Lucid

Watching them talk was like watching a firing squad. Tense, dreadful, sweaty, wondering why people were letting this happening to me. Shouldn't there be a blindfold? Shouldn't there be a last cigarette? Shouldn't they ask me if there's anything else I would like to say? I have some words.

When they left it was all I could do to not black out, hit my head on a table, break a window, all of the above. I sat there on the sofa trying to look like I had it all together. Oh, he's not upset, they'd think, he's not antisocial, he's just too cool. Look at him.

She'd come to me, I thought, surely, someone would. I'd sit there looking cool, I'd sit there sipping. Slowly looking from right to left, left to right, right to left again. People were talking over music and laughing over drinks. People were getting ready for... what? The rest of the night? The rest of their lives?

Someone woke me up, asked me if I lived there. Enough silence and people get the idea. I dreamt about them talking, too. The agony is thorough and it is complete. I have a choice between working on my courage and working on my lucid dreaming. I think the lucidity will come much quicker. And, if not, it's still the way I'll go.

Shapes and Shades

The front of my home is full of windows. Standing there I can see the sky; grey, daunting, full of water and reasons to stay inside. Those shapes and shades drive me to my kitchen. Something warm, lemon and ginger, cinnamon perhaps, to chase it all away and keep me here.

Another window rests above the back door. Reaching for a mug a beam strikes my eye. I turn and see the pink and orange horizon, cheerfully painted over the buildings and electrical wires. I am forced to recognize, all too often, the world is never any single thing at any given time. It fills me with such dread and happiness that I throw open the door and do not know where I should go.

Good Night

I can't sleep though it's late and I turn the light on. The ceiling fan makes me dizzy and I try to look away but the middling drone of the blades through the air prove that an impossibility. I throw up on the sheets.

I feel better already and I gather the sheets and go down to the laundry room in the basement. I have nothing to illumine my way and I fumble best I can for a dangling string attached to the light. I find it and pull it and see a flash of a couple getting hot and heavy on one of the dryers as the bulb bursts. I drop my soiled sheets and dash back to the elevator. Somehow it seemed like the best thing to do.

The nightwatchman is giving me a look I assume he gave me as I headed down. A look that tells me we grew up in very dissimilar circumstances. The elevator door opens and I push myself in and just as the doors are closing a couple gets in behind me. They are kissy and grabby and looking and me and giggling in each other's ears. I can only assume it's about me as they concoct the kind of night that brought me to this point. Makes sense to me.

When I get back to my apartment I stand in the doorway. I wonder if this is really my home. I wonder how long I've been there and how much longer I have left. I lock the door behind me and chug two glasses of ice water. They make me more awake. I walk to the couch and find a vomit stain that I am only just now remembering. I pull a chair over to the open window and sit. I rest my head on the arms and my arms on the sill. I hope these city sounds can take me away.

Tell Me About Him

He is a walking pork pie, a doughy crust filled with gelatinous pig-meat and oil drippings. It is impossible for him to sneak up on anyone because you can hear his sodden feet gooshing in his fall-apart boat shoes. And even if you were deaf there is the stench, and my god he has a stench about him, a rancid stew of odors collected from various greasy diners and sweaty clothes, boiling and infusing in the nightmarish cauldron of his skin folds. It is as if someone found a pile of leavings in the alley behind a butcher shop and thought, Hello, let's put that in a dusty coat and call it a man.

When he speaks he dribbles and when he dribbles he sucks it back up, and he uses an uncommonly large amount of words with 's,' 'sh,' 'th,' and 'p.' More air and spit passes out of his yellowed maw than actual words. His speech frequently resembles that of a horse who decided to learn English and did a very poor job of it. And do not look at his mouth while he speaks, for if the sight of his mangled vaguely teeth-like objects do not cause you to run in the opposite direction, the putrid smell of fish and cigarette butts emanating from that horrid orifice will. Unless, of course, it causes you to pass out, in which case you should consider yourself lucky.

He doesn't so much bathe as get wrung out, the diminishing returns of a garbage sponge. His seven hairs leave an uncanny amount of dandruff on his rumpled shoulders, so much in fact that one might think he is constantly walking by the ends of weddings, or toiling in the salt mines. He always sports a sweaty sheen and a badly-tied necktie, though he never seems to be coming from anywhere or going to anyplace. He wears corduroy cargo pants.

He is the kind of man who arrives early, leaves late, and was never invited. In sum: He is a most wretched thing, an existence only found suitable when you consider science may learn something from him, if science will have progressed enough to do so. No, I do not care for him one bit.

Pretending to Drive

A boy stands on the wheel of the BMW and put his hands on the hood. He uses it to push himself off, jumps onto the curb. The man wipes a smudge from the hood and picks the boy up. He takes him around to the street passenger's side, opens the door, puts the boy in, closes the door. The man is waiting and looking, impatiently perhaps, at other people on the street, other cars going by. He finally leaves, walks away. The boy is busy with a comic book. He asks a silent question, receives no answer. He looks up. There is no one in the car with him. There is no one outside. He screams and cries, tries to open the door, he cannot. He climbs into the front seat, looking around, looking for something. He gives up. He plays with the steering wheel. The boy pretends to drive, laughs, forgets.

Western Union

So I'm on my way to Western Union. A friend is wiring me money from Argentina, so I gotta go to Western Union to get it, like a cowboy. Lucky for me there's a Western Union not too far from my place. So I get there, a few minutes' walk, and the blinds are shut and the signs in the window say "CLOSED." Now, I pass this place most days, and I noticed the drawn blinds only I thought it was to keep the hot hot summer sun out. So it tells me where the closest Western Union is, and thankfully it's not too far away, ten fifteen minute walk at the most. And it's a nice day so who am I to complain. So I get to the address of where this Western Union's supposed to me, and idiot that I am I'm looking around at all the establishments expecting to see some big black and yellow Western Union sign, or at least something in a window, something anything to tell me I'm on the right track. And then I realize, hello, this address is this pharmacy, and maybe it's inside. So I go inside, and I look around, and there's no signs and there's no nothing. So I leave and I'm pacing around the parking lot, looking at the address, thinking well goddammit something must be here! So I go back inside and do what I should've done all along which is to ask the girl behind the counter, "Excuse me, miss, but do you do Western Union here?" And she points to three computers to my left. So I go over, sit down, start tapping the screen like an idiot. "Have you used one of these before?" she has the audacity to ask me. She gets me started, tap tap tap, then says, "I used one once you'll have no problem" and walks away. So I type in my name, and it's missing letters, and it's putting in too many. I type in the code, but it doesn't like that code, and then I realize it just doesn't like the dashes. And I type in my phone number, only it doesn't like the dashes, and of course the girl is gone and there's no one around to help me, there's only seven billion people in the world, but everyone's too busy making robots to take over their own jobs! And finally, finally, I type in the amount that's being sent, and the sender, and Argentina... and I can't even get the goddamn money for twenty hours! Technology makes everything so easy these days I could spit.

She Came Back

She came back to a burned home. Jewelry gone, photos destroyed, dispensers emptied. She came back to a pile of ashes that she once called a life. Her dog, Byron, was with her, she had her passport because her license expired. She came back to what she thought was everyday. Burnt paint and slashed canvasses, missing trophies. The locket with her parents' pictures. So many books, so many inscriptions. Could she possibly remember what they said? Something about love, something about birthdays. The handwriting. The handwriting was all gone. Nothing left but pixels. And those could be anybody's. Standing in her former life she wondered what sort of phoenix it would bring. She back back to find that she could never go back again. She had nothing but tears and nowhere to go but forward. Forward is hard, and her feet were covered in soot. At least, for once, she wasn't worried about footprints.

Roof

The 4-1-7 is peeling off, the stairs are royal blue and stained and they keep going, there are a couple littered soda cups. The door at the top leads into a loft, the kind you see in movies, bigger than that. It's the kind of place that looks beautiful to people who don't realize how dirty it is, and the people who do realize think it's perfect. People cycle in and out, you can tell, and no one's cleaned their rooms properly for the next guest.

There's a keg and next to it a donation jar. Who makes his party guests pay for a keg no one asked him to buy? If you want people to buy their own beer tell them to buy their own beer, they won't mind. What they will mind is the fine print under the promise of free beer. I fill my cup full, pay nothing, drink half, top it off, and walk around.

I know no one. Guys with jeans I wish I could wear, girls I wish I could date, tattoos for which I will never have the commitment. The space is open and vast, the kitchen looks like the cover of a book about cool kitchens. There is a basketball hoop over the front door and there's actually enough room to play. The walls are slapped with once-vibrant paints: cyan, yellow, magenta, Kelly green. One bathroom had a wallpaper fashioned out of magazine clippings. Another had white walls covered with the writings of a thousand occupants, a filthy mug of various Sharpies on the sink where the toothbrushes should be. "MAKE YOUR MARK" a little sign tells me.

Ah, yes. But of course. Remember the days our parents talked about? Remember the best minds of our generation and so forth? Remember when alternative really meant something? A used chef's knife out on the cutting board. Half-finished art projects and dirty laundry. Look, we have made ourselves a new Bohemia, and it is 417 Sullivan Street! This whole place is a half-finished art project.

I hear something about a roof. I fill my beer and go looking. The stairs are in a hallway jutting out from another hallway. They are dark, and narrow, and the railing doesn't go up the entire way. A cinder block props the door open and I smell fresh cigarette smoke. There is a girl standing on the ledge, watching the city.

"Wow," I say, and stand next to her.

"Yeah."

"People are smoking inside, you know."

"Have you been inside?" she asks me and we laugh.

You can see most everything. The neighborhood, the next neighborhood, more steeples than you can shake a stick at. The skyscrapers, the lights, the life. It must be one of the best views in the city, and it wraps all the way around us. Sometimes it looks like a cutout, the skyline, that cityscape. But here, on this tattered roof, you realize that it's all around you, all the time, every day. And I don't know if it's the rush of the view, the rush of the ledge, the rush of a pretty girl, or a few beers on an empty stomach, but life feels good. And some people trying to live the lives they want to live, it doesn't seem so bad.

The Game

I never wanted to go in there, they said it would be good for me, the guys. All those pennants and TVs blaring, those five dollar thin domestics. This wasn't the place for me anymore, it never really was. They said don't think like that, there are so many girls, they said it would be good for me.

The problem with being out of the game is that you forget the game has changed. It takes a while to get up to speed. I tried pulling the old bump into, can I buy you a drink, no, well you know where I am. The guys said I didn't need to bench three hundred, they're just happy I'm going to the gym.

There was one, she looked like she didn't belong, in a good way, the way I hope I looked. She had on a dress that reminded me of something and I couldn't remember what. Compliments are good icebreakers so I'm told. I tried, after looking for maybe too long, dispensing it. I tried to be sweet, a gentleman. But aren't I a little old for this place, that was what she told me. Suddenly that light beer felt awfully heavy.

Cue

I'd like to think that she didn't forget to say goodbye. That it was by design. That she knew she couldn't say goodbye, that she would make a mistake, slip up, that it would be so much more.

Wrapped in smoke and laughing friends, she hops in her called car. But it doesn't drive away. It stands there, a curb and a mile away from me. Hazard lights blink, the exit is paused. Could this be the cue? Is this the time when I say goodbye?

The car makes a U-turn and the night draws to a close. They ask me how I'm getting home. I say I don't know, but really I don't care.

Key

I keep a key around my neck. Ha ha ha, people say, what does that open. My grandfather's chest, I tell them. He had it with him during The War. In it he kept books, photographs, tobacco. It's covered in scratches and taped-on postcards, and the hinges defy rust. It held his life and, in a way, was his life, and when he died he left it to me. He said to open it when I feel ready. How am I supposed to know something like that? What if I find nothing, or too much? Why did he stop so short on guidance? Is he really gone if I never open the chest? So I keep this key with me, I say, on a chain around my neck. And this story makes everyone so much happier than if I informed them I found it in a friend's yard.

Burning Candle

I'm on my phone trying not to act like I'm waiting for the bathroom, because what could be more embarrassing. I'm looking at some movie thing, some on-set antics, when the bathroom door opens and out walk Tina and some guy I don't know. He's some friend of Kara's, and I don't even like Kara all that much, so that's really all I need to know. I ask her who that guy is and she pretends like she doesn't hear me, I know she does, Sly and the Family Stone is only playing so loud. I ask again, who is that guy, how are you, how's your night. I follow her to the fridge, at a distance, as my distance as you can get in a Chicago brownstone. She's drinking beer even though she doesn't like it and putting in line even though she thinks they're dirty. I hear from Kara that the guy is her friend visiting from Cleveland and that's all I need. I go into the bathroom and smell nothing but the burning candle. In the wastebasket is a large amount of toilet paper wrapped up, wrapped around something. I lock the door and open the window. Somewhere out there is something for me. There's laughter and there's music, and it's either coming from out in the back or another place entirely.

In My Phone

"What I don't understand is that she talked to me first. You know? She said, Hey, we should do something today."

"Oh, man. Man, dude, that's rough."

"Yeah, and then she said, well nothing, you know. She said nothing."

"Ooh. Ouch."

"Yeah."

"Like, ouch."

"Yeah."

"And she talked to you first? Like she brought it up?"

"She totally brought it up."

"Harsh. Well, her loss, dude, you know, her loss."

"Yeah. ... Why do you think she did that though?"

"Did what? Not text back?"

"No, why did she text and then not text back?"

"So why didn't she text back."

"No, why did she text and then after I texted her not text back."

"Uh, I dunno, man. Why do you do it?"

"What?"

"Like why do you do it? Why do guys do it, you know? I do it, because you know it's like the interest is there and then it's just... not."

"Yeah. Yeah? Yeah... I guess, yeah..."

"Yeah."

"Yeah. ... So all along, this is what we've been doing?"

"I mean, I guess?"

"Dang. ... That sucks."

"What was her name, dude? You seem super down."

"Her name... Yeah, yeah it was... Kate. Katie. Kallie? It's in my phone as 'KC," so something with a K, something with one of those sounds."

"Huh. And the 'C' part?"

"I need to take this one step at a time."

Leave and Let Me Die

Perhaps I had it coming, yes? Maybe this is what you'll tell me. You'll say it was the path I chose, all those roads I walked down, those bloody doors I opened. That once I was through the first there was no choice but to go through the second, and the third. One choice inevitably leads to a million others, and once a choice is made there is only one path.

And I believe I agree with you. But there is no way to blame it all on me. To blame me you must blame my father, and my mother, and their fathers and mothers, and their fathers and mothers, and their fathers and mothers, and the cities in which they lived, and the other people in them, and the forests and the oceans and the dinosaurs. I did what I did because of them. Blame Adam and Eve. Blame God.

I say this knowing that there's no way out. I say this as the light begins to fade, as sounds become sound. I say this without animosity or judgment. Because if I had him here, the Big Man in the Sky, I don't think I would chastise him at all. I think if it were He and I in a room with no windows I would only ask for Him to shed a little light. What kind of light, however, I do not know.

Higher Road

It was the coffee that triggered it for me, when you said the hotel had some of the best you'd ever had but the office stuff was crap. They served the same coffee all over town, same beans, same roasters, same preparation. Thought it must be that you wanted to set yourself apart somehow, although I couldn't imagine why. We were in this thing together, didn't matter outsider or town local. We were a team, we were united, and it seemed silly that a cup of coffee should divide us and that you should will it so.

Did I tell you any of this? No. What would have been the point? Were you suddenly supposed to say, Oh, you're right, how foolish of me, I recant? We we have fought for hours? Would that have been the beginning of the end? No, we had to work together and so I kept my big mouth shut. Higher road and all that after all. I switched our cups and you never noticed. That was a win enough for me.

Sprinkler

Sitting out on the plaza watching a couple share a scone thinking maybe the sun might lighten my hair. But I dunno, maybe they're not a couple. When I share my food with you it means something. This is not always understood.

A ginger tyke splashes in the water fountain. "Trev?" I'd know your voice anywhere. I'd know it in silence.

"Hey, Lucy," I tell you, "pull up a chair." I point to our matching coffee cups. "Thought that was you."

"Why didn't you say something?"

"What if I was wrong?"

We enjoy these fleeting summer moments. Soon enough the season will be in its death throes, the nights hacking out autumn wind as the sun goes down. But for now we are warm and happy and she even takes off her cardigan and God help me.

"What are you drinking?" I ask.

"Americano, duh," she says and, yes, I probably should have known that. Somewhere I probably did.

"Black coffee," we say together and we smile. I hide mine, though, my real one. It's gotten hotter.

"I wish I could be like him," I say. The little red-headed boy. "Playing in a public fountain, look how happy he is. Remember sprinklers?" She nods. "Simple. That's it, isn't it? Simple."

"You could get a sprinkler," she says. And put it in what. My landlord small front yard? No, a sprinkler needs a yard, a proper yard, you need room to run, to gear up. "Well, get a place with a yard."

"I can't just get a place with a yard."

"Why not? You want a sprinkler. Get your sprinkler." I want to tell her that her shoulders will get sunburned. "Let's figure out what it'll take to get that sprinkler."

"Maybe," I say. "Another time." The coffee's gotten hotter, too, if that's possible. In a few hours, when the sun goes down, it would be perfect. If only it didn't keep me up. "Oh, hey," I get a muffin from my bag. "You want this? I bought it but..."

She smiles, takes it, has a bite. Blueberry, sugar on top, she eats from the bottom just how I do. We both watch the boy, the ginger, this kid, and for a second it seems like he's alone and maybe it even seems like he's ours. I keep that question to myself and his mother whisks him away.

She gets up, hugs me, "I have somewhere to be." She wants me to call her, she's serious about the sprinkler, but it hurts too much and I hate myself.

"I'll call," I say. There isn't a cloud in the sky. It's blue all over. You couldn't even tell it's gonna get real cold real soon.

 

Message and Medium

This time of year used to mean new pencils and shoes. I better have brand new pencils, they can't be old ones, they must have crazy colors. I cannot wear last year's shoes, they must be new, they must be from Famous Footwear. Kids can spot old, and they are ruthless.

I knew a kid who took pride in his little nub of a pencil, sharpened all the way down to the eraser. It was cool. I envied him. I couldn't say it.

Now I'll write with anything; pencil long or short, ink, chalk, paint, blood. Children don't realize that it's the words, no one told us about message versus medium. And the dirtier my Converse the better.

It's taken me years to realize the year starts in January. I still don't think I'm there. I still look at the trees changing colors and think something's beginning. I guess, in a way, it is.

Tell Me About Her

She falls out of a magazine every day. She is woken by the birds on her windowsill. She cannot be contained by art. She is infallible. She reads a hundred books a year. She speaks intelligently to you and makes you feel the same. She makes you feel things you'd forgotten how to feel. She brings back things that were lost.

She has a hundred million dollars. She has a room full of rubies. She sings on pitch and is soft to the touch. She has hair that changes with the seasons and it always seems to be just right. She smells the way your high school crush smelled, the one who was too good for you. She is too good for you. She smiles and when she doesn't smile she laughs. She laughs toes to fingertips. She remembers what it's like to be alone.

She has dinner ready when you get home from work. She has perfect lingerie and wears nothing to bed. She wakes up clean. She eats whatever and never works out. She runs for days and sweats like an animal. She digs in the dirt on her hands and knees. She spends hours on her nails and then breaks them for fun. She writes in a journal, and she writes your name over and over.

She holds your hand so tight it could burst. She is exceptional at the violin. She has a dog and a cat and they get along great. She has cupcakes in the oven, frosting on her lips. She likes your favorite movie and can't wait to watch it later. She has plenty of friends and they're all so nice. She got you tickets to the game. She can build a campfire. She is knitting you a scarf.

She questions nothing. She accepts everything. She sees the world as it is. She knows what should be. She is not jaded. She is not a fool. She sees through you. She sees goodness. She is goodness. She is the sun. She will never burn out. She will never run dry.

Machiavelli, etc.

There is a theory goes that The Prince isn't serious. That Machiavelli's treatise was not pro-monarchy, but pro-liberty. I can relate. I've dated girls.

I don't care about the Medicis. I don't care if I'm supposed to just "know." I am never quite sure why people can't say what they mean.

I've never lived in 16th century Italy, of course. I've never been much for comedy or fiction. I am, perhaps, old fashioned. What I need is a 21st century girl with a straight-talking grandmother attitude. That is, perhaps, asking the impossible. I am what the kids call problematic.

I could pretend. I could look to my Florentine friend. There are good ideas in there. The fox and the lion and such. If there is something you want there are certain things you must do. Fact.

Where is my lily pond watcher? Where is my midnight cook? Where does she dance so lovely to our shared music? There are other texts out there, books with answers, but nothing better than a life dirtily lived. I will have to keep on.

Yes! I shall trudge through! I shall persevere! I shall continue my education, maybe even learn a little Latin. A dead language, understood by few, spoken by none, lost to the tomes on our shelves. Even Machiavelli knew it was on the way out.

What was in his head? It could be, perhaps, only that he wanted to keep it.

The Good Stuff

She put the bottles on the counter and eyed the chocolate. It was the dark stuff, the ones with the high cacao. Perhaps, she thought, if she bought something high enough, high in quality, high in cacao, that would help to keep her balanced. If she saved it for a snack for later, a dessert, a treat, and she knew it was the good stuff, knew it was high quality, then maybe that would keep her from going too far. If there was the chance she wouldn't remember, that she might wake up next to an empty wrapper with no recollection of what had happened. But who was she kidding, she thought, looking at the contents of her basket being whisked across the sensor. Good stuff never mattered much to her.

A Unique Conversation

"At any given time," she said, "there are at least two people exactly like us, in this same situation, having this exact same conversation."

She had a point. "What's your point?" I said.

"We're not as important as we think we are." She finished her wine. "I know you're not."

"Hey now."

"I mean I," she smiled, "I know I'm not." I took her glass and refilled it.

"Do you think," I asked, "that there are people having this same part of this conversation?"

"Yes," without hesitation. "But it narrows down."

"And the wine?"

"The wine helps."

I handed the glass over and sat beside her. "Wine always makes things unique."

"Mm, that it does, that it does, that it does..."

The scents of her wine, perfume, and hairspray mingled and grew in a way I was surprised I'd never noticed before. Perhaps this was the first time. Surely, I thought, we must be at the end of the line. Surely it is this moment, this smell, that separates us from all other conversations in time. We had reached the end of the funnel, and at the end of the funnel it was us. But whether or not to tell her.

Dear Sheena

First off, I hope that it's OK that I found you online. Taking a risk here, I know.

I just want to say that I'm sorry for how I came across. I'm sure getting asked about the sexual innuendos you get from other guys was not at all encouraging. I just want you to know that I wasn't going to do something like that and I wasn't trying to be creepy, I'm actually genuinely interested. Our dating experiences (men's and women's I mean) are so different I just wanted to get the female perspective. But I realize now that wasn't the way to go about it, not during a first chat anyway.

Basically I just want you to know that I'm a good guy, and I don't harass girls, and I'm sorry. I hope this clears the air and we can still talk! Your pics were super cute and you seem very cool.

Again, sorry about the misunderstanding. And sorry for finding you online (I promise I'm not a creep, I remembered that Cam Horner was a mutual friend of ours so I found you through his page. Talk to him he'll vouch for me!).

OK I think I've gone on rambling long enough. Talk to you soon I hope!

Ciao,

Seth

P.S. What kind of name is Sheena anyway? Is it a family name or something?

All You Have to Know About Me

I cried more when my cat died than when my grandfather died. I have used at least a dozen different names in bars, with half as many accents. I am lazy and I enjoy it. I reached the height of my potential before I hit eighteen. I stolen friend's bike and helped him look for it. I always keep a fully inflated football in my closet, and I never ever use it. I won't give you a dollar but I will buy myself a slice of pizza (I had salad for dinner so it's OK). I live in a bubble and I not only don't mind it, I prefer it. I ignored my Spanish teacher for two weeks so I could learn to flip a pen over my thumb. I have never worn ladies' underwear but I probably will, probably on not a bet. If I could choose my own death I would choose to be thrown into a huge chasm and explode into blue electricity, just like Emperor Palpatine. And that's really all you have to know about me.

Unlatched

I saw it as I turned the corner, at the end of the street, an open gate. A city block of small white fences, and the final one unlatched. And each day the gate opened closer, one house closer, one house closer, each day I witnessed this.

I know my time is coming. When I will turn the corner, when I will come home, and see that door swung open. When I will walk in, unwelcome, to someone or something, and see a scene I shouldn't. But, until that time, I'll be glad it is only my neighbors and not me.

Marilee

I took the time to sit and write you a letter, and took a little longer to throw it away. Writing is like bloodletting, some ancient way of curing a wound. But it will never go away and it will only get worse. Enough ink just might kill you.

My wastebasket is filling up. Thoughts and prayers and voodoo curses, and all I want is to look you in the eye. Could I say out loud the things I say on paper? There are things you can do, placement and form, space, theoretically I could use these to my advantage. Yet I have no advantage, my side is as empty as my pen. I guess the question is, could I make you listen longer than I could make you read?

On my wall there is a calendar. I cross the days off in red, working toward a circle I have yet to draw. I believe you will find it in yourself to come back. I like to think that I would be that reason, but I know better. I know better, and so I throw my letters away. I will save you that task. Life is hard enough.

From Day One

My son changed his name today. Said he never felt like a Stephen. Now his name is Rance. Now I have to call my son Rance. I'm not even sure what a Rance is. I suppose it's him. I suppose it's always been him.

I support him, but it's hard. Your name is the first thing you're given, it's the first thing I ever really did for my son. And now he doesn't want it. It's like saying, "You didn't get it right from Day One."

But he'll always be Stephen to me, Steve, my little Stevie. It will take time. It will probably take me until I die. But it's not about me. And yet, in the most profound and real of ways, it is.

Dessert First

The question I am facing more and more, the one I know I will have to answer, is do I want the easy way to something bad, or the hard way to something good. It seems clear-cut, at first. Journey, destination, I've never found one to be more or less than the other. If I am living in the now, which is what I should do, which is what, I think, I've been told, then I'd prefer the easy way please. I'd like the sun now. And I think I will start small, by switching out my salad bowl for one filled with ice cream and hot fudge. Whipped cream. Sprinkles. The cherry on top.

Head and Shoulders

Without much difficulty I take myself back to a night very much like this one. Lisa wasn't yet pregnant, things were simpler, or they appeared that way and that's half the battle. Eating with your eyes first and all that.

We were sitting on the couch in my basement, which was to say my parents' basement. Christmas lights strung around, a forgettable comedy on TV. My hand was on her knee and she tilted her head toward me. Say what you want about sex, casual or otherwise, there is nothing quite like the first time a girl puts her head on your shoulder.

We split a pizza, she could always match me bite for bite. Now she's pregnant and she wants weird things, pineapple, extra olives, she's eating for two and this stranger has strange tastes. She's still mine of course, but not in any real way that matters anymore. And that's not a bad thing. I've still got these shoulders, waiting for her whenever she needs them.

She still smells the same, uses the same perfume. I remember seeing the bottle, some ridiculous name in some ridiculous line from some ridiculous pop singer. Is that really why my girl smelled so good? She still wears it. Her biology will change. I guess that's what it does.

We always had our designated places on the couch. I would freak out when my parents came downstairs. Lisa would shoo my cat off her lap and I would twinge a bit in sadness. But mostly we sat there, taking in bad jokes and pepperoni, completely unaware our lives would be a scrambled version of that day, day after day, forever. Or perhaps, somewhere, we knew. Perhaps we both did. And we sat there anyway. I'd like to think that.

Sneezer

There were brass drums of cocaine, he told us. People were standing around naked like it was nothing, cupping, feeling, being "free." It was just this natural kind of thing, he said.

Help yourself, he told us he was told. Not wanting to be rude he piled a little powder on a small mirror he was given, just like you'd think these things happened, he said. But as he lowered his head, before he inhaled, his nose twitched, and he sneezed it everywhere.

I know that scene. I've seen Annie Hall. The story goes that it was unscripted, a natural blooper, just one of those things that you're lucky to get on film. Did he really believe there wouldn't be at least one person who'd seen that movie? Then again, maybe that was proof of its authenticity. And yet again, maybe the lying sneezer was Woody.

Ice Cream and Change

He started throwing change at me from across the room. I could've gotten mad but instead I got an ice cream. The heat does these things to people. Some people pull out guns, others rolls of quarters. I wondered if he went to the bank earlier, if he expressly got these quarters just for this, or did he have them lying around. Did he know that all I wanted on a summer day was an ice cream. Safe assumption that. It was dripping down my fingers, mint chip, and I couldn't get to it fast enough. When I licked it up I could taste it, the metal. Trace leavings of alloys on my fingers, dirt from I don't know how many decades. It wasn't unpleasant, but it wasn't what I wanted. Still, I made do. There was leftover change in my pocket, cool to the touch. I could have kept a whole quarter in my mouth, let the mint chip fade away around it, but I didn't. I thought about it though. On a day hot as this I'd do most anything long as it would cool me down.