It's Just People

I couldn't hold it anymore, my laughter. "You know she's got a boyfriend, don't you?" I asked him. He looked at me with this dopey, beaten puppy dog look. And then he grabbed his coat, said something about "I just remembered" yadda yadda yadda, and left.

Chelsea looked at me, furious, dumbstruck. "Why would you say that?"

"Why would I say what?" I knew what she meant. I just didn't know how she could possible mean it.

"You didn't have to tell him about Pete." Well, I said to myself, I just thought someone should tell the poor bastard.

There's that place between what's good and what's not, the information and the truth. And, no, it probably wasn't my responsibility to tell this guy about Pete. I don't even like Pete. That's not the point. If I was this guy, this sad sack bumming around a bar looking for someone to take me home, I would want a guy like me telling me what's what, putting me in my place, giving me the skinny, letting me know. And I'd never been mad at Chelsea, never once. I didn't think she was that kind of girl. And it was only then that I realized, maybe it's not a question of "That Kind" of girl. Maybe it's just people. And maybe I'm not that far behind.

Little Red Letter Day

She rubs my back and says, "You're gonna be fine, baby." But it starts up again. I can't breathe, there's too much tears, and she says I'm hyperventilating. It's hard to catch my breath but I know I have to. My cheeks feel hot, it's all bubbles and snot and salt.

There are always transitions and some are worse than others. As a thirteen-year-old it's hard to process. The end seems bleak and right around the corner. I don't know that school hardly matters, that the little red letters, they don't matter. They aren't who I am.

I'm crying because I never had to try. I was always the best and it was always easy. And now things are difficult. Wasn't it always supposed to be like this? "Breathe, baby, breathe," she says.

And eventually I do. I calm down, I blow my nose, I splash cold water on my face. I have my first panic attack out of the way at thirteen, I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing. And now I know I have to try. That the pluses won't come as readily as they did before, as I always knew, or thought, they would. Maybe that's why I'm crying. Maybe I just don't want to try. Why should I?

She keeps rubbing my back. It feels good. It's after the storm, when everything is quiet and still. There's a deep sense of relief, this powerful feeling in my stomach. Or maybe I'm just hungry for dinner.

Who I Think about When I Think about Someone Else

Yeah, babe, sure, I think about other women sometimes. But not the ones you're probably thinking I think of.

Not, like, your friends, or your roommate. Or anyone from college or an ex or something like that, none of my friends. Not even a celebrity. I mean, I have, I have thought about all those people. But that's not who I think about anymore. When I think about someone else.

They're strangers. Well, maybe stranger isn't quite the right word.

They're not girls I see on the streets, or on the bus, or in the mall, or anything like that. They're a little more sought after. I don't know what the terminology is for a stranger you seek out, but that's the best way I know how to describe it.

Here's what happens. I'll think about someone, or I'll see a post or a friend online. And maybe I click that person's picture, or post, or maybe I search that person's name when I'm thinking, Hmm, I wonder what so-and-so is up to...

Then maybe I'll look through his or her photos. And maybe one—or someone in one—stands out. Or maybe I scroll through their list of friends for someone cute, but that's a very rare occurrence. Usually it's a byproduct of stalking I'm already doing. Not stalking sorry that's not the right word. I hope.

So I'll see a photo, a photo where some girl catches my eye. And then I click on that name, look at that page, look at those photos. Maybe sometimes there's a website or something, I don't know, it varies. And then I look at the photos. I see her having fun, laughing, laughing with friends, hiking, singing, hanging out with her cousins, whatever. I know her likes, her dislikes, what kind of music she listens to, where she grew up, what she's doing and what she wants to do. There's history there, there's future, and it makes the fantasy that much more realized.

And, babe, yeah, I know you're real, too. Sometimes it's just that, well, a fantasy of something unattainable won't cut it. I need a fantasy of something real. Does that make sense?

Slugger

I pick up Warren at his house because he's fifteen and I just got my license. I'm feeling good in my mother's station wagon, I lean my elbow on the door armrest like I've been driving most of my life. Warren gets in and gives me a nod and a smile and a "'Sup." We have big dopey smiles on our stupid little faces. Then we drive to McDonald's and get chicken nuggets.

"Do you have a way you always eat them?" I ask.

"What?"

"I would always take one bite of cheeseburger, or one bite of nuggets, then eat three fries with it, and then take a swig of Coke. That's how I ate all my Happy Meals." That's how I'm going to eat this meal, despite the look that Warren gives me. One bite of nugget, three fries, swig of Coke, and I've got a car outside.

We drive back to my place and play video games. Warren beats me, every time, pummels me. I get upset about it sometimes but not today, let him beat me. We drink more Coke, poured into shot glasses, tossing some back and sipping others slowly. I'm a gunslinger in a saloon.

My mom brings us two thin crust frozen pizzas, one pepperoni and one sausage. We eat them while we watch the three original Star Wars in a row, like we did in fourth grade. When we're done it's two in the morning and we each open another can of Coke.

"This is just what we always do," Warren informs me.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean you have a car. And, like, look at us."

I grab a piece of paper from my dad's printer and one of his pens and we make a list:

          1. Drive to Corey's

          2. Crash Lisa's slumber party

          3. McDonald's again (milkshakes)

"I think McDonald's is closed already," I say.

"Is there any other place where we can get milkshakes?" There isn't.

          4. Hang out in the park

          5. Just drive

It's all we can think of. We decide to just start driving and see what happens. Maybe we'll get some milkshakes, maybe we'll get some girls, maybe Warren will get tired soon.

My parents' room is right above the garage so we open the garage door with our hands. I slowly turn the key in the ignition, as if that would keep the car quiet, but it turns on the way it always turns on. I back out and Warren starts lowering the door, then stops. He crouches under and disappears, returning a few seconds later with something in his hand. When he gets in the car I see it's my dad's old wooden Louisville Slugger.

"What's that for?"

"Just drive," he tells me. And I do, pulling out of my driveway and onto the street, and I turn on the headlights.

I don't know what's open, I don't know what, if anything, there is to do. Two freshmen in the middle of the night driving in a mother's station wagon. Part of me wonders what we're going to do besides just drive around, and the other part is wondering if my mom checks the gas tank. That's crazy though, she wouldn't. Would she? Did she wake up when we left?

"Slow down a little," Warren tells me, and I do. He rolls down his window, and before I can ask what's going on he smashes a mailbox with the bat. I just stare at him, stupid. I don't want to swerve onto the other side of the road, but I don't speed up or pull over, and then he smashes another one. He's laughing and telling me to "Wait, hold on," and he smashes a third. "Dude, this is awesome! Did you see that one fly?" And that's when we see the cop.

The cops in our town will pull you over for going twenty-six in a twenty-five, so I'm not feeling good about our chances. So neither of us are surprised when the cop pulls into the street and turns on his lights. We start swearing, and I gun it.

I'd raced cops a hundred million times in video games and arcades. I'd watched a hundred thousand car chases in movies and TV. I didn't even think about what I would do if a cop came after me. And I don't know what the penalty is for smashing mailboxes. Was it a federal offense? Am I Warren's accomplice? Would they even care since we're minors? I just drove.

There aren't many places to speed to in this town. But we were close to the baseball park, and I figured I could probably lose the cops there. When I turned into the entrance I floored it, just like I've seen, the pedal against the floor. There were no other cars, no people. I could see the diamonds going by. There's where I played when I was eight, there's where I played when I was twelve... I brake a little before turning out of the park, onto North Wilde Avenue, and I floor it again. Wilde is straight but hilly, and I hoped no other drivers were out this late. The cops were further away now.

Then we remembered: Lisa lives at the end of Wilde. Sure enough, after one of the crests, we see a pile of cars lining the street. One car is pulling out of the driveway, a Jeep Wrangler, and I'm able to pull in and kill the lights. Warren and I hop out and hear a voice, "Warren? Hunter?" The voice belongs to Becky, one of Lisa's best friends. Lisa and I dated for a couple months, if you can call it that, and I'm sure she thinks that's why we're here. We don't say anything, we just run around the house, through the yard, past the trees, and onto the bike path. We're safe, and we start walking.

I don't ask Warren what he was thinking and I don't really care. I get a text: Did u just run outside my house??? I don't respond. Then I remember: The bat. The bat is still in the car. I freak out. Is that evidence? If the cops pull over and look for the car, will that be the thing that does us in? Am I getting all worked up over nothing?

The bike path hits Buffalo Street and we take a left, heading back to the car. We turn onto Wilde and walk the block or so to Lisa's, getting quieter and slower, not quite sure if we're going to run into an officer or a gaggle of weirded out teenage girls.

The car is still there. There are no cops, no girls. We get in. There's the bat. I drive us back to my house, I turn off the headlights before we reach it, we open and close the garage door by hand, and sit on my downstairs couch. We finish our Cokes from earlier. They're room temperature now, and flat.

My Hemisphere

We're done for. Now I know what people mean when they say we're not getting out of this thing alive. There's no coming out clean. I've looked into the belly of the beast, and it looks like a goddamn chocolate chip cheesecake. Fuck April, January is the cruelest month. More like cruller month. I'm so lonely.

Let me tell you how this thing started: Fuck New Years. Fuck all the little happy couples and champagne flutes and balls and resolutions. People saying they'll be better, people saying they'll eat more green leafy things, and take up Pilates but not care about body image, and drive less, and tip more, and see the world, and be more politically correct, and just generally get upset at way too much shit, and actually actively listen, and all the regular things you're supposed to say. I see resolutions like drugs, only I like drugs. Just something to take your mind off of how unbearable your life really is, and all the people you actually hate that you have to see every day.

But me? I buy cheesecake. If I want to do a thing I'll do a thing, I'm not a fan of saying I'll do it first. I've let myself down too much this way.

Sarah, she thought I was serious. She dribbled a little bit of her drink on her dress, I made a stupid joke. Look out for the lush, something like that. It was an alcohol-infused joke, which, in my experience, those can either go over really well or really poorly. I thought I said it jokingly enough, made it big but not loud, goofy but not ridiculous. And Sarah did a really good job of hiding that she was mad at me right up until midnight. Everyone's counting down, getting their bubbly ready, solidifying their kissing partners. Three, two, one, HAPPY FUCKING—and I turn to her and kiss her. It's like a peck. It's nothing. It's even less than nothing because at least nothing can turn into something. It's one second and it's done, one second is all it takes.

I asked Sarah to join me in the bathroom. I asked her what was going on. She didn't appreciate me making a drunk girl reference in front of all our friends. I said it wasn't a big deal, she said that wasn't the point, I said, she said, I said she said I said she said and we made up and had sex. Later, not there in the bathroom, although that didn't stop Louis from thinking we did when we came out.

The next day when I woke up she was gone. There was this little note telling me something about space, she needed it, or we needed it, half of me was too groggy and the other half was too blind with rage to make out the sentences in any proper order. I couldn't help but thinking that I was one of her resolutions. The absence of me was a clean start to a crisp fucking new year.

Maybe I can't get too mad. Maybe she picked up a thing or two from me. Maybe she didn't feel like saying she'd do anything. Maybe she just wanted to do it, and then did it.

So I get cheesecake. Chocolate chip with a fudgey base and chocolate drizzle. I get donuts and pancake mix and bottles of whiskey. I get sea salt and black pepper potato chips, fruit snacks, and I eat frozen Cool Whip like it's goddamn ice cream. Because the only thing the new year signifies—at least in my hemisphere—is that the months to come, they're the coldest ones.

Ordinary Good

I've been a real shitheel. I'll be the first to admit it. Well, I'm probably not the first, but anyway.

Work hasn't even been going bad. Business at the restaurant is good. I'm not exactly where I want to be, just a line cook, but I know that won't last long. I know I'll work my way up, and not in a cocky way either. I'm good at what I do. I can be better. I don't want to open up my own place or anything like that, I don't want that pressure. Just to make good food for decent people.

My friends are well. Harriet's in remission, thank the good lord. Brian and Andrea, they're expecting their first baby. Carolyn and I didn't have any negative words to each other about it, and I was even expecting to. Nothing about why we're not trying or even if we're ever going to try. We were just both genuinely happy to hear their news. No fooling.

I like where we live. I like this town. There are things to do here, there are good schools should we ever need to worry about it. My taxes are higher than I'd like, but nothing's perfect. We all have to pitch in. That's something I'm willing to do.

So I don't know what it is. But I've been sour. Mean even. Callous and abrupt. I start thinking about things, about how they could be different. I go for long walks after my shift. No drinking, no sleeping around, no dark thoughts, none of that stuff. It's just time away from her, for no reason, and it's getting longer. My pants look old, the dog's making too much noise. I'm looking at the same wallpaper but I don't want to go. And I feel like I should want to break out of it. But I'm a guy who likes a bad mood, I always have, and I worry I always will.

And I get quiet sometimes. No questions, short answers. There's that saying, where you hear a thing about yourself enough you start thinking it's real? I wonder if she felt like nothing.

Then I get home from work, late. Another walk, another sit in my car in the garage. I know Carolyn and fully expect her to be in bed asleep, or pretending. So I walk in, and there's a faint glow coming from the living room, a warm saxophone, too. I follow the light and music down the hall. Candles. I see candles, short and long and dripping, on the coffee table and the bookshelves and mantle. Cannonball on the speakers. I see an indoor picnic: blanket on the floor, champagne and glasses, cheese, grapes, dark chocolate, pretzel crisps, local preserves. Carolyn is standing. I wonder how long she's been here like this. If she's figured out my habits. If I walk in late the same time every night. Everything looks like it was set out a moment ago. And she's standing there with this look in her eye. Not a look that says she forgives me, but a look that doesn't even know what's to be forgiven. A look that's strong.

I run to her, I almost knock her onto the couch. I hold her and hold her and hold her so tightly I almost kill her. I cry. I open a door hidden behind a curtain. I feel good. I kiss her neck, her cheek, her mouth, her little earlobe. She asks me if I'm hungry. I say yeah, yes, I could eat.

Private Sounds

She says I'm weird. She locks the door to the bathroom. I didn't even know our bathroom door had a lock. She laughs. She laughs because she thinks it's normal. Because she thinks it's what she's supposed to do. I tell her to come out and she keeps laughing. Who would need to lock a bathroom anyway?

I get water and go back to the bedroom. I look at my four attempts peeled off and rotting on the floor. I smell the stale stench of latex and failure. It's all in my head, including myself. I pick it all up. I kick the clothes and socks. I hate socks.

The water is gone quickly. I get overheated easily. I'm a hot body, we both are. We can't sleep next to each other without waking up all the time. We have to throw the covers off. Looking at the bed you'd think it was passion, but it's just discomfort.

She said I shouldn't worry about it but I wanted to fight. I was mad and I wanted her to get mad with me. We have to fight at some point. But she just laughs, locks herself away. You can hear everything that goes on in that bathroom, every private sound. I'm still, listening, but all I hear is that laughter, quietly and to herself. I can feel her head shaking. I've let her down, but in what way I don't know.

I turn the thermostat down. I get into bed and take the side by the wall. She'll come back eventually and she'll feel bad if she wakes me up climbing over me. We wake up so much already. This is her pillow, it smells like her hair. She faces the wall when she sleeps. Does she face it when I'm not around?

The shower turns on. She's cooling off. I'm cooling off, too.

One of My Shirts

Kami's wearing one of my shirts like how they do in the movies. I always wanted a girl that would just know to do that. She's gotta get up, get some water, lounge around, and she grabs one of my button-ups. I didn't build it up too much in my mind either. It's just how I wanted it to be.

We make a short transition from the bed to the couch. Something tells me it's gonna be a lazy day. It doesn't feel lazy with her though, not by a long shot. Being lazy is time misspent, and next to her on this couch it just isn't happening. Kind of weird to be thinking thoughts like that. Back in high school if you ever told me I'd feel this way and be saying these things I don't know how long it'd be before I'd stop laughing.

We don't watch any show for more than a few minutes. Kami keep changing the channel, resting her head on my shoulder, leaning up against me in my plaid. We go from Sunday preacher, to kid's cartoon, to a nice Italian woman making pasta. Old westerns and telenovelas, some man all dressed up like a ghoul. I look outside and the snow's coming down.

I put my hand on her head. I stretch out my fingers and draw them back, massaging. She relaxes even more, somehow it's possible. Her arms gets tighter around my stomach. She's breathing heavily. Snow's falling. I'm as happy as a guy can be until she tells me we should break up.

I can't wear that shirt anymore. I can't throw it out. I keep it in the hamper. I wash it whenever I'm washing clothes. I don't know what I'm hoping for. Hoping for it to get ripped. Hoping for it to get lost. Hoping it'll fade and fade, until it's something new.

Potential Energy

Theo sits down to write a difficult letter so he pours himself a drink. Sadly, all he has is vodka, which is not a liquor he's used to. But he's willing to learn. Vodka tonics run in the family, and maybe it's time he learned why. He puts four ice cubes into a tumbler and adds one shot of vodka (Theo's mother always told him that's what people never get right about drinks, they never bother to measure the shot). He tops it off with tonic and squeezes in a bit of fresh lemon. And when he takes a sip he's even able to elevate it above the drink of a freshman girl.

Something about the screen doesn't look right. He lightens it, squints. No. He darkens it. Worse. There's a blank page in front of him that gets whiter and whiter, bigger and emptier. There aren't many black words he needs to put upon it, just the right ones, and isn't that the tricky bit. He lightens the screen and wonders how many screens he's looked at today, and how many times. His drink is going down nice and easy.

It's not right, he decides. To the desk! Theo forces open a drawer crammed chock full of papers and useless markers and receipts and old candy. There he sees his old notebook, simple, bound in black leather, filled to the one-tenth with terrible doodles and story fragments, part of it journal, part of it idealism. He goes through four pens before finding one that will have enough ink to write what he wants to write. Theo thinks that maybe he should have picked one with less ink, that it might have given him a reason to quit earlier, to say more with less. Or, at least, to say less. But that's a decision for the subconscious, he decides, and opens up the book.

The only thing worse than staring at one blank page is staring at a hundred. Theo holds before him a stack of forgotten potential. He thinks about the tree that gave his life for his creativity and it makes him finish his drink. He replaces the half-melted ice with four new cubes, measures the vodka, finishes the small tonic bottle, and squeezes in the rest of the lemon. The lemon isn't something he can taste exactly, but he can see it there, the bits and pieces of fruit-flesh suspended in his liquid courage. The lost art of letter-writing, and wouldn't it be great if he could do something about it.

The night needs music! Like he's not a man to drink much vodka he sifts through his titles to find a music of which he's not much a listener. He settles on metal, a genre of which he somehow has almost a dozen albums from five different bands. He puts one on and is immediately struck by its melodic quality, its quiet majesty, its normality. The singer unleashes some beautiful and broken line, a razor blade gargling act. Theo can't tell what the words are, but it matter. He feels good, he feels badass, and the ice in his tumbler releases a squeaky hiss that complements the music quite nicely.

Theo isn't sure why this is so hard. A letter, one letter, typed or written, doesn't matter. He thinks back to one of his favorite Calvin and Hobbes strips, in which Calvin outlines his argument for procrastination, in that the work time is more miserable but at least there's less of it. Theo thinks this must be one of those things. He looks at his empty glass. He's not fooling anyone anymore. Time to put an end to it, he thinks. Time to put it to an end.

He picks up his pen. Dear Theo...
 

Along the Lines of Nice

I'm drinking vodka in a parking lot, feeling like a kid. Maybe that's because I'm with kids, kids to me anyway. Sherri asked me to meet her there late and I did. Her cousin, Carmen, is in town. They were meeting up with their friend, Hannah, and some guy, Charlie, visiting from St. Louis. Hannah's not exactly my type, but sexy, the kind of girl I'd only need one drink to feel just confident enough. Charlie wears this newsboys cap that I would think was ironic if it didn't have a Cardinals logo on it. He's nice enough so I take it upon myself to look past it. Carmen has glasses and a ponytail and looks like a girl from a science textbook, that's as much as can be said about her. We stand there sharing Svedka Citron, chasing it with a twenty-ounce Pepsi. It makes me think about all the Pepsi Twists I had back in middle school, back before the cavities. But now it's all a little too sweet for my taste.

Sherri is nineteen. We met at a house party where my band was playing. After our set I grabbed a dollar beer from the bathtub and grabbed a place in the crowd to watch the next group. She was standing next to me, said hey, but it was loud enough where I could ignore her without looking like I was ignoring her. But when I got stuck on deck duty, counting people coming and going and bouncing those that made too many, I'd had several more beers and there was very little escaping her. She said things like You gonna kiss me, and You gonna take me home. When I tried to go back inside my drummer said I was an idiot, she was gorgeous, told me to get back out there and give her the beer I'd just gotten for him. So I did. I heard people commenting when we were making out, good or bad I don't know. She shared her cigarettes, she didn't want to take a cab, she didn't want to sober up, she wanted me to do things I'm not comfortable talking about. And when she told me she was nineteen I started laughing. She was tall.

We ditch the bottles next to some Corolla and go across the street to Humfrey's, a late-night bar I've heard nothing but bad things about. It's late, around two in the morning, but the place is near empty save a few of what I assume are regulars. Right away I see why I hate it. The room is covered in books and bookshelves, the wood is dark, there's a model of an old wooden ship and a couple of busts, Tennyson and Joyce. It's the kind of place that thinks when you add all these together you get class, that somehow it covers up the smell and makes your feet not stick to the floor, that somehow it makes the beer not obviously watered down. It's like covering yourself in cologne without actually bathing, and I can only imagine what the place is like with a couple hundred horny college students packed in playing sexual dominoes. Charlie's twenty-two, and the girls slip in easily with their fakes, or maybe the man at the door just doesn't care. I make some crack about the lack of clientele, he laughs a little and says he knows. When I ask him why it's so empty he give me this look, like I'm an idiot for not knowing. For a second I wonder if it's a holiday.

Charlie gets the first round. I don't like the idea of being in debt to that hat, but a drink's a drink. I go to the bathroom and am baffled by how so few regulars could make such a mess. Thoughts like that are foolish. When I get out I pass Sherri on her way to the ladies' room. She stops me with her hand and thanks me for hanging out with her friends tonight. I tell her no problem, happy to be someplace new. She kisses me. I hate cheap beer but I love the way it tastes on a kiss. I get back to our little high-top table and see four of those cheap beers and Hannah nursing some clear cocktail. They're saying something about the weather, they can't believe it's so windy, and they can't believe the bar has the ceiling fans on. Hannah wishes she had some sort of jacket and Charlie gives her his. She takes it, a bit sheepishly and reluctantly, the way you have to accept something because you just said you wanted it.

There is music, some 90s R&B. Dru Hill comes on, and again I feel like I'm back in middle school. Sherri gets back from the bathroom and notices I'm mouthing the words. She asks me what it is. I ask them if they really don't know the song. None of them do. I am young and old at the same time. Sherri laughs and kisses me again, but it's different for me this time. Who am I to her? What has she told her friends? What do they think I am? I see her reading all this on my face and she asks me if that was OK, the kiss, she's a little embarrassed I think. And it's not that I'm embarrassed, and she shouldn't be either, but I want to be careful of what we do and when and where. I tell her none of this, I give her the look I got from the man at the door, I laugh, and I finish my beer.

I got the next round of drinks and everyone is a little too grateful. Hannah said she just wants a club soda with lime. That's probably what she was drinking earlier. She has on a short sequined-yet-casual dress, silver, plus Charlie's awful North Face. I can't tell whether she thought she was going someplace nicer or if she always looks this good, but even if the bar were full she'd stand out. There's something about the dress, the club soda, and the lime that stirs me up in all the right ways, and I wish to God that I could have met her under different circumstances. Charlie comes up and offers to help me take the drinks over. I can see that he's a good guy. He asks me what I think about Hannah. I say she's a very pretty girl and seems very sweet. He says yeah, looks at her, and tells me that they hooked up last time he was in town, and earlier today when he got in. He looks at me, grinning, fitting right into this place. I don't know what he expects me to say, if he wants a high five or a cookie or what. I think about hitting him, about telling him to have some respect for God's sake. But I muster up something along the lines of Nice and turn my mouth a little more up than down. The drinks arrive, and he takes one beer and the club soda.

Toward the middle of the round Sherri wants to leave, and I say all right. I say good night to Hannah, give her a small hug and kiss on the cheek. I say goodbye to Charlie, shaking his hand, gripping it maybe a little tighter than I normally would, holding his gaze just a little longer than appropriate. I tell Carmen nice to meet her while I walk away. Sherri whispers something into Hannah's ear and looks at her for visual confirmation. She nods, but it's not enough. She nods again, Sherri hugs her, and then it's out the door and back out into the wind.

When we get back to my place I get my last beer out for Sherri because I know she'll ask for it. I stop myself, standing in front of the open fridge, beer in hand, wondering and realizing what I'm doing. Sherri asks if she can have a beer. I hide it in the vegetable crisper and tell her we're out. After we're done she leaves, it's past four in the morning, and her parents' place is a half hour away. I change my bedsheets, oddly awake, oddly aware, relieved and disappointed. By now it's already five, and I'm not sure what the point in sleeping is anymore.

Deeper

Not long after Mara went away for slicing up her husband I get this letter in the mail. Says something about how the author says I should've known better, telling me wasn't I some kind of backstabber, just because Jere and I had been friendly from time to time. But what's friendly where sex is concerned? I can't say love, or maybe it is that I won't say it, but in any case it's not getting said anytime soon. And, sure, maybe I should've known better, but that's not getting said anytime soon either.

And that's what set her off the handle, says this letter I received. That of course she thought it was love, how could she not, and wasn't I the one that led her on that way to thinking so. Which, who knows, perhaps I did. Not through anything intentional. How much of an affair is intentional anyway? It's just a thing that happens, and then you're in the middle of it, and you figure, well, now I'm doing this thing I guess. It's the danger and the deception and all the things people say it is.

But not to her, the letter goes on, no, to her it was something more. Jere had been neglecting Mara and not for any short stretch of time. She felt cooped up; cooped up in her house, cooped up in her marriage, cooped up in her mind. I never claimed to have any wire cutters to get her out, although maybe that was my mistake. Like I said, it's a thing that happens, one thing that led to another, and before I knew it she was free to think what she wanted. Me? I thought we were both adults. She came over with an idea, probably too many to count. And, sure, I let it happen. Who am I to argue with an unhappily married woman?

Hell, maybe I asked for all this. Physical things can be the hardest. They shouldn't be, but they are. Too many emotional precepts getting in the way of what we're made of. We were created as one thing, and sometime along the way some people decided that they could get some power by saying that was all bullshit. Well, maybe it is bullshit. But I'd rather live with the bullshit I was intended to have.

We're all the same, I read. I was no different than Jere, certainly no better. In many ways the author says I'm worse. That I could see the problem and chose to continue on anyway. That all I had to do was talk to her, listen to her. How is that different from what poor Jere did? How is that different from what he should've done?

I told him not to press charges against Mara, told him he could take a knife to mine if it would even the score. But he wanted to see her suffer. He wasn't mad at me. And I don't think she was mad at him. I don't think things like this get started as a way to hurt people. Not this thing anyway. But people wind up hurt all the same, and there's a way to avoid that I think. But when you're knee deep inside a woman there's not much else you're capable of thinking except, hell, I bet I could go deeper.

Two Truths and a Lie

I told you the truth. To the best of my recollection I told you the truth. Not that, when I told you the truth, the truth that I told you was to the best of my recollection. But now, as I tell you this, that the best of my recollection is that, when I told you, what I told you was the truth. But the truth is difficult, and recollecting it is difficult, too. So, too, the truths I tell may be that: One man's too foolish attempt at reality.

A lie said often enough is real. Lies are always real, I suppose, as real as anything else. But a lie repeated is closer to truth than the lie as it started. And sometimes I lie, too. And I may one day lie to you, and may have lied to you, too, before, when I was trying to tell the truth. Most often when I lie I am trying to tell the truth and my truths come out as lies. And so, when speaking, I will try to make you laugh. Because if one laughs then it is no longer a lie, it is a joke.

And I will joke about this and that, you and me, reality and other. I will tell the truth I know, which is my truth, and the only truth one can really tell, too. And too often we try to make our truths line up until our truths come out like lies. Which is why, I suppose, it might be better to lie in the first place.

Original Pulses

After a long day on his feet Daniel liked to sit upright in bed. He took pleasure in the L-posture, still being able to relax his body without the full giving-in quality he found in lying. He kept his legs straight, his back straight, and his head against the frame, eyes closed in thought and meditation.

There was a shaking, slight. The bed frame was moving. Was it his roommate and another late night conquest? Could he feel their copulation two rooms and walls away? He strained for a sound, a pant, an urging, but heard none.

And Daniel realized it was himself, his pulse. The back of his skull hit the frame just so, so that the beating of his heart caused a slight disturbance, butterflying and echoing down his back. The meditation over, his thoughts turned only to his own blood, and all the odd places he had felt and seen his pulse. A finger wrapped around his toe. The subtle movement of his crossed legs. A lover's hand lightly gripping his cock.

His head shook. It made the loudest sound. He wondered why anyone would ever check a wrist or a neck when there are so many other places to find signs of life, unknown and forgotten.

Agenda

In where I sit and what I say, discussions with friends, in how I eat my food. In all the things, big and little, that make up what our days are, it is only Whose side are you on? Every waking moment cannot be spent in agreement, that is not what life is. But I will not, cannot, say this to you. Heaven forbid we think differently. That I am me, and you are you.

Honey and Milk

And when I couldn't sleep Grandmother would make me a mug of warm honey milk. Nothing or singular about it, a mug with milk and honey microwaved. She knew the time it took to get it warm and keep it without skin. Nothing has the power to ruin quite like skin. So I would quit fooling myself and walk to her side, whether it was in bed or awake, and she would make it right. And it wasn't until I was much older that I realized, quite possibly, that the only thing which made it work were Grandmother's words telling me it would.

"Drink this," she'd say. "It is warm, and settling, and will help soften you right to sleep." That was what it was to her, that people went to bed rigid. There was no ritual of relaxation, not for most people, there certainly isn't today. But a mug of warm honey milk would put you right with the world. Maybe it cradles your subconscious, makes you feel like a baby again. We feel like we are once again children, and there is someone watching over us, and they will make sure we are all right. Of course, being a child you feel very little of this. Or, rather, you do not recognize it. Not until years go by, and the rigidity of the world has kept you up.

I remember, in Sunday school, reading about a land of milk and honey. A place of prosperity and abundance, a place for God's chosen people. The promised land. And I thought it interesting, that the drink lulling me to sleep when I could not manage it myself should be made of the same stuff.

The Plans I Had in Mind

I could tell you of the plans I had in mind

The things to waste my time

The runners and the threaders and the leaders all in line

The warriors and fickle babies

Silver-headed evil ladies

Bruisers and the boulders and the folders filled with fines

I could tell you of the sacrifices

One by one in bland disguises

Hidden on the blank horizon of a book I've yet to write

Cold and calculating

Shaking in the wings and waiting

Exits to the stars and entrances you'd only find by night

I could tell you of the tricky little deeds

The ones beyond the weeds

The charge and orders larger than the prizes left in store

And the only ones that made it there

With soiled eyes and faded stares

Were men like me and I was made to merit more and more

I could tell you of things lost and found

And lost again

A life unwound

A day untold

A tale unburned

A world that never ever turned

Except to turn against me when my part I'd played in full

Then silenced like the deaf and dumb and raging like a vengeful bull

Between to boast and to atone

I woke and found myself alone.

Safety in Numbers

I could tell you that it was only one, but it wouldn't make much of a difference. In fact, I think it's better if I tell you just how many there were. If I exaggerate, in fact. If I tell you ten, twelve, twenty, two dozen. Then you might think it was outside my control. Part of my makeup, part of what makes me me, and therefore nothing to do with me at all. Too much for me to control. Because, even with one, that's what it feels like.

And that's part of the problem, but there's more to it than that. Even though there was only one, with you, I know, that that's what would make it worse. The more I add the more forgiving you'd become. And it's hard for me to live in a world that backwards. To be at once myself and so entirely someone else, all to make you happy. I am treading, stalling, tiptoeing across your icy frame, and it's a sad, sad thing wanting to simply fall in and be done with it once and for all.

Out Back

Now I now my behavior and can see it. But we all wish you the best things. I'm really nothing but I miss you, miss your face. I know I'll be taken out back, someone will watch, but it's such a little life, you know, it's so little. These little lives, how that song goes, and all those poor young men. Like me. Me. I'm a poor young man.

We begged her, we begged, but I can't support anyone, it's so chilly. Don't you have to take it so sarcastic and you don't know why, I don't know why, but it's a nightly thing, I mean it's every single day. And then I'll be the joke out back. And hate myself.

What good is a day like that?! What good is it, shut up in a name, shut up in your little miracle. Within two seconds, you know, your presence is more apparent. And here I am, was, picking fights with Antoine. Like we're in a good time.

No, they'll take me out back for that, and someone will watch. And they'll say thank you, thank you, and I'll just have to say you're welcome, you're welcome...

The Animal

I slipped the folders under the door and that was that. I didn't ask why, or who picked them up, or how the information was distributed and the people picked up. I didn't know people were being picked up. It was a job, I was a kid. I needed money for a bike.

The information was sent to me in bits and pieces. No discernible order to it, not that I would know to look for some. It wasn't my job to arrange it in any sort of manner. The blue pages went with the blue pages, the yellow with the yellow, green with green and red with red and finally the black page on top. I wasn't to look at any of it and I never did, because they took the time to trust me. And, really, how was I to know?

I'd put the pages in a blank filing folder, simple and boring, and would walk across town to where Shipley met Doane. On the corner was a shoe repair shop, stocked with soles and smelling of oils. It was my job to walk around back and slip the folder under the door with the high doorknob, the one that almost met my eye. I'd slip it under Sundays and Thursday, and on Mondays and Fridays I'd have envelopes of crisp ones and fives to get me through my week and weekend. I kept the money a secret; if I told anyone they'd want me to buy them candy, go to the movies, all sorts of things, and I wanted that bike. All the other kids had theirs.

You heard about people going missing, hear about a problem that suddenly went away. Mr. Taylor owed whoever some money and then Mr. Taylor moved. Jordy Tolliver was always picking fights with people after three beers, and he always had three beers in him. One day he said he was sober, and that was the last anybody heard him talk. There was a bully, a girl, Chrissy, who picked on most kids, even the boys. She wound up in the hospital with a broken arm. She wouldn't say why. It didn't heal properly, couldn't even raise it to shoulder level.

It was a Sunday night. I always had to sneak out of my house for the Sunday run, it had to be late and I had school. I had the papers in the folder, I was quick without being fast, I kept my head down. I turned the corner into the alley, the alley that was usually empty, and stared directly into a pair of giant eyes. I jumped and thought, what a strange looking man, and was terrified. It was a buck, five times my size, antlers, black nose, breathing, the only thing telling me that it was not a statue. I gripped my folder; there was no delivering it, not with this beast in my path. I was too scared to move around it, too scared to move at all. What if the thing charged, what if it jumped, what if it kicked and stomped me down? No. I stayed motionless. Tried to make him think I was a statue, too.

How did that get here? I'd never seen a deer, certainly not a buck, and never in the city. There were no reports, no shoutings down the street of hey did you hear about what's walking all over town. Nobody ran for their guns, nobody called animal control, nobody seemed to know of its existence. And I wondered how long it had been here. If, by some chance, it had been here all its life. Abandoned and small, eating scraps from dumpsters, sleeping in the abandoned electrical warehouse four blocks away, lapping its water from the dirty potholes of our forgotten streets. Suddenly it seemed to me not a terrifying creature at all, not even wild, but a sad and lonely thing. Nestled into a world it didn't know but that it somehow made its own, something in need of a friend, in need of my help. I reached out toward it, my hand eerily calm, its smoothness and whiteness never more stark to me. I had no plan for if my fingers touched the buck. I wouldn't have known what to do. But I thought it important that I try. And suddenly, without a previous blink or flinch of muscle, the animal bolted down the alley, towards the shadows, into them and gone.

After that I couldn't do it. I was six feet from the door, but I couldn't put the folder under. I looked at the folder, bent from my grip, and thought of reading whatever it was that was inside. Whatever made these people quiet, hurt, disappear. But I couldn't even do that. So instead I fed the pages, one by one, into drain, and made my way back home. My bed seemed larger than before.

When I woke up there was no envelope. No brand new Washingtons and Lincolns. The stash in the shoebox under my bed was gone, the hopes of my bike along with them. In the money's horrible place, still warm, was a spotted and bloodied clump of fur. From what animal I couldn't tell.

Align

We were kissing and I was thinking there was no way it could be her. But she only wasn't when I stopped. And then I wasn't sure if she was ever who I thought she was at all. And now I may never know, because I had to stop to find out. And that's not the kind of question you can ask a person. To ask them who they are, to see if your answers align, to see the look on their face when the answer is inevitably other and they see the look on yours.

And she would ask me what is wrong. She would call me darling, sweetheart, dearest. And I would have to look at this person and say some sort of truth. Starting all over, hoping as much is the same as could possibly be.

Two Very Different Things

The cab pulled up and they got out and the front door looked so far away. But maybe it was just the winter, she thought, and how everything is longer in winter. The cold, the dark, the distance. It was a new city and she hadn't a proper coat, she'd sold her car, she wasn't used to walking, she made them take cabs everywhere, and she could swear even those were cold.

She had moved here for him, moved in with him, together. It was the thing to do. They had spent most of their relationship apart, two years and two time zones. And after the split, when they had decided to get back together and make a go of it, they knew it had to be in the same town, and she knew it had to be his. She had the kind of life you could just leave. It wasn't even discussed, and it upset her.

But the same city and the same roof are two very different things, and she was beginning to realize this. A table habit, an after-work attitude, a thousand things both big and small that she never knew because she was states away. And now they were there, and he was there, and she was there, all the time. And she didn't even have a proper coat.

Her hand was on the car door, her breath suspended. He walked on, and she realized he had no idea that she wasn't right behind him. It wasn't a thought that ever would have entered his mind. He unlocked the front door and, walking in, only then noticed her, still standing by their taxi cab. And he asked her if she was coming in.

Someone's Having a Party

Someone's having a party and I think we should go. It's Charlie, or it's one of Charlie's friends, but it definitely has something to do with him. We should go! Charlie will be there.

It's only, like, five minutes away, too. Like, it's like a five minute walk. Like maybe not literally, but it's gonna be really, really close to five minutes. So I definitely think we should get dressed and go. A bunch of Charlie's work friends will be there, Seth and some other people. You've met Seth I think. Do you remember Seth? He has that one haircut. I think you guys would be super cute together.

You've got stuff in common. He likes, um, you both like that one Italian place. That could be your first date!

What ulterior motives? I just want to go out and have a good time! And, yeah, OK, sure, fine, maybe I want Charlie do see how good I'm doing. Is that bad? Why is that so bad? And if he feels really bad and wants to hook up then that's great, that asshole.

It would mean a lot to me if you came out tonight. Seth was asking about you and... It would just mean a lot to me, OK? OK? Please?

Great! Wear that green little slutty number.

Google Her!

You would like her even more if you Googled her. She's amazing. Stephan downplayed everything. Denise was too smart for him and she knew it, he knew it. She was saying all these things that she felt and thought and everything, and he would just say OK. He would just say OK! And she fought and everything, you know, she was a lawyer or in law school or something like that. And when she wanted to leave he didn't want her to but it didn't even matter because she wanted to. And that's what I love about her you know? She just, like, does what she wants to do. Why can't I do that? Why won't the cameras flock to me?
 

Contagious

I hear the man next door, the boy really, not much older than me and probably the same age. The space between my room and what must be his is small, the walls thin, there's just not much there. And he's pumping away like his life depends on it. Whether it's the pumping of terrible sex or the blowing up of some kiddie pool I have yet to figure out. But pump, pump, pump away he does as I sit here in my chair, trying to get some shuteye.

And there's Anna, poor thing, over on the bed, hardly getting a wink. She has this thing, this throat thing, that will not give her a moment's peace. We've got her head elevated on two or three pillows which helps some. Still, every minute or two there's a sharp, violent hacking, and though she isn't saying anything I know she must be awake. And she has to listen to this racket next door.

I've half a mind to bang on the wall, but there's no way to do that without disturbing Anna. So I go to the front door, open it and brace the cold, walk down my steps and up my neighbor's, and knock forcefully on his door. I have my answer: Shirtless and sweaty and in boxers and not happy to see me.

"Yeah?"

"Hi, we've waved at each other a couple times. I live next door."

He registers this. "Yeah?"

"Well, I think your bedroom is right next to mine. And I can hear, you know... everything."

"You're listening to—?"

"No. No, I can just hear everything. And I wouldn't care one way or the other," I lied, "but the thing is my girlfriend's over and she's really sick and if you could try to keep it down I would really appreciate it."

He looks at me, dumbstruck, as if nothing has ever been asked of him his whole life. And that, for all I know, is probably the case. He slams the door and I walk back, a little more hateful of the world.

Pumping. Pumping like you wouldn't believe when I get back. Whoever this chick is he's taken his hand off her mouth now, letting her make whatever noises she makes, encouraging them. And I can see now, clearly, that Anna is wide awake.

"What is going on over there?" she asks.

"Just some good old-fashioned American fun." She tries to laugh at this but it comes out so garbled and scratchy that I feel bad for saying anything at all. I get back in my chair and wrap the blanket around me.

"You don't have to spend the night over there, you know."

"I thought you didn't want to infect me."

"I don't know that I'm contagious," she says. I'm about to protest—because, really, I know that if I get in that bed then I'll probably get sick—but she looks so crestfallen, so weary, as if all I had to do is wrap my arms around her and she'll be all better, and then that's the only thing I want to do. So I crawl into bed.

The refractory period on this guy must be nonexistent, because they keep going. Going and going like a goddamn movie. And even though I can tell Anna's finally getting comfortable, getting to a place where she might even get an OK night's sleep, I make a move, and kiss her neck.

"What are you doing?" she asks. I shush her and keep kissing. I slide my fingers up the side of her thigh, and by the time my tongue reaches her mouth my hand is between her legs and I just don't care anymore. I'm going to make a ruckus. I'm going to make a goddamn scene. I'm going to show that bastard what's what. And if I'm sick, then I'm sick.

Common Scheme

Beneath the ugliest crime lies the most beautiful criminal. When she strikes out at me, lashes, stems, I weep. She takes my independence and puts it in her back pocket. There is a plan, a larger plan, and it would seem as though I am a step. Whether I am a step up or down I have not recognized. There is nothing here, left, to recognize anymore. Creeping, deliberately, toward some dying peace. And when I arrive will I find that peace is all what people say it is?

There is much I assume about her. Much I do not know. And while there is bliss to be found in my ignorance of such a magnificent picture, there is too a sour staleness. Present and vile, solemn, looming over me as a mother watching the baby she is about to strangle.

Behind the Heart

I was a good boy. Always a good boy, always doing what I was told and going to bed on time. I didn't sneak out, I didn't talk back, when my friends offered me booze or drugs I said no thank you. I got good grades, I mowed the lawn, I volunteered one summer at a nursing home before the pain got to be too much. I was exactly what you'd want a good boy to be.

So now it's my rebellious phase. Everyone has one, no matter how small, and mine is now. But the phase of a thirty-year-old is different from that of a boy of fifteen. I'm not skipping classes, I'm skipping work. I don't get drunk, I dive into week-long stupors. I don't break a girl's heart for no reason, I go behind that heart and fuck the girl at the bar. They are versions of things I should have done long ago. And they are sad, they are sick. But it is the only way I can get them done.

The Three Dollar Plan

Brady never told his parents that he had the money. When they got the call from Adam's parents, Brady said he didn't know what three dollars they were talking about. The two of them were just playing. Adam never left the room, and Brady never pocketed anything. He never felt a strange warmth in the bottom of his stomach, the sheer relief of the back of his mother's van, the glory of his closet hiding spot. Brady had outsmarted them all. But he would never tell them that.

The story was clear though. Adam knew that his three dollars were in the room, near the Legos they had been playing with. He knew it was there before Brady arrived, and he knew it was there when he went to the bathroom. What he also knew was that, when he returned, it was gone. But Brady would ask his parents why, then, if Adam noticed right away, he didn't speak up. Why Adam waited for them to come pick him up. It all sounded a bit fishy to him, and his parents were shocked to hear him speak this way.

In the end, there was nothing Brady's parents could do prove he had taken the three dollars, nothing they could do to make him confess. As far as they were concerned, Adam misplaced the money, and they didn't appreciate the accusation. It's nice, Brady thought, knowing what will happen before any of it happens.

Brady would continue going to Adam's house, and they would continue playing. Adam would be careful never to leave any money out, not even a dirty penny. Not that Brady had any intention of repeating his crime. He had done it once, and once was enough. Once was enough to know that, yes, if he wanted, he could do it again.

The Chase

How often does a helicopter signal a chase?

I'd heard it all day, that fluttering of giant wings. Louder and quieter, off in the distance and not too far away. I looked out the windows and saw nothing. I looked to the news and heard no mention. I stood on my front steps. For a moment I thought that it was getting closer. But then I stepped inside, and again the sound was faint.

I went about my day, which was going to consist of few and simple things. All I wanted to accomplish was a book and music, Bach. To give some time back to myself after giving so much to others. It was the least I could do. I put on the record and sat down with my pages, filling between the lines with soft strains of Baroque. My mind could focus on each and enjoy them together. I was content, inside.

And then the pulsating overhead beat. It started low, barely noticeable at first, but it was there. And for the first time it was not only there, but it was growing, only growing, moving decidedly forward. The helicopter had quit its searching circles and found the place it needed to go. But where was that?

The needle played white noise and my book fell to the ground. I stood, again going to the window, hoping to see whatever was connected to this propeller. But I saw only the darkness of the street and myself in the glass, peering in at my own eyes. And before I knew to run the propelled air pushed away the trees and the light of the helicopter shone into me.

How often does a helicopter signal a chase? We hear them, see them, gathering traffic information, looking out over the water, carrying a victim safely to a hospital. The convict, the criminal, being hunted with a spotlight through the forest; it is an image at home on the silver screen. It is not something you are likely to see. It is not something of which you are likely to be the subject.

And so I stood there. Frozen. Wanting desperately to blink but knowing that I never could. The helicopter hovered slowly through the parted trees, there in the air as if being dangled by a child on a wire. A giant toy for some unseen amusement. But this feeling lasted briefly, as the light was steady on me, never moving, never once. And so, best I could, I gave the helicopter a small nod, walked out my front door, and went to see what I had done.

Guardians

In the trunk of my car is a shovel and rope. Not for any particular reason, but I can see how one might think something. Something dark and sinister, something that I've planned, some dime pulp cover. But they're just there, they were there when I bought the thing and I guess I saw no real reason to take them out. Never know when you might need to dig, to tie something up real good.

I decided to do a bit of driving today when I saw how low the gas was in town. I used to go on drives a lot, just to think, clear my head, it was something people did and I always enjoyed it. Not much excuse for doing something as wasteful as that nowadays. But when I saw the price I figured I'd fill up the tank and go for a drive. Reminisce. Maybe I would reminisce just about driving, but I was going to reminisce.

People don't meet people in gas stations, that's just not how it works, not in any book I've ever read. Still, plain as day, there she was, standing there over by the drinks. She was reaching for some sugary thing, something terrible, and I told her as much. She said she didn't need me looking out for her, and I said we can never have too many guardians. That's not a view I typically hold. But in came out all the same. And in fact it passed my lips with such ease that I was no longer sure it wasn't something I had always known to be true.

She ended up in the passenger seat, without a drink but not completely empty-handed. I said I just wanted to go for a nice drive and she thought yes, that would be nice. I think she was relieved, that it was just a drive, although I could have been a liar and she wouldn't have ever known. I've been told when I say things, people believe them. I don't see why that's such a fantastic concept. People should tell the truth.

I got on the county road and we got to talking. Cheryl she told me her name was so I called her that. She asked me how long I'd lived in town and I said all my life. It was funny to her, because she said she'd lived in town her whole life as well and had never seen me. Strange, town's not that big, that we never passed each other. Did I know Michael, Laurel, or Dennis? No. Did she know Cooper, Sara, or Felicity? No. Didn't matter who owned what store or went to which of the four churches, there wasn't a man, woman, or child that intersected between the two of us. Our worlds couldn't have been closer together and further apart.

Soon I was well outside of town, over by the abandoned elementary school, the one that almost burnt down that they just left to rot. And that's when the tire blew out. She gave me a cock-browed, knowing sort of look, like she had finally caught on to the second part of my plan. Now, correct my if I'm wrong, but unless I'd shown up there beforehand and planted some sort of spike, or knew enough about tiny explosives, I don't see how I could have gotten my tire to blow on command. These things just happen. And I don't think anything of it when I assess the damage and go to get the spare out of the trunk. Isn't until I pop it and she looks inside does she know something's wrong. Isn't until I feel the knife in my side that I think to tell her anything. But I don't. I just feel the blade go in and out, in and out.

I don't know why I let her do it. I don't know why I kept my mouth shut, listen to her tell me how of course I don't know nobody in town, of course those names were made up, of course I take her to this half-burnt schoolhouse, that's probably where I take all of them. Probably more cemetery than school. And I just took it, gave her my blood and my car keys, and let her drive away.

Soon I'll have to rip this shirt, try to patch myself up, get back to town somehow. But for now I'm content sitting in the brush of the old elementary. The playground swings, the blackened Indian red bricks, the lockers I can see just inside. There's something kind of peaceful about the whole thing. The field has kind of grown up and in and around the school, taken it in and made it one of its own. And I'm glad to have something here to look at and quiet my mind for a time.

Balance

"If you did yoga you wouldn't have such a weak core."

"Thanks, Mom."

Public transportation is the worst.

Signature

"Please sign your name."

I hadn't thought of that. It's not just taking the name, saying the name, you have to write it. Sign it. Make it yours. They don't tell you that. They don't tell you that you'll have to take up a pen and actually write it out. I would sign and sign and sign my name when I was young, practice that signature. Do I do that again?

I signed. Or I tried. It's scratch right now, it doesn't look right. But I'm sure, after a while, it will.