Thumbhole

"Slept with a fleece blanket on top of my covers last night." Kirk was on one of his rants, and away he was going. "You believe that?" I shook my head, made him sure he knew I was on his side. I am nothing if not loyal. "Middle of May, head sticking out in the cold air, tip of my nose, ice. Like I'm camping in my own goddamn bedroom. Fish and fried potatoes, fuck."

"What do you got against fish and fried potatoes?" Hey, I like fish and fried potatoes. What's a better meal than that, out in the woods, out in the wilderness, something you make for yourself right?

"I got cold feet. I got bad circulation! You know I'm due for arthritis? I'm on the path to arthritis, John, that's what path I'm on." My grandfather had arthritis and I tell him this and it does not deter him. "I play the piano, since I was seven I play the piano, how you think that's gonna work once the arthritis hits? And here I am with blankets in May and it's only gonna make it worse and I won't turn the goddamn heat on, it's a matter of principle. It's the middle of May! It's the middle of May, John, and I've got heating bills? No, I refuse to live in that world."

"You could wear socks to bed."

"Fuck you, you animal."

I order us two more ryes hoping that will be enough to end the night. When he gets like this he really gets like this.

"Take 'em off when you get warm!"

"I'm not warm, that's what I'm saying!" What, is fisticuffs about to start up in this pub?

"Before you fall asleep though, you take them off before you fall asleep."

He slammed his beer (we had been going back and forth, spirits and ales). "So at the exact precise moment I can feel my body drifting off, this is when I start doing sit-ups to remove my footwear? This will wake me up, John. This will wake me up. Square one, John."

The innkeeper gave us our drinks. "Thank you, kindly—well what do you want from me, Kirk?!"

"I don't know, John. I just don't know."

"Geez Louise."

"It's not your fault, John, it's me, I'm cold, I ache. Haha, 'It's not you, it's me! If you love me let me go!'" I cocked my brow at him. "Nothing."

He drank his rye in one fell swoop, ordered another. I hadn't seen him drink this much. I'd seen him imbibe a lot. But not this much. Something was eating at him. And this thing, this conversation, this was his way of asking for help. Some people just ask. Kirk, he has a temper.

"What's wrong?" I ask. He looks at his new drink. Sitting there. Still. Ceiling fans spinning, clack of the cue ball. Darts hitting one two three. Cheering. A bullseye. Somewhere in this pub, someone is getting exactly what they want. I look down and I see on the dark wood the indent of a thumb, some finger, where someone has been rubbing and rubbing away, trying to dig down. For what? Why? To get to the bottom of the wood? And then what? I get initials, that I can understand. But just the rubbing, rubbing, rubbing away. That I cannot wrap my head around. They're not going to replace the bar just because one guy's dug a hole in it. That's not how things like this happen.

And after a very long time, where I didn't know if he knew where he was anymore, that anyone was around him, he opened to me.

"I got no one, John." He squinted, hiding something. "I got nothing." He picked his drink up. The napkin, sopping from ryes previous, clung to the bottom of his tumbler, before tearing, breaking, and sticking to the bartop, with the smallest bit falling into that thumbhole. He caught this maneuver and bellowed, a gigantic and thunderous laugh that pulled everyone away from the lesser things they were doing. He eyed the napkin scrap and exhaled, "That's me." Put his thumb over it. Rubbed it into the thumbhole, out of existence entirely. Left his mark there.

Devolution

What would I give my life for? Oof, that's, uh, haha, that's a difficult, um... I don't know what I would die for. I don't know that there are a lotta things worth dying for. I guess in my life... If I had kids, that would be one. Or however many of them there are. I'm assuming, I mean, that seems to be a fairly standard choice and, ya know, with what you hear about mothers lifting gravestones off their children, stories of superhuman strength and whatnot, in times of, uh, ya know, in times of crisis and yeah. So maybe that, maybe kids. Wife... maybe. But I been married once before and I gotta tell ya it'd have to be a lot different kinda marriage. Kinda like savin' yourself though right? Kids, I mean. I mean that's probably what motivates it, you, the hero. Maybe subconsciously, ya know, your brain is sayin', "Hey, that's you right there, that's part of you. That's your line, that's your succession, that's your name, that's your blood, that's your future. Save yourself." And maybe the conscious you just recognizes that as "That's your kid." Maybe people don't directly hear those things. But they do. They hear 'em. Or maybe it's like that old zen story. Man goes to see the zen master, asks him, "Master, what's the secret of happiness?" Or something, he asks him something like that. Master replies, "Grandfather dies, father dies, son dies." And maybe that's a kinda morbid way to go about these things but yeah. Yeah. It's beautiful if you stop and think about it I think. I think the zen master had something there. Haha, that's sayin' something isn't it? "I think the zen master had something there. I think this expert knows what he's talking about." But of course, yeah, ya know, experts today, oof, they're vilified aren't they? I mean someone says something and they get back "Prove it" so they throw out "I'm an expert" and they get back "So?" and it's all so depressing. There are people out there who know far more than I do and that's a good thing! I mean I know plenty, but if we're just gettin' by on what I think? Yeah, no, haha, no, I don't think so. Makes you wonder how we made it this far. Makes you think of those evolutionary diagrams goin' in reverse, our craniums gettin' smaller, our knuckles dragging on the pavement. Everyone gettin' hairier and tearing things with their teeth and... I don't wanna go back to that world. I'm surprised anybody does. But they must want it right? I mean, they gotta. People are making choices, people in power, and choices have consequences, and it goes beyond you. It goes way beyond you, further than you could possibly even think. Goes to me, you, your neighbors. Man. I hope somebody does something about all this. We're supposed to get better. People are supposed to get better. Otherwise... So yeah. If I had 'em. Yeah. I'd say I'd die for my kids.

The Human Skin

He sat in thick air and caught what breeze he could. An old t-shirt, sleeping shorts, yesterday's briefs. He could feel the barrier of grease on his forehead, resting against his hairline. He'd eaten little that day and still hadn't cleaned his teeth. He could taste lunch. Eggs.

His scratched at his hair and drew back shiny palms. He picked at bumps and discovered dried blood under his fingernails. Bugs in the night, some sort of invader. Nobody just bleeds in small random spots.

Blinks were slow and breaths were shallow, nothing seemed to do its job completely. So why should he? His vision twisted and focused in and out until seemingly nothing would bring him back into the room. The water was not being drunk as it should. Condensation formed. The coaster dropped to the table with every sip. The water never stayed cold. Nothing was doing its job.

It had been two days since he bathed. His fingers felt smooth in their uncleanliness. You rarely ever sense your odor but when he did he inhaled deeply. Out of his skin seeped smell, oil, the natural things. His privates stuck together. He sat and sweat. He was covered in himself.

People clean too often. We're not meant to clean like we do. Our skin faces the world every day and we coddle it. The largest organ of the body, our shield, our first line of defense. Lotioned and massaged and protected within an inch of its life.

His skin felt used. It was made for using. A thin thing, but tough, strong. The only thing keeping him together.

Double Disjointed

"And I said, 'Listen to me, if some girl walks up to me and grabs my penis, I'm gonna get an erection!'"

"You said that, Marvey?"

"I approximated, Harvel."

"Approximated's the way of the future, seems to me."

"Seems to be."

"Shortcuts."

"Shortcuts!"

"Saw Frank Langella's new film."

"Good guy, good person, good human being."

"Guy can carry a movie. And they cast the bit parts really well. It was good so I stayed 'til the end, 'cause, ya know, they'll tell you it was shot in Canada or something, Technicolor, ya know."

"Always made in Canada, these movies. How's about American?"

"Hey, Jack! How's about America?! Good movie though."

"I once carried my sister to the hospital, eleven miles to the hospital I carried her."

"And?"

"Not my sister!"

"Carried the wrong one?"

"Found out she was adopted! Parents were upset, they had no idea."

"Parents never do, seems to me."

"Seems to be."

"Blind is what they are. And it's our fault! They're ours! But our parents. And theirs before. Everyone. Guiding their children deaf and dumb through a sea of awakening fears."

"Poignant of ya, Harvel."

"Read it on the back of a matchbox. Where's my goddamn matchbox?! Grandkids, always stealing from me."

"You're holding the matches, Harvel. You're holding 'em in the hand of yours I'm looking at."

"Don't end with prepositions, Marvey, you oughta know better'n that."

"We all oughta know better, Harvel. Since when has that stopped anyone?"

How She Was

"What do you mean you don't eat meat?"

"I don't know how to be any clearer than that."

She had a point. "Do you... do you eat fish?"

"Is that meat, Gary?"

"I mean, not... no, not really."

"It's flesh."

"It's sea meat, I guess."

"Which is meat."

"Kind of." Now her salad and her eye rolls and her pauses made all sorts of sense. "Jeez, Kay, I wish you had said something, I wouldn't've brought us here."

"It's fine."

"Since when do you not eat meat?"

"Since a long time, Gary. You haven't seen me in a long time."

It was true. I hadn't seen her in a long time, which is what prompted this whole thing. The day rolled around where, well, it was our anniversary, or not really but it was the anniversary of the first time I'd seen her. But I'd told her that story, about that day, she knew how important it was to me so I couldn't phone her then, I had to wait a while. I should've phoned sooner. But boy, I'll tell you, it was good to see her when I did. She walked into that smokehouse the way she always walked. Kay has this really auburn hair, I mean this sunset hair, this freckled skin and these dark eyes that too many people think are cold. I like them. They were mine once. She's got character, Kay, and I know people mostly mean that as a nice way of saying ugly but I don't mean that a bit. When you see her you really notice her, you're glad that different people look different, and she's one of those. God put his mark on her.

"So... how's tricks?"

"Do you mean work?" She knew I did. "Work's fine, it's been a little hectic since my promotion but—"

I stopped halfway through the rib. "You got the promotion?"

"You have sauce on your chin."

"I didn't know you got the promotion." She shifted her eyes, lifted her brows, shrugged in that I don't know what to tell you kind of way. Ooh, I remembered that. She would do that all the time. No, thank you. "Is it what you wanted? I mean I know you wanted the job, but is the job what you thought it would be?"

She prodded at her walnuts and gorgonzola or whatever the heck was on her plate. "It's fine."

"Well, you're just leading a fine life aren't you?"

"Gary—"

"Everything's fine. Everything's fine. Everything's fine, haha!" She gets real quiet when I do stuff like that. Or when I did stuff like that. Just sits there and stews at me. I was reverting back to my old habits, but so was she so I guess that made it even. Made it a clearer thing why we didn't stick together, at least in my mind. "Sorry," I said to her. "Sorry."

"It's fi..."

I smiled at her. "You can say it." She smiled back, and that was nice. "I just wanted so much to catch up with you, hear how things are going down your way. Details, you know? That's all. Maybe I'm not entitled to lots of details which is fi—haha, which is OK, but still. How are you?"

It felt like we passed the hump. I wiped my mouth and licked my thumb while she prepared her response. I saw there was more silver in her hair. She'd always had a strand or two, but I could see more now, at the roots. She was dying it. Thought I saw a little rash on her neck, too, but I could've been wrong about that. Kay, she just looked at me there, her little mouth almost shaking it seemed, like her tongue and teeth were doing all sorts of work behind the scenes. I wanted to tell her that it was OK to cry. I kind of was hoping she would tell me the same thing.

"Enough about me," she finally said, "I want to hear about you. How are you? How's the book?"

So I told her how things were going, that the general nature of things was pretty good, I felt like I was on the up-and-up. I was done with my book and had even gotten some parties interested in it, was meeting with one of them later on in the week in fact. She said she was happy for me.

I finished my half-slab, she ate a bit more of her salad. We never got back around to how she was, or why she stopped eating meat in the first place. People change, I suppose. Leaving that smokehouse all I knew is that she said she was fine. I'll have to go by that I guess. I shouldn't have waited as long as I did. I really shouldn't have.

Ginger Ale Parable

He hadn't had a stomach ache in years. It was his ginger ale intake.

Once, on a plane, as a ten-year-old, he had started feeling queasy. His mother suggested ginger ale, because of the bubbles, but not Coke because that has caffeine. And, sure enough, the pale dry drink did the trick. The bubbles tickled, the stomach settled, and he landed with his lunch in tact.

This got his little mind going. Ginger ale became his cure. Math quiz? Ginger ale. Talking to girls? Ginger ale. Yelled at by parents? A quick nip of hidden ginger ale was all he needed. And then he thought, if a drink after helped the stomachache go away, a drink before would prevent it entirely.

He decided he better have some on hand all the time. He snuck it onto his mother's shopping cart. He bought it at school. He had friends purchase it and put it in his locker. He sold drinks on the bike path and kept the ales for himself. He would stop in a store and get a bottle or two before class, before work, before heading home. It started as one small glass in the morning. Then one in the morning and one at night. Then he added one at lunch. And when he got older the glasses got bigger. Then there were glasses in between the glasses, and then those glasses got bigger. Pretty soon he carried a flask with him wherever he went, and sometimes two. He would wake in the middle of the night, fearful that his stomach might turn, and gulp down flat ginger ale.

His stomach never turned again, and his teeth rotted out.

The Great Wall

You ever been to China? Yeah. Well, I've been to China. Beijing. First off, let me just say how straight to holy hell the place is going. Smog, ugh, the smog, you could see it draped over the city flying in. Covered, just covered. But anyway, I decided while there, on business, that I should climb the Wall. Ya know, the Great Wall. Ya know it's the, uh, the only manmade, uh... structure—no—wonder! No, structure, maybe... Anyway, it's the only one of those that can be seen from space. Or it used to be, there's probably more now. And let me tell you they are not kidding. I mean these Chinese were not messing around. The thing is... big. And I mean biiiiiiig. A colossal fucking failure, but big. So, I get there, and I'm climbing. Or walking, I'm walking up the steps and let me tell you, no StairMaster could prepare you for these babies. 'Cause it was built with no way to, there's no, uh, ya know, keeping things the same—uniformity! There's no uniformity to these babies. Some's are a foot, some's four inches. Your legs can't get used to anything! It's like the weather here, the miserable winters and the miserable summers and our blood doesn't know what's what. But anyway, after a while, going to the top, I start getting pretty sweaty. I'm mean I'm pretty fucking gross. And I have to take this series of breaks to catch my breath and whatnot. And I notice all these Chinese guys passing me by. Old guys, old Chinese men. And I further notice that they are all wearing suits. Suits. With dress shoes. And they aren't stopping. They aren't even slowing down. They just keep going. And any pain they're feeling, they're feeling alone. Gotta hand it to 'em. I don't know if it's the genes or scared into 'em by the Red Army when they're kids or what, but they do not falter. I'll tell you, they do not blink a muscle. We could all learn a thing or two from them.