask what she wants to do or if it's all right. I just presume. It feels good to presume. And on the way up the stairs she starts undressing, telling me how she hates wearing clothes, about the scars I'll find that tell of her breast reduction. You tend to forget that sometimes girls like presuming, too.

We start fooling around on the couch, and I try making a series of moves. Frankly I'm a little put off that I have to try to make moves at all, I thought this was behind us. But she holds me off and she teases without spoiling the mood. I can see her apartment when I peek out of the corners of my eyes and it looks like her: white walls, white couches, black electronics, photos and things that add dashes of color and that personal touch. Finally, after half an hour and half a bottle of wine, she gets up, leaves the room, and goes down a hall. She doesn't tell me where, she just leaves. But then she doesn't come back. So after a few minutes I realize, oh, maybe I'm supposed to follow her. Women never tell you what's on their mind, they'll just leave you alone in their apartment. So I go to this hall and, like it's scripted, there are five closed doors, which is just what I want to be dealing with at whatever the hell time it is. What's a guy supposed to do? I call out her name. Nothing. So I start opening doors. One is a closet. The next is a bathroom. The next is at least a bedroom, but it's dark and the person in the bed doesn't seem to be waking up. Is she asleep already? The last door at the end of the hall opens and Kira sticks her head out. Hey, ombre! I shout. She shushes me, she doesn't get the reference. Was I just opening doors? Yes, I was. Her roommates were sleeping! Probably not anymore.

However mad I made her it wasn't all that mad, no one was turning back at this point. We stripped each other and fooled around. We made it into the bed. And then, for some reason, for some godforsaken reason that I shall never know, she stops. She doesn't look upset, or annoyed, or tired, she doesn't really look like anything other than naked. And she says, you should go. I ask her, are you kidding me? Yeah, you should go. No, I'm not doing that. Really, you need to go. We're lying there naked next to each other in her bed as she's telling me this. I got nothing else to go on except the time we've had tonight which I thought was pretty damn good. And it's difficult for me to comprehend a timeline where she's gone this cold this fast. But she has. And so I dress, and I see myself out.

I get to the living room, now intimately acquainted with the floor plan. There, camouflaged on some goddamn white couch, is her jacket. So I pick it up, finally feeling it without distraction. It's mealy to the touch. An unnatural softness. Patches and scrapes of faux cool seem to flake off and crumble between my fingers. And I pull, I just start pulling, hoping I tear the thing in half. But I don't. I can't. I set it down exactly as it was and add it to my list of failures and exit the building. It takes me a moment to realize I know exactly where I am, and though I'm not that close to where I live I start walking. There's a diner on the way home that I've been meaning to try. I stop in. Order a big breakfast. Corned beef hash, eggs, pancakes, orange juice, coffee. I even top it all off with a chocolate milkshake, which gets a laugh from my server. The food is pretty good and I leave a large tip. She did a good job, and I'm feeling generous.

Monday, July 14, 2014

Generator

Don't laugh at me. I'm not good at distinguishing whose side you're on. Don't follow me either. If you must, make sure I cannot hear you. Don't breathe in my ear or get too close, but please don't be too far away. I cannot stand it when people are too far away.

Don't chew with your mouth open, don't smack, don't draw attention to your digestion. There are things that separate us from the animal world and they go beyond killing for sport. Don't kill for sport, and if you do be sure I don't find out. Eat and drink your fill, but for god's sake shut up about it.

Don't sleep too much, but don't sleep too little, but be sure to be just ahead of the other guy. Don't be the other guy. Some guy is always the other guy though. So you'll probably be him sometimes. Sorry about that.

Don't ask me for money. I know you need it. I can't help you.

Don't forget certain names and don't forget certain faces. Sometimes these will match up, sometimes they won't. It's up to you to figure out which. (Other people are fine to forget. Forget them as you're meeting them. They are terrible, and they are many.) When you figure out which, don't forget. Write it down. Matter of fact, keep a notebook. Write everything down. Keep a pen or pencil on you. If something strikes you then write it down. People will comment on this. Let them. One day you will be the one with more memories.

Don't forgive. I'm going against the grain on this one. Maybe it's unhealthy. It's OK to be unhealthy every once in a while.

Don't take my friends for granted. They're not yours, they're mine. I'm letting you borrow them, and one day they'll be gone. Don't be intrusive, jealous, obtuse, or inelegant. Don't trip over your own feet. You've had them an awfully long time and should know how to use them properly by now.

Don't multitask when walking with your children. Give them your time and your energy. They didn't ask to be brought into this world. They are your decision, they are your responsibility, treat them as such. If you do your job correctly then one day they will decide what becomes of you. That's a lot of power to give someone, and you start handing it over sooner than you think.

Don't close the door when I go to bed. I want to see and hear beyond my dark little room. When you close the door I'm alone, and I'm alone enough. I'll be alone when I'm sleeping. And, chances are, I'll be alone when I wake up.

Don't sully the world with your constant bickering, nor your constant enthusiasm. There's no way in hell it's as good or as bad as all that. Expand your vocabulary. Indulge in every page you can. I do not, and I pay the price for it nearly every day.

Don't let's quarrel. That is one of my all-time favorite phrases. I think I heard it in a movie once. But truly. Don't let's quarrel. We can find a way around it. I'd like to try, if you'll help me.

Don't expect me to be perfect. I expect me to be perfect and that's exhausting enough. Don't worry, I don't hold you to the same standards. I couldn't possibly. And I don't mean that as an insult. Also: Don't worry.

Don't stay put in one place for too long. You will become comfortable. You will become sedentary. You will die.

Don't die, I beg of you. Do not leave me here alone.

Sunday, July 13, 2014

Bergenost

I can hear the rain outside my window. There's only a few inches between the pane and the brick, but it's enough for some things to get through. Rain, a handful of light, the scrambling of vermin. I don't know how two houses can be build so close together, but they are. I close my door and the cave is complete. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, find my way back to the bed. I reach out with my hand so as not to hit the post and it grabs a foot. She stirs and I try to climb over her.

"Babe?"

"Go back to sleep."

"Are you just now getting into bed? What time is it?" I wanted her to sleep through the night. "What are you doing going to bed at five?"

"Sleep."

"Don't you have to be up soon?" I want badly to open the window, have the rain come pouring in, have some kind of noise other than this. There is a wind and it has such violent tranquility. Why can't we listen to that?

"I couldn't sleep." I face away from her, try not to rouse her suspicions, try not to breathe in her direction. I don't really want to talk about it which is why I haven't and I'm not.

"What's that smell?"

Bergenost. The entire wedge sliced up with a knife on a wooden cutting board, chewed and swallowed and in my stomach. Delicious buttery triple-cream cheese and now it was all gone, and I didn't feel any better. I didn't feel worse, but I didn't feel any better. I tell her I couldn't sleep so I've been up reading, watching TV, and I had a small snack, that must be what she smelled. It's based in truth and that's close enough. It's a conversation we're not meant to have yet. There are certain things you can't say until later, not this soon, not when it's this new. I'd learned that the hard way. My compulsions always get the better of me. They are not great and they are not terrible, but when they come they come on strong and there's little I can do. Little I want to do. So tonight I took up the knife.

The answer satisfies her and she resumes her side position. I lie beside her, she takes my arm and wraps it around her, clutching my hand. She doesn't know it now, but when she wakes her hand will have the faint aroma of Norwegian cultures.

I wake two hours later, a gut punch. I never threw away the casing. I peeled the green wax as I ate and left it on the den table. I had set it aside and meant to throw it away. She's out of bed. I get up and calmly, directly, go to the table. But the casing is gone. It's not in the kitchen. I look in the trash and see it there. She wasn't supposed to find out like this.

I go back to bed and close the door and for a moment it is the darkest it's ever been. I hear her leave the shower. Her silhouette enters. She knows I'm awake and I can tell. But before she turns on the light, before she dresses, she comes to me, bending over, and kisses me lightly. It's still raining. The wind, it's whistling now. It's tapping on my window, asking to be let in.

Saturday, July 12, 2014

First a Nail, Then a Knuckle

"Aw, I broke a nail."

"Ooh, that hurts."

"Yeah."

"How'd it happen?"

"I don't know, I just looked down and it was broken."

"Oh."

"So it didn't really hurt, I guess."

"Oh, OK."

"It's just cracked a little, but it's like 'Hey, part of this broke, when did that happen, what happens next,' that sort of thing."

"What happens next?"

"Like, I can't do nothing. I can't do nothing to the thing. But I don't want to cut it down so close to the skin."

"I—"

"I mean that's what I'd have to do, it's cracked down to the skin. It's not going to heal. Is it? How long would that take?"

"I don't know, like, a while, I guess—"

"It's not like I can cut it."

"You—"

"I know what's going to happen. I know exactly what is going to happen. What is going to happen is I am going to pick pick pick pick at it and more and more naily bits'll break off, they'll break off and the break will get bigger abd bigger and then I'll have this, it'll be like a hook or something, a sliver of nail sticking off of the nail and then that'll catch on something, and then that'll tear, blood, I'll be bleeding, you'll see the part of the finger that no one's supposed to see, then it's just exposed and it's pain and hell I gotta chop off this motherfucker."

"That escalated quickly."

"Right? I mean, he has to go."

"He?"

"I gotta cut it, gimme your knife."

"What makes you think I have a knife?"

"Dammit, man! Now there's no time!"

"No time for what, no time for what—?!"

"Let's see, a knife, a knife a knife a knife a knife, I must fashion a knife."

"Don't you think you're taking this a little far?"

"There's no time for thinking! There's no time for thought! There is only action, and if I don't act soon then all is lost!"

"It's just a nail!"

"HA! Just a nail. Just a nail?! That's how it starts, friend, that's how it starts. First it's a nail, and then a knuckle, then a finger and hand and arm and torso and before you know it you are bits and pieces and gone and forgotten and you've left a trail of nothing to no one now where do you keep the knives?!"

"I don't keep knives, there are no knives on me!"

"If... if I can't govern my nails... if I can't govern my body... then it's all over. Then I'm as good as dead."

"It's just a little thing."

"That's not the point.

"Hey. It happens. Nails catch. Nails grow back."

"And then what?"

"Then... then you'll have all your nails. I don't know. Then you'll be fine. You'll be fine in the meantime, too."

"I don't want to be fine. I want to be in control."

Friday, July 11, 2014

It's All All Right

I wake up later than I mean to. Do I still have to run today? It's almost when most take lunch. But I figure, yes, I can't stop now. So I lace my shoes, eat a banana and drink just enough water and leave. It's hot but not unbelievably so, and the music in my ears keeps my motivation high and my breathing steady. When I get back I know I'm supposed to have protein so I make eggs. I get in the shower and shower and dress and after I look at the to do list I made the night before. I thought it would help me get things done. I pick it up and look it over, thinking about which of these is the easiest to do and I remember that I can cross off "run." That's good enough for me, and I go out for coffee.

Construction crews have finally packed it up. They tore up my street and made it new, apparently only saw fit to repair the southern half, which is the half I live on so it's fine by me. I don't drive though so I guess it doesn't matter. What does matter is the speed bump they didn't replace. People get into a little residential area and there's no limit so they breeze on through, but they know better. There were two bumps before which helped to alleviate some of the problem. Sometimes cars would slam on the brakes before one and, not expecting the other, race right over it. You'd hear a great scrape, which if you have to put up with these things is the least you can ask for. But now there's just the one and I'm thinking of writing the alderman to ask, hey, what's going on.

I'm walking back with coffee and I hear children screaming. I glance over to the fenced in playground to make sure that's where it's coming from. It is. School's out for summer and the children are everywhere. They're fun-screaming, their parents are letting them, because they're there to watch and they know it's all all right.

Yeah, I look at that and I want to return. Climbing up and sliding down, chasing girls, tag and Cowboys and Indians, whatever you want to be. Mom probably has snacks in her purse, dizzy on the tire swing, can we have a sleepover and stay up watching Star Wars and eat frozen pepperoni pizza. Nap in the car, you were running so hard, you were screaming so loud. I'm smiling at them. I try not to look too much or smile too hard, I don't want to appear that way. But I'm smiling at them, at myself, all the same.

By the time I get back I've decided to knock "vacuum" off next. Nothing wrong with tackling the things that can keep me at home. Right on cue, a taxi zooms through the street, like he was off to save a life. I take out the vacuum and put on a record. Nothing cuts through the motor and suction like Dizzy Gillespie. The trumpet soars and almost makes it fun. I'm trying to make these things fun, but it's the kids who have the right idea.

Maybe it does have to do with saving lives. Maybe two speed bumps on one little street is too many. Maybe the police or the firemen need less so they can get to where they need to go. That almost starts to make sense in my mind, but stops. No. Doesn't make any sense. But it was a decision. It must have been. The city wouldn't've  ripped up a speed bump and not put it back down because, oops, we forgot, sorry about that. I'm seriously thinking of writing my alderman.

At first I don't know what it is, it's hard to sort through the cacophony: cymbals and keys and brass, squawking and bright and loud, the motor, the roar and the sucking. Everything is clashing together and then I can hear them, the children, their screaming. You get to the point where you hear a child scream and you think nothing of it. Children screaming, outside having fun, playing tag or Cowboys and Indians, being whatever they want to be. That's what it is. And then there is the peel of tires, a screeching, there are so many screeches coming from so many places. I turn off the vacuum and pull off the needle and there is a woman's voice, a mother, and her scream pierces through it all.

Thursday, July 10, 2014

Cattle Judging

I felt like mooing, and I almost did, just to see what would happen. It's why they call it that, you know, it's the way it makes you feel, lined up in the hall like that. Dozens upon dozens of versions of the same few guys: average right-around-six-footer; late 20s, early 30s; hair messy and hair tight; sweater and shirt, shirt and tie, shirt and blazer, shirt with nothing; the occasional beach-bound bum with flip-flops. our future boiled down to two minutes and everything true and untrue you can cram on eight by ten inches. The future of the next few weeks, the next few months, the rest of ever. Two minutes, one picture, one long list.

"Hello! I'm Gregor." Nice to meet you, nice to meet you, what do you have for us today, today I am Hamlet. I quickly looked down to drop my smile and then up again with a sneer. "To be or not to be..."

My three deciders passed my face back and forth, scribbling their little notes. Damn little notes. How I hate little notes. I snuck looks when I could. The two gentlemen looked regular enough; one had glasses, one had a beard, these were guys that you knew. But the woman, well, one of these things was not like the other. Some R. Crumb nightmare, a deep sea fish and clown crossbreed dressed in an '80s pantsuit, she reminded my of my high school vice principal whom I truly and vehemently hated. She became my favorite person in the world, however, when she said, "Thank you, Gregor, that was great."

"Thank you!" Four heads nodded in silence, then slowly stopped.

"Do you have something else?"

"Oh, sure. Would you prefer something classical or—?"

"We asked for one classical and one contemporary."

"Yeah, yeah, of course, of course, you got it!"

I threw my Mamet at them and became more accepting, gracious, a fan of, even, those blasted scribbles and notes. They were my little illegible friends. I got my final "Thank you," hiding my snickering in my smile as the sounds of flip flop flip flop marched with undeserved confidence into the room as I left. The fool had no idea what he was doing. He didn't even know he was a fool.

Wednesday, July 9, 2014

She Left Me Again

And I saw her standing there, and I was asking questions but getting no answers. We'd been through this before. But I never thought she'd leave. She'd toss and turn, I'd scream out loud, we never had problems other than those. And she was the best thing that I've ever had happen to me. And she'd toss and turn, standing there, looking at me. And she left. But as I turned around I heard her coming back. And I stopped, my back to her, and I heard her grab her keys, and she left me again.

Tuesday, July 8, 2014

A Last Time of Sorts

The new year was approaching and Duncan didn't have anyone to kiss. In his nightstand he kept a little black book with phone numbers and girls' names. He liked the personal touch. But leafing through its pages he realized he might not receive personal touches of any kind this midnight. The connections were either too brief, too long, too painful, not painful enough. Out of the four dozen or so he only called about six and received just as many rejections.

"Rita, you have to help, you must know some girl who doesn't have a New Year's date."

"Oh my god, New Year's doesn't even matter, Dunc."

"Yes, it does. I'm not going into next year alone." She said that we were all going into next year alone, which didn't really help matters much.

Rita's almost-fiance Hup was hosting the shindig, and Duncan figured he would probably know a decent amount of people there. To him this gave all the more reason to be as nervous as he was. Everyone was pairing up and pairing off and talking about mortgages and the ungodliness of the inevitable suburbs. He felt as though this would be a last time of sorts. So he needed a filly, and he had called Rita, and it sounded as though Rita would pull through. Her friend, June, would be there. There was no need to pick her up, buy her dinner, do anything except show up, refill her drink when necessary, and not act like an ass.

He tied and untied his tie probably a dozen times. And after shining his shoes and applying just enough cologne he only had time for a few mints before heading out the door, not wanting to be too late. Plus his nerves still shook him. His nerves shook him something awful.

Walking on his way it struck him that he should pop into a bar for a quick nip to calm those nerves. He ducked into one that didn't seem to be too crowded, took a seat, and ordered a bourbon. A comely girl set down a glass before him.

"Meeting someone here?"

"No, on my way to a place," Duncan said. "Just thought I'd have a quick one." She smiled, nodded, attended to some other customers. After finishing the drink quicker than he meant to he ordered another. "How's my tie look?"

"Looks good from where I am." She was going to get a big tip. And then, like she had that special sense, she asked, "What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing, nothing at all." He ordered a third and she poured it. "What would you say if a guy like me would come up to you tonight and kiss you? I mean at midnight. Would you let it happen?"

She laughed, but just a little. "I suppose I would, sure. You're cute." It made him feel so good he ordered another bourbon. His nerves were almost completely gone, thank heavens. He made his way to the jukebox to see about something to play. While the discs flipped from right to left he saw the girl, his server, in the corner of his eye. She was putting on her coat, grabbing her purse, meeting a tall and dark and handsome gentleman at the side door. They kissed. Duncan left his money in the juke for someone else, downed his drinks, threw some bills and left. It was snowing now.

Hup answered the door. "Did you fall in the snow?"

"It's snowing," Duncan said, brushing himself, shaking like a mutt.

"I know. Where's your coat?" Had he really not worn a coat? Did he leave it at the bar? He couldn't remember.

All the people blurred together and he squeezed through them until he saw Rita. "Where's... where's...?" She did not look happy, not that the fact lodged with him at the time. It looked like her mouth was opening and she was about to gesture to the young woman next to her. You couldn't really call it making a decision because that would imply that certain faculties were in play, but nonetheless he lunged for the girl, trying to force his mouth on hers, bending bending bending forward as she limboed. What was he doing wrong? Come on, chicky baby! Get into it! It's New Year's!

He woke up on the couch and Hup was making coffee. "I made you a to-go mug. You should scram before Rita gets up." Duncan somehow found the strength to not only get off the couch but also to remain upright. If only all resolutions were that simple. He reached for the mug and saw a note on top.

"What's this?"

"I don't know how it happened but it's that girl's number. You know, the one you tried to eat."

He squinted into his memory and every horrible detail came back; the drinking, the lunging, the limbo. "What?!" The exclamation made his head throb. He was throbbing, every part of him was throbbing. He took the mug and note and left. Snow blinded him. Escaping coffee burned his hand. His nails dug into the numbers. This year was going to be all right.

Monday, July 7, 2014

Green Beans

I'm hoping this chicken sausage is cooked all the way through. I think I cooked it through. It's pink and soft in the middle so I can't really tell. That could go either way right? I don't cook many chicken sausages. Maybe in hindsight I should've microwaved it, had it over quick in thirty seconds just like it said on the package. But I didn't want to do that, it's unnatural. It gives no sign that it's been prepared except for split ends, make's it look like it's gorging. And the grill's busted so pan fry it was.

Then there's the makeshift salad I threw together. Some leftover green beans, I chopped up some cherry tomatoes and some basil that was going bad and threw the rest out. A little olive oil, a little balsamic, a little salt and pepper and you're done. The entree and side almost go together. Not really. The chicken sausage has little bits of sweet apple in it, so sometimes when I bite I worry it's blood. It's not. I think. But the sweetness and the salad, they don't really pair, but I'm not complaining.

The bread is dry. I should have toasted it. There was a rat in my toaster the other night so I'm not using it. Could've used the oven I guess. Hindsight.

I got the green beans from my roommate, Charles. He's an older middle-aged black man, about fifty I'd say. Got divorced a while back, got remarried and divorced again. Now he's left his life to go live by his kids and be a screenwriter. I asked him if he'd ever written before and he said no. I asked if this was the town to be a writer in and he said all he had to do was mail the pages. I asked if he'd pay his rent on time and he said yes. That was all I needed to know.

I don't really see him and when I do he doesn't say much. Four days ago there was a note that said "Have some green beans, in the fridge. I don't want to throw them away." And I haven't heard from him since. I don't even know if he's here nights. Guess I'll worry about it when the first rolls around. I'm happy to have the green beans though. Even if his kids aren't into spending time with him and he gets a stack of rejections, I'm happy for these green beans. It'd be nice if he were around a little more, but beggars and choosers and all that.

That must be quite the feeling. To just quit your life and go someplace new, try out something else. And for him to do it now, I guess I have to hand it to him, tip my hat in his general direction if ever I knew where he was. I bet he's scared. I should be scared. I'm not scared of anything. And I'm sick of these leftovers night in and night out.

My stomach hurts. I'll microwave that sucker next time. Who do I have to be fancy for? Hindsight.

Sunday, July 6, 2014

The Nineteenth Floor

I don't know many in our group. I meet up with Van, supposed to be a quiet night of just us two. Some friends of his end up joining later which is OK, they seem like nice enough people. I just don't know any of them from Adam is all. But they seem like they got their heads on straight. Dylan, this girl, even buys me a shot of whiskey and for a little bit there I think she's into me. She's talking, I'm talking, we're both talking to each other and I think she seems interested. She sure is interested in her boyfriend when he walks in, that's for sure. Think I hear someone call him Dylan, too, but that can't be right.

Turns out this guy is just there to take us away. Let's take this to my loft downtown, he says, and everyone gets real excited. Even Van, although it was supposed to just be the two of us. But who knows what the night has in store? So I don't go home. A bunch of cabs get called and I get in one with three other somebodies. How I ended up wedged in the middle of the back I'll never know, but I'm in between two attractive girls so I can't complain too much. One takes out her phone and basically makes love to it the entire ride, the other searches her purse for a Vicodin. So maybe I can complain a little bit. We get there and get out and whatever guy who's sitting in the front wearing a suit with no tie pays. I don't try to slip him any bills. Looks like he can afford it.

The Man Who Isn't Dylan ushers us all past the night guard behind the desk and we take the elevator to the nineteenth floor. When I was a kid this is the kind of building I thought I would want to live in when I was older: night guards and chandeliers, air conditioned lobby, vague Chinese-looking sitting arrangements in the corner, a sign out front telling people they've arrived. That was making it in my book.

We enter and everything is very tidy, very whole set, real posh. It's not set up for a party or anything, this is just how the guy lives. Maybe if you live as if you're always expecting guests people will actually come over. He puts on music and starts taking out drinks: beer, wine, liquor bottle after liquor bottle. I can see into the guy's cabinet and he's got twelve or thirteen bottles of liquor all at various stages of emptiness and younger me would think he's made it. I don't know, from the looks of it he's sure made something. Everyone seems to know the song that's playing. I don't know what it is, but I feel like it wasn't made for me.

Van hands me a drink, something brownish with ice in it. He gives me a look, Well, I guess we're doing this now. Yeah, I guess we are.

I make my way to one of the balconies. There's a few girls out there, including Dylan, and they're drinking clear drinks with ice, laughing, having a genuine time. I make a crack about jumping, I don't even remember what it was exactly. But it's enough to get the girls to quiet down. Dylan turns to me, says what, so I repeat. Whoa, you're being pretty intense right now, she tells me, and her friends agree. They go inside and I can see Dylan go straight for her hubby, telling him something quietly, looking in my general direction. He comes out to the balcony real friendly like. He asks if I need anything, how I'm doing, if everything's OK. Sure, why wouldn't everything be OK? He gives me another one of these looks I keep on getting and heads back inside to his spoils.

Honestly, who doesn't think about jumping? It would be the easiest thing in the world, and it's the easiest thing to think. I could just take one step, a little hop, I could barely try at all. It's not the falling you're thinking about, it's not the killing yourself. It's the jumping. Not thinking about jumping, that's not normal.

I rest my arms on the railing, look out at the city. I love the skyline, but now I'm in the middle of it, so I can't see it at all. Around me all I see are buildings and streets and cars, tiny little people trying to have a good time, and we could be just about anyplace.

Saturday, July 5, 2014

Seven Lifetimes, Two Days

I'd lie on my bed in the dark before dinner listening to Kind of Blue. I didn't know much about good music but knew this must be it. Must have been made in heaven's what Jimmy Cobb said, and though I was but twelve I was inclined to agree. Sun streaks faded blue through my skylight, my blue walls, they turned a different shade, things darkened around me and my eyes adjusted. I'd stop blinking, things got dark again, I was my own spotlight. I was seeing sound then, my ears pulled in the music coming out of my stereo and it got louder somehow. It was time lesser beings might spend doing homework, but they'd be wrong. They'd only be learning numbers, spelling, wherever the hell the Congo was. They weren't going back. They weren't connecting. They weren't learning how one thing can say a hundred. Here was this perfection sculpted by fingers and mouths and all it took was seven lifetimes and two days. Even then, as a kid, without knowing much of anything at all, I knew that with seven lifetimes and two days I couldn't make something half as good. And that's either a knowledge that's very very good, or very very bad. I'm still trying to figure out which.

Friday, July 4, 2014

My Boyfriend's Lesbian Rainbow

My boyfriend broke up with me for a lesbian. So that's how my life is going, thanks.

I mean, no one's a hundred percent sure whether she is or not, but we figure she is. He and I would talk about it, make jokes even! Or, not jokes, we would never joke about something like that. But he definitely knew what he was doing. He knew when he ended it, and I asked if there was someone else, and he said not really, he knew that he should hide it from me. Because it's ridiculous. It's crushing. It hurts enough when a guy tells you he's bored, he's lost touch, you're not good enough anymore. But when you ask why and he throws this fantasy in your face, it's all you can do to not pull his ears off.

I just started laughing. I laughed right in his fucking stupid beautiful face. I had to ask him to repeat himself because come on. He would rather try to court a lesbian than work out with me whatever isn't working out for him. And fine maybe she isn't a lesbian, maybe she'll fall for him and go down on him long and hard like he always wants but my god.

He didn't even tell me anything was wrong. He didn't show me any signs. Maybe if he had done something to let me know that things were winding down. Just to lessen the blow. But he knew what he was doing and he knew it was ridiculous and he knew it would hurt even more than it should. It's like if he broke up with me for an Asian girl and said, "Don't worry, she won't be Asian for long!" You cannot change who you are, sir. I guess if he'd rather chase that dyke rainbow more power fucking to him! I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. God, these circumstances are just the worst.

Maybe that's the point. I guess he is who he is. So I guess it's good I'm rid of him, but it still hurts to say. I hope he does get her. And that she falls hopelessly head over heels in love with the jackass. And then leaves him for some gorgeous, buxom woman. I hope she falls in love with me. That'll learn him to bust my heart.

Thursday, July 3, 2014

Sugarloaf Park

I don't really drive my car anymore. Mostly I walk nowadays. But every once in a while I'll take it out of the garage, dust her off, take her for a joy ride. Just for fun.

It's a 1969 Mercury Cougar and it's as red as your blood. Birthday present when I turned 17 right before junior year and I'll tell you right now, that thing changed my childhood. I could've been beaten by my father and scolded by my mother every day up until that point, but when they put the keys in my hand I would've forgiven them everything. I had a pretty good growing up, but that car, that made it.

Kids looked at me differently. Their parents did. I'd see teachers in the parking lot smoking, whispering and pointing and scowling at me. It was great to get the attention, but it was the teachers that made me smile the most. I was never a bad kid, but I always got the feeling my teachers thought I had something up my sleeve. Maybe it's my hair or my eyes, the way I dressed, I don't know. I got nothing up my sleeves, folks.

Here's how great that Mercury was: Gwendolyn Pryce noticed me. Divine, cheerleader, blonde, senior, everything every guy ever wanted since he realized kicking and flirting were the same thing. I idolized this girl from day one. She was the girl of my dreams, my soulmate, my one-and-only, I was sure of it. I had her scent of vanilla caught in the back of my head. I'd go out of my way to pass her in the hall, or end up by her locker, or walk behind her to class. I'd overhear her talking about Muddy Waters and my heart would almost stop. I lusted after the pale yellow sweater she wore, bumped against it whenever I could find a plausible excuse. For whatever reason I love that color. Pale yellow. I don't know what it is.

It's a Wednesday after dinner and I'm stopped on the corner in town with my buddy, Teddy. Gwendolyn is just over there with a few friends, talking outside the drug store. She walks up to me and says, This your car? I can't think of a thing to say so I just nod. How's it drive, she asks. I say, somehow without stuttering, Why don't I show you sometime? She flashes those pearly whites and nods back. She nods back, right at me, like I'm a person. I can't even hear the horn honking behind me when she leaves. Teddy tells me how unbelievably cool it was that I just nodded to her, and I decide to let him believe it.

We only went out the once, to Sugarloaf Park. It's one of those Inspiration Point or Makeout Creek places you see on '50s television, where all the kids go before or after the malt shop. Fool around, smoke some grass, look at the trees, whatever. It's a place you don't think really exists, but it does. I wasn't trying to force anything on her, it was her idea even. We went out for pizza and then drove there. It wasn't late, maybe nine o'clock, but there was already a row of cars. It was pretty quiet except for the gentle white noise of rocking vehicles. Puts thoughts into your head, that sound.

She's the first person to make a move. She's really the only person. After a moment talking about how beautiful the view is—lights and trees and the moon and all that, real idyllic, a real picture—she leans over to me, kisses me, presses her lips against mine. She pulls back after a few seconds.

It was nice. I can't lie and say it wasn't. But after two years of fawning over this girl, that's all it was. It was nice. It wasn't earth-shattering, it wasn't spectacular, it wasn't the end-all-and-be-all experience I thought it would be. No heavens opened up, no fireworks went off, nothing like that. It just didn't click. I don't know. It didn't feel right. Wherever her soul was it wasn't near mine. And I got really quite incredibly nervous after that, like I was a freshman again. And after a few more minutes of straight silence she asked me to drive her home.

When we pulled up I told her to please not tell anybody about what happened. She scoffed at me and said, Why would I tell anyone about this? Like it was the craziest notion, like talking about it would be just as humiliating for her as it would be for me. She closed the car door hard. That was the last noise she ever made in my direction.

I still live in town. I still drive to Sugarloaf from time to time. It's changed a little, but the spirit remains the same. There's the careless sex and several potheads who are fascinated with the Mercury. I'll talk for a little while and I'm mostly polite, but I'm not there for them.

I went on lots of dates with lots of girls. I had my sex and smoked my grass. I had a couple relationships that even lasted a few years. But nothing went anywhere worth going to. Nothing ever felt right. Their souls never felt near mine. Or maybe mine wasn't near theirs. I don't know. But every single girl had a bit of that Sugarloaf feeling. Some worse than others. But it was always there.

She's out there somewhere. Whoever's meant for me. I haven't found her yet and maybe I never will. But that doesn't make the feeling any less true. So I'll take out my Mercury from time to time and go for a spin. I'll sit and look out at the town, looking over at the passenger's seat with that white noise in my ear. I'll go home and lie down on the bed and look across from me. And as I look I can imagine her, somewhere else, near or far away, lying down in her bed, looking over at my phantom, thinking the exact same thing I am. There's solace in that.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Just Another Motion

I've been looking at this woman ever since I got on, and at this point I don't even care if she sees me. I doubt she does. Her son—can't be more than four or five—is taking up most of her attention, or at least whatever's left after her phone. Not that he should be. He changes positions to sit on his knees. She grabs his arm, pulls him back to sitting regular, and tells him to behave.

"What's your name?" he asks the elderly woman to his right.

"Denise," she tells him.

"Anthony!" His mother grabs his arm again. "What did I tell you about bothering people? Huh?" She shakes her head. She never cared about an answer, and apparently Anthony knows this because he doesn't give her one. He's been through this before.

The little boy rubs the spot where his mother's grip was, trying to make it feel better. He reaches over to her. The music I could already hear across the aisle gets louder when she yanks out one of her earbuds.

"What?"

"Can I have my juice box?" You'd think he was asking for one of her teeth. A purse that small can't hide a juice box for very long, and it doesn't. When he's done he hands it back and she throws it under her seat. Careless.

He locks eyes with me and smiles. I smile back. This is a good kid. He waves. I wave back. She shoves his hand down.

On the bus everything is real life. This is why people hate it. It reminds them of the world. I want to say something, anything, but I know it'll only fall on deaf ears. People would be quick to say it's not my place. But looking at this scene I can't help but think my place is a whole hell of a lot better than hers.

She pulls on the line for the next stop, and I decide it's close enough for me. I want to see her more. I want to believe I caught the bad minutes. I want to believe that something happened today to make her this way. I want a lot of things I'll never get.

The moment she's two feet from the bus she reaches into her purse. She pulls out cigarettes, takes one out, lights it. She starts walking, Anthony lagging behind, shuffling his sneakers the way a nervous kid does when he's forced into doing something.

"Hurry up!"

So he runs up to her, hand outstretched to meet hers. She's blind to this, facing the other way, and brings her hand back while walking. To her it's just another motion, it's a thing that happens when you walk. The boy lets out a shriek when his mother's cigarette ash burns his arm. And all she can do is yell at him, wondering why this boy is crying for no reason.