Make Believe

I woke up and didn't know where I was. Sunlight peeked in through a window I didn't recognize. The roof was drop tiles. The house smelled awful. I sat up and looked around, my head swollen and heavy. I had been sleeping on a couch. Green, coarse. I was hungry and couldn't focus my eyes. There were pots and pans and messed paper towels lining the floor. I was dressed.

I remembered.

I was at Michael's.

A wave of guilt rushed over me that I was yet to understand. I had done something? Said something? My head pounded. Deductive reasoning was beyond me then.

They had brought me here. Michael. His roommates. I was in the road. In the car. Talking. Something about stairs. Couch.

I looked at my phone. The screen was achingly bright. It was seven-fifteen. Five missed calls from Marie. Four voice mails. Two texts. I read the texts. The first read:

"Hey. You aren't answering your phone. Everything okay?"

That was a little after midnight.

The second, about two hours later read:

"Please call me. I'm worried."

I rubbed my throbbing forehead and looked at the floor. There was puke in two of the pots and some on the paper towels on the floor. Mine, I imagined.

I ignored the voice mails. I couldn't hear her voice then. It would have been too much and have to wait until later when I was a little more cleared up. I needed some fucking orange juice and a cheeseburger.

I leaned back on the couch and closed my eyes to the increasing light in the room. What the fuck did she care if everything was all right?

I tried to lie back down and go to sleep, but after a few minutes of trying to ignore my throbbing head, dizziness, and screaming hunger, gave up. I sat up and looked at Michael's bedroom door. No sound came from his room. Everyone was asleep. My car was parked three or four towns over from here and I just wanted to go. I tried to think of what restaurants might be close by and open serving cheeseburgers and orange juice at seven-thirty in the fucking morning.

None, I imagined.

I stood up and my legs disagreed. My knees gave out and I fell, crashing into the pots and pans and paper towels.

"Fucking asshole!" I jumped back, kicking a pot across the room and crashing into the kitchen and rolled onto my ass. I pushed myself against the wall and sat. There was puke on my sleeve and pant leg now. My wrist hurt from the fall and I had to succumb to a brief bout of dizziness before I was able to see the room clearly again and the goddamn pot had hurt my toe. "Fucking asshole."

I gave up trying to do anything and sat against the wall, staring.

Michael's door opened. I didn't look. I was too dizzy.

"You all right?" he asked. I must have woken him up.

"I want to go home. Can you get me to my fucking car?"

"I think you should relax man. Just for an hour or so. Let me get some pants on. I'll make coffee and toast or something."

"Whatever." I rolled onto my side and laid my head on the floor.

"All right man." Michael closed his door and I could hear him getting dressed.

I just wanted to go home. I was angry. More angry than the morning warranted. I didn't understand. Whatever it was must have happened between Albany and here. I'd figure it out eventually, but just seeing Michael pissed me off.

Michael came out and his face pissed me off.

He reached a hand out to me. "Stand up man."

I took his hand and pulled myself up. I swayed.

"Easy, man," Michael said. "Come out to the kitchen and sit at the table."

I followed him out and the kitchen was small. The table was wooden and not new. The chairs were mismatched and I imagined that maybe when they all moved in the requirements were that they each paid a portion of the bills each month and brought one dining chair. I sat in a wooden one with a red velvet looking cushion. It was a straight back and I immediately regretted not choosing the soft plastic one next to me, but I was too lazy and dizzy to change seats.

"So," Michael said, "how much do you remember?"

"I don't know man. I feel awful."

"You remember the ride home?"

"No, why?"

Michael poured water into the coffee machine. "No reason."

My head was inflating and deflating and I wished he'd just get to the fucking point and tell me what I did so I could at least understand why I felt so fucking guilty.

"Are we all right?" I asked.

"What do you mean?"He leaned against the counter and looked at me. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"Look man, stop fucking with me. I feel awful." I put my head on the table. I heard Michael pull a chair out and sit down.

"So, you don't remember anything?" he asked.

"Not much, anyway."

"Don't worry about it then."

"Well, I'm going to. I... I don't know." I had my eyes closed.

"You were drunk. Letting off steam. It's fine. Nothing happened. Okay?"

I sighed. "Okay, but we're good right?"

"We're good."

The coffee pot was gurgling and filling and Michael got up again to make English muffins and I didn't know if I felt guiltier now, making my friends forgive me for things I didn't remember doing. I had been here before. The guilt would last a week or so, then echo with every stray reminder of this moment for years to come. I felt bad for the poor misguided sons of bitches in the "Anonymous" programs, having to make amends to every one they had ever wronged. It must seem fucking impossible.

"Marie called and texted me a bunch last night," I said.

"I know. She called me too."

"Why'd she call you?"

"She was worried about you. Said you had been ignoring her. I told her you were fine and you were just working through it all."

"I don't understand this," I said.

"What?"

"This whole thing. Why does she even give a shit?"

Michael drank from his cup. "Why wouldn't she? She still loves you, you know. It's not like that just stopped."

"Bullshit."

"It's not bullshit. I mean, you still love her, don't you?"

"That's a little different."

"It's not," he said. "You guys were together for years. Like, a fucking decade. Love doesn't just disappear the moment someone shuts the door."

"I never said it did."

"Then why are you so surprised that she would worry about you? Why is it so strange to think that she still loves you? So she left. Sure. But that doesn't mean that she just threw you out in the trash."

"It doesn't matter."

"It does. You should call her back."

"No. I can't... I can't hear her right now."

"Okay man, but before it actually is too late, you should call her back. You need to be a man, here. You need to be tough."

"Yeah," I said.

"Yeah. Drink your coffee."

We drank coffee and ate English muffins and sat quietly at the table before the rest of the roommates woke up. At noon Michael brought me to my car on his way in to work. I drove home with the radio off and didn't know if I missed her or hated her. I drove home with the radio off and I wished it was all make believe.

65: The Smolderer

4.

Gregory had to be at work at eight. I had to be in at noon, which meant I either went with him and hung out four hours early, or I walked in later. On the couch, at seven thirty, with a hangover and an almost total sense of displacement, I decided I would walk in.

“How long do you think it’ll take to walk to the mall from here?”

“I don’t know. Never done it. Forty-five minutes maybe?” Gregory said.

“Okay. I’m going back to sleep.”

“Sleep tight big guy. I’ll see you later.”

"Later man.” I went back to sleep.

Well, I tried to. I closed my eyes, but I was too drunk to sleep somehow. The world spun and my head ached and my stomach churned. I couldn’t remember what I had drank or where we had finished the night, or anything after going to the second bar, really. My wrist hurt, and for whatever reason, I wanted to fuck someone. Bad. I hoped the two weren’t related. I sunk into the couch. It was old and beaten.

After what may have been hours or minutes I rolled over and opened my eyes. I stared at my reflection in the television. I could see my face clearly. This was it. My first morning single. The first morning that waking up happy, that having a good day, that changing things was in my control.

“Oh fuck you, you optimistic shit,” I said, pulling the blanket off of me. “Stupid fucking make my life better bullshit.” I sat up. The world took a second to catch up to my head. I couldn’t focus. I wondered what my ex was doing, and then didn’t care. Against all recommendations from my stomach, I stood up. I wobbled myself into the bathroom, on the other side of the couch. The bathroom was small. More like a bathcloset. The toilet was at the end of it and I walked up to it and leaned over, resting my head against the wall. I unzipped, pissed and didn’t think anything had ever felt better. My knees were collapsible, but held up. The threat was there.

When I was done I walked back to the couch, and fell onto it and tried to piece the night back together.

There was nothing there.

I needed to fuck someone.

The morning droned by as I stared at the off television and occasionally at the clock. When it was eleven I decided I should get up and get ready for work.

Bachelorhood took control. I put on pants, shoes, and left the house.


5.


I stood behind the register. I worked in the hardware department. Hammers, drills, and shit like that. I didn’t do much, even, and especially in, busy times. The way it worked was there were salesmen for the hardware department. Guys who made a commission off of whatever they sold. Gregory was a salesman. The salesmen usually wanted to cash people out so they could collect on it. For most of my time, I ended up sitting behind the register reading a copy of “The Old Man and the Sea” that someone had left behind and making dick jokes.

I usually answered phones.

The phone rang.

“Sears hardware.”

Someone mumbled something.

“One moment.”

“Anthony,” I said to one of the salesmen. “it’s for you.”

Anthony walked his fat ass around the counter and took the phone. “Sears hardware, this is Anthony, how can I help you?”

He gave me a look as he realized it wasn’t for him and I just didn’t want to deal with customers.

“Tough shit,” I said and walked away to sit on a riding lawn mower.

Anthony clicked away at the register, looking something up for the customer. A few people straggled through the hardware department. Browsers. I put my feet up on the seat of another tractor.

“Hey man,” Gregory said as he walked up from around the corner.

“Hey.”

“You just get here?”

“Yeah. A few minutes ago. How‘s it been?”

“Dead,” he said. “I’ve been hanging out in electronics with Chris all day.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah. He said he might come over to the apartment later. I told him we were roomies and that we should have a get together and celebrate tonight.”

“Didn’t we celebrate last night?”

“He said he’ll buy some whiskey and rum.”

“Celebrating it is then.”

“Hey, did you see the new girl at the hair salon?” he asked.

“No, I haven’t been down that way yet.”

“Well, when you do, peek your head in. Make an appointment or something. You’ll be glad you did.”

“She cute?”

“Dude,” he smiled. “Yes. I mean, like all of them there are, but, yes.”

“Okay.”

Move your feet,” he said. I did and he sat down in the mower next to me. “I shit everywhere this morning.”

“Fucking whiskey.”

“Seriously,” he said.


6.


Gregory had said he had invited a few more people over, so we spent the evening moving all of the boxes into my bedroom and attempting to make the apartment look as if it wasn’t a store room for a homeless shelter.

Afterward, I took a shower, got dressed in my finest evening wear (my outfit from yesterday, as all of my other clothes were still packed and I was lazy), poured a glass of lemon vodka and sat on the ruined couch staring at the blank television and waited for people.

The vodka continued to be the worst thing I had ever tasted and the LED numbers on the clock sometimes forgot to change. Gregory eventually sat down next to me. He had crisp khaki pants on and a white button down shirt. His hair was gelled and he stank of Drakkar Noir.

“You getting dressed?” he asked.

“I am dressed.”

“Really? Didn’t you wear that yesterday?”

“Yeah?”

“We have people coming over. You don’t want to look like a scumbag do you?”

“We have Chris and a few other retards from work coming. I don’t really give a shit. They all know me. They know I don’t gel my hair and wear fucking Drakkar Noir.”

“Well, I might not have told you some things.”

“Like what?”

“Well, I invited Lauren.”

“Who?”

“Lauren, you know, the new girl at the jewelry counter?”

“Oh, yeah. So?”

"So, she might come over.”

"Not really my type. Besides, she’s like sixteen. Not going to dig through my boxes and get dressed up for that.”

“Well, she might bring friends. She said she might.”

“Like who?” I asked.

“Dude, I don’t know, friends.”

“A bunch of fucking high school girls? Wonderful. All they do is fucking cackle and cry and shriek.”

“Wow dude. What’s up your ass?”

“I don’t know.”

“Trying to get you laid.”

“With underage girls? No thanks.”

“Goddamn it. You know, for someone always trying to be optimistic, you got a shitty fucking attitude. No, not fucking underage girls. I saw her talking to the girl at the hair place, and I invited them over. That’s all. Jesus. Way to ruin the fucking surprise. Now fucking get dressed.”

“Oh,” I said. “Wait, how old is the girl at the hair place?”

“Twenty.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, fucking ‘oh‘. You’re welcome. Now, get dressed.”

I got up and went to my bedroom. My six or seven small boxes were everywhere. I still didn’t have a bed or furniture, so, if things got out of hand, or in hand I guess, I would have to come up with a plan.

I dug through the box marked “CLOTHES” and pulled out a crumpled black button down shirt. I put it on. It smelled strange. Like mildew.

I walked back into the living room.

“Hey that’s better already. Take care of your hair and you could probably be done with it.”

“Do we have any air freshener or anything here?”

“Why? Does it smell bad in here?”

“No, my shirt stinks of mildew.”

“Oh, fuck. Well, you want to use my cologne?”

“We can’t both smell like high school freshmen.”

“Fuck you dude. Chicks love Drakkar.”

“Sure,” I said.

“I’ve got a little Stetson left if you want that.”

“Whatever.”

“All right.” Gregory got up and went into his room.

A car pulled into the driveway.

“Someone’s here,” I said.

Gregory came back out and tossed me the bottle. “Go get in the bathroom, turn the shower on hot. Leave the curtain open, let it steam up. While your in there, hang your shirt on the door and do your hair. The steam from the shower will freshen the shirt, and if the girls come while your in there, they’ll think you just showered. Spray the cologne on, and put the shirt on and then spray that. You’ll probably be good after that.”

“Christ, that makes sense.”

“Go!”

I went into the bathroom and turned the shower on and began to follow the directions. I heard the living room door shut, but with the shower going, couldn’t hear much of anything else. Steam filled the bathroom and I wet my hair, towel dried it a little, gelled it into something I thought cool guys who didn’t care would do, let steam fill the bathroom while I drew dicks in the steam on the mirror.


7.


Chris sat on the floor and commandeered three quarters of a large mushroom pizza while Gregory and I sat on the ruined couch watching a bootlegged copy of 2001: A Space Odyssey.


8.


The sun was high and hot as shit as I walked to work the next day. Sweat poured over me and even though I was wearing a tee-shirt and shorts with my work clothes in a backpack, I was fairly certain I was going to fucking smell later. All day protection, my ass.

To get to the mall from the apartment I had to first walk a half mile toward town, turn left, and then a half mile toward the high school where the roads became less like a Normandy and more like long years of arsenic poisoning. The rich neighborhoods. Thinner roads without yellow lines. Stop signs every fifteen feet. Tall, sprawling white houses with red doors and black shutters and grass lawns three fifths of an inch high. They were fortresses. Pristine, polished, and imprisoning. I had had a fear of wealth from a young age, and that eventually became distrust and disdain. I was a class-ist, and I was proud of my poverty in the face of such flagrant displays of debt. I didn’t owe anybody shit and I was free.

I walked sweat drenched through enemy territory until at the end of the neighborhood I came to the foot trails. The trails ran behind the local YMCA, about two miles or so deep into the woods, and incidentally, right up to the mall if you took the right branches of the trail.

Beside the smell, the lack of cars, and the shade from the bastard sun, the trails offered something to me that no other leg of the journey could. A sense of adventure rarely felt since childhood, something I had been desperately craving since beginning my slow death crawl toward this whole “adult” thing. Since the strangling monotony of the relationship. Since I realized “Fuck, I’m not a kid anymore.”

Shadows and shattered light danced on the floor of leaves and needles and dried mud around me as the breeze blew through the trees in whispers and creaks. This beautiful haunted wood. This last paradise before the nine hour ache. The air, cool and soft chilled the sweat on my skin, now drying or retreating. Soon the sound of the road faded and only the trees spoke. I breathed deep and for the first time since leaving the house, looked up from the ground. The forest was beautiful, as forests tend to be. Greens, browns and majesty. I looked up through the net of branches above me at the perfect blue and loved. It, this walk, was peace. I knew I would look forward to this from here on out.

“Is this right?” I thought aloud to myself.

What?

“This. This life I made now.”

Are you happy?

“Yeah, I think so.”

Do you miss her?

“No.” I thought about it. “No, not at all really. Is that fucked up?”

I don’t think so, but you know, what the fuck do I know?

I crossed over a wooden bridge spanning a small brook. The water lapped up under it and made a beautiful soft clap each time it struck the bottom of the bridge. I stopped and stared at it. The water was clear and I wanted to lay down in it. I was hot.

“I might be dry by the time I get to work.”

Don’t be a fucking retard. Walk. You’re going to be late.

“Yeah.” I kept walking.

I daydreamed through the rest of the walk. About this new life. About this new space I had. About what sort of life I wanted to carve out for myself. About all of the feats I could conquer. Music. Writing. Women. I wanted to be the envy of all men. I thought then that I could be. I thought then that I would be.


9.


“James, take your break.”

“Okay,” I said. It was six. I still had three hours before close. I was hungry and didn’t have any cash but I had worked out a deal with one of the burger jockeys in the food court that they would slip me meals if I occasionally looked away while they shopped. Seemed fair to me.

I clocked off on the register and walked out of my C-shaped desk to the middle of the store.

As I turned the corner toward the exit into the mall, I saw the girl from the hair salon walking toward me.

I was instantly nervous. She bore a vague resemblance to Ashley Judd, I thought. Far too pretty for me to taint. Far too pretty to allow me to taint her.

We walked closer. Closing the gap.

I kept looking at her eyes. I didn’t want to. I just, did. They were smoky. Sleepy. Inviting.

She smiled.

I almost pissed.

“Your shoe’s untied,” she said.

“I uh, you…” I looked down. My shoe was untied. “Oh.” I stopped and knelt down and looked at her as I tied it. “You saved my life.”

She laughed and walked and I watched her tight black pants stretch mercilessly across her ass with each stride.

What the fuck? You saved my life? Fucking idiot.

I got up and walked ashamed to the food court. I got my burger, and took the long way around the store back to the break room. I sat down and unwrapped my black market burger and watched the news. A famous basketball player is acquitted of a rape charge.

Gregory came in.

“Hey, hey, Champ. How’s it hanging?”

“Fucking awkwardly.”

He laughed. “What’s that mean, like, in a hook shape?”

“No man. I talked to the hairdresser.”

“The hot one?”

“Most of them are hot, here.”

“True. The braids, the boobs, or the smolderer?”

“Smolderer?”

“Yeah,” he said, “You know, her eyes are all smoldering and shit. The smolderer. You know. Smolderer.”

“Well, that one I guess.”

“Really! The new one! That’s the one I was telling you about! No shit!”

“Oh, yeah, right on. She’s a fucking bone shaker.”

“Bone jerker,” he said.

I gave him a polite laugh. “I mean, like, she fucking makes me shiver she’s so fucking gorgeous.”

“Dude. I know. I just meant…”

“I know what you meant.”

“I want her to jerk me off.”

“I got it,” I said.

“I bet you do, you old dog, you. So what did you say?”

“I fucking froze man. I didn’t know what to do. I told her she saved my life.”

“Did she?”

“Nope.” I took a bit of my burger. “Just told me my shoe was untied.”

“And then you told her she saved your life?”

“Yep.”

“Wow.”

“I know,” I said.

“Better than nothing though, I guess, right? I mean, at least you talked to her.”

“Christ, I wished I hadn’t.”

“Well, you did. Shake it off. You broke the ice. Now plan out the next move and get on that shit. Before I do.”

“Sure.”

Next move, I thought. Fuck.

I finished out my shift in shame. Gregory went home at seven and I realized I didn’t have a ride home.


10.


I stood outside of Sears. The night was cooling, but still plenty warm. I stared over the embankment where the trail head lied waiting, blanketed in darkness and probably rapists and tigers for all I knew.

Rape tigers or… the long way? The long way was almost four times the length of Rape Tiger Alley. I would have to walk almost the entire perimeter of the town.

“Later man,” Chris said, waving as he walked out of the building.

“Later,” I said by reflex. “Wait. Chris.”

He turned. “Yeah?”

“Is there anyway you could give me a lift? Gregory took off, and I don’t want to walk. I’m lazy as fuck, I know, but, you know.”

He grimaced. “I’m sorry man. I have to meet my sister. I really have to leave now. I’m already late. I’m sorry man.”

“Yeah,” I said. It’s fine. That’s cool man.”

“Normally I would man, I promise. Any other night.”

People left the store and walked to their cars. Each a missed opportunity while Chris continued wasting his precious fucking time.

“No, it’s cool man. Go.”

“I can give you cab fair.”

“Aren’t you going to be late? Go.”

“Yeah. Okay, well, sorry again man.” He turned away and walked into the parking lot.

“Fuck,” I said.

“Hey,” someone said behind me.

I turned around. It was the hair dresser. My throat closed up. My joints tightened. “Hey.”

She smiled at me and walked away, to the parking lot.

She smiled at me and that was enough. I walked home, though I don’t remember which way I took.

She had smiled at me.

The Ten Minute Whiskey

So there I was. Stars above me, twinkling and dying and making me smile. Everything was beautiful. The pavement on my back was cold and hard and the most comfortable thing in the world. I wanted to count all of the stars but I couldn’t. The night noise of the city sang around me. Voices shouting and laughing and talking and alive and wonderful. I began to close my eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Michael appeared above me. “Get up. You’re going to get fucking hit out here.”

“I’m fine.” I smiled.

Michael grabbed my arm and pulled.

I lifted a little. “Fine.”

“No, you aren’t. Come on.” He struggled with me and I laughed. “Stand, you fucking idiot,” he said.

I did my best to sit up and at some point his pulling and my center of gravity aligned and I was up, standing. First on one foot, then the other, then both. Michael grabbed me around the waist.

“Come over here,” he said, walking me to the curb. We walked together. I smiled and looked around at the yellow street lights and neon bar lights and white and red car lights. The people shuffling up and down the sidewalks. Everyone was beautiful and I was beautiful.

“Sit,” Michael said as we came to a bench.

“I’m fine,” I said and sat.

Michael sat next to me. “You’re lucky you didn’t get fucking run over.”

“It would have been fine.” I laughed.

“Yeah. I’m sure Marie would love that.”

“She probably fucking would,” I said. I didn’t laugh.

A moment passed.

“You’re going to be okay, man,” Michael said. “She just needs time.”

“Yeah, time. Time away from me. The fucking asshole.”

“Knock it off. Don’t start fucking blubbering.”

“Fuck you.”

“You don’t want to feel like shit, do you?”

“I always do.”

“Oh, fuck off. You do not. You’re just drunk,” he said.

“Yeah. I am. I miss her.”

“I know, man. I know.”

“You don’t.”

Michael was silent and I looked out at the street again.

“You don’t,” I said again.

Michael stood up. “Let’s get you to the car man. Come on.” He reached his hand out.

“No. I need to get laid or something.”

“Dude,” Michael laughed. “No one is going to want to fuck some incoherent fucking crybaby. Get your ass up.”

My stomach was in knots. The lights swirled around me. A girl in a short black skirt walked near me and I wanted to see her underwear and I leaned forward and fell off the bench onto my knees.

“Dude,” Michael said.

“Hey! I want to see your fucking underwear!” I said as the girl walked away into the crowd.

Michael grabbed me from behind and pulled me up. “Dude, get the fuck up, let’s go.”

“No. I want to stay. I want another drink. Buy me a whiskey. Buy me a whiskey Michael.”

“I’ll buy you one more, only one more, whiskey, if you go sit at the car for ten minutes. Only ten minutes, can you do that?”

“Ten minutes?”

“Ten minutes. Then I’ll buy you a whiskey.”

“Deal,” I said.

“Okay, let’s go.” We stumbled down the sidewalk and I couldn’t count the steps I took or see where colors stopped to become other colors or finish thoughts in my head and we were at the car.

Michael opened the passenger door. “Sit down man.”

“Ten minutes Michael. Ten minutes right?”

“Yeah man. Ten minutes and I’ll get you another. Just sit back and relax for ten minutes.”

“You promise? I’m not done yet.”

“Yes, I promise.”

I sat back in the passenger seat and I couldn’t see the street from it. The parking lot had one tall light in the middle casting an orange circle on the ground and I wanted to be in the circle but I wasn’t. I was in the black. To the side. Forgotten out here while time went by. While she needed time. I was drowning and no one could see me. Out here.

“Michael?”

“Yeah man.”

“Am I going to be okay?”

“Yeah, man. You’re going to be fine.”

“Okay.”

I closed my eyes and tried to keep track of the time.

Test of Metal

I sat in the car. It was running and it was grey outside. Rain fell and streamed its way down the windshield. I stared through it. Not seeing it. Waiting.

I couldn't feel my skin. My bones. Nothing. A great void had opened up and I was a vacuum, eternally insatiable, internally devoid.

The passenger door opened. I heard it and Marie got in.

"All set," she said.

"Okay."

She buckled herself in and I ran the wipers over the diagonal ocean. For an instant, I almost missed it, but then it was gone and the world was the sound of the car. The rhythm of wipers, and a great deafening silence.

"Are you okay?" Marie asked.

"Yeah."

"I do still love you, you know."

"I know."

"Okay."

I put the car in reverse and backed out of the parking space and drove out onto the road. Recently I had developed an acute awareness of the depth of my consciousness. An abyss, littered throughout with fragments of things said. Things seen. Reverberating inaudibly through the space and walls of my skull. Vibrating me sleepless, hunger-less. I stopped at a red light. I could feel Marie glance over at me. I didn't know what to say anymore. I stayed quiet. The light turned green and I drove on.

"They said it should only take a few weeks."

"Okay."

She was trying to keep me awake, in a sense. I could feel it. "...Don't fall asleep James. Stay awake. Stay with me. Stay with me."

I could only visualize it as a car accident. One she survived flawlessly. One which crushed my lungs and took one of my limbs and burned my face. One in which I was pinned under sheets and tons of crumpled wreckage and she was kneeling over me. Pleading. Her hand over mine. Her tears.

Her wide open future after me.

"...Stay with me."

The vision faded and the wipers took away more rain and I pulled up to another red light. Marie put her hand on my leg. The weight in my chest swelled and I held everything back. Just as I had been doing for months. Just as I had to keep doing. A man could be empty. But not weak. Wasn't that what all of this meant? A test of metal? A great and ultimate reminder that I could never be that man? That brute and bearded man of men?

The light turned green and I was following a car now that had a sticker on the back that read "COEXIST" in various bastardizations of religious symbols. I passed the asshole gently and the wipers took away more rain.

"Idiots," Marie said. She rubbed my thigh. "At least three of those religions preach absolute segregation. How are they supposed to coexist? Change their religions? That isn't coexisting. That's being forced into it. They can't be who they are if they have to change."

"Yeah."

She sighed. "Yeah."

After a few minutes of the swishing of the wiper blades we pulled into the driveway.

"Are you coming in?" I asked.

"Do you want me to?"

"I don't care. Do whatever you want to do, I guess. Doesn't matter." I looked at her for the first time in a while.

"If you don't want me to, I won't. I just figured since you drove, you were, I don't know, sort of setting the stage for me to come in."

"Do whatever you want. If you come in, okay. If not, it was nice seeing you." I unbuckled and opened my door.

"Yeah."

I got out and walked up to the front door. I unlocked it and went inside to the kitchen. My head felt like it was full of clouds. It was swelling now and everything was coming to the surface and I poured a whiskey. The scream was roaring to my mouth. The plates and glasses and bottles wanted to be thrown and shattered and bled over. The house wanted fire. The world wanted fire and floods and terror and death and I wanted nothing. Nothing.

The front door opened.

"James?"

I drank the whiskey. "Yeah?"

"I think it's time we talked."

She came into the kitchen and I looked at her and she looked at me. Her face was flushed. Her make up had run. Her eyes puffed. I looked away.

"About?"

Every Cork in the Sink

Winter was poisoning me. I hadn't written anything in damn near a month. Not a word. I had spent a fair amount of days staring at a blank white screen, but I hadn't written a fucking word. It was exhausting.

It had been a strange winter for the northeast. In recent years we had snow storm after snow storm, accumulating foot after foot of snow, slush, and shit, but this year, barely a dusting. It was the middle of February and I sat at my desk, staring out the window at the dead grass and bare trees. I wasn't disappointed. I hate snow. I just wished it was fucking warmer.

To make matters worse, I was on a three to four month stretch of unemployment. In the fall, I had taken a job installing traffic counters. It was good money, and kept me out of offices and hostile situations, but it was technically seasonal. Tri-seasonal. We didn't work in the winter. Snow plows would fuck up our counts.

But there weren't any snow plows.

There was no snow.

There was nothing to do and nowhere to go. I was sedated.

I was living on unemployment checks and staring out the fucking window, waiting for inspiration to strike and it wasn't. I longed for summer. The days of warmth and sunglasses. Tee shirts and lake water. Public intoxication and women in bathing suits.

I could almost see it.

Out the window.

Laughing. Boat motors. The smell of barbecue. The cooing of gulls and crashing of waves.

I had gained fifteen pounds since the cold had set in. Since I had stopped working. Since I had been staring at the fucking screen every day.

Parts of my family had gotten a hold of me after many years and I played scrabble with them over the internet and thought about seeing them and didn't. I didn't leave my chair unless I had to. Unless it was time to eat. Or shit. Or sleep.

In November I had written a novel. In thirty days. I had been quite proud at the time, and planned on using my time off to expand and edit it.

Now I hated it.

It was awful. Self indulgent. A third of a story. Whining. I felt the compulsion to finish it. The innate drive. But I hated it and I hadn't looked at it in almost two months. It was shit. Everything I had written was shit.

I spent most of my unemployment on wine and thirty packs of cheap beer. Looking for some semblance of the same inspiration from the past year, the glory days of when I would drink and write and love and feel wonderful all of the times and nothing was ever really a problem. Now, I just drank until I fell asleep in my chair, wishing I was better. I hated myself for it. Every glass to my lips. Every cork in the sink, I hated myself. Every blank page. Every day faded in a clouded stupor. I hated.

Days ticked off of the calendar and I thought about calling friends. Getting out of the house. I missed my friends. I felt a chasm between us.

I didn't.

I didn't call friends.

I didn't write.

I sat back in my chair, stared out the window, drank, and dreamed.

"Someday," I said to myself, "someday things will be better."

It was cold out.