From Lemonade to Lager

He cracked the thin layer of ice over that shallow sidewalk puddle. Tapped it just so with his Italian loafers, a light dance step. Autumn has crunching leaves, winter has thin ice. It was like something from yesterday, it was simple. He looked around to make sure no one saw him.

Thin ice meant that spring was coming. Spring only has the thaw. The great grey slush, everything mixing into a brown. Summer has so many things, he thought. Sitting on his porch and having a drink after work. From lemonade to lager, but the heart of some things never change.

Was this a sad moment? Perhaps, he thought. It was hard for him to tell anymore.

At the Bar

They're looking for a guy to talk to them.

How do you know?

Remember when we were at that art show?

Yeah. It was terrible.

I know. But we still wanted girls to talk to us.

Good point.

It doesn't matter that one of them plays for a terrible touch football team. Or that they're coming from a wine bar. Or that they must be in their mid-thirties. Or that their names are bland, and stale, and easy to forget.

What matters is that they got into their cab. And drove away. And could have easily met you. But didn't.

You Said There was Rain

It wasn't raining when you said it was. I asked the weather and you said rain. That the wind was howling and the water was beating down. I planned accordingly. I put on my overcoat and grabbed my umbrella. When I opened the door there was nothing. I saw, felt, none of those things. You said it must have stopped. But the ground was dry, the leaves were matte, I could not feel the moisture from the after-pour. When I asked you to explain yourself you seemed confused. When you came to the door you seemed it further. But, you said, the rain, it was here, it was there, it was everywhere. It was raining, you said. It was raining. OK, I said. OK. I opened my umbrella and walked out into the sun.

Walk of Shame

"Taking into consideration the events of yesterday, we have no choice but to let you go."

Can't say I'm surprised to hear the words coming out of her mouth. A little surprised at the timing. You think they could call or email instead of making me come in on a Friday. Everybody likes a three-day weekend.

"We appreciate everything you've done for the company—"

LIES.

"—and we're going to be sorry to see you go."

AND THEY KEEP ON COMING.

"But we feel that after the photoshopping of Mr. Pryweller there's no longer a place for you here."

"Why is that?"

Georgia stared at me for a very long time, that HR witch. "Tony, all the desktop wallpapers changed to that... image."

"Which image?" I wanted her to say it.

"You know very well to which image I am referring." I had him giving it up the backside of that bastard Yurte in accounting. The two of them are so chummy it's disgusting. I imagine they're letting me go for not only the photoshopping but the gay-porn-site-visiting on company time and equipment. But who's to say? Maybe they just don't like me. Takes thirty-eight to know one.

Yeah, I could just leave. I could have put in my letter of resignation. But where's the fun in that? There's no Beast with a Yurte-Pryweller Back in that scenario. I heard the laughs. I saw the pointing. I did something that people enjoyed, something they wanted to do, that they wanted to see, that they were thinking. Hell, Georgia probably even thought it was pretty spot on. But there's a trail with these kinds of things, one I don't know how to cover up.

So I pack up my desk, my little cubicle. Yurte comes over to me, not steaming, but not exactly chilled either. "You have a problem with the way I live my life?"

"Yurte, what in the hell are you talking about?" And that's when he socks me. Right in the mouth.

"Homophobic asshole." Then he spits, actually spits on me. Jesus, Yurte. It was just my curtain call. Honestly, I didn't even know.

I walk out, cardboard box with papers and pens and whatever other supplies I've stolen. And it's like so many girls do early in the morning with their high heels and matted hair and day-old makeup. Everyone's watching me. No laughs, no points, just Well it's about time's. I'm trying to remember what Pryweller said to me that set me off.

Love in the Air

I want to speak like a mandolin to you. I want the words to be plucked on my tongue and fly sweetly to you. A bass and an aching violin. I want to be all of these things at once, moving in and out of myself, weaving you love in the air. I can do none of them. I want to write you music, sing you music, be the instrument.

Maybe if I was a Civil War soldier. Then maybe I could write the words I want to say and it would be almost like hearing music, sitting by a fire early in the morning, a cresting sun. The soldiers then wrote so musically. But maybe I have Ken Burns to thank for that.

I am a dull pencil. I am not sharp. I am not attractive. And I am no musician, and certainly no instrument. I have only this voice. But maybe if I use it enough, and say all the wretched words first, whay will be left is what I want to say. And you could imagine that. I am asking for your help, to work, to listen between the lines, and for that to be enough.

Agitator

I'm gonna drink your beer. I'm gonna eat your fuckin' cheese. I'm gonna rustle my hair in your room so the dandruff gets embedded in your carpet. I'm a sadistic motherfucker like that.

I might unscrew the lid on your pickle jar, watch all those pickles go bad. Do pickles go bad? We're about to find out.

You get your mail from me when you get home. Maybe something happens to it. Maybe it disappears, sure, but maybe something happens to it. Maybe it's got a coating, an odor, a musk. And maybe that check from your office came weeks ago and I can't wait for the day when I can nail it to my wall like a goddamn portrait. Rembrandt ain't got shit on an envelope with your name.

I'm gonna trim your hair. While you sleep. I won't even keep it. It won't even be much. It'll just get a little shorter here, and a little shorter there, and a little shorter here, and a little shorter there, until you're asking yourself, Why do I look like the before picture?

I'll look in your mirror, put on your clothes, pretend I'm you. Is that really so much of a surprise? I'll put on too many clothes even, shirts and sweaters and more shirts and that terrible moldy bathrobe. I'll squeeze into pant, after pant, after pant. I wish I could stretch out your shoes but your feet are so goddamn big. You're like a clown minus everything funny about them, which isn't much, and then some.

I've read your books. I've got your number. I've replayed your laugh more times than I'll ever admit. I know all your secrets and I will take them to my grave. But just because I can keep my mouth shut doesn't mean the rest of me ain't busy.

Martini's Best Friend

"You hit my best friend! Get out!"

"All right, I'm goin'!"

"Mr. Bailey, you OK?"

"Who was that?"

"Mr. Welch. But don't worry, he don't come in this place no more!"

"Hey, what was that you said just now?"

"Mr. Welch, he no welcome here no—"

"No, I mean, you, uh... you called me your best friend."

"Yes! Mr. Welch hit my best friend, Mr. George Bailey!"

"You think we're best friends?"

"Yes! Well... Well, I just—"

"Since when are we best friends? For how long?"

"Well... for years, Mr. Bailey!"

"That's news to me. And why, because my company built you a house?"

"Yes, you build me a house! You build me house, you come here to drink, you... you, uh... uh..."

"Yeah, see now, Mr. Martini, you can't even name more than those two things. I come in here from time to time to get a drink or two. And I built you a house—well, not even me, really, my company did. And come to think of it, you haven't even had Mary and me over since we handed you the keys!"

"Look, Mr. Bailey, I-I-I-I get something for your face, it's bleeding."

"And that's another thing! What kind of best friends call each other 'Mister'? Mr. Bailey, Mr. Martini, these are not common salutations between best friends."

"Why you do this to me, Mr. Bailey? It's Christmas!"

"Yeah, George, take it easy will ya?"

"Stay outta this, Nick!"

"OK, OK. Yeesh."

"Look, Mr. Martini, you're a swell guy, I know that, heck, everyone knows that. But you can't throw the words 'best friend' around in reference to whomever you want just because we're friendly. Now, do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

"Yes, yes, Mr. Bailey, I do. I... I..."

"Yes, Mr. Martini? Yes? What is it?"

"I wish I'd never been born!"

"Ha ha, here we go again!"