Peanuts (An Excerpt from "Mirrors Down")

Marie and I walked in through the big set of double automatic sliding doors. The hot air from the vents throws our hair all over the fucking place, and now we almost fit in with the welfare denizens littering the aisles.

“You want a cart?” I ask.

“No, I think a basket will be fine.”

“Okay.” I grab a basket.

“Good afternoon,” a door greeter who must be pushing ninety says.

“Good afternoon,” I say.

“I’m going to grab some peanuts or something. I’m feeling a little hungry," Marie says.

“Okay. I’m going to start the loop.”

“All right.”

I walk into the store and take a left toward the Health & Beauty section. None of the people here look like they use either. It’s a fucking leper colony, except for a girl that looks like she might be a six or a seven. From a distance, anyway.

I walk slowly, and Marie catches up to me, with a small bag of peanuts.

“Mmmm, peanuts,” she says. “You want one?”

“No thanks. I’m not really hungry at all.”

“Okay,” she says, and begins to pick at them.

We walk along, stopping here and there, walking up and down the occasional aisle, not really looking at anything.

The Six or Seven turned out to be more like a Two or Three once we got up close.

“I thought that girl was better looking when we were back there,” I say to Marie.

“Me too, but she’s fucking gross.”

“Word.”

We continue on, and I remember I need shipping labels for work. I’d pay for them now, and then take the money out of petty cash later. It would save me a trip back here later on.

“We need to go to the office supplies.”

“For what?”

“I need to get shipping labels for work.”

“Oh, okay.”

We walk toward the center of the store, and to the stationary section. I browse the different labels for a while, settle on a type, and then we head up to the cash registers.

“You want to look at anything else while we’re here?”

“No, I’m good now.”

“All right.” I head to the self-checkouts, and begin to ring myself out. Scan, beep. Scan, beep.

“You want to get arrested for a bag of fucking peanuts?” comes a voice from behind me.

I turn around.

“Not you, your woman. Excuse me miss, you want to get arrested for a bag of fucking peanuts?” The guy is almost red faced and holding the now empty peanut bag.

I look at Marie. She is astounded. “What?”

I turn back to the guy. “Listen man, who the fuck are you?”

“I’m the guy that gets people arrested here. Now is someone going to fucking pay for these peanuts?!”

“You’re going about this all wrong,” says another man from behind the lunatic.

“Seriously,” I say. “If you want to talk about this, let me finish my business, and we can go outside and talk it out like adults. There’s no need to be raising a scene in the middle of the store, man.”

“Don’t call me ‘man’, motherfucker!” he says, and then grabs my wrist, and shoves me backward.

Marie starts shouting something, but I don’t really hear it. I have crossed over into rage mode. I lunge at the cocksucker and shove him into the candy shelf. The third guy grabs the lunatic and spins him around and screams “You keep this shit up motherfucker, I’ll fucking lay you out! You hear me?!”

“You’re all getting arrested!” screams the lunatic. “You’re all getting arrested!”

In a brief moment of clarity, I turn to Marie. “Go to the car.” Without hesitation, she begins to walk out, hurriedly, but calm.

The lunatic steps toward her and grabs her arm. “Where’re you going?! I’m calling the fucking cops!”

Seeing him grab her, everything in the world fades away, and I shove him again, this time across the lane and into the opposing cash register. “Don’t you fucking touch my wife asshole!”

“That’s it motherfucker! I’m calling the cops!” He gets up and takes his phone out of his pocket.

I decide it’s in my best interest to just get out of the store. With all the blood boiling away in my brain, I begin to follow Marie out of the store.

“Hey! You forgot your change!”

I turn around and the third guy is walking toward me with the eleven dollars I left at the register. I turn back and go get it. “Thanks man. I appreciate it.”

“Any time,” he says.

I take the money, and notice the lunatic is on his phone, walking up to me. I meet him and close his phone. “Fuck you scumbag.”

“That’s fine,” he says, opening his phone back up. He starts dialing. “I’m the guy that gets people arrested here, and you’re all going to fucking jail.” He starts talking into the phone. “Yes, my name is…” I don’t hear the rest. I begin to walk quickly out of the store. Marie is almost at the door. I catch up to her, and the lunatic is following close behind us. I can hear him talking. “Yes, it’s a woman with dark hair, in a black coat. She stole peanuts. I am at the uptown location. They are leaving the store right now. I am following them. Yes, peanuts. Then when I tried to stop them, her boyfriend attacked me…”

I am furious. Marie keeps flashing me worried glances. I knew this was going to happen someday. She has a habit of picking little shit up and then either eating or drinking it and leaving the wrappers or cans on some shelf, or just tossing shit in her purse. I knew something like this would happen. I fucking told her this would happen.

We leave the store.

“They’re in the parking lot now. I tried to stop them before they left. People can’t just steal peanuts. It’s bullshit. Sorry. I’m upset. He attacked me…” The lunatic goes on.

A few rows down, I see our car. Marie and I pick up the pace and get to the car. I unlock it and notice the lunatic is just standing directly behind it.

“Okay asshole, you made your fucking point. I don’t know who the fuck you are, but you might want to get out of the way. Cars tend to be heavy.”

He is still on the phone. “Yes, he just threatened to run me over. They are trying to leave, but I am blocking them in…”

After debating quickly on whether or not I should get this fucking moron out of the way myself, I just get in the car. It’s better not to have an actual assault charge if he really is on the phone with the cops.

I turn the car on, and Marie says “I’m so sorry honey.”

I have nothing to say except, “just buckle up.”

She does. “What do we do?” She asks.

“I don’t know.” I look in the rear view, and he is still there. Then, by the grace of whichever god looks out for people like me, the car in the space directly in front of me backs out and leaves. A wave of relief pours over me.

“Thank fuck,” I say and drive cautiously forward through the spot, and into the open parking lot.

“Hey you get the fuck back here you fucking dirt bags!” The lunatic yells after us before going back to his hopefully imaginary phone conversation.

I pull out of the parking lot, and onto the open, wonderful road.



31.


“I’m sorry honey. Are you mad at me?”

I don’t know what to say. I am furious. I fucking told her, I told her, I told her. My heart is pounding, and I have gone into “hardcore silence” mode. My jaw clenched, my chest heaving. I could kill a man.

“Honey, please say something.”

“You want to know if I’m mad at you?” I ask.

“I know…”

“You’re goddamned right you know. How many fucking times have I told you not to fucking steal shit?! How hard is it? Jesus fucking christ.”

“You know what? Fuck you then. How the fuck would I have known some fucking crazy guy would be following us around?!”

“It doesn’t matter if you knew or not! Just don’t fucking do it!”

“Oh sure,” she says. “You’re so great, and I’m just this huge fucking asshole. Just some piece of shit, right?”

“Oh shut the fuck up. I didn’t fucking say that. I hate it when you say shit like that. It doesn’t even make any sense in context,” I say.

“In context. Fuck you.” After that Marie goes silent and stares out the window.

My silent rage continues. So does hers.

I glance in the rear view, and see that I am being pulled over.

“Fuck.”



32.



The State Trooper walks up to the car, looking it over as he comes. He inspects the rear, walks up along the drivers side, writing notes, and then he sees my out-of-date inspection, gives a grimace at me through the windshield, and looks at my headlights.

“What do we say?” Marie asks. “Do you think it’s because of the thing just now?”

“I don’t know. Let’s not say anything. Maybe I was speeding.”

“Yeah. Maybe.”

I keep my hands high on the wheel, and try not to look too aggravated or threatening. I have now seen one too many videos of cops freaking out and killing people because they thought the person twitched wrong, or had bad information. Police fucking terrify now. What happened to the world?

The Trooper comes up to my door, and gives me the “roll down the window” gesture. Slowly, I lift my hands off of the wheel and say loudly through the rolled up window; “The window is broken, I have to open the door.”

He squints, and then steps back a few steps. I get a little nervous as he put’s his hand on his hip.

Fuck, I’m dead. Fuck fuck fuck, goddamned peanuts…

He motions for me to open the door.

Still slowly, I crack the door open and repeat; “Window is broken.”

“Okay,” he says. “Just open the door up nice and wide.”

I do.

“License and registration.”

“Sure.” I SLOWLY sit up and take my wallet out of my back pocket, trying not to make any sudden gestures. I take out my license and hand it to him.

He looks it over. “Registration.”

Marie is digging through the glove box, coming up empty handed. “Excuse me officer?”

He looks into the car.

“Uh,” she says, “it is at my house. I can produce it if you need it, but it just isn’t with me.”

“That’s fine. Do you have your license?”

“Mine?” Marie asks.

“Yes.”

“Yes, hold on.” Marie begins to dig through her purse, finds her wallet, digs through that, and then pulls out her license. She hands it to him.

He looks over the two licenses. “You two are married?”

“Yes sir,” I say.

He inspects them more. “Which address is correct? The 23 Lowell Street, or the 6 Perth Avenue?”

“Perth,” we both say.

“Okay. Get that taken care of on your license Mr. Martin.”

“Yes sir.”

“Stay put, and I am just going to run these.”

He walks back toward his car and I close the door.

I watch the traffic go by.

“I know this is because of me. I am so sorry honey. I really am. I am a terrible person,” Marie says.

“Just stop. You aren’t a terrible person. I hate that.”

“I am though, and you deserve someone better.”

“Stop.”

“Okay. I love you honey.”

“I love you too.” Everyone is staring at us. I wonder if I know any of them.

A few minutes pass and Marie is getting restless. “What the fuck is taking so long? I bet they do this purposely to get you anxious.”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, how long does it take to run a license?”

“This long, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

We sit in the car for a little while longer before the Trooper returns. Slowly, I open my door again. He hands us our licenses. “You know your inspection is up?”

“Yes sir.”

“Get that taken care of. I’m not going to write you a ticket for it.”

“Thank you officer. Is that all?” I ask.

“Well, no.”

“Officer, is this about the guy in the parking lot?” Marie asks.

The Trooper is silent for a moment, then; “What guy?”

“A guy at Wal-Mart. Some crazy guy just like, attacked us. Screaming at us in line and grabbing and shoving us.”

“What happened now?” The Trooper asks Marie.

“We were there just now. We got some stuff,” Marie motions toward the bag of mailing labels, “and when we were in line at the registers, paying for our stuff, this crazy guy comes up to us and starts screaming at us about peanuts, and we’re all going to be arrested and swearing, and then he grabbed my husband, and it was scary. The man was a lunatic. I mean, I was really scared.”

“Was he security, or loss prevention?”

“I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t think so. If he was he didn’t say anything, and he certainly wasn’t acting like it. I mean, he was really flipping out and screaming. Even the guy behind us in line was yelling at him to calm down. It was terrifying.”

“He grabbed you sir?” he asks me.

“Yes sir.” I held up my arm where he grabbed me, and was pleasantly surprised to see my arm was already bruising and there was a small cut in the middle, probably from a ring.

He looked at it. “Hmm. Then what happened?”

“After he grabbed me, I shoved him back, and the guy behind us in line grabbed him and spun him around and those two started yelling at him, and then I told her to leave, and she started to, and then the fucking guy, sorry, the guy grabbed her arm, and I shoved him again and tried to leave. The whole time he was swearing at us and telling us we were getting arrested and all kinds of things.”

“And then you left?”

“Well, we tried to, but he followed us out, and when we tried to leave, he stood behind our car, so we couldn’t get out.”

“But you did?”

“Yeah, the car in front of us left. So we drove through.”

“And he never said who he was?”

“No, the only somewhat identifying information he gave was that he was ‘the guy who get’s people arrested'. I mean, it doesn’t sound like an official title to me, but if it is, I mean, that’s cool, I guess.”

“Well,” the trooper says, “this is about that.”

“Goddamn it,” Marie says.

“Yeah,” agrees the Trooper. “Will you step out of the car sir?”

“What?” I ask.

“They want me to take you back up there. Apparently he was Loss Prevention, and they want to get to the bottom of it all. The Sheriff is up there now, and they just want you to ask some questions.”

“Me? Not Marie though?”

“No sir. They just said you.”

I look at Marie. Again, she is wearing her ultra-apologetic look. Fucking peanuts. I unbuckle, and get out of the car. “Can I follow you up there?” Marie asks.

“If you’d like to ma’am, but I can’t say what is going to happen. They seem to think there might be an assault charge.”

“Oh this is fucking bullshit,” I say.

“Could be,” the Trooper says.

“Okay, I will meet you up there baby,” Marie says.

“Okay.”

“Come over to my car, and just put your hands on the hood,” the Trooper says.

“Wait, am I under arrest?” I ask.

“No sir. I just have to make sure you don’t have any weapons on you before you get in the car.”

“Okay.” In full afternoon traffic, on a main road, just recovering from a fucking flu and fighting an LP guy in a goddamned Wal-Mart, I find myself bent over the hood of a cop car, getting searched. Classy.

The Trooper does a quick search, finds my phone, asks me about it, and then tells me I can stand up straight.

“So,” he says, “Are you going to get in the back, or do you want me to cuff you?”

“That’s kind of a fucked up question,” I say. “Does anyone actually choose to be cuffed?”

The trooper looks at me funny, and says “You never know.”

He opens the door for me, and I get in. I can see Marie in her rear view mirror, watching. I wave. She doesn’t.

The trooper shuts the door, and walks around to his side. He gets in, sits down and calls the trip in. He’s got the suspect. We’re going up.

“So, this guy never said he was LP?” he asks.

“No, he was a lunatic. He just kept screaming, and he grabbed me and my wife. It was fucking strange. But, I mean, a man comes up to your wife screaming and grabs her, what do you do?”

“I hear you. Well, it should all be on video. If it shows him touching you first, you might have a case against him. I mean, I can’t give you legal advice really, but I mean, you might have a case against a corporate giant, so, you know, go for it.”

I laugh. “I plan on it.”

“So, just so you know, regardless of what happens, you probably won’t be allowed back there again.”

“Yeah, I kind of figured. That’s cool. I hear they’re building a new one downtown anyway.”

“That’s what I hear,” the Trooper says. “So, maybe you can go there.”

“And fight L.P. guys.”

The Trooper laughs. “Well, maybe not that.”

We shoot the shit for a little while. We talk about local retail, and the decline of Mom and Pop shops. We talk about our failing economy, and the evil republicans. We talk about my lost generation, and the way we’re blamed for it. The Trooper is a cool guy. It’s a shame that we had to meet under these circumstances. He seems like he’d make a good drinking buddy. Unlike John.

We pull into the parking lot, and drive up to the front of the store, where the Sheriff is waiting. The Trooper parks and talks to the Sheriff for a while, before letting me out.

“All right, well good luck James,” the Trooper says.

We shake hands and he gets back in his car and drives away.

I turn toward the Sheriff. She’s a short woman. Mid forties. Looks like she likes the power the job offers, but complains about men being less than chivalrous as of late. She takes out a pen and a pad of paper.

“Okay,” she says, “before we go in there, why don’t you tell me what happened?”

For the second time in ten minutes, I recount the events. The screaming, the shoving, the bullshit. I show her my arm, she nods and writes. Nods and writes. I give her my name and address, Marie's name. Same address. Married? Yes ma’am.

I see Marie is parked in the parking lot, hiding a ways down.

“Okay,” she says after it all. “We are going to go in, but you will have to wait outside the door. You aren’t going to go anywhere, are you?"

"No ma’am. I did nothing but defend myself and my wife. I feel I am in the right here. It will all be on video.”

She warns me again of a possible assault charge. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little nervous.

We go into the store. The Loss Prevention office is a small door at the front of the store that I don’t think I have ever noticed.

“Wait here,” the Sheriff says.

“Okay.” I lean up against the wall and the Sheriff goes in the office.

People are walking in and out of the store all looking at me. Do they notice this tiny door? Do they know what it is behind there? Do they associate me with the parked cop car out there?

I wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, twenty-three minutes later, according to my phone, the door opens again, and the Sheriff comes out.

“Follow me,” she says.

Oh, fuck, I’m going to jail.

We walk out to her car.

“Okay, so, they aren’t pressing any charges, but you aren’t allowed here anymore.”

“Well, that’s fine. I wouldn’t come back here if I had to.”

“Right, well, do you need a ride?”

“No, my wife is here waiting for me.” I wave to Marie, and gesture for her to come.

“Okay. Well, I just have to follow you out of the parking lot when you leave, and then I believe we are all set here.”

“Can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she says.

“I thought they were leaning pretty heavily on pressing charges. What changed their minds?”

She gives me an inquisitive look and a pause, and says; “I don’t know. They must have just changed their minds.”

“Right. Well, did the tape show him grabbing me or my wife?”

Again, the look. “No.”

“Well, I mean, what did it show? There are like eight cameras there. It must have shown something.”

Marie pulls up next to us.

“It only showed you shoving him.”

“Seriously?”

“Yes.”

She was lying to me. The tape did show it, and Wal-Mart was trying to avoid my lawsuit. What difference did it make to her?

“Can I watch the tape?” I ask. “I mean, I feel like I have a right to.”

“Unfortunately, no, not without a subpoena. It’s private property.”

“Right. Okay. Well, this is my ride. Thanks officer.”

“Okay, I will just follow you out.”

“All right,” I say. “Have a good day.”

She doesn’t respond. Fuck her.

I get in the car.

“Well?” Marie asks.

“I’ll tell you in a little bit. Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

“Okay.”

Marie pulls out of the parking lot, and onto the main road, with the Sheriff behind us.

“I’m sorry honey,” Marie says. “I won’t do it again.”

“I know.”

That Moment.

It's time to say goodbye to this year. Its failures and victories. Laughs and silent sufferings. Its stories both told and untold. Its time to start looking forward to starting again, right this time (of course). So, I will finish this year off almost as I began it.

2011 ended just like every other year. A chill in my bones, a years worth of creations behind me, and the equally preposterous notions of aging miserably and hoping fortunate resting heavily on my bones. I've been sitting around in my house for a few days. Looking back over the year. Wondering what I could have done differently. What progress I may have made. What errors I failed to prevent.

I began this year working a job I both loved and hated. I fought a security guard over the honor of my wife and a bag of peanuts. I was detained. I fought a fever that brought such nightmares that recurring insomnia echoed throughout the remainder of the year. I recognized myself as not only a victim of this lost generation, but also the cause. I was suspended from my job for something I did not do, and when they realized it and took me back, I quit. Eventually I took a new job that I despised. Sometimes, you just can't work a job. I quit. I feared the worst, I broke down a little. I quit. Quit writing. Quit music. Quit a newly found appreciation for all things optimistic. The cold came and I began to dig myself out, but what damage was done, was done.

However, that is not to say that 2011, in all of its challenges, its trials, its impediment, was all bad. No.

I began the year as a great fan of the band Ghoul Poon. Then, I was asked to join them. I don't think anyone really understands what that was like for me. It was wonderful. It led to playing a number of shows, and once again becoming an active member of not only the local (and incredible) music scene, but also of a group of like minded creative individuals who slowly became friends, despite my natural anti-social state.

I wrote in 2011. A fucking lot. For me, creating is the single greatest thing a person can do in their time, next to, only, loving those around them. I am on a constant mission to amass a nearly unending creative legacy. Music. Paintings. Words. I can't say for certain that anyone would ever want to hear, see, or read what I make, but I refuse to die until I feel as though my soul could be pieced back together with the works I leave behind. So, I wrote a fucking lot this year. Beside maintaining this blog, I began three novels. Finished one, and thought another was fairly good. I wrote essays, rants, stories, and short little scenes. Some people I respect said some nice things about what I wrote, and that meant the world.

I took July off, mostly. I spent it on the beach with my wife. We drank wine, enjoyed the sky and the water. Read to each other under trees in the fading light of perfect days, and caught poison ivy. We swam near hidden ledges. For the first time, I tried mimosas and guacamole, and loved both. We lost weight, and looked quite good, if I am allowed to say so. We laid on blankets in the heat, browned, and smiled. July was the greatest month of my entire life, and worth every trouble both preceding it and yet to come.

Lastly, and most importantly, I found peace. If only for a moment (though still, I occasionally feel the resonance). I don't know how, or why, or what switch was flipped, but there it was. The weight of years gone, arguments had, battles lost, none of it mattered. The greatest victory of this year, and all of those before it, glimmered in front of me as I sat on a large hidden rock on the water, watching the light bounce off of the waves and running my fingers through my wife's hair as she laid with her head in my lap. Despite any bad that came this year, this is what I'll remember of 2011. That moment, when somehow, everything was okay.

Filthy Lesbo

Deidre had hair so blonde it was white and she was a bitch. I was sitting in her living room with Jane, who was trying to fuck her, drinking my third cup of coffee and staring at my shoes wondering if I should wait until the hole was bigger before I replaced them. I decided I would.

Jane was clumsily flirting with Deidre who kept turning every advance into an opportunity to remind us of how unattainable she was.

"Maybe we could all go to a movie tonight?" Jane asked. She was using me as a safety net. Deidre wasn't into women, save for herself, and Jane wanted to make sure she could play the "why would I try anything if James was here?" card if she had to. She had explained all of this to me on the walk downtown to the apartment.

"Did I ever tell you I was in a short film?" Deidre said.

"Oh, no. What was it like?" Jane asked.

"It was in college. My friend Raul is a brilliant director and he said only I could play the lead."

"I bet you were great," Jane said.

I sipped my coffee and second guessed my shoe decision.

"Well, I think so," Deidre said. She laughed. She was sitting cross legged on her couch in short shorts and was hiding very little while Jane and I shared the loveseat with the broken spring in the middle. "But what really proved I was great was that after we finished, Raul, who is brilliant, did I say that?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, Raul told me I was extraordinary and he had never seen a performance quite like it."

"Wow. I 'd love to see it," Jane said.

"Did you fuck him?" I asked.

Jane and Deidre both looked at me. "What?" Deidre asked.

"Just wondering."

"Well, we did date a little yes, but it wasn't serious or anything. Not that it's any of your business, nosey."

I was trying to dissuade Jane from jamming her tongue into that bog.

"Well, a brilliant director, I can't blame you. And with a name like Raul..." Jane said. There was no hope.

"Oh yes, but it was truly out of respect, what we had."

"Do you have a copy of the film?"

Deidre sighed. "No, unfortunately. Raul had the only copy, but he said he was going to destroy it."

"I thought you said he thought you were extraordinary? Why would he destroy it?" I asked.

"Well, he did say that. About me. He just wasn't happy with how the film itself turned out."

"What type of film did you say it was?" I set my coffee down on the end table.

"It was very artistic. You probably wouldn't get it."

"I bet."

"I love art films," Jane said.

"I'm bored. Can we go for a walk or something? It's beautiful out," I said.

Jane looked over for Deidre's input. Deidre was staring at her fingernails. "I can't," Deidre said. "I have to do laundry."

"I can help you do laundry , if you want?"

"You just want to smell my underwear you filthy lesbo," Deidre said and laughed.

"Come on Jane," I said. "Let's go. I'm bored and Dee has shit to do."

Jane was hurt but didn't want to say anything. I didn't always understand Jane.

"Okay," Jane said.

We both stood up. Deidre continued fucking with her fingernails.

"Bye Deidre, I'll call you later," Jane said.

"Sure."

Jane and I left. Jane was a lesbo, and could be filthy, but Deidre was a bitch and Jane deserved better.

Working Out.

I was drunk. I was in the passenger seat as Marie drove us home. We were stopped at a red light in the middle of our town's bar district. I saw a man outside with a woman. They were both obviously above forty. They were both obviously new friends. She was grabbing his waist. he was smiling.

"It's not going to work out, my man," I slurred from the car to myself.

The light turned green and we drove on at ten or twenty or however many miles an hour. As we passed the second and final set of bars on the other side of the road, Marie's side, I saw a young blonde girl with a man with pants around his thighs.

"You either," I said.

I felt bad for both of them.

"But what is working out now?" I said.

"What?" Marie said.

"I mean, does it mean, lasting forever? Fuck, that's almost impossible. And then, to be happy forever? Jesus Christ. That's like asking the sun to come down, and have tea with you. It's just not going to fucking happen man. So what is 'working out'?"

"I don't know honey."

"Maybe working out is just having something to look back on and smile about."

"Maybe."

"Maybe, amidst a 78 percent divorce rate, or whatever the fuck it is, maybe 'working out is just a moment. Finding a moment that in you darkness you can say, 'yeah, she was a cunt, but that time at the orchard was beautiful'. Maybe working out is just working toward a beautiful moment in life."

"What about people like us?" she asked.

"We have our ups and downs."

"True."

"And we have plenty of wonderful memories."

"We do," she said.

"Maybe what is making us 'work out' is this string of good memories and the promise of more, maybe the recognition that between the two of us the chance of good memories in the future is higher than normal."

"Maybe," she said. "So, what about true love?"

"What about it?"

NaNoWriMo, or, 175 Pages of Typos and Hell.

As you may know, this November I participated in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writers Month). It is a challenge to anyone who is interested to write a novel of about 175 pages (or 50,000) words in thirty days. A previous winner (basically someone who completes the challenge) wrote the novel "Water for Elephants", which was later turned into a massive Hollywood film. So, I was tempted. Each day I wrote and posted it here for anyone to see. Five, ten, fifteen pages a day. Granted, it wasn't my best writing, or perhaps not even particularly good writing, but the fact of the matter was, I was doing it. Then I finished.

175 pages of typos and hell.

"Hmm," I thought, "now what?"

Over the past week, I have decided that after some serious editing and re-writes, it may be a decent novel, so I have decided to try to take it as far as possible. What if? Right?

So, I will be removing the NaNoWriMo posts and begin the gargantuan challenge of editing, drafting, submitting, and probably quitting writing a few hundred times.

I got a nice rejection letter from the New Yorker the other day for one of my shorts. I will have it framed.


Edit: I left the first chapter. What the hell, right?

A Dragon (NaNoWriMo pages 1-8)

1.

My father stood in the driveway with a revolver under his chin. He had bought it from a pot dealer a few towns over and was screaming at our house. At my sister and I. At my mother.

“Let me in the fucking house Jean! Let me in the fucking house or I’ll blow my fucking face all over the side of this goddamned house!”

My mother was crying and zipping up my sisters jacket. It was November and dark out. The plan was that my sister (Rose) and I were going to slip out through the basement and the garage door and go to the neighbors house to call for help. We didn’t have a phone line.

I watched from the window through the blinds. My father stood staunch under the street lamp, never taking the gun from under his chin.

“James! James I can see you! Let me in the house! Don’t listen to your mother! Let me in my fucking house!” I didn’t think he would do anything crazy. He was my father. I had seen him in worse situations. My mother, on the other hand, was convinced.

“Is Dad going to die?” My sister asked.

“No,” I said. “He isn’t. It’s an act.”

“What?”

“You know, like a show. He’s pretending, is all.”

“Why?” She asked.

“He just wants us to let him in.”

“Why can’t we let him in?”

“It doesn’t matter. You know why. Be quiet.”

Her eyes were already glossed over, and now they began to leak.

“James, don’t be mean to your sister,” My mother said, adjusting Rose‘s hat. “She’s frightened.”

“No, I’m not,” She said, only tearing up, not crying.

“I hope he does kill himself,” I said.

My mother turned to me. “Stop that. Don’t say that. You love your father.” She kissed my sister on the forehead, and turned back to me. “Now, as quiet as you can, take your sister downstairs. Open the garage door, but keep the lights off, and quietly, please quietly, go to Helen’s. Tell her what is happening, have her call 9-1-1. Can you do that James?”

“Yeah,” I said, glancing towards the window, where my father was counting down loudly from fifty. “I’ve got it. Why aren’t you coming?”

“I need to be here.” Her face was red. Her eyes were puffed.. “Just in case.”

Rose gripped her little hand around mine as we moved silently through the unlit basement, toward the garage. The light from the street lamp shone in dimly through the small rectangle of a window near the ceiling, and grazed the boxes of unpacked who knows what from the move the month before.

“I love you,” She said.

“I love you too. Be quiet.”

We were ghosts. We were the sullen creatures under the stairs. We moved with weight and strength and fear. We moved as one.

When we got to garage, I began to panic. Would he hear me pulling it open? What if he really had lost his mind? What if he shot at us? What if he killed me? Or Rose? What if we leave and he kills Mom? I stared into the darkness for a moment. This could be it. David and Goliath, or it could not. I could die. He could kill me. What could I do to protect my family? Was calling the cops all that could be done? Can I defend them? I don’t think so, he’s a mountain of a man. A dragon. Who the fuck am I? Twelve years of nothing. Nothing at all.

I felt around the back of the garage door for the handle, and found it. Slowly but firmly I lifted only a little. It creaked and I froze.

“Shh,” Rose said.

“I know.”

I lifted a little more.

“Slide under and wait for me,” I said.

“I don‘t want to go first.” Rose said.

“Don’t be scared. I’ll protect you.”

“I’m not scared.”

“Okay.”

I could see Rose look up at me in what little light crept in under the door. She got down on her stomach and slid under. “I’m out.”

“Do you see him?” I whispered.

“No. I hear him over there.”

I lifted a little higher, and got down on my back. The door was heavier like that. Harder to lift. I pictured it slipping from my hands and crushing me, breaking my nose, or wrist, or ribs underneath it. I would cry, or whimper, and he would hear me. Rose would call for help. He would hear her. She was braver than I.

I stuck my foot under the door to keep it propped. It hurt and bent my toes, but I kept moving.

I could hear my father yelling on the other side of the house. “Nineteen! Eighteen!”

I got out from under the door, eased it down, and stood up. I took Roses hand, and keeping my eyes and ears tuned to the other side of the house, silently wished my mother as much luck as I could, and slipped Rose off into the night.


2.


Helen lived only a few houses down from us on the same street. I couldn’t hear my father anymore. I wondered if he had finished counting, and what that would mean. I hadn’t heard a gunshot, but I didn’t know what one sounded like either. I imagined I would know one if I had heard one. I knocked.

“Is she home?” Rose asked.

“I don’t know. I just knocked.”

“Oh.”

We waited on the porch. The night was clear and the air was thin and sharp in my lungs.

A light came on in the window.

“Hello? Who is it?” Helen said through the door.

“It’s James and Rose. My mom told us to come here.”

The door cracked open, and Helen, a stout middle aged woman, peered out. “What are you two doing over here? Is everything all right?”

Rose gripped my hand.

“My mom told us to tell you you need to call 9-1-1. My dad has a gun.”

“Oh my god! Kids, get inside!” She opened the door wide, and shuffled us in. “Is your mother okay? Where is your mother? Oh my god! Where is the g.d. phone?!”

She sat us on the couch and pulled the shades closed. “You two just sit here. I need to find the g.d. phone.” She shuffled off into the other room.

For the first time in about an hour there was quiet. There was a feeling of relative safety. I couldn’t stop thinking about my mother.

Rose leaned her head on my shoulder. “James?”

“Yeah?”

“Is mom okay?”

“Yes, Rose. Mom is okay. You know Mom. She’ll always be okay. You know that.”

“I know.”

“James?”

“Yeah?”

“Is Dad okay?”

“I don’t know, Rose.”

“Okay.”

We sat on the couch, and stared at the blank television, at our black reflections. Mom was okay. She had to be. I knew Mom. She’s always okay. I knew that. I knew that.

”Found it! Christ!” Helen said from the other room. I could hear the tones of her dialing, and then, “Hello. I need Police or an ambulance or something. Please quick. Yes it’s an emergency! My name is Helen Thomas. I live at fourteen Maple… but wait, no, that’s not the emergency! My neighbor! Her kids are here. They say their father has a gun! I don’t know if the mom is okay. I haven’t heard from her. She doesn’t have a phone. Yes. Twenty six Maple Street. Halcyon. Yes. Red house. Okay. I will. Yes. The kids are with me. They’re safe. Yes. Okay.”

She looked in on us. “Everything’s fine kids. They’re sending help. You have nothing to worry about.”

We could only look at her.

“I’ll make some food,” she said. She went into the kitchen and occasionally she would mumble something into the phone. I couldn’t hear it.

I found the remote on the coffee table and turned on the television. I couldn’t think. My brain was all just chaos. Static and noise. Panic, rushing blood, and adrenaline. A feeling I was going to have to get used to.

I started flipping through the channels, looking for something to watch. I found music videos.

“I want cartoons,” Rose said.

“Okay.” I changed the channel to cartoons and leaned back on the couch. Rose leaned back on me and laughed once in a while at something on screen. It was all just colors and sound to me.

Mom is always okay.

After a little while Helen came back in with two bowls of macaroni and cheese. Rose and I took off our jackets, sat on the floor and ate.

A knock came on the door.

Helen moved slowly toward it. “Who is it?”

“Sheriff ma’am.”

She peeked out through the window, red pulsing lights filled the room, then went ahead and opened the door. “Good evening officer.”

“Good evening ma’am.” He looked in and saw us. “Can we speak in private?”

“Of course.”

The Sheriff and Helen went outside and shut the door. I tried to put my ear to the window and listen, but all I could hear was muffles. I looked through and saw Helen nodding.

“Can you hear them?” Rose asked.

“No.”

The Sheriff left, his lights no longer flashing. Helen came in and looked at us.

“You kids are going to stay here with me tonight.”

“Is my mom okay?” I asked.

“Your mom is fine. Everything is fine. She just had to go with the Sheriff to help them figure everything out, and then she’ll be picking you two up in the morning.”

“Okay,” I said.

“Okay,” Rose said.

“Okay,” Helen said. “Finish up your meals then kids, and I’ll get beds made up for you. It’s getting late, and you’ve had a long night.”

We finished up, and Helen laid out blankets and pillows on the living room floor for us. We got under our covers and she turned out the lights. “Get some sleep kids. Good night.”

“Goodnight,” Rose and I said.

I laid in the dark. Rose’s breathing eventually slowed and I stared at the light from the cable box.

Mom was always okay. I knew it.

Seven A.M., Halloween Morning.

It's seven a.m., Halloween morning, 2011. I was supposed to be up for work an hour ago, but plans changed and now I am just up. I took two diet pills and am on my third cup of coffee, sitting alone in my dark living room, typing furiously and deleting doubly so while I wait for Marie to wake up. I'm trying to catch the dream state before it disappears entirely. There's a cloud in my head and it's filled with all of those thoughts I swear I think, all of the perfectly articulated stories, characters, plans, plots, and places. It's bursting with life, world, and mind changing ideas, my cloud.

So I try to catch it. Hope to write some of it down. Leave behind some record of dawning eureka.

What about the diet pills? The coffee? Shouldn't I ease up on the caffeine if I am trying to catch some waking dream by the tail? Probably. But I didn't.

The original plan was to eat better, lose a little weight (starting today, of course), sip my coffee in bed next to Marie and read some Hem shorts. It wasn't until halfway through "Fifty Grand" and three cups of coffee that I realized what brilliant blur of colors and moods, faces and words were whipping through me, being sucked out of me with each passing moment. I haven't had a drink in a week. I need every chance I can get.

I spilled my fucking coffee down the front of me as I burst out of bed.

"Shut up," Marie said from under her pillow as I clamored over the bed frame and through to the door.

I had to get to the computer. This was a typing situation.

But now, here I am. Staring at the screen, eyes burning, heart beating, thinking to myself: Well, what now? It's Halloween. I should write something with a chill to it, right? Or is that too expected? Maybe I should write about what I did this week? Well, fuck. I have been doing that all year. Well, then what?

I realize I lost the Cloud. It moved on, back over the desert of my subconscious, waiting for alcohol or sleep, or a mid-day thunderstorm inconveniently exploding to life while I am driving or calling the I.R.S. or fucking. The Cloud has moved on and I read back all of the words on my screen.

"It's seven a.m., Halloween morning, 2011..."

Fuck.

Bistro Chair.

I had just finished playing a show and had already had much more to drink than I should have. That's one of the perks of being in a popular band: people are more than happy to help you make an asshole of yourself.

The night was warm and Michael and I were sitting outside of the bustling club, under a tent at one of a few bistro tables scattered around. The show had ended about twenty minutes before and already I had had a line of drinks set up around me that people had brought over. I began to count them. Six shots of whiskey. Two glasses, two cans, and one bottle of various beers, and a glass of red wine. A girl had brought that over, instantly becoming my favorite person so far in the evening. Most nights people bought us a few drinks, but tonight was a flood and for that I was thankful, because I was desperately trying to keep calm.

Across the parking lot, in front of the doors of the club, sat a fellow I had been waiting to run into for the better half of a decade. A fellow who had stepped on my toes, who had stolen my dance, who had pissed me off.

Michael was talking. I wasn't listening.

Someone gave me another glass of wine. Another girl.

"Good show," she said, and kept on talking.

I smiled and said thank you. I tried to be grateful and kind, but I couldn't bring myself to back down. I drank her glass.

"You know if you ever want..." she said.

I didn't. All I wanted, all I could dream of, all in my universe of stars and fire and chaos and endless limitless abyss, was the sound of my bistro chair as it broke teeth, eye sockets, skull, vertebrae. As it tore and smashed, ripped and crushed, over and over and over and over...

My eyes burned. The girl was gone. I took two of the shots.

The fucker.

The mongrel.

The cunt.

"James."

My muscles were booze soaked and bursting.

"James."

The scales between my revenge and my reputation were tipping with each drink. My need to behave began to diminish. I drank two more shots.

"James. What the fuck?" Michael.

I looked at him. "You see that guy?"

"What guy?"

I nodded in the direction.

"In the scarf?"

"Yes."

"Yeah."

"That's him," I said. "Alex." My body burned. Even sitting, my balance was faltering.

"Alex?"

"The guy I told you about the other day."

"The toe stepper?"

"Is that what I said?"

"Yeah."

"I guess so then," I said.

Alex looked at me, then away, and back to me. I could see him realize who I was.

"You going to be all right?" Michael asked.

"I'm going to kill him."

"He's not worth the trouble."

I drank the last two shots. "No, maybe not. But a man doesn't let someone get away with that shit."

"A man let's it go," Michael said.

I couldn't.

Michael stood up. "Before you do anything, come with me."

"To where?"

"Just come with me." He began walking back into the club. "Come on."

I got up, took two of the beers with me, and followed. Alex kept his eyes on me as I walked. I was still together enough to try to fight the urge, so I looked forward, smiled, and faked a conversation with Michael as we passed.

We moved through the crowd and the dark. A DJ was on stage. The smell of sweat and gallons of perfume filled the air. I saw a couple of guys with popped collars and wondered who did that still. A girl in tiny white shorts, choking a beautiful ass.

Michael pulled me aside, into the bathroom. "Look in the mirror," he said.

"Why?"

"Just do it."

I did. "So?"

"Take some deep breaths. Splash some water on your face."

"I'm fine."

"Just..."

"For fuck's sake!" I turned on the faucet and let it run into my hands before throwing it at my face. See?! Fucking fine!"

Michael smiled, holding a laugh. "You look retarded. Just relax man. It's not worth getting arrested over."

I looked back into the mirror. My hair was a mess, my shirt drenched with sweat, beer, and now water. My eyes looked sunken. "You don't understand."

"I know man. The guy's a scumbag. The things he did were unforgivable. You have every right to want to kill him, and no one would ever think other wise, but you can't. You aren't that guy. You're better than that. You know it and I know it."

I took the deep breaths. "I think I have to get out of here."

"Okay man."

"Can you and Grant grab my gear when you leave?"

"Sure. Come one. Come to the bar first. Let's have one more, and then we'll walk you to your car."

"Okay."

We left the bathroom and out into the S.T.D. pool. Despite my anger and my opinion on the young, rich, and carefree, I can't help but stare at small shorts or tight dresses. It numbs the hostility for a second.

I take a stool at the bar. Michael sits next to me.

"What do you want?" He asks.

"Whatever the next girl buys me."

He laughs. "Wouldn't Marie be pissed if she knew girls were buying you drinks?"

"No. I'm saving a ton of cash and being a complete asshole to them. She'd be proud."

"You're probably right," he said. "Until then though, how about a whiskey?"

"Okay. Double. Neat."

He flagged the bartender over. "Can of PBR for me. Whiskey double for my friend. Neat."

The bartender nods and hands him his beer. A few seconds later, me my whiskey. I swallow it fast. No bullshit.

"I'm just so fucking angry," I said.

"I know man. Let it go. You'll be happy you did in the morning."

"I know. You're right."

He finishs his beer and we order another round. I'm smiling. Feeling good. Some of the other musicians from the night come over and buy me drinks. An hour goes by as I laugh, drink, and watch legs and asses sway. Life is beautiful. Even in the midst of all you despise, it can be beautiful.

I start to feel weak. I have officially passed my limit. "Time to go," I tell Michael.

"To your car?"

"Yeah."

"You okay to drive?"

"Not right now, but by the time we walk across this fucking town to it I will be."

"Okay."

We stand up. Say our goodbyes. Finish our drinks. Everything had turned out fine. We pass through the crowd again, and by the door I spy a poster for the show with us at top billing. It makes me feel good, as little as it actually means.

We step outside and in a chair, Alex sits by the gate.

My brain lights up. "Hey! Asshole!"

He looks at me like he doesn't recognize me.

"You know who I am!" I say I stamped over to him.

"Nope."

"Fuck you!" I kick the back of his chair, just behind his shoulder. The chair falls over and he spills out onto the pavement.

"James!" Michael grabs my arm.

I barely hear him, and don't give a shit.

Alex begins to get up and people are shouting around me.

"You fucking asshole," he says.

I could only see him. Pinpoint focus. I am fire. I am a black hole. I am Hell itself. I can't speak.

Before he can get to his feet I run up and kick him under his chin. Something cracks. He hits the pavement again and spits out blood. Bent over, grabbing his side, he says; "James..."

"James!" Michael says.

I barely hear either.

"James! I'm sorry!"

Fuck him. Fuck his apologies. Alcohol raged through me like gasoline. I kickhis face hard with my heel.

"I warned you!" I say. "I fucking warned you!"

Alex rolls onto his back. I look around me. Watching for bouncers. A thousand onlookers, no bouncers. I wonder if Alex was the shittiest fucking bouncer. I see a bistro chair and grab it.

I pick up the chair. "Get up."

Alex just looks at me.

"Get up!"

"I'm sorry."

"Get the fuck up."

He comes to his knees, then stands. "Just please, let's talk."

"James! Stop!" Michael is yelling behind me.

I swing the chair. It hits Alex across his face. Without resistance, like empty clothes, he falls to the ground again. He doesn't move.

I drop the chair, and walk out the gate, drunk, vindicated, and immediately wishing I had listened to Michael.

A Mother's Air

I walked along beside the road, crunching dried orange leaves littering the sidewalk. Evening was coming but it was already dark. A storm could have been waiting. The air was cold and sharp and when I breathed it in it was fresh. Not clouded with barbecues, or laughs, or thick with heat and freedom. No, it was restricting and comforting all at once. A mother's air.

My hair knocked around in the breeze. A long tattered parachute, filling and emptying with each stride, each passing car.

I had been sitting at my empty house all day, filling out paperwork and staring out the window. Over the past few weeks I had begun to feel more and more like a shut in. The neighborhood recluse. Shuffling patterns into the carpet and keeping the hours of some Lovecraftian mad man. But I played no cosmic nightmare anywhere other than in my head. I was beginning to go mad alone and unnoticed. Locked up in the wood paneling of my living room, illuminated by the glow of blank pages on my computer screen. Things were fine. I wasn't.

So, I decided I needed to get the fuck out of the house.

I dug my coat out of the closet, put head phones in my ears, and let a sad man sing me sad songs while I tried to cheer myself up.

The trees were baring. Little by little their oranges and yellows and reds were falling away revealing only thin grey skeletons. People always saw leaves, never trees.

The street lamps hadn't come on yet. It left the world in a state similar to abandonment. There were no cars. No people on porches. Only myself, and the air around me. I stared up at the sky. The peaks of roofs scraping gently against it. It's clouds were motionless, grey and white, thick and endless. I loved autumn, but it was never any good for me. As I walked I thought about the weight it placed on my chest every year. The inescapable sadness. I tried to figure it out. Sure, there were things in my life that had happened in the fall, but I didn't think it was that. There had been plenty of shit in other seasons. Perhaps it was the death of everything. The dying leaves. The dying summer. The dying carelessness. I couldn't put my finger on it.

I had walked almost a mile, and came to a bench. As I approached it, I flipped a coin in my head. Sit, or walk.

I sat.

The bench was cold against the back of my pants, but it was nice to sit and let the air settle around me. Together, we stared out at the skyline of the town and wondered if there was love in those windows. Or regret. Or indifference, perhaps the saddest of them all. The Air and I looked out at our world and I thought: I am okay.

You are, the Air thought back to me.

I sat on the bench until my hands went numb, and then the Air escorted me home in silence, patting my back every once in a while, letting me know that it was always there, I wasn't alone.

Prelude to Massachusetts

The alarm went off at quarter to five. I was leaving at seven, but I had begun to set it early enough back to be able to hit the snooze button as many times as possible. It went off, and I woke up. I hit the button, and lied back down, staring into the darkness. I wanted to go back to sleep. I was having a particularly nice dream about Marie, a tight red dress and a mystery woman. I couldn't though. I just lied there, dreading. Dreading the nine minutes until the alarm went off again. Dreading the hour until I had to actually get out of bed, and dreading the two hours and fifteen minutes until I was to officially start my day.

I hadn't been able to actually speak to Marie since yesterday morning, when she happened to be up pissing when I left. I wondered if I would be able to convince here to start waking up with me so we might be able to see each other.

I pulled my body closer to hers. Her back rose and fell with each gentle breath. Heat wafted off of her and called me. 'Closer James. Come closer.' I did. Her skin was soft, smooth, flawless. I ran my fingers slowly down her side, from shoulder to thigh, and back up around the front. Up her stomach, to her breast. I wrapped my arm tight around her, and pulled her in.

The darkness. The heat. The woman I love. Three reasons to stay buried here in bed, this perfect adult womb.

Three reasons to drag my ass out into the world, to sustain it.

The alarm continued to go off every nine minutes, and I hit the snooze button each time, until 5:45. Then, with a deep sigh, a heavy heart, and a crushing sense of responsibility and honor, I sat up, turned off the alarm, and turned on the light.

It was a needle to my eyes. I shut them quick, and slowly opened them again in increments. When they adjusted, I stood up, and walked to the bathroom to piss.

I took my shower, got dressed in a uniform I was already resenting (I was not allowed to show tattoos, which I had, and therefore had to wear long sleeves each day, regardless of temperature), and had my coffee alone at the dining room table, staring out through the window at the cold black morning, and waited for Justin and the morning light.

Eventually they both came. One more welcome than the other.

I remembered to bring two water bottles with me. The green one, and a steel one. I left the house, walked down my driveway, and climbed up into Justin's company van.

"Good morning," I said, buckling.

"Morning. Ready to work?"

"I suppose so. Where are we today?"

He motioned for the clipboard on the dash. "Check the paperwork."

"You can't say?"

"I want you to get used to the paperwork."

"Okay." I checked the paper work. It was simple enough to understand. Look for the addresses in the top left corner. We had four sheets. In Massachusetts.

"Mass?" I asked.

"Yes sir. Going to be a long day."

"Great."

I leaned back and watched the world wake up as we drove in two hours of silence to our first job.

The Floor and Everything After

I woke up on the floor. My phone was buzzing somewhere across the room. It was dark. I tried to stand but tripped and fell into the bannister.

"Fuck!" I wanted to say.

"Flgurph..." is what came out.

I could see the light from my phone flashing excitedly on the table. I stumbled over to it.

Marie.

I tried to answer, but my thumbs wouldn't cooperate, and she hung up. It was the fourth missed call.

The world was a shifting, dizzying haze of color and weight, all in the dark.

How the fuck did I end up on the floor?

I remembered. Too much wine, too fast. I called Marie back.

It rang and rang and split my skull open.

"Where the fuck are you?" She asked.

"Hon. Home," was all I could manage to get out.

"What the hell, James?!"

"I'm sorr... I fell sleep."

"Fuck you," she said.

"Honey..." She had already hung up. I looked at the clock. I was supposed to pick her up from work an hour ago.

"Fughxck."

I couldn't understand how I slept so long, or why I had been on the goddamned floor. I kept trying to think about it, but my brain swam in my head and it was no use. I was still drunk. I had to get Marie.

I grabbed my keys off of the table and ran outside. I got in the car, backed out and raced off to her. Now, I know this is how accidents happen. Criminal negligence. I know and I am not condoning it, but as any drunk will tell you in the moment: drinking and driving is easy.

I flew across town. Cars streaked by. Huge orange cones of street lamp light dotted the road. The radio was so loud.

I saw Marie walking down the road with our laundry in hand. She had done it at work. Goddamn it I am a piece of shit. I drove past her to turn around. She glared at me with full arms.

I turned around and rolled up to her. "Hey. Get in," I said through the open window.

"Fuck you."

"Just get the fuck in."

She threw the laundry in through the window, hitting me, causing my foot to hit the gas and I jerked the wheel, bursting off a little to the left. I slammed the brake. "What the hell?!"

"Are you seriously driving drunk?!"

"I was doing fine until you threw the fucking laundry at me!"

She tore open the door and got in. "Don't fucking kill us."

I pulled up to the light. Looked left, right, left again. Used my blinker, and slowly turned. We coasted down the street at a smooth thirty, braking and accelerating completely by the book.

"So, what the fuck happened?" She asked.

"I fell asleep."

"You mean you passed out."

"I guess. I just fell asleep."

"And you didn't hear your phone?"

"It's on vibrate, and it was across the room."

"Then you decided you'd make me happy by driving drunk LIKE A FUCKING IDIOT and telling me to get the fuck in?!"

I didn't know what to say.

We got home and I stumbled out of the car.

"Asshole," Marie said.

I got up to the front door and realizes I had left it open. I went in hoping Marie didn't notice.

She followed me in. "Go to bed."

"Why? I want to be with you."

"No. I don't want to see you."

"I'm sorry hon. It won't hap again."

"No," she said. "I don't want to be near you at all. You're all fucking slurring and drunk. Just get the fuck away from me. Go to fucking bed."

She wouldn't look me in the eyes. That meant she wasn't just pissed off, she was hurt. I was an asshole.

I went to the bedroom, turned out the light, and tried to sleep.

In the dark, with a gut full of cheap wine, I should have passed out immediately. Me eyes were heavy, my body weak, but my heart, my heart and my head were alive and not so well.

I'm such an asshole. She just wanted a ride home from work. She did our laundry. She always does. She probably had a long day, and just wanted to come home and lie down with me, but I decided to get drunk in the middle of the day until I passed out on the fucking floor, not even thinking about driving to get her later. I am a huge, selfish prick.

I lay there, and I just wanted her to know how sorry I was. How much I loved her. How it would never happen again. But I knew I shouldn't go out there. She didn't want to see me. It would only make things worse.

I got up.

Stumbling through the obstacle room, I got up to the door, opened it and found my way to the living room. Marie was on the couch. She looked over at me.

"Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"I want to be near you.

She sighed, and slid back against the couch, making room. "Come on."

I walked over and laid down in my lady's arms. She held me.

"This never happens again."

"I know," I said.

"I love you, but I am really, really pissed at you."

"I love you too."

I fell asleep as she watched a show about meth cooks.

Basements

It was my second day in the field. Justin was talking to me again, acting as if we didn't spend the whole day before in awkward silence over something so petty. I carried on conversations with him and tried to pretend I didn't think him a self-important cunt. I imagined he was doing the same.

We were in Albany again. Something that apparently rarely happens. I was in the basement of a two story duplex watching Justin's drill bit bore through the floor into the basement making small one inch holes every ten feet, or every bedroom. I had the job of feeding wire up to him. He drilled and would call down "All right, feed the wire up. The one in the box." Every time. There was only one box of wire down here. I wondered if he was trying to agitate me. The whole fucking job agitated me. It was the second hundred degree day in a row outside, and in the sweltering basement, worse. I had been watching Justin. I had been paying attention (mostly) in class, but it wasn't sinking in. We had four stops that day, and apparently two of them were big jobs. I asked Justin in the van that morning what time we might be home. "Assume bedtime," he had said. We had left at seven in the morning.

I was tired. Irritated. Covered in sweat and I had forgotten to bring any water. All I wanted to do was go home.

"Feed the wire up. It's in that box!"

I glared at the floor above me. "What?"

"The wire! Feed it up!"

"Where is it?" If he was going to be a cunt, then so was I.

"It's in that box next to you!"

"The wire box?"

"Yes!"

"How much?"

"Until I tell you to stop!"

"Okay. The wire box, right?"

"God damn it!"

I heard something hit the floor above me, and then the stomping of his work boots. He was coming down to do it for me. Good, I thought. Fuck him.

He stormed down the stairs. "Right there. Behind you. The wire in the box." He walked up to me, behind me, and yanked the wire. It spun on it's plastic spindle and tore the cardboard around it. He looked for his fresh hole, found it, and jammed the wire into it. He shoved more and more in there, and I watched with a raised eyebrow. I wondered if I was taking my hostility for the job out on him.

"Don't be a god damned idiot!" He said.

Well, I was doing that.

Later that evening, I was sitting in the van while Justin waited on hold with the corporate office to approve activation of our third job for the day. We had been on the scene for six hours and the customers were beginning to be a little short with us.

I had been trying to hold back my sarcasm and general shit-headedness after the issue in the basement. The job didn't seem hard, by any means, but for whatever reason, I just couldn't wrap my head around it. The connection types. The box types. The paperwork. None of it was making any sense to me, but I was determined to do this job. I was determined to show all of those cavemen in my class that I was the best of them. I was determined to make Marie realize I wasn't a massive shit. So, I was doing my best to keep my mouth shut, and hope that Justin knew how to train me.

The hold music was a ten second loop of an electric organ playing the first twenty or so notes of what sounded a lot like the theme to Sesame Street. The speaker on the phone was broken and the music was coming out was distorted and sharp. Over and over. The sun was setting. The air cooling. I looked at the clock on the dash. I had ten minutes until I had been on the clock for twelve hours, and we still had one job left.

"What's the next job?" I asked.

"Just a service call a few blocks over. With any luck, we should be in and out."

"Cool." I went back to staring dully out of the van, wishing I was home. Over and over, the I had no idea how to get to Sesame Street.

I wondered what Marie was doing right then. Was she at work? Had she come home yet? I wanted to text her but my phone battery had died a few hours ago. I missed her. I was thirsty. Exhausted from the heat.

Justin's call went through, and we left to the final job. After re-wiring the entire basement and installing all new boxes, we were in and out, in two and a half hours.

Justin dropped me off at eleven. Marie was already asleep. I took off my boots, peeled off my clothes layered with dried sweat, pissed, got three long drinks of water, set the alarm for five, and lay down in the dark. I curled up next to Marie.

Only one day left in the week.

Writers

I have a lot of favorite stories about writers.

Ernest Hemingway telling a reporter it takes about a "half inch" of whiskey to finish a paragraph.

Charles Bukowski telling his publicist that when he writes the stories, he gets to not be the drunken asshole on the plane.

Roald Dahl nearly beating a man to death in a Swedish airport.

Okay, that last one may have been a lie, but regardless, writers are beautiful. Lunatics. History makers. Story tellers. Drinkers.

They are your favorite uncle. Your tribe historian. The men (and women, yes) responsible for the emotion of a group. The memory. The folks who gather you around the fire, and through smoke and mystery, tell you how it was. It doesn't matter if it is accurate or not, they send the heroes on their quests. They bring the loves together. They lull you to sleep and keep you awake with excitement.

Just one more page, you say. One more story.

Fuck, without writers, we'd have no history. No Alexander the Great, who conquered the world, and claimed its most beautiful woman as his prize. No Shakespeare, no matter who or what he really was. No Christ. Imagine that. No Christ. No Buddha, no Mohammed, No Christ. Perhaps I've begun to make an argument for the world better without writers.

Shit.

Let me backtrack.

Writers are madmen. Dreamers of immeasurable depth, unbeatable loneliness, and incomprehensible brilliance. You see, they don't just write those pretty words, strung into tolerable sentences, with any luck left in your brain and heart for decades to come, no. They also think about it. They see the world around them and say 'this should be recorded, somehow. This is my world, and it should be known.' They see more value in their world, in your world, than anyone else. They are the reason you speak your language. The reason your country has history. The reason you can read this. And with any luck, the reason you can think now of your favorite quote, passage, or story.

Writers are the invisible girders holding this cunt of a world together. They are the spokes in the wheel. The grapes in the wine. They are your perception. Whether you like it or not.

Someday, I hope to be one.

Lonely Minx.

In the morning, I went to work.

We had to be there at six to get our uniforms and meet our new "On The Job" trainers. The guys who'd be taking us in the field and showing us all of the bad habits we'd eventually be bitched at for. I was exhausted. Marie and I had finally had the energy to have sex the night before, and for whatever reason, I can never sleep after sex. I'll just lay there, making up stupid puns or insane conspiracy theories until my brain shuts down on it's own volition. So, three hours later, and I was standing in the parking lot with my fellow retards, waiting to be assigned.

Shawn read down a list of names, ours then our trainers, and assigned us.

"Benson, you're with Haverford." Benson walked over to Haverford.

"DiMarco, you're with Austin." DiMarco went to Austin.

It went on like this. They all shook hands, laughed about jokes I couldn't quite make out, and then climbed into their trainers vans and disappeared for their first day in the field. I waited.

"Fallinger... Harrison... O'Toole..."

"I think you forgot me.," I said.

Shawn looked up. "What was your last name?"

"Martin."

He looked back down at his clipboard, running his pen down the side of it. "Martin. Martin... Martin... Well looks like I forgot to assign you."

"Great. Can I leave?" The other guys laughed. I wasn't looking for laughs.

"No can do, bro. Time to get out there. You're with...Wilson. Wilson, you here?" He shook his shaggy empty head around, searching.

A short man came out from behind one of the vans. He had a do-it-yourself haircut and reminded me vaguely of a potato. "I'm here."

"Great," Shawn said. "You got Martin."

I walked over and shook his hand. "Call me Justin," he said.

"Nice to meet you Justin. James. Let's get the fuck out of here."

He smiled a little. "No problem."

We walked across the parking lot, got in his van and left. His van was nearly immaculate. Everything was not only organized, but zip-tied down, so as to prevent any "shelf-wear" type of eventual disorganization. To take something and move it, you really had to want to. It was fucking cold inside the van. The A.C. was blasting. I didn't say anything. It was his van. I sat back in the seat, and kept my mouth shut.

We left town, and got on the interstate, heading south toward Albany.

"All of our work's in Albany today," Justin said.

"Cool."

"Yeah, especially since I've been in Massachusetts the last four days. That sucks."

I was trying to figure him out. I kept looking around the van for clues. Personal trinkets he might have left around. A picture of a girlfriend or a kid maybe. His radio was on, but inaudible, and I looked to see what station it was, but the display only showed the time. I had nothing to work with besides talking. I was fucked.

The drive to the first job went easy enough. I don't think either of us were really comfortable, and preferred the awkward silence to asking about the weather or whatever sports teams guys like him were into.

We pulled up in front of a white two-story house just south of Albany, but close enough to still be in the moat of shitty neighborhoods surrounding it.

"Well, you ready?" Justin asked as he pulled a clipboard from the clipboard space he had designated between the visor and the ceiling.

"I guess so."

"Good."

He got out and I followed. Immediately I felt completely ignorant. I knew I was supposed to be watching his every move, but I felt like I should know a little more about the process before the company burdens an innocent man with me. Trudging me around. I could only hinder his speed. His paycheck.

"How long have you been doing this?" I asked him as we approached the door.

"Six months."

I stopped. "Jesus Christ. Six months? And you're training me?"

"I guess so. I'm kind of a veteran."

"At six months? How long are people usually doing this? A fucking week?"

"About a month or so," he said.

"Damn."

"Yeah."

We walked up to the front door. Justin knocked and I realized I was now the guy that everyone waited on for hours. That no one really wanted around. That was a ghost, only invading your privacy.

"Housewives ever try to fuck you?" I asked.

"What? No. Watch the swearing."

Maybe he was one of the uptight fuckers. The by the book-ers. So much for my self-loathing drunken genius. I was stuck with Justin, the future assistant manager.

I decided to try again.

"Just asking. Some little lonely minx never came strolling up on you out of a dark bedroom. Oh, I've got you sports package right here Mr. Cable Man. Mmmm, run that cable."

He set his clipboard down on a railing and turned to me. He looked me in the eye, like I was stealing his farm and giving it to the railroad company for westward expansion.

"Enough," he said.

"Wow. Fucking relax. I was just asking."

He turned back to the door and didn't talk to me again that day. He did each job, and I watched silently. I should have kept my mouth shut. I had fucked myself. Only five weeks and six days left.

Pale Yellow Light

There is something breathtaking about my adolescence. It isn't getting kicked out of high school. It isn't the teen pregnancies. It isn't the drug issues, violence, or vandalism. It's the pale yellow light spread out across a parking lot, in the depth of summer reflected off the pine trees. It is a scene repeated in thousands of small towns all across the country, world, and who knows where else. For anyone who has lived it, and has the intelligence to see it, it is the single most beautiful thing conceivable. For tourists, townies, and lucky passer-by's, it is the reason to step outside at night.

The dim glow of serenity.

The warmth of summer camps, communities, girls that smoke, and mischief.

The realization that the world is unending, ever-changing, dangerous, and beautiful. That I am no longer a child, I am a person. I want to explore places unknown. Lose my virginity to the girl next door. I want to smoke like the cool kids. Grow up fast, and never grow up. I want it to always be night, always be mysterious, always be new.

I want to never realize what I know now.

But it ends. It ends much sooner than it should. Suddenly, adulthood.

Here is where I wonder. These years. These few, beautiful, short years. Are they worth the price we all pay with age? Do we look back on them fondly? Do we look back on them and remember their beauty, even as we drown in debt, and failure, and life? Do we think to ourselves of the days when we were free and say "for just one more of those days, I would spend another lifetime as an adult"?

Would I? Absolutely.

That pale yellow light flat against the concrete. Those thick walls of pine, and the mysteries beyond them. Sexy, tempting, and devilish. Yes. Oh, yes I would.

Garbage Christ Strikes Again.

Did you ever want something so fucking bad you briefly consider killing yourself because you are certain you'll never have it? I think of myself as fairly non-consumerist. I don't want much. I don't need much. I appreciate the things I have (sometimes perhaps much more than they deserve), but I'd be a liar if I said I didn't occasionally desire. Maybe I never actually consider suicide over shit like that, but once in a while I'll think of something.

The Quiet Earth on Blu-Ray.

A high-rise loft over looking the Mediterranean (and all the booze, free time and everything else it includes...).

The complete run of "The Maxx" (first editions, of course).

These aren't big deals. None of these things really matter. None of their absences will have any bearing on my life whatsoever. None of them would truly change my life (if I had the loft, it would have already been changed). Yet, I want them so fucking badly. I lust after them. I can't have them and it drives me crazy.

I have a habit of looking down on people that want. New cars. New houses in the suburbs. Brand names. It's not a great habit, and it makes me feel shitty when I realize, I'm no different. I might fight it a little better, but I still WANT. I don't want those things, but I want. I want experiences. I want a cliff-side blowjob from a squad of Argentinian cheerleaders. I want to stay for months on my own private hut in Tahiti. I want to find total enlightenment and physical gratification (opposing forces by most schools of thought, I know), I want a body that gods would desire. A personality so magnetic, my presence cause others to kill themselves with desire and jealousy. Tell me that isn't as bad as wanting a shiny new car.

So, who the fuck am I to go on saying "consumerism is evil". It's the same fucking lust fulfillment I crave, with different products. Argentinian cheerleaders don't blow broke homeless drifters. A private hut in Tahiti isn't free. Books, teachers, and travel all cost money. Gym memberships, health food. The list goes on. It doesn't matter what it is that we all want, the thing to remember, for me anyway, is that we all want. No matter how many times I defend people, that I think of as lesser, as my equals ("the poor are my people"), the fact remains that I initially see them as needing defending. As if I am some Blue Collar (or no-collar) Messiah. Some garbage-Christ. I am as self-obsessed and lusting as anyone else. I want. I desire. I need. Nothing will ever truly be good enough.

The important part is that I recognize it.

I am human. No better, no worse.

Blowies, Brownies, and Rejections.

"I want a blowjob."

"Really?" Marie asked. "You think that's going to work?"

"I had a long day. I'm tired. I don't have much energy left," I said.

"So?"

"So, I figured I would just ask. What would it hurt?"

"Your chances of getting a blowjob, for one."

I put my feet up on the coffee table and leaned back into the couch. "Everything sucks."

"Awe, poor baby," Marie said. "You actually have to go back to work. It must be so hard on you after a month vacation." She was speaking to me like I was a toddler. She sat next to me. "Besides, you don't get blowie's for going to work two days in a row."

"Three?"

"No."

The television was off, but I looked at it all the same. I wondered if it was some sort of instinct now. In living room. Stare at T.V.. Who knows?

"I'll cook you dinner though if you want," she said.

"No thanks. My back hurts though. Could use a rub."

"Why? I thought you just went to class today?"

"Ladder safety training. Fucking things are heavy."

She gave me a half grimace. "Maybe tonight I'll rub your shoulders." That meant no. If it didn't happen immediately, it wasn't happening.

Oh well, I thought.

Marie got up and went into the kitchen and began to make something. I laid back on the couch and stared up at the ceiling. I had submitted a few short stories to some magazines when I got home from work. My rejection letter folder was getting thicker. I used to frame them as inspiration, but before long they became debilitating, and the last thing I needed was to be a few bottles of wine into a story look up at the framed rejections, and have some terrible epiphany about my abilities as a writer.

Some magazines would send you a formal letter in the mail.

"Dear Mr. Martin,

We regret to inform you..."

Others would shoot you an email,


"Dear Mr. Martin,

While we enjoyed 'A Mad Man, His Dick, and Four Balloons', we regret to inform you..."

They were all the same. Stamped with the impersonal copy/pasted signature of some assistant editor, sealed with the indifference of a man stuck in his own dissatisfaction somewhere, addressed to me. But, I kept sending the fucking things out. Maybe someday...

"So what's tomorrow?" Marie asked from the kitchen.

"Wednesday."

"No, I mean, what are you doing tomorrow at work?"

"Oh. First day in the field. I meet my trainer tomorrow."

"Cool. Hope it's someone you like."

"Yeah, me too," I said. "I'm keeping my fingers crossed for some drunken curmudgeon. Hates his job, but is absolutely brilliant at it. Some lost blue-collar genius."

"I don't think that will happen."

"Let me dream."

She came back into the living room with a large mixing bowl and handed it to me. "You have to use your finger. I kept the spoon."

Inside the bowl was chocolate something or other. "Brownies?" I asked.

"Yep. Figured you'd prefer it over a blowjob." I questioned her logic.

"I think we may have to have a talk about that," I said.

"If you don't want the brownies I can throw them out."

"Oh, no," I said. "I want them."

"Then don't complain."

She walked back into the kitchen and I swirled my finger around the bowl. A large clump of brownie mix rested on my finger, and I ate it. It was no blowjob.

"Thank you," I said.

"You're welcome."

A good woman might not suck your dick on command, but she'll make you brownies just because. It evened out somewhere in there, and I was a lucky man.

I tried not to think about work.

Blue, Endless, Serene.

I was eating less. It meant nothing. It was probably just because it was so fucking hot out. I drank okay, but that was it.

I was laying in the City Park of Lake Henry, staring at large billowing clouds however many miles up, and the great valley of water below them. Marie was working, and I had gotten bored at the house. I hadn't worked in a couple of weeks, and I was out of money, so, I was out of wine. I just laid in the grass, dreaming.

I could hear people and their pets and families scattered around me, enjoying the summer. I could hear motor boats on the water. Cars driving by, and a radio somewhere behind me. A man going on and on about God, donations, and republicans. I wondered if someone was actually listening to it, or if in a moment of clarity, someone had decided to hurl the fucking poison out of a moving car. I couldn't bear to look and find someone sitting intently next to it, nodding along.

I had my book with me, but I wasn't reading. It was a pillow. Somewhere, someone was looking up at these clouds, someone with the perfect life. Someone who was exactly where they wanted to be. Someone in peace. It wasn't me. It's funny how everything can be fine. People leave you alone, you don't have to clock in or out. No one is counting on you at the moment, and you can still feel panicked. It was the awful argument against all I wanted to believe, that life could be lived only in the moment.

I knew it was a stupid point of view. A short lived ideal. An immature, unsustainable lifestyle. But goddamn if I didn't want to believe it.

The sky was perfect. Blue, endless, and serene. Beyond it, darkness, stars, and mysteries that rendered everything below it immeasurably meaningless.

There I laid. Avoiding trying.

Ladder Safety Training.

The next day came.

The alarm went off at six. I hit the snooze button eight times, got up, and showered. I was running behind. The morning seemed to be both dragging behind me like a corpse and pulling me harder than my shoulders could bear. It was a total state of displacement. Once dressed, I found my way to the car, then to the gas station, to the coffee, to the interstate, and somewhere along there I began to wake up.

Michael had sent me a message the night before about a show coming up. He wanted to rehearse. I had no reason not to, besides already feeling drained. I loved rehearsing, playing, the whole bit. I loved being in a band, and I loved our band. I just didn't want to drive an hour home to drive a half hour back in the same direction, to play until two in the morning, to get up at six. I felt like an adult, in the crawling, miserable sense, after only one day of classroom training. I began to wonder if I was miserable, or a pussy. Funny, the thoughts thought so early in the day.

By the time I got to work, I was nearly fully awake. The caffeine had kicked in a few minutes prior, and I felt a little rejuvenated. Maybe I just wasn't a morning person. Maybe every morning I would be miserable and hate my job, and an hour later, I'd feel better. I tried to focus on that. I'm fine, I thought. This is for the best. It will solve our money issues. It will make Marie happy. I focused on that, and felt a little better.

I was on time. It surprised me. In my daze, I must have sped a little. Made up twenty minutes on an hour drive...

I went into the building, past Tits and the Awful Face and down the hall toward the classroom. The door was open, but the light was off. I sat down at my spot and waited in the dark.

The world is better in the dark, I thought. How has some wandering Lestat not found me by now? He better get a move on, I'll be old and fat before long. I haven't been to the gym in month. I don't eat anything. Does it even out? Why have I been slacking? I haven't written anything in a week. I haven't recorded any new music. Why am I such a layabout? I need fresh air. Excitement. I need a massive change for the good. I need to wake up excited to see what the day holds. I need to not work here. This is a death sentence. I can feel it in my bones. In my lungs, I am drowning already. I am drowning drowning drowning...

I am blinded as the lights burst on and Shawn lumbers through the door.

"Just hangin' out in the dark, huh bro?"

I pretended like I had been sleeping. I yawned a fake yawn. Stretched a fake stretch. "Just trying to catch a few extra minutes before the day."

"Just make sure you wake up soon. Ladder safety training today."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah bro. Climbin' the forty-footers outside onto the roof. Gotta be awake for that. Fuckers bend the higher you go. Right around thirty-five feet you're basically climbing straight up. Bro, it's a trip."

"Wonderful." I opened my book and pretended to read.

A few of the guys trickled in, and at the last minute, the rest came.

The class started out with us filling out our tax forms, our direct deposit, all of that. For the first time in my life I signed up for direct deposit. It was the first time I had had a job and a bank account simultaneously. It was a little exciting.

After that, we went outside in a shuffling awkward group. The hallway beyond the classroom was a meandering tunnel walled by plywood, fake wood paneling, sheet rock, and sheets of plastic, winding through two offices, the warehouse, and eventually a bathroom, where we had to wait until it was empty before we could pass through it. I held my breath. With muffled commentary, the others validated that.

The sky was grey outside. The air muggy. Some of the veterans of the job were outside standing around and smoking. I wondered why they weren't out on runs. Everyone told us we'd be constantly busy. From black morning sky to black night sky. I decided I didn't care, and shifted my attention to Shawn, standing in front of a beaten work van.

"Everyone here?" He asked.

We looked around at each other, not saying anything.

"Good. Now, behind me is one of the vans you guys are going to end up getting. On the roof, you'll see two ladders. A twenty-eight footer, and a forty footer. Nine times out of ten, you'll be using the twenty eight. But, once in a while, you'll have to get the forty out. So, this morning, we're going to learn how to properly remove the forty footers, set them up, climb them,and replace them. We assume if you can take care of the forty footers, you can take care of the twenty eights. But," he said, smiling, "we have had some fucking idiots in the past that tried to use the forty's for every job because we haven't shown them how to use the twenty-eights."

Some of the guys laughed at that. I thought it was a dick thing to say and that I was surrounded by dicks. I was bored.

"Okay, so, who wants to go first?"

We all stood around looking at each other.

"Come on guys. You are all going to have to do it."

We were ready to challenge that.

"Fine. I'll pick somebody. James. Front and center."

Of fucking course it was me. I inhaled and walked forward through the group. I wanted to fight the shaggy haired fuck. I got up to the van and stood there.

"Take the ladder down," Shawn said.

I looked up at it. it had a locking mechanism on one end that looked to just be a simple pull of a lever. The other end had a chain with a lock on it.

"Are you going to take the lock off of it?" I asked.

Shawn looked behind him and saw the lock. "Oh, shit. Fucking guys. I told them to take that off. Hold on, I have to go get the keys." He disappeared through the group and back inside. I doubted he told anyone anything.

Standing there in front of the van, in front of the group, I suddenly found myself wondering what the hell to do with my hands, how to stand nonchalantly, and where to focus my attention. I walked over to the smokers picnic table and sat down. Shawn came back out as soon as I did with a set of keys in his hand. He walked past me, and patted my shoulder somewhere between a slap and a come-on. I wondered how many hammer blows he could sustain.

I followed him over to the van and watched him unlock the chained end of the ladder.

"Will we get keys for the chains?" someone asked.

"Yes. They'll be on the keyring," Shawn said.

I wondered if they turned anyone down for this job. Then I realized I might be a total asshole.

"All right," Shawn said. "She's all yours James."

I pulled the lever down, and it stuck. Shawn looked at me and offered no help besides a raised eyebrow. "Well?" I asked.

"Well what?"

"It's stuck. Is there a trick? Do I have to wish the damned thing open?"

He walked over, yanked a little harder on it, and it popped open. "Put some effort into it."

I was ready to leave. There was a good chance that I'd be arrested before lunch. I finished the unlocking, and lifted the ass of the ladder up over the brace, and slowly pushed and slid it down the side of the truck. It was fucking heavy and three vans high. After some grunts and shoving, I got it upright against the van. A sweat had broken on my forehead. Where was my beach? It seemed a lifetime ago.

"All right," Shawn said, "Now, grab the rung by your hip, and lift it onto your shoulder."

I grabbed the rung, and lifted. Before I knew it, the weight of the bastard had shifted and I was toppling backward. I tried to catch my balance and swung the fucking ladder god knows where.

"Jesus fuck!" Someone yelled.

"James! Drop it!" Shawn said.

Without looking, I let it go. It crashed onto the pavement, thundering and screaming.

"What an idiot."

"Christ, fucking kill someone..."

They all talked. Looked at me. The argument to flee or fight sprang to life in my chest. Someone was going to get fucking hit, or I was going home.

"What?" I asked one of the guys. Not small, but not one of the brutish fucks either.

People quieted.

"What?" He asked, looking startled.

"What did you say?" I walked up to him.

"Okay guys, enough. You're at work," Shawn said.

"I didn't say anything man," the guy said to me.

"I think you fucking did."

"Enough. One more word, and you're both done here," Shawn said.

I stood staring at the guy.

"James. Enough."

I walked over and sat at the picnic table. No one spoke, but they were all saying something. I felt a little better.

Shawn picked up the ladder. "Why don't we have someone else give it a shot?"

Someone else went, and I watched. They all went, struggling with the massive orange cunt, and no one spoke to me. Shawn didn't ask me too go again.

The rest of the day went smoother. We went inside. Pizza was delivered to us. I ate it, and read while all of the other cavemen beat their chests and talked sports. It's not that I thought I was better than any of them, just that I was a different type of person. They were cut out for this work. I heavily doubted I was. I was both threatened, and a little jealous. I had something to prove in this group. Reading in the corner wasn't going to do it. Doodling caricatures in my book wasn't. I wanted to be the fucking best of them. I wanted to make them all feel threatened by me. Jealous of me. I didn't think I was better than them. I fucking knew I was, and I was going to prove it.