Juvenile Seurat

And around the corner, outside the back door to the lunch room, the one no one used that much, that's where the gum wall was. A slab lining the walkway just outside the door, helping to support whatever classroom was above it. It didn't share the same brown and red mix of brick with the rest of the school. On top of that, caked and plastering it all, was a stucco of ancient gums. Mint and bubble and fruity and sugarless and with flavor and appeal long gone. Spat violently by dozens, hundreds, of tweens that passed through those three grades over the years. Each chewed-up stick added to the students' masterpiece, their own juvenile Seurat or Pollock.

Brandon was just one kid. One of the he-didn't-even-know-how-many who would spit at the wall. And almost every day! Maybe it was because they had never actually caught a student doing it, maybe it was because they didn't care, maybe it was because in their own little nostalgic way they actually liked it. Whatever the reason, the faculty did nothing about the wall, and the wall always remained. Until that penultimate recess when Brandon spit out his Big Red, and Mr. J. put his hand on his shoulder.

There is the notion of retributive justice, that a punishment should never be cruel or unusual, that it should fit the crime. It is something on which this country is based. But middle schools, sadly, are not countries. And when Brandon's class returned after summer vacation twelve weeks later to find that the wall was clean, that every scrap of gum was missing, he had to explain what his summer had really been like. Why he couldn't make all those sleepovers and trips to the beach. He had to explain about the chisels, and picks, and buckets, and the horrid stench of it all. He, not the administration, not any teacher, not Mr. J., had to explain to his friends that his hand was forced to destroy this thing that they, and so many others before them, had built. It was crude, it was grotesque, but it was theirs. And then it was gone.

Host

You should try the ham and the apples. Together! No, together. Take the apple and then take the ham and wrap it around the apple. There should be a small dish of blueberry mustard there, too. Put that on, dab on just a little bit. It elevates the flavor profile, trust me.

Oh, those? They're sautéed mushrooms with a balsamic glaze. If you don't like mushrooms you should try those mushrooms. It will totally change what you thought you thought about mushrooms. That's what it did for me, and that's why they're there! I hope someone here will have the same experience. You should definitely try them.

Janey wanted to be a part of the evening, she's so cute like that. I asked if she wanted to help me with the deviled quail eggs but she said no, she wanted to do the whole dish herself, and she had this treat at a friend's house recently that she wanted to make. It's that one over there. You take a spinach tortilla, and make a horseradish-cream cheese spread, lay down some roast beef, some provolone, and some red onion. She didn't want the red onion because she doesn't like onions but I insisted. Then you roll everything up, cut them into little discs, and there you go! I think there are a few left. They're fine!

Those are just store-bout frozen mini quiches. I don't know who brought those.

What I'm really proud of is the green pea basil dip. It's like a pesto, but with a more complicated flavor profile. There are peas in it, and there's some basil and olive oil and other things and you whip it all up in your food processor. I like it best with jicama. You haven't had jicama?! It's Mexican I think! A sort of translucent whitish watery and crispy kind of vegetable. That probably didn't make it sound very good... But trust me! I had the last piece otherwise you could try it. The co-op should have some. If you haven't been there you need to go there. They have the most amazing local cheese-filled bratwursts.

Speaking of cheese-stuffed, I have to admit that one of my favorites is the goat cheese-stuffed peppers. Donna brought them and I hate her just a little for it. I wish I'd made them. I was going to make something similar but decided against it. Mine would have been a little more complicated—my recipe wraps them in ham—but hers are pretty delicious. Oh, but don't tell her I said that, OK? No reason, just... don't. Thanks!

Are you having a good time? This must be so exciting for you! We're really happy to have you in the neighborhood. These little things happen, well, I guess they don't happen every month, but mostly every month. I host them. No, I host them. Um... I guess you could... host one if you want. Can you cook? Haha, I guess anyone can cook. That's what my grandmother always said: "If you can read, you can cook." Haha! But can you cook?

Oh. No, I love your mini quiches, really. They remind me of my college parties! Such nostalgia. And you didn't even try! Cheese and spinach. Absolutely delicious.

Well... enjoy yourself!

South African Spices

I wake up with the smokey taste of South Africa in my mouth. This is why you always floss before you go to sleep. Bits of food, they get caught in your teeth and then they sit there and rot. That's what with all the bad breath, people. It's rotting food. It's a mouthful of rotting food. Think about that the next time someone's breath hits you wrong. You need to floss. Me, I have these potato chips in there. Covered in quote-unquote Authentic South African Spices. I don't really know what that means. Tasted like barbecue to me.

I get the floss out—waxed mint, the cheap stuff, but it gets the job done—and get to work. And it gets the job done. That side of me, and we all have it, gets the better of me again like it tends to do and I sniff the floss. I get mint, and I get rotting South African barbecue potatoes. This must be what the country smells like when old meat gets thrown out. I assume they put this spice on everything, I don't know. If it's named after the entire country itself it makes sense, right?

There's a lot in there, there's a lot to get out, and it takes me a second to remember that I polished off that whole bag. The guy at the checkout, he told me they'd be unremarkable at first, but that they'd grow on me. Guess the empty bag's all you need for proof of that statement.

It wasn't my intention, you know? To eat the entire bag. A couple guys from work—friends, I was hoping—were gonna come over and watch a game, crack some beers, chow down on some snacks. It was going to be one of those nights that guys have together. Well, they ended up not coming over. Some vague reason about something, I don't remember, whatever it was it was not worth remembering. It's not a big deal, I guess, it wasn't going to be a night to remember or anything like that. Just a regular fun night is what I was hoping for. Thought maybe we could start something out of the office, you know. Maybe not. Anyway, it's not like it's a big deal. I guess. But it did get me going. And it got me to that bag of potato chips. And, well.

I've heard things around the office. Not big, not a lot, but some small things, a few. Which doesn't make them any easier to hear. I guess I can relate to those Authentic South African Spices. They might be nothing special at first, OK, but give them time, keep taking 'em in and taking 'em in. Sooner or later the whole bag'll be gone. Then again, maybe some people just want barbecue.

I throw the floss away and see there's little stranded bits of chip on my finger, leavings from the unwinding. I flick at the trash, I flick and I flick, but there's something about this little speck of rotting food. It just doesn't want to get thrown away.

It's Saturday Night!

"What should I blog about?"

"Your all-time SNL cast!"

"It's fiction."

"A dragon's all-time SNL cast."

Fred Armisen
John Belushi
Will Ferrell
Will Forte
Bill Hader
Phil Hartman
Eddie Murphy
Bill Murray

Amy Poehler

Gilda Radner

Maya Rudolph
Andy Samberg

Kenan Thompson

Kristen Wiig

A dragon

Street Corner Gospel

He was standing on the corner, same corner as always, that old man, The Reverend Whatever. Standing on a literal soapbox, or apple box, some kind of box. Preaching the gospel to whoever would listen which usually wasn't many. Today was no different.

"Do you think you can get into Heaven by simply doing good deeds?" he asked to no one in particular.

"Yes," I said. I was surprised by my lack of hesitation. I guess it's easy to tell the truth.

"No," the Reverend told me, "you cannot. It is a common misconception. That getting into Heaven requires nothing more than being a good person. No. That's too easy."

"This is easy though, isn't it?" some lady said.

"The Lord's work is far from easy!" he cried. "Which is why entrance into His holy realm should also be far from easy! Does it not follow? Does it not make sense?" Some agreed, some didn't. "You must let Jesus into your heart! You must accept him as your Lord and Savior!" Some agreed, some didn't.

I wished the Reverend would not look my way, and this is when he did. "Son," he said, "have you? Do you?"

"I let Jesus into my heart," I told him. "But then he broke it. So what now?"

The Reverend had no words for me. I guess it's easy to tell the truth.

Cycle

"PLEASE HOLD HANDLE DOWN UNTIL CYCLE IS COMPLETE." This was the sign in front of me as I was taking a piss. This is what we have to be told. We have to be told this, us, human beings. We are so conditioned, so fond, so set on starting a job and leaving before it's done, and it goes all the way down to our piss and shit. I would laugh were it not so vile and sad.

A Pipe's-Worth of Pond-Thoughts

Don't, little duckies! Why are you fighting? Sweet little ducky family. Look so lovely with your slicked back feathers, look so cute sticking up out of the water on your hind parts. Clean that plumage! Sweet little ducky family. Your children though, those ducklings, well they don't seem that small. Maybe that's why the noise, the fighting, the show, the flapping your wings sticking out of the water on your hind parts. Why, you're probably a bunch of teenagers, thirteen, seventh graders, the worst sort of duckies. Flying at each other, skidding across six feet of water. Some attack? Splashing? Why does one of you need to be the bigger ducky? You're both the same size!

There's two dozen of you duckies. That's no family, that's a regular society. You got yourselves a community, duckies. How's that make you feel? I bet it feels good. Swimming and quacking and standing in the mud. It looks real pleasant, to be among your own, to congregate and have a place.

Uh-oh, look out for these three swans! What will they do? No, they're much too important. Much too beautiful, swannies, far too majestic, cannot be bothered with the commonness of a commune of duckies. Ain't it always so?

There's one seagull in the bunch. You're gonna be found out, gully! Get out while you still can! But I suppose he's just looking for a friend. He's just looking for his place. And he's looking for it amongst a bunch of ducks, because he doesn't know any better. Ain't it always so.

And here's this lone squirrel. And he's just staring at me, sitting there, wanting to know if I have any food. Wanting maybe to be my friend. Wondering, What's he all about? When I know, squirrely, I'll tell you. I'll tell you.

Those duckies, they're having the time of their life. It's a good thing to see.

Elbow Grease

She looked good, obviously, I can agree with that, sure. But I looked good, too. We all looked good that night, for god's sake. That's what you do when you go out. You look good. It's what's supposed to happen.

And after they were using it as an excuse. See the heels? See the legs? Did you see her, man? Yeah. Yeah, I fucking saw her you animals. I'm going to see her for the rest of my life. Are you? I hope you are.

Just because a woman embraces her sexuality it doesn't give anyone the right to use that sexuality against her. And just because I say this doesn't mean it's going to stop. Maybe I'm no different, and I have to live with that nightmare. I'm a part of this, whether I want to be or not.

It takes work. It takes real work. And nobody wants to work anymore.

Bio

She had never seen him act before, never seen him onstage. She wasn't even much of a theatre-goer, but tonight she was beaming, she was thrilled. That was going to be her boy up there, her man, her sweetheart. He was going to be the star. He was the star!

She opened the program. Flipping through she saw steely gazes, accolades, recent work and websites. She stopped on his familiar face, that toothy smile, that dimpled chin. She read his carefully, taking twice the length of time she normally would on each word.

She got to the end: "Endless love to his parents, and to" her. She blinked hard, and the lights dimmed.

The show was good. It was good and then it was over. She waited for him in the lobby. She had two plastic cups of white wine.

Love? Endless love? He had never used that word, certainly never accompanied with the qualifier endless. And to place her next to his parents like that. Were those loves equal? Not in that he loved her as a mother, but that the strength and depth of love for his mother matched that of his love for her. Were they the same? My god, were they equal?

If it were true, how come he'd never said it? How come he couldn't say it? What was stopping him, holding him back? Was this his way of being romantic, his idea of a Grand Romantic Gesture? Was he merely adding any word to stuff his bio? Did he, even more frightfully, merely replace another girl's name with hers? Did he not mean it? Was it a mistake? Which of these things was worse? My god, was she already on her third cup of wine?

The dimple emerged. Her thoughts shuttered themselves. She congratulated him on a wonderful performance (which it was). He asked her what was wrong. She told him nothing, played like he was the fool for thinking it. But she was glad he noticed.

What was keeping her back? What was she waiting for? Was she waiting for that Gesture? Would she mean it when it came? Was it endless? Was it there at all? My god, were they equal?

Even Respect

"So," he said. He was basically a child. "What happens now?"

"What do you want to happen now?" She was nice, lovely even, and treating him with what felt like respect. Respect even.

He didn't want to answer right away. "Does it happen where they just want to talk? I've seen that in movies. Where they sit and talk and nothing happens."

His innocence brushed her back. "Yes," she told him. "Sometimes that happens. Sometimes they just want to talk."

"What about?" he asked.

"Anything really. Mostly work and wives, wives and work."

He smiled. "Just like in the movies." She smiled back. There was some small laughter. She was enjoying herself. Him. "That's a relief."

"Why?" she asked.

"I'm glad there are still men like that." He stood, and turned quieter. She was there on the bedspread, and he felt insane. "Undress."

Passes

"Larry? Larry? Larry. Larry! What'd you do with my bus pass, Larry?"

"I don't know."

"What'd you do with my bus pass, Larry?"

"I don't know."

"What'd you do with our bus passes, Larry? So we can ride the bus all night, Larry? Larry? Larry!"

"I don't know."

"Is that it, you don't know? Larry? Larry. You don't know? Is that a good idea, Larry? Losing our bus passes, Larry? Is that a good idea? Is it? Larry, is it a good idea, Larry?" Larry doesn't know. Larry stays quiet. His friend moves to the front. Three girls are falling out of their shirts.

"Wow. Larry! Larry! The Charlie's Angels are up here!"

"That's right! We are!"

"Woo!"

"You're like the Charlie's Angels. Larry! Charlie's Angels are up here! All three of them." Larry doesn't know. "You. Are. Beautiful."

"Everyone's beautiful!"

"Stop it."

"The whole world is!"

"Yeah!"

"Larry!" Larry doesn't know.

"That girl's more beautiful than us."

"Which?"

"That one right there!"

"Yeah. She's beautiful, too!"

"The whole world's beautiful!"

"Even me?"

"You guys."

"Of course!"

"You hear that, Larry? I'm beautiful! Hell, you are, too!" Larry doesn't know.

"Yeah!"

"Where are you going tonight?"

"Where does it look like we're going?"

"Don't."

"What?"

"A party."

"Yeah!"

"Woo!"

"Charlie's Angels, going to a party!"

"Woo!"

"You guys."

"So what do you guys do? You nurses? Artists?"

"What do we look like we do?"

"Haha!"

"You're artists!"

"Haha! No, we're nurses."

"Haha!"

"Stop..."

"Larry. Larry! These angels are nurses! Saving lives. Saving lives, Larry!" Larry doesn't know. "Don't fall asleep, Larry. Larry. Larry! Wake up, Larry! No bus passes, Larry! Wake up! We're going to a party, Larry!"

"Haha!"

"You guys..."

"Woo!"

"We're going to a party!"

But the men got off with me. It was hot, humid, but I buttoned my jacket.

"You hear that, Larry? They were talking to me. Like I was on that bus with them. A party, Larry. A party. Wow." I unbuttoned, already sweaty-browed, smelly and deserving. "We can get new bus passes, Larry. I'm sorry. We can get new bus passes." The whole world is beautiful. I like that.

Sarcophagus

Another new house went up. Another one of cinder block and brick. That's all the new houses are these days. Getting to be that they look more like office buildings, museums than anything else. Not homes. Certainly not homes.

Take this... house. Nine large rectangular windows face the street. Grey brick, greyer mortar, the thing itself looks like a cinder block.

But inside, through the windows, you see something else. High-backed chairs line a wall of the first floor. Ornate tapestries. A statue of some young cherub or pixie, some pointing nymph. Gold-gilded desks, with matching pedestals, with other matching desks. There is a vase perched on the second floor, covered in purple and green and gold, empty. There is gold on everything, it seems. There is plenty to look at. There is so much on display. The front yard is still nothing but dirt, and the knob-less front door is locked shut with thick wire.

No one's been seen yet. Going in or out. The only sign of life is the glow from the flatscreen TV on the third floor, which can be seen every night. Ask around. No one goes in. No one comes out.

It is a tomb for the living dead. They are rotting as they breath. They must surround themselves with things. They must make it beautiful somehow. They must take it with them. And the kicker, the joke of it is, if a storm were to come tomorrow, the winds and floods, if the hand of God Himself came thundering down, which of the houses do you think would be left standing?

I hope it keeps them safe at night. I hope their stomachs are settled, their minds at peace. I hope they can breathe easy, so, so easy. Wrapped up in bed, counting their Egyptian threads to sleep.

Knight on the Rim

I never like being on the train alone. And in the middle of the day? It's unsettling. You try and tell me otherwise.

But this is the scene of yesterday. I get onto the train—in none too unpopulated an area, at a time when I assume people will be riding—and I walk onto the car, and it's just me. And I'm thinking, Did I miss something here? At night it makes sense, you get on up north and it's late and you're the only one, but never for very long. And there's always that part of you that's thinking, What happens if some nogoodnicks get on here, and we're alone, and what'll they try? No matter who you are there's some part of you that's thinking that. But at night all this seems normal. With the sun out and the birds chirping, it just isn't right.

That only lasted for one stop, when I was joined by this certain guy, crashed onto a seat right across from mine. He had an unfortunate grey ponytail, accompanied by an unfortunate paint-splattered grey UV Vodka T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. I remember it well, because there is a certain kind of guy who wears a UV Vodka T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and he was this certain kind of guy. He had paint stuck to his arm hair, bags under his eyes. He looked tired, and dry.

He had his cell phone in his hand, the flipping kind, and it was open. He turned his attention to it rather aggressively, obviously in the middle of something. His mouthed pursed and bunched from side to side until his fingers finally clicked whatever he decided. This was met by a few seconds of silence. "Garbage!" he yelled after that. The train slowed down, stopped, and then kept moving.

The vodka man looked all over that screen, I'm not even sure how, it was so small, but he did. I had no book, no paper, no music, no way of doing anything but staring slightly off from straight ahead. How do I avoid this guy? Pretend I'm asleep? Move? I was here first.

He made another selection and shortly after yelled another "Garbage!"

"Attention passengers, attention passengers, we will be standing momentarily due to track maintenance. We apologize for the inconvenience."

"Goddamn garbage!" he yelled. It was too late. We were looking at each other after that. "Knight to h5," he explained. "Left my queen open and I didn't even see it." This was not what I expected him to say. "Dim, dim. And they're right."

"Well," I told him, "that's real tough. You gonna try and get her back?" I asked him.

"Gotta try," he said. He looked at me with—at least I think it was—sincerity. A little too much, a little too much for this subject, and toward a stranger. "Are they gonna start this goddamn garbage train?!" Operator seven cars up must've heard him, because the train started up after that. And the vodka man looked back down at his phone. And I just sat there, watching him. He bit his lower lip from time to time. He'd squeeze his eyes and I knew he was thinking Garbage! He smiled heartily, the moment when I imagined he got his queen back. But I was wrong. It was a call.

"Hey, honey. No, I'm on the train. But I'll be home soon. I'm hurrying, believe me, I'm hurrying"

Twenty-three minutes we shared that train car, just the two of us. And when I got off and one other person got on, taking my place, I don't know why, it upset me. Took me a while to remember where I was going.

Portland

My parents just got back. They were in Portland for a week. The Oregon one. They liked it, but they're back now. They went to a used book store that they loved. Powell's. I don't know if it's connected to the ones in Chicago. I assume it might be. But I don't know.

They wanted to take a vacation and Portland is what they chose. They went to Crater Lake. Deepest lake in the world, I think. I think it used to be a volcano, or it was where a crater hit. There was a big hole and it got filled up with water. Strange thing is there aren't any waves. The water sits there, still. Until it's disturbed by all those bodies, whoever wants to swim.

I always wanted to go there. Somewhere in the Pacific Northewest. Growing up, it's the one place I always wanted to visit. Family vacation rolled around and that was my input. It was never honored. Now I have to go there on my own. I guess that's something I have to do.

Mom and Dad had never been to Portland. Now they have. They've been in a lake inside a mountain. They've seen the coast out there. The rain. The grey. They've seen what I always wanted to see. I guess there's always time to want things.

I'll make it out there. I will. When I'm ready. Maybe when I'm old. Mom and Dad didn't tell me about much and I didn't want them to. They told me about the bookstore and that was enough. But they have books everywhere. Still. I'd like to go. Get a book. Read it. Get it wet in the rain. I'd like to get there. I'd like to get there.

Thanks, Mom and Dad.

Midnight Sun

"Bugga bugga bugga!"

"Stop!" I said. "I need to concentrate."

Goose laughed. "Big-time musician you are," and he sipped his bourbon.

"It kills me when I know a chart and can't name it. Wait, just wait."

There were lines and notes and they were so distinct. They were only what this could be, they were nothing else! Improvisation, sure, but within the confines of the progression. What were they?

"Excuse me, sweetheart?" Goose again, as he does. "Or... Mary! Mary, it's Mary right?"

"Yeah, it's Mary."

"Mary, my darling, please bring me another one of these and put it on that man's tab."

I let it happen, I was treating him. It was what we do, we're just nice like that I guess. But his constant interruptions while I was trying to place the tune I could not handle. It is, my friends, infuriating when you fell something inside and you cannot put a name to it.

"Bugga bugga bugga!"

It was jolting and unnecessary and he paid for his drinks after that. Or he would have, had we stayed much longer. It was "Midnight Sun." That is what it was.

Project Analysis

You're forgetting why you're doing this. You're forgetting why you're here. This has become a chore, hasn't it? It's become so last-minute, so secondary, so unimportant. Hasn't it? You don't think so? Let's hear your argument then.

That's what I thought.

Go back. Go back to the time when you said, Yes, this is what I will do. Go back to the place where it was a good idea, where you were full of good ideas. What's changed? Hmm? what has changed? Are you not having fun anymore, are you older, are you more cynical, what have you lost, what have you gained, is it something tangible or something that's far harder to measure? Is it in your pocket, up your sleeve, in your glass? Have you any glass at all? Have you a care in the world, or too many, and which is worse? Are you asking yourself Why too much? Not enough? Have you moved on from Why at all?

Ah, see, there it is. That's why this is a chore. You haven't moved on. You're still in the same place you were when you started. It's become a mystery. Because it was supposed to be a journey, yet here you are. Peddling a stationary bicycle. Sweating, panting. Exhausted, going nowhere.

Now you know what needs to be done. Will you do it? Will it be too late?

No. It is never too late.

Fetch

That dog sprang from the door like a greyhound. It's some sort of black lab or something, a house dog, a pet. And that awful child accompanied it. It, he, threw a tennis ball while I smoked a stale cigarette and tried to enjoy it, myself, this. The lab, dog, went running as a speeding car followed close at its side. The car, child, dog, had things to do. My cilia grew evermore tiresome. It was a night too cold for a night like this.

The dog got its ball. The car backed halfway up down the block. Into a spot just big enough. And I would wake up wanting water.

Nostril Job

"She smells like wine and hairspray. But the expensive stuff."

"How can you tell the price by smelling?"

"I've trained myself, I just can."

It took me years to perfect my nostrils' job, but I'd done it. And an instant—a whiff—was all I needed in order to know everything there was to know. All I needed to know, anyway. Smell is memory, so smell is the past, and everything you're doing will soon become a memory, too, so then smell is the future, so then smell is everything.

You can tell a lot from the way people smell. What odors inhabit their lives. What they cook, how they clean, where they work, how they want to be remembered. I don't remember much about the love in my life, but I remember the way each smelled. Skin and shampoo, hair and perfume, slept-in uncleanliness. I know what I have to do to rid my room of this fried Hawaiian food smell, I know I have to change my shirt. And when I put on a new shirt I should probably put on an undershirt underneath that shirt, because I've been perspiring a lot lately and I don't want people to smell that smell. That smell, one of those smells, that's me. That me is too real, too true, too me. I can't have just any stranger smelling that me. We must leave some things to the imagination.

And that imagination is largely under our control, as the passerby vixen had so clearly figured out. When she closed the door she knew exactly what she was doing, and who she was. Or, at least, who people would think she was. And that is half the battle.

We took long, deep breaths. I turned my head and took a step, I pulled the air to my nose with my hands, I was a real fool. My friend laughed at me. He'd seen this act before.

"Why do you do that?" he asked.

I held my breath, kept my eyes closed, as the girl walked away. "Because she's giving us something. Now I know her. Now I will always know her."

We continued walking in silence, and when people passed I noticed my friend's eyes closing, his nostrils opening, his mouth discerning. Sometimes I even saw a smile.

 

Security Measures

Sometimes—and this is true, people—credit card information gets stolen, from large corporations. Like Walmart, and other businesses. This is a thing I've read or at least heard about, and probably on the news, too. Also, news sites.

Yes, you think your information is safe because you've given it to a giant, big corporation. You're thinking, "Hey, this business probably has lots of security measures in place to keep me, the consumer, Shirley Q. Consumer, safe. Now on to the rest of my day!" Or you might be John Q. Consumer. You get the picture.

But you'd be wrong! There are lots of ways smart people like hackers can get past those "security measures" I talked about earlier just a few sentences ago. This is what they do, people, this is their lives. You really think some John Q. Security is going stop them? Think something else.

Your whole life—well, not, like, your whole life—but a bunch of really important things could get stolen from you because you just had to get those Mickey Mouse cookie cutters and all those "Cool College Styles" for your shitty kids. And now some basement dweller codenamed AnthraxRIPper is buying himself a new Miata! Nice one.

So the next time you think about handing over that little piece of plastic that has all your financial DNA on it—think again! Think something else.

See You Soon

Text: "See you soon <3"

 

He left in the middle of Dave's party, in the middle of Paul's story, just to see to this text. All the guys understood. They would have done the same thing. It was, after all, a text from a girl.

Right off the front stoop he realized he wasn't sure where in the city he was. He knew he was pretty far north (maybe far west?). He was fifteen minutes' walking distance from any train (why would anyone live up here? Just 'cause it's cheap?) and he didn't know the buses well enough. The horrible indicator on his phone told him he had but minutes of battery life left, and he had to conserve what he could. So he just started running. The half-dozen beers he had downed gave him a superhuman speed (so he felt), and just enough I don't care what any of these people think of me to propel him down the street.

Text: "Where r u?" He was running, baby, he was running.

He got to a busy intersection that looked somewhat familiar, and threw his arm in the air. A taxi pulled up within seconds, a big minivan number, and he felt almost bad being its fare. When he opened the door he saw that the taxi van was made especially for people in wheelchairs, and then he felt really bad. Or as bad as a horny drunkard can feel when he's terribly out of breath. These feelings did not last long, however, and soon he was on his way.

Text: "..." What does that even mean?!

He checked the distance. Good lord, it was a ways. He looked online to see what the cost of the cab would probably be. This cabbie better take a card, and tonight better be good. His buzz was fading. He hoped she had booze. Of course she would have booze! Who doesn't have some drinks prepared for a night like this?

Of course the card reader took forever. Do you want a copy of your receipt? I want my card back, guy!

He got to the door and halted. Three apartments marked with only last names. Her last name, her last name, her last name... He checked his phone (dead). He checked the corners of his brain (unusable). He remembered some mentioning of hauling her mattress up three flights of stairs (bingo!) and buzzed Number 3.

He buzzed. And buzzed. And buzzed again.

And eventually he saw feet. Feet connected to legs connected to a giant The Cure T-shirt. It was her, all right. Her hair was slightly matted, she had a creased cheek. She opened the door, squint-eyed.

"What are you," she said, "what, who are you?"

"You were texting me?" he said.

"Yeah...?" she said.

"You told me to come here...?"

She was not amused. "That was, like, an hour ago."

"Yeah," he defended, "but... I told you it would take an hour or something to get here. So..."

She waited. "So...?"

He waited. "So..."

She was done. She shut the door and walked back up the three flights. How much had that cab cost him again? It wasn't important. He was near his neighborhood now. He thought. He would find out. The walk would do him good. If nothing else, he would work off that alcohol.

Faded Edges

The leaves were the first thing he noticed. It was perhaps the first time he realized the trees weren't green, but were covered in thousands of things that were green. It was perhaps the first time he ever really saw the world at all, anything other than faded edges. Not a sight, nor a thought, for a twelve-year-old to have.

He cried on the way to the eye doctor's, he cried before getting his glasses. He did not want them. He cried when he put them on, looking out the window as his mother drove him home. He walked by countless trees every day, and yet had never seen one. It was the fastest car ride of his young life.

Small Things

It was different back then, when you could just kill a man. Challenge him to pistols at whatever time of day and leave it at that. Leave it to the better draw. Conversation is hard, bullets are simple. That's just the way things are. Well, that's the way things used to be at least. Sad thing is there's no real way to know for sure. History can only tell us so much, and most of what's happened's been forgotten. Nobody remembers the small things. We don't even remember most of each day as we're living it. Maybe that's for the best.

Cartwright was pointing the gun in my face. I was almost glad. He got rid of all the nuance, made it a matter of black and white. I've never really much believed in nuance, it muddles the obvious. It's a way for people to change shape and weasel in and out of things. Cartwright and me, we'd had our differences, and it was coming to a head. He was bringing us there.

"Got any final words?" He was being awfully sweet about it.

"None that I can think of," was my reply.

"Really?" he asked. "You ain't got nothin' to say?" He seemed genuine in this wanting.

"Hell, Cartwright," I started, "what's left to say? It was either gonna be this way or the other way around, let's not kid ourselves or nothin'." In truth, I wanted to tell him that, really, I should have been given my own gun. We should have our seconds and take our paces and count and turn and go all the way. But I suppose he is the smarter man for taking out all of that. Now he knows which way it's gonna go down, and in that I find a certain respect for him. Even though that means my dying. Which, frankly, we all die don't we? Was I going to accomplish that much more in this world? Hard to say. Am I going to be missed? I might say maybe. Am I going to be remembered? No. The small things never are.

Cartwright's hand was shaking somethin' awful. I wanted to tell him it was gonna be all right, all he had to do was squeeze and it'd be over for the both of us. This is why he didn't give me a gun. See? He was the smarter man about it.

He put his arm down, the one with the gun, and walked away. We never spoke of it again. Actually, we smoothed out quite nicely after that. We didn't bring it up, not even in a slight referral. He had pointed the barrel at my eye, and that was enough for the both of us. But still I wonder, had he gone through with it, and squeezed that trigger, would it have been better?

The Treat

"You guys got a bar here?"

"A what?"

"A bar?"

"Oh, it's upstairs."

"Oh... Then could I get a large Cherry Coke?"

Obviously this man never had a mother like mine, teaching him that the movie is the treat. Obviously he hasn't legs like mine, ones that could easily take him up those stairs to his precious alcohol. Obviously this man has some thirst like I do, getting a Cherry Coke and I think I'll also get some Reese's Pieces. $9.50?! Ugh, fine.

Sorry, Mom. Most of what you said stuck.

Life of a Bird

Six scraping idiots dragging their terrible sandals along the concrete. Tank tops don't fit, shorts don't fit, their language doesn't fit. Five jet skis spin in asshole circles, crashing into their own waves. Their fists pump in the air, there's little concern for the boats around them waiting to enter the harbor. An old white man passes me on a contemplative bicycle. That certainly sounds like modern R&B swooning from his pocket radio. I'm wearing jeans and a T-shirt, I'm comfortable. It is a motley crew.

A seagull is on the concrete edge that separates us from the waves. He landed there sometime after I sat down. He looks back and forth, studying the water. Looking for something, someone, another full. Maybe I'm giving it too much credit.

Cigarette smoke is coming from another cyclist. He is determined to break even. How am I supposed to clear my head with his secondhand nonsense? The water looks surreal, if you stare at it long enough you can't comprehend it. Waves don't break, they're crystal blue, no white. I wish I had enough money for a boat. A big boat. I'd invite my friends out. We'd all be tan and beautiful.

What is this bird doing? It must be lost. It certainly looks lost, it looks the way I look when I'm lost. If he weren't lost wouldn't he have flown away by now? I don't think he's taken a single step since he landed. He just stands there, darting, left to right, left to right and back again.

There is another old man, however, and he smells of pipe smoke. Now this I can get behind. It's the history of it all, the time it takes to pack, the match involved. There is romance, and as long as there is romance you can elevate just about anything. There's a cute girl over there. I won't say a word and our paths will never cross again, scientific laws be damned.

The gull starts to walk away and another lands to take its place. There are twenty feet apart now, mirror images, looking out and looking back and forth. They stand and look out over the water. Is this what happens? What is it they've lost? Am I projecting too many complications, too much intelligence? I've seen these things eat garbage. Still, there must be more than that. This must be the life of a bird.

I get up. I walk away. Every twenty feet there is another gull, head darting back and forth, left to right, back and forth. The shadows are here now. There is so much lost in the water. The boats, they're waiting to be let in.

Washing Goblets

"What are we celebrating?"

I searched for whatever she wanted me to say. "Uh... Um..." She was at the cupboard, looking for glasses. "We could celebrate... us?"

"No," she said, "that's no good." She was washing goblets.

"If you need an excuse to drink just tell me."

"I don't need an excuse," she said. "I just thought it would be nice." I had plenty of clean glasses. Why was she washing goblets?

"Well, then, let's drink to that?" I tried to phrase it as a statement but failed, although I think I got away with it. Probably not.

She popped open the champagne and it drooled out onto the floor. She filled the goblets until they too were drooling. She handed me one and we clinked them together. We drank our chilled champagne, and we were both better for it.

She Disappears

We sit together on the sofa, opposite sides. We read what we read, taught stories and laughabouts. We are sipping our separate sips, we experience different highs and lows. There is tartness, blandness, a general weariness to the exposure. Trodden, I think.

Dusk settles, dust settles, it is the end of summer. Day-old air lingers and from the open window passing breezes freshen us here and there. Darkness grows. Looking at the pages makes it all the more dark, focusing fine-tunes shadow.

We have learned to sit in silence. We yearned for it once, back when things were energized and each day had its own definition. There was no imprint yet, and the code we lived by was the code we wrote ourselves. Hand in hand, hand in pocket, pockets on the bedroom floor, we kicked up that dust and every moment was pure sunlight.

She is fading from my view in this room of mine. Am I the same to her? I recall her tender hair, her fair lips. If only I could reach out and kiss her knee. If only she would ask.

The black is blacker, yet somehow I still see her face. I look at the words before me and can see in my periphery that she is sleeping. Her book is closed. She is breathing, dreaming, and who knows where.

It is in this darkness that I see her best. And when I turn to look at her, she disappears. And, again, I am left alone. It is not fair that I should see so clearly, but only from the corner of my eye.

Various Water

Wake up and have a glass of water. Make it a cold one, make it at least cool. I want you to continue drinking water throughout the day. It doesn't matter what kind at this point. Cold water, hot water, tepid water, like I said it doesn't matter. The important thing is to keep the body hydrated. When you feel yourself getting thirsty you're already dehydrated, you've failed. Call it whatever you want; agua, l'eau, wasser, voda, whatever you like. Just make sure it gets in there. We are mostly water. We must keep it so.

Now, let's talk about aqua vitae. I'm bringing this up because agua and aqua are very similar in spelling, and I'm not going through this mistake again. This is distilled spirits. These are all right to have, but I'm asking you not to make it a regular thing. Not as regular as water. If you do imbibe (a special phrase reserved for spirits) with frequency, please do your best to hide it. We all appreciate it, and thank you in advance.

Aqua fortis is nitric acid. Don't drink that. Or be very careful if you do.

Aqua Velva is a fragrance you can put on if you want to smell like your father, or if you want to send your mother down memory lane. Maybe one will accomplish the other.

Aqua Velva is also a cocktail. Please see above.

Let's see, I've lost my train of thought.

Ah, yes! Over the Atlantic, Pacific shores, the mystery of the Indian Ocean, these all mean the same things to me. Raindrops and Antarctica, my tip of my own iceberg, tears rushing down. Sweating after you're in from the heat, after you're done running, with cool air coming but still more and more sweat. A watched pot never boils but a boiling pot can't happen in an instant, so it's all right to watch it for a while. An ocean liner! How romantic. I would like to travel across some great expanse on an ocean liner, around the bottom of South America, around the Horn of Africa, just like they did in the old movies I love so very much. I wonder if there's room. A barge through the Panama Canal, a makeshift raft down the Mississippi. That place between the land and the sky that goes on forever, and you can see it moving, breathing, living, stretching out into itself, becoming nothing and everything.

We are mostly water. We must keep it so.

Zen Antonym

The problem with following a stranger you see regularly is that she's seen you just as often as you've seen her. If you break a habit she's bound to notice. If you stay on the train when usually you get off it could draw her suspicion. But I didn't know this at the time.

She was always all in black, textures, glossy and matte. Bits of gold adorned her; a buckle here, some bangles there. Her golden hair revealed a biological black line down her center part. She had—and I hated to admit this, but it was true—a mouth that reminded me of an ex. It was an ex from more than ten years ago, and not one on which I looked back with particular fondness. I rarely referred to her by her own name, but instead a childish moniker of my own invention that I thought adequately described her during those finals weeks. So when my eyes locked onto this stranger's mouth—small, full, a hint of pout—and I made the connection, and found it attractive, I had to force my gaze back down to my book, I could not stop staring.

Four stations north of mine she exited, and I followed. I placed myself at the end of the car and let several people get off before me. I thanked her silently for her wardrobe, it's as if she wanted to be seen. I followed her down the dirty steps, past crinkled snack bags and discarded beer bottles, through the turnstile, and out the door. I knew the area. It was nice; brownstones, small white dogs, cars that matched the girl.

And then she did what I had been dreading: She walked only a block before stopping underneath a bus sign. This wasn't a station, a well-populated train car. This was an open street corner with nowhere to hide, not even a glass enclosure with a bench for her to sit on while I waited on the other side. There were a couple people already there which provided some relief. Still, it was something I wanted to avoid. I looked down the street from where the bus would be coming, looked at my watch, tried to show that I had someplace to be without being too obvious. The line between conspicuous and inconspicuous, on that line I needed to reside. I had my book at the ready, opened back up to whatever page I was on. It was the perfect disguise.

The bus arrived without too much half-reading, and I made sure I was at the front of the line, real independent. I chose a window-facing seat in the back. She chose a seat toward the middle, giving me a perfect vantage point, like she almost wanted me to have it. This idea gave me a strange anxiety, like I'd consumed too much caffeine, too much of some unknown herbal supplement. My heart raced, and I turned my pages with indifference.

Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes passed, until I started to wonder whether or not she lived on that very bus. But then, as we approached the half hour mark, I saw her pull the cord and stand. The stop was requested. Three others on the increasingly empty bus left the back with me, and as luck would have it the girl walked in the opposite direction. I tightened and slowed my gait so as not to catch up. I would be lying if I said that when I got dressed I hadn't thought about how much noise my shoes produced. I couldn't keep a decent breath, couldn't fill to the top of the lung and feel that release. My blinks weren't coordinated, my sweat glands opened, my tongue dried up.

A moment of panic when I realized I had no final steps to cap off my plan. Was I going to say hello? Ask her a question? Ask her for help? Merely watch her go into her building and leave it at that? I'd come this far and it seemed a shame to end it so ambiguously. I couldn't very well weasel my way into her home, not if it was a large apartment building. I could maybe try the old Can I use your telephone routine, but I thought that too hackneyed and see-through. I couldn't touch her in any way. Could I? Maybe all I had to do was yell her name. But I didn't know her name! What was I supposed to yell? There are too many harrowing stories that begin with a woman being yelled at as she walks home. She would never stop.

My mind was in a million places and I didn't realize how much I'd sped up after she turned the corner, until I turned it myself and walked right into her.

The two of us shared a silence. Our first moment.

"What?" She wasn't mad. Was she mad? I couldn't tell.

"What? Hi. I'm just walking..."

She waited for me to finish but that was all I had. "Walking where? A friend's? Home?" I waited too long to say anything. A real answer, the truth, it should come more naturally.  "I saw you on the train," she said. "I've seen you before. You're not as sly as you think you are."

"Wow," I chuckled, "then I'm really not sly in the slightest." My lips squeezed and eyes widened at this thing which might be considered a joke, and whether or not she would recognize it as such. It was an accident! Would I tell her this? But her eyes were not on me. They were on my right hand, on my book.

"What are you reading?" she asked.

"It's..." I took a quick glance to remind myself. A book of zen stories my father had given me.

"Is it good?"

"I guess. They're short."

That familiar mouth of hers, it looked as though it was smiling, and it occurred to me that I had not seen her blink once. These are the things that can undo a man. "Are they working?" she asked me.

"What do you mean?"

"Do you feel more... zen?" I was too embarrassed to admit I hadn't read a single story. I'd had the book for years, and not a single one. I found a way to answer her that didn't make me feel like a liar.

"I'm feeling a lot right now."

Her smile vanished. It was the wrong thing to say! It was too loving, too creepy, too something! I don't know what it was but it rubbed her the wrong way and I was sure that that was that. I replayed the instant over and over in my head as I stood there, as an apparent eternity drifted by, cursing and loathing myself as I thought of so many other things that were better. What was I doing? What kind of plan was this? And then, shocking as ice water, her hand was on mine. She lifted the book from my clammy grasp and fingered its pages.

"Read it. Find me. Tell me your favorite story." She handed it back. "And why. I want to know why." She turned and walked away, and I watched her black figure, wondering what her name was, and what she truly meant by why. But I would not yell at her. I would read.

We're Helpless, Aren't We?

Me: "So you're a professional hairdresser?"

Girl: "Well, yes, professional in Dayton. I don't work everywhere. I mean, I'm not doing Beyonce's hair."

Me: "Oh, I know."

Girl: "What do you mean you know? You don't think I could do Beyonce's hair?"

And in this, gentlemen, lies the difference between men and women. Everything you will ever know and not know about that wonderful sex can be summed up right there, in this brief conversation I had not three days ago. I could spend years, decades in therapy, and not learn as much as I do from these four sentences. "Why didn't you tell me about that conversation before?" the therapist would ask. "I wouldn't have had to spend half my career with you. You could have taken the money and bought a boat."

Buy your boats, gentlemen. Buy your boats.

Wedding

This is when we start to chill it down. You know? This is when the night is done. Our friend is taking pictures, he's there, documenting this joy, this sadness! We take the pins out of our shirts and hope that we can use them for good.

We can feel the beat. We can! I do! Even if you don't, I'm sitting and I'm standing and dancing and I don't think I'll ever feel so good again.

It's the soundtrack, it's seeing her every two weeks until you die. The sound of our hearts. The beat, beat, beat, the high you get from the plan. It's late night Mexican cigarette dirty water strolling bass thump barefoot brand new bare feelings. I wish they could come back.

I grab them. I grab them knowing I hold a love you can only have for true friends, true. And when I'm ready to let go, and I do, they do not. And that's how I know. That's how I know this love will love forever.

Words cannot describe, my friends.