Dr. Pepper

He's supposed to pick me up outside but he isn't here. Before the buses left, that was the point. And I stand by the entrance sign, one by one, watching them go. Everybody's going home but me.

An hour passes. He drives up, shoots in, furious and an hour late. He says he's sorry but I don't care. You were supposed to be here an hour ago, I tell him. He feels terrible, I think.

We go to the grocery store. He buys me a twelve-pack of Dr. Pepper. This isn't so bad, I think. I'll drink Dr. Pepper now, from time to time, and think about how I don't really have anyplace to be.

She-Wolf

There is a tundra wrapped around her legs, wolves and the moon. Not long ago this would've been a ridiculous sight. Wolves, they come and go in popularity. They're loved and despised and shot at from helicopters, and people look at them in hazy shopping mall portraits. They are next to stars on her thighs, surrounded by snow. What are they protecting, the lecher in me asks. I have heard him enough to know not to answer.

The rest is black, shirt and shoes. The first rule of any ensemble really, pick a focal point and stick with that. She wants us to see these wolves, these legs, her lifestyle, her style. She wants me to. She wants me, too? I know better than to answer.

Her hair swings back and forth, back and forth, hypnotizing, hypnotic, swing, swing, hair, hair, wolf, wolf. I am out of shape. I could never outrun a wolf, I think, I am fairly certain of that. I doubt I could outrun her. I watch her get smaller and smaller, the tundra more obscure, it's getting warmer as she goes. Sometimes a man wants to be caught.

Feeling Normal

He needed it to feel normal though, didn't he. To right himself. Took a while for him, I think, to get to the point where he was OK with it. Where he thought, well, this is what it is now. To accept is to grow. That is what he told himself.

He used to need a day, maybe two. There were times where he even gave himself a week, or at least five days. But gradually he became willing to wait mere hours, only a few, before imbibing again. He never did as soon as he woke. He considered that a personal triumph.

It was in his head. It was in his blood. He used this as an excuse, I suppose, although he never said it out loud. Not while he was sober, not to many people. But sometimes, he said, you can't fight blood. You try, he said, and you lose.

Incantation

We've forsaken our child because of our bodies. Hair, lips, bone, and wicked eyes; weight, flailing. Away from ourselves, inside our own incantations, we're living something that seems like us. We're teaching a thing to do the same, we're teaching this is right. It is not a lie if you believe it.

Learned

Really the phrase didn't apply to him, for he wasn't too old for it at all. He was too young for this shit. The research, the definitions, there were no more unanswered questions anymore. Everything bad has been done and learned from and passed down, and there was no reason for him to be making the same mistakes. He had no excuses.

But still he thought it. Arms crossed, legs crossed, fully clothed save for shoes, somehow placed neatly at his bedroom door. The light was on, the lamp was on. It wasn't until he attempted actual movement some minutes later that he realized just how fine he felt. As if it were just another day, and it had been just another night.

Scraps

They sat on the curb, eating falafel, smoking Russian cigarettes they had bummed off some Russian. The sauce was dripping, they licked it off. Strange tobacco, strange spices.

A man—a bum, if you will—limped up to them, crossing the street. They saw him coming, limping. They couldn't get up and walk away, they couldn't ignore him, pretend they were doing anything other than people-watching.

He asked them for a smoke. They told him the truth, that they didn't have any more, they spoke of the Russian. It seemed he understood, that there was just enough detail to make it the truth.

And then he asked them for food. They were almost done, the falafel was gone, what was left was mostly cucumber. And with this they didn't know what to do. Did offering the cucumber and pita, did that insult the man? Did saying no insult him more? How should they handle these last few bites? They had never given such thought to such scraps.

But they offered them to him. It wasn't much, they knew, they said, but they offered them up nonetheless. And the bum, the man, he stood there, looking at them. Was he wondering what to do? Was he moved beyond words or actions? Was he even here at all?

He took the food and sat beside them. He ate, and smiled, and you would never know he had a limp. And the man next to him, when he saw the Russian pop out of the bar, he called him over and asked for more cigarettes. No, thank you, the bum told them, I don't really smoke.

Could He

He could buy her a drink every now and then. He could touch her shoulder gently. He could push her around even, knowing she wouldn't mind, knowing she would probably push back. He could call her names but be genuine when he needed, sweet even. He could sympathize with her. He could lend an ear when she had a bad day, he could give advice. He could say what was wrong with the guys she was dating, he could listen to their praises. He could even hang out with them in a group setting. He could talk. He could say things. He liked her so much, one day he could even tell her.

The Flames

On the wall was a portrait of Nixon and a bust of a deer. That's really all you had to see to have an understanding of the household. You can picture the furniture, the lampshades, the ashtrays filling up. The lawnmower leaving every blade of grass behind. It was a place firmly planted in the past—or the present, depending which side of the curve you're on.

The past never stays the past for some people. Even in its constancy, it remains the here and now for all-time. It is the masses who shapeshift, the ones in their infinite insanity that choose the "other." They revoke, and they question, and they rapidly progress into something that could only be called devolution. There are people who get to a certain age, and they become that certain age forever. They've learned all they'll ever learn. From a certain point on they only hear. But they are already too busy thinking of a retort. It is already there.

In the fireplace was nothing. It wasn't real. They'd had it installed because they liked the look, the idea, of a fireplace, but didn't want to bother with the flames. They drank Tom Collins and went to bed at ten. In the morning they rose with the sun, and called the day their own.

Peanut Butter and Bourbon

He was eating peanut butter off the spoon, washing it down with bourbon, and starting his day at four o'clock. People were upset, incensed, at the weather. It was almost June and the cold was, well, there. It wasn't anything more than just plain cold but, still, it was cold. He stayed in, comforted himself, let his aching body rest.

He watched an old Italian woman cook. The sizzling slices of garlic were a pleasing white noise, and suddenly his meal looked even less than it already was. A nice, big, hot plate of spaghetti might cure what ailed him. He hadn't bought spaghetti in weeks. Months? He had none. He did not want to face the cold.

Mashed peanuts, sugar, oil, corn, a charred barrel. Peanuts and corn, that's what he was sitting there consuming, and it was nice to think of it this way. It seemed less sad to him. Crushed tomatoes, starch, two cloves of garlic, something that would sting, however, is what he craved. He checked for his garlic, which he found, peeling and green-stemmed. It was living and growing in his house. At least something was.

There was no wind. There was no rain. There were not even clouds. And looking out the window one might have thought that today was a perfectly lovely day. Looking through to the other side, one might even think the same.

Socket

And so I'd have to move, just like that. With the little cylindrical prong sticking into the wall socket for all eternity. I wouldn't know what that would do, if anything, except cause a nuisance, for years. It seemed like it had the capability for something great. That another cylindrical socket part would touch it, a switch would get flipped, and that would be the end of... something. Or perhaps not. Perhaps nothing. Perhaps the holes don't matter at all. And they were created by a man who simply held a grudge and wanted to see what he could get away with, and for how long.

Pope

She stands next to the pope, almost. It is a waxen likeness, gesturing forward, never pointing, to a person, a "crowd," the future. She smiles at her boyfriend's camera-phone. She is happy to be by this false holy leader. Or perhaps you'd say a false false holy leader. In any case, she stands by him, smiling, her pick of the litter. She wonders, if the heat were up, would he melt?

Mandolin

When I contemplated getting a mandolin, that's when I knew things were bad. It had been days since I'd left the house, weeks since any substantial outing, months since one had been with a woman. And now here I was, placing a tapestry I bought from a strange Eastern European, making my own juice, wondering if maybe I should finally learn how to play the mandolin. As if playing the mandolin was always something I'd wanted to do.

People deal with things different, grief. Or whatever you want to call it. And there's no right or wrong way but if there had to be I'm fairly certain mine would end up in the latter. Jumping aboard some small fad in order to feel a part of something, anything. But whatever you feel ends up being small, too, so the joke is really on you. And the mandolin is on your wall, reminding, always reminding. You were sad once. You were weak. You could not face a thing head on.

James Taylor

When I was learning—how to comb my hair, how to sleep less, how to ask a question—I would rush back and forth to and from my room waiting for your every word. I had a list of songs, I kept them on repeat. Songs that I made to fall asleep to, songs that calmed me. And I would listen to them always, I relate them to the cold, to my unkempt hair and ripped jeans. I figured out who James Taylor was: He was the man that connected me to you. In those moments, he was our messenger. They were all our messengers, giving word to me that things were OK, that everything would eventually end, that this was all a beautiful dream.

Bottle Cap

He got home, first thing he did, he opened himself a bottle of beer. He took a long, deep gulp and thought about how good it felt to cap the day off in such a way. He sat it down and moved to the cupboard. There must be something in there that could accompany this drink.

There wasn't. He turned back to see foam, foam sprouting, the bottle covered, sitting in a pool of its contents. It must stop at some point. At some point, the beer, it will stop flowing out. It will all settle.

It didn't. It kept rising, foaming, escaping. The cap to his day, all over the counter, dripping onto the floor, streaking down the drawers. And he had a very real dialogue in his head, just then, about whether to clean it up with a paper towel or with his lips.

Doggy Crimes

I thought it was a two-headed dog but it was just two dogs. But then I saw that it was a two-headed dogs with eight legs and two torsos. It was hopelessly happy, running in the sun, not knowing of its crimes. It was just happy to be.

They say the only thing happier than a three-legged dog is a four-legged dog. I don't know what they would say about this. Maybe they wouldn't say anything at all. Find the owner. Ask him what the meaning of all this is. And he would say, I don't know, I just walk the things.

Official Summer

It was a storm, far as storms go. The children only wanted to go bowling. That is, they had been forced to bowl, last day of school as it was. But being forced to do something isn't bad at all when you like it. When you've got the bumpers.

The siren howled, somewhere between the sixth and seventh frame. The kids all looks around, looked at each other. They'd heard the sound before, sure. Driving around, at their schools, they'd heard the sound, tornadoes were not new. But not on the last day of school. Surely not on the arrival of official summer.

They left their balls and lined the walls, the pins were abandoned in odd braille-like designs. They sat on the floor, hands around their knees, heads between them. The sirens blared. What a way to end the first grade.

Math and naps, coloring and building blocks. Reading and pictures and bathroom breaks. Recess, lunch, and the school supply cart before returning to class. Kickball, kickball, kickball. Snowshoe, jungle gym, running and cursive. I'll be your friend.

The sirens ended. The kids were free to pick up their balls. They were free to finish their games, to use the bumpers, to take the school bus home. To have a summer of beaches, of bike rides, of ice cream til it hurt.

Knowing

I reluctantly seek your gentle body, round and smooth, a big control. It resonates with me in some brilliant way that I've grown tired of defying. I am frail, sugar in a rainstorm, burning in a satellite, running from knowing. Or, at least, it was that I ran once. But I am tired. I am sick. I am wet. And I have come for you.

A Body Learns

Running so I don't miss the bus, rambling into some sideways pizza store. Pepperoni and passed out lungs, salted tobacco and a beer can against my forehead. Look close, you can see the imprint there, that circle dent.

Empty wallet and a case of black lung. That was my youth. Pickled herring and walks in the park? A body gets used to it. A body learns.

Taboo

And then suddenly she was crying and I knew it was because of me. But this one joke wasn't meant to harm, there was no edge to it, none of which I was aware.

"A friend of yours commit suicide?" She nodded. "Was it recent?" And she nodded again. She told me she should go and I said she didn't have to, but I don't think she wanted me to see her like that. Why not? I was already seeing her.

I don't feel bad for making the joke. I would make it again. There isn't a subject in the world that can't be laughed at. You can't please everyone all of the time. Sooner or later you'll find someone with a few drops of mourning still left in their eyes. Maybe it's then we need those jokes the most.

High

I told them I was already hungry, and that I already had a bit of a cough. I wanted to cover my bases. They really had to walk me through it; how to hold the piece, where to put my thumb, when to take it off. I kept burning myself trying to light the thing. The fire just didn't go the way I wanted it to go.

After that nothing happened. We stood outside by a tree and they got giddy. But I just stood there, looking around, wondering if this is what it was. They told me not much happens the first time. You must really want to do something if you do it once and nothing happens. My stomach was growling, my throat wanted water.

Sunshower

It's bright and I can barely see I'm squinting so hard. So I don't see the drops, I just start to feel them. Devil's beating his wife, I hear someone say. I ask him what he means. Says she's happy that God created such a beautiful day, and the Devil's putting her in her place. Says it a little too much like he's on the Devil's side.

I consider it as truth, just for a moment. If he really is down there, brutalizing her with his walking stick, it seems a waste of a beating. The day's even more beautiful now, I think. Before it was just a day, the sun was just out, the clouds were just gone, the sky was only blue. Now there's something unnatural about it, in a lovely way. It's bright and it's glistening and I'm in the inside of a rainbow. And I think maybe she said something on purpose, so he would beat her, and she could make this rain. That something this lovely could only be born of something terrible. That's a brave thing. And then I think, well, I guess all demons ain't so bad.

Pass Mustard

She said she didn't like mustard. Not only that, but she really wasn't fond of any condiments. No mustard, no relish, no sriracha or any other hot sauce. Maybe if it were only hot sauces, maybe that I could understand. But even mayonnaise. She wasn't even all that fond of butter.

I have a jar of garlic champagne mustard. Four ounces for nearly nine dollars. I dip my finger in it from time to time, I don't even want to sully it with a pretzel stick. There's a tartness, a sweetness, a elevating principal that made me feel I was somebody. And when dabbed on a thick chunk of brown sugar glazed ham, I couldn't think of anything better.

Maybe I was looking for reasons. Ways out. But if you don't like hot sauce, if you're not one for butter, if even the finest mustards in the world just don't do it for you, well, I'm not so sure you're going to do it for me.

Sweet Dream

I woke when she crawled into bed with me. The poison didn't work.

Strange Arrangement

It startled him, genuinely, it did, when she asked for a shirt. He had forgotten she was there. He woke up naturally, au naturel, on his regular side of the bed. And then a voice, small and clean, from right behind him. A T-shirt to visit the bathroom. He was happy to oblige.

Stretched he lay atop the tousled sheets, the backwards and inside out sheets, the pillows in their strange arrangements. Stretched he waited for her return and the return of his shirt. He wasn't sure what they'd do, if they'd do that again, if maybe he wanted to go back to sleep.

It had been minutes and minutes now, and he held his breath to check for signs of struggle. Only voices, back and forth, on the other side of the wall. He stood and walked and opened his door, clad in briefs and a scowl and looking like a man. He glared at his roommate, eating cereal from the box, sharing it with her and she sat beside him. Had she washed her hands?

Come over here, she said. Yeah, man, we were just talking about you. She looked over, a little too quickly for anybody's decent taste. It was all a bit much to deal with before noon, and it occurred to him that he should never have gone out the night before.

Omen

I passed her smoking. I left my friends and ran back to her. But she was asleep. I should say things, stay, when I have the chance.

His hair started in the middle of his skull. It was voluminous. I could see, however, his faltering widow's peak. He was shaving it, and it was growing in.

There was a beach. I know there was a beach.

She is real. He is not. And I've never been to a beach that beautiful. I don't know what to take away and what to leave. It's foolish and it'so jumbled and it's taken from here and there. But there's something there I want. Am I allowed to take this as an omen? Will it support me when I act, when people find out, when it all goes wrong?

Sanctuary

"Every conversation about God must start with silence." It would seem, then, that Harry had been having that conversation for thirty years. Still, he knew the reverend meant well.

He'd come to meet women. He got the notion in his head that if he showered and shaved, put on his Sunday suit, sat quietly alone in the pew, not quite in the back, that some beautiful woman would see him, take care of him, want him. That perhaps out of some sense of Christian duty, this woman might invite him over for a meal and feed him the rest of his life. What was left of it.

Perhaps it was unfair of him. Not only to this woman, if she existed, wherever she was, but to himself. He felt unnatural in his suit, out of his beard, seated on a hard wooden bench he had never adjusted to as a child. He could feel the sweat glands swelling, he could see a stained Saint Peter. What are you doing here, what is it you're looking for, why should I open anything to you? He wanted to laugh.

"We don't need to be confronted by skeptics. We're skeptics ourselves." If this was the kind of church that practiced it, and if Harry was of that disposition, he might have leapt up and shouted AMEN! He might have opened his arms to the sky, waiting for something to fall into his lap.

The postlude arrived, the congregation processioned out of the sanctuary. Harry stayed seated, listening. The music, an air of Bach's, connected his sadness to his hope with some terrible thread he concluded only the greatest of composers knew how to use. Weaving it in and out him, stitching the pieces together, until by the final chord he reached something that felt nearly whole.

He left. The reverend was at the door. "Thank you for visiting." It was only then that Harry realized how beautiful she was. Her hair was silver and sweet, and reminded him of something.

Vessel

When I removed my sweater and saw that I was peeling my first thought was to put the sweater back on. It's a natural thing, sure, but most natural things should be done in private. I thought peeling should be added to the list.

I don't like the idea of peeling. I don't like anything that links me closer to a snake. Shedding its skin, leaving behind a dried and useless casing of itself. Perhaps the same way I don't like the idea of death, that the body is just a vessel for some untouchable thing inside it. This is just a smaller version of that, one more step leading up to it (or perhaps it's down). We all flake away until we collapse.

I put my sweater back on. The windows of they room were larger than I remembered, or perhaps it was only a particularly sunny day. But I sweat, through and through. They asked me why I didn't just take the damn thing off. Because I'm trying to stay alive, any which way I can.

Good Friday

This discomfort is from the suicide.

He is gaining.

Blood Origin

I woke up and it was there. Just there. The stain, a circle, nearly perfect, setting in my white satin pillowcase. Dry, and red, and blood.

I checked my nose in the mirror. Nothing. No crust of blood down my upper lip. No residue on the inside. I blew my nose. Nothing still. I poked and I prodded. I used cotton swabs, tissue paper, towels and the like. I did everything I could to find the source, the only origin.

I hit myself with a book and ran into the wall. I shoved my index finger in the back. I jostled and I scraped. That got it bleeding.

People to Be Friends With

Hello. I am new to the area and am looking for people to be friends with. Must be interested in some (hopefully all!) of the following:

Sports
Sailing
Dogs (not cats)
Some cats are OK though
Baking
Meat pies (store-bought)
General ideas
That feeling you get where you wake up and you think you're late and then you realize it's the weekend and you have nowhere to be
Murder
Family & friends (haha but not necessarily in that order!)
Laughing
Giggling
Chortling
Guffaws
Golf laws
McGruff, the dog who fights crime
The top of the lungs
Peanut butter and jammy sammiches
That feeling you get where you climax
Seasons
Wind
Asking someone for help right after they asked you for help (or during)
Having just the best time
Traveling
Portents
Jade monkeys
Poplar grammar
Ketchup & mustard gas
Skis
That feeling you get all the time