Beloit

It was her brother's sweatshirt really, but she had given it to me. It had been hers for a while, and I must have said something, and then she gifted it. It was blue with gold lettering. But not a crass kind of gold. A soft gold, some subtle, but there. Outlined in white.

It didn't really fit then, and it sure didn't now. Still, it felt good to have it on. Even though we hadn't spoken in years, probably never would again. There was something comforting about finding it buried underneath all those old clothes. Like I hadn't really thrown her away as much as I thought I did. As much as I meant to at the time.

I put my hands in the front pocket, the kind that covers your belly. There must be a word for that kind of pocket. Maybe there isn't. Anyway, I put my hands inside it, and that's when I felt it. The crinkle of notebook paper. I took it out. No name, to or from. Just a heart.

I didn't know, she hadn't told me, she had just given the thing to me. We had gone through the usual exchange, the giving back of stuff, and I had given it back to her clean. She insisted that I take it. I said no, it didn't feel right. She said she had given it to me, it was mine now, and I said OK. And somehow she must've slipped it in. That was the only time. Wasn't it? How did she know I would have the sweatshirt with me? Would she have given me the note anyway? Had she been in my apartment since then? Let herself with the key, gone through my clothes, left this here for me to find? When was I supposed to find it? It had been years.

I didn't open it. I couldn't. What if it were important, a desperate vow of love that melted the stone I keep locked in my ribcage. What if it were trivial. Or cold. Or hateful, spiteful, filled with so much rage that it ruined even the happiest of memories I still had somewhere. What if it were blank.

I'm not sure holding on to the sweatshirt is a good idea. I still haven't figured that out. But until I do I'll keep it there, amongst the sweaters, gathering too much dust. But, really, it's a small thing. It doesn't take up too much space to hold on to it. And if anybody sees it, if anybody asks, I have a cousin I rarely see, and he goes to Beloit.

Just One Bite

I think I could eat human flesh. I really do. And not even if my plane crashed in the mountains and I was stranded with the survivors. I mean if someone straight up offered it to me.

I don't think I could do it here, in America I mean. I don't think anyone here would understand, or even offer me some. But some other country, some tribe, some restaurant. Something where the person died of natural causes, or at least wasn't murdered. Maybe it would have to be in private. But I think I could do it.

You would. I think people would. I think people are scared of liking it. But if we all tried it, if we all sat down together. Just one bite. That's all it would take to change things.

That Clean China

We were makin' out, gettin' pretty hot and heavy, and all a sudden she stops to unload her dishwasher. No words. No "Oh wait but this." No nothin'. Just some tongue and then some silverware. And I knew I shoulda been pissed but I was really too busy thinkin' about how much I wanted a dishwasher of my own. And that thought, that thought musta been in my kiss somewhere. Not about the dishwasher, but about somethin'. That clean China, it had a golden edge runnin' round, I could see it. It was catchin' the light, just so, just right. And I could see how she'd choose that over me.

Two Daphnes

I know a woman, last name O'Reilly. She's got this daughter, named her Reilly. Takes a special kind of person to do that, and it just don't sit right with me. It's different if they're both first names; a guy's named Bob and he names his son Bob. Or if there are two Daphnes. But chopping off one letter and one apostrophe and calling it something different. It's like they wanted to name her something original but were too proud, or wanted to pass a name down but be original. Instead here's this kid, straddling this line that she probably doesn't even mind straddling. My mother's maiden name is MacDonald. I would rather have the worst, trying-too-hardest name in the entire world than be called Donald. I don't think I could live with myself. But who knows though. Listen to me now. Maybe I can't live with myself anyway.

Pangea

In reality, it's not that I've grown colder over time. I've always been like this. It's the world that's getting warmer. And I'm not talking about global warming, no, this is society I'm talking about. Everything's so cheery, so helpful, people are so eager to support each other at random. To tell a thousand strangers that they shouldn't give up. Nobody can do anything without a poster nowadays. And it's all a little too sanguine for my taste. It seems fake. That's all.

So much has been done by one person deciding to do it. Without a faceless crowd holding them up telling them everything is going to be all right. You'd this with this support system that we'd live in a better world. But do we? I'm going to answer my question for you. No. We do not.

No man is an island, OK, but too many don't even try. They want to be so landlocked, touched by whoever they can get to touch them. And if you don't want to be touched you're the bad guy. Me, I'm the bad guy. Because I don't want some stranger's greasy fingerprints all over my soul.

Same Light

I'm trying to think of what you could do that would estrange us. I don't know what it would be. It would have to be something horrible, and I mean on the far side of horrible, to get me to that place where I didn't want to see or hear from you. I can tolerate a lot.

I'm thinking you'd have to cut part of me off. Like I'd have to wake up with no ears, or no fingers, or a missing leg and a lot of blood or something like that. And even then I'd have to ask, "Well, did you have a good reason?" If you didn't cut out my tongue, that is.

Yes, I could forgive most horrible things. Murder, arson, betrayal, lies, all those things. Heck, I'd probably ask if you needed help burying the body. Which is an interesting thing to realize about oneself. That if I could tolerate that much, am I capable of doing it as well? Would you see me in the same light? Would you get your shovel?

It's hard to say. It's a difficult question to ask. And I don't think I would ever ask it. Because, as sure as I could ever be, there's that part of me that's scared of what you'd answer. And scared that, when I heard it, I'd never want to see you again.

Johnny Got Sick

Johnny got sick. Some kind of cancer. Brain cancer. It was going to make him waste away. So he decided to kill himself. So he wouldn't suffer. So he could die with some dignity.

He chose the guillotine. We tried to change his mind. But it was his decision. Only I couldn't tell. If the disease made the decision. Or if he knew what he was doing. And when the day arrived he laughed the whole way to the blade.