15.
Friday came and my pay check went. Groceries ($150), half of a Trac-Phone ($20), a case of Keystone ($13), two packs of cigarettes ($14). I had a few dollars left over.
“You should open a checking account or something,” Gregory said as we drove back from the grocery store. “Just in case.”
“In case what?”
“I don’t know, in case you… need to write a check. Open a savings account then. You get interest.”
“On what? My eight dollars?”
“Maybe you’ll end up with nine.”
“Maybe.”
“Also, don’t banks give you free shit when you open accounts? Like toasters? We could use a toaster.”
“Could we?”
“I could. Do it for the team.”
“Okay,” I said, “maybe tomorrow.”
“All right.”
16.
It was my second day off in a row. A rarity and a welcome one. I decided that I was going to pretend I was an adult and open up a bank account. Savings, checking, I hadn’t decided. It didn’t matter. I was up around ten, showered, stumbled through the sort of empty apartment n the heat, drank two beers and left.
Main Street, the street we lived on, was hardly what one would consider an average “main street”. It ran from the interstate into town and was mostly houses, save for the two ends of it, one of which held six gas stations and a McDonalds and the other end, town. The traffic was usually backed up for it’s three mile stretch and in the summer seemed more like a parking lot than a road.
I walked down it and tried not to look in each passing windshield. The sun was high and hot and bright and I knew everyone watched me as I walked and I hoped I didn’t walk strangely. I tried to consider how I was walking and change up any thing that might look weird and realized that by changing it, it might have looked weird. I gave up and walked on.
I wished I had brought headphones and sweat dripped down my forehead. Before I knew it I was in that strange land of dreams and fantasy that any long walk or drive or lie down will send you too.
I thought about Rebecca. Her eyes. Dark and smoking away coals in a campfire. Her hair. Long, brown, and waving. I thought about her skin. Her touch. Her kiss. I imagined. I dreamed.
I wanted to start a band. I could now. I had the time. The freedom. I wanted to play guitar and scream and experiment. I wanted all of the things I could never have before. I wanted to paint. I dreamed as I walked of painting. Murals and graffiti and cubism and surrealism and styles new to us all. I could see myself holding the brush in the gallery. The guitar at the festival. I could read my words in the printed interviews. I could do anything now.
I smiled to myself and walked on. I wondered if I had a buzz from the beer or if I was coming into a heatstroke.
I got to town and the temperature rose as it reflected off of the streets and buildings and the cars.
I crossed a series of cross walks. I was sweating badly now. I had only enough money to open an account, I assumed. I couldn’t stop to get a drink. I hoped the bank had air conditioning.
I went to the first bank I came to. Childress National. It’s colors were green and white and I didn’t care. I went inside and there was air conditioning. I wiped my forehead, and stood in line.
The woman in front of me wore a beige suit/dress combination. Not a woman’s business suit, mind you, but the top was a suit, and the bottom was closer to what an art teacher would wear, only in beige.
Ahead of her, a man in thigh high cut off jean shorts and it was 2005 then, and I wondered what made him think that was okay. I stared at the floor and one by one we were called up to tellers. When it was my turn, I walked up to the young brunette lady behind the counter.
“Hello,” she said. She was younger. Late twenties, I thought. Not particularly cute, but if the apocalypse were to strike, I’d claim her as my own. “What can I do for you?”
I wiped lingering sweat off of my forehead. I wasn’t going to fuck her. “I need to open an account.”
“Oh, okay, well Jan,” she pointed behind me to the cubicles hidden away at the back of the bank. “…will be able to take care of you. I will let her know you are waiting.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s your name?”
“James. Martin.”
“Okay James,” she said writing it down. “Why don’t you have a seat over by the windows, and she’ll be right with you.”
“Thanks,” I said. I walked over to the chairs by the window and sat down.
The heat beamed in through the windows against the air conditioning and I thought; This is an awful fucking place for chairs.
Jan was taking her sweet time.
Another customer came in and stood in line and I wished I had brought a book. There were magazines around but I didn’t care about what Highlights for Kids had to say six years ago.
The door opened. As with everyone else that had come in, a warm breeze swirled in around me. I looked up.
A brunette walked in. Dark brunette. She wore thick framed glasses. Her hair draped over her shoulders. Tattered jeans and a black baby doll shirt that read “trend whore”.
Fuck the teller, I thought. Her.
She got into line and Jan still didn’t call me and I watched the Trend Whore and noticed and noted the curve of her ass in the jeans. The full lips. The deep, nearly black eyes. My heart beat faster.
Say something, I thought. Say something you fucking idiot!
The line got shorter and Jan was still being a fucking lazy bitch and I watched the Trend Whore. She didn’t notice me, as far as I knew.
She stood and wavered and looked just as bored and annoyed as I was.
Say something!!
The customer in front of her left and the teller called her up. “Hi Marie, how’ve you been?”
She walked up.
“James?”
I looked over. An older lady, Jan, stood a few feet away.
“Yeah, that’s me.” I stood.
“Oh good. Follow me.” Jan walked back to her cubicle.
I looked at the Trend Whore. Marie.
I should have said something.
Monday, March 26, 2012
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Some Cosmic Sea
What is my story?
I tend to write with a certain balance of truth and fiction. A lot of these things have happened, although perhaps not these things. Perhaps not like that. Perhaps not at that point. The trouble comes when I try to see the story. The thread holding it all together. When I try to look into my life, at my life, ahead of my life, and see where it's all leading. What climax waits for me? Which of these things, these people, these events are the themes stretching throughout my time? Shaping me? Explaining more about me than, well, I could?
At the moment, I am in the middle of a sort of creative hold. What do I do next? I have a novel that I have finished, and I don't know what to do with it. Is it something that I want to represent? Is it me? Is it worth putting out there to be scrutinized and forgotten? Should I make a go of it?
If I was a character, what would I want to be written for me?
Well fuck. If I was writing the bastard, I would crush him. I would kill his dreams. I would torture him to no end.
By sitting on it and spending hours and days and months and years on this, isn't that what I'm doing? Wasting time. Crushing myself. Killing my dreams. Torturing myself to no end.
But... What if it's shit?
"Hey, did you see that thing Asa did?"
"Hahaha, yeah, fucking GARBAGE."
I know I shouldn't give a shit what anyone thinks or whether or not it's good enough for anyone else, but I do. As if I have some sort of reputation to uphold. What about it makes me nervous? That some fuckface from high school might see it and laugh? That some future employer might read it and find me the idiot I damn near know I am? That I might cross some invisible line rendering me not an assumed, but a true fool?
Does any of that matter?
"You'll never know if you don't try."
Sound advice. Sure. What if I don't want to know?
For example, would you want to know when and how you die? Would you obsess over it? Would you try to avoid it? Would you ever be able to let it out of your mind?
Maybe I just don't want to know when I'll die. Maybe it's all better left unknown.
Out here in the infinite black of space. Microscopic, adrift in some cosmic sea of never known dust. With a million million others throughout history. The unknown. The safe.
Maybe I need to grow some fucking balls.
I tend to write with a certain balance of truth and fiction. A lot of these things have happened, although perhaps not these things. Perhaps not like that. Perhaps not at that point. The trouble comes when I try to see the story. The thread holding it all together. When I try to look into my life, at my life, ahead of my life, and see where it's all leading. What climax waits for me? Which of these things, these people, these events are the themes stretching throughout my time? Shaping me? Explaining more about me than, well, I could?
At the moment, I am in the middle of a sort of creative hold. What do I do next? I have a novel that I have finished, and I don't know what to do with it. Is it something that I want to represent? Is it me? Is it worth putting out there to be scrutinized and forgotten? Should I make a go of it?
If I was a character, what would I want to be written for me?
Well fuck. If I was writing the bastard, I would crush him. I would kill his dreams. I would torture him to no end.
By sitting on it and spending hours and days and months and years on this, isn't that what I'm doing? Wasting time. Crushing myself. Killing my dreams. Torturing myself to no end.
But... What if it's shit?
"Hey, did you see that thing Asa did?"
"Hahaha, yeah, fucking GARBAGE."
I know I shouldn't give a shit what anyone thinks or whether or not it's good enough for anyone else, but I do. As if I have some sort of reputation to uphold. What about it makes me nervous? That some fuckface from high school might see it and laugh? That some future employer might read it and find me the idiot I damn near know I am? That I might cross some invisible line rendering me not an assumed, but a true fool?
Does any of that matter?
"You'll never know if you don't try."
Sound advice. Sure. What if I don't want to know?
For example, would you want to know when and how you die? Would you obsess over it? Would you try to avoid it? Would you ever be able to let it out of your mind?
Maybe I just don't want to know when I'll die. Maybe it's all better left unknown.
Out here in the infinite black of space. Microscopic, adrift in some cosmic sea of never known dust. With a million million others throughout history. The unknown. The safe.
Maybe I need to grow some fucking balls.
Friday, March 23, 2012
65: Lady Admiral.
11.
I unpacked my boxes and looked around my room. It was a little after noon and I had the day off, though for the first time I wish I didn’t. I wanted to see what fire I could kindle. What feat I could conquer… I had told Gregory about the Smolderer smiling at me. He was certain this meant I was “in” and kept cheering me on.
“You just got to get in there man. Just get in there and do it,” he said over and over again in a thousand ways.
I realized I didn’t have a bed. I had a dresser that I had taken from my mother’s basement, but nowhere to actually lie down.
There was no closet in the room so I figured I would have to either fit all of my clothes in the dresser or try to cycle my laundry days so that half of my clothes were always in the hamper while the other half were tucked neatly away in the dresser.
Gregory would be out of work at four and I figured we could see about getting a bed for me then. I had heard that there was a furniture store across town that occasionally left things outside. I’d stop there first.
Also, I could use a fucking lamp.
I went out to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Though the summer was ending, the temperature still swelled around me and I found myself drinking much more water than normal. I drank down the glass and noticed the kitchen window was open. Fresh air breezed in and the sounds of birds and the busy road echoed down the driveway and into the kitchen. I didn’t miss anyone. A beautiful girl smiled at me. I was free, and after so long, I felt alive. As if I was being welcomed into the world, instead of being dragged around the powdered glass fringe of it, bleeding and gagged. I felt beautiful.
The winter before, in February, I remembered staring out of the bedroom window, out into the snow and mud covered endless field. At the flat disjointed hell of farm country, and thinking “if I smile even once this week, I won’t hang myself in the basement.”
On the fifth day, after giving away a number of my clothes, CD’s and DVD’s to people at work and the sister of my then girlfriend, I heard a song on the radio, and smiled. For months after that I wished I hadn’t.
Now, I was glad I did. I couldn’t even imagine then the simple beauty of a moment like this. The fresh air wafting through my kitchen, free of scowls, free of guilt, free of my own self destructive logic. Here I was, barefoot, enjoying the twilight of summer, drinking my water and wondering if a smile meant more.
Life is beautiful.
I put my glass into the sink and went to take a shower.
12.
“So, you just show up and what, steal a couch or something?” Gregory asked.
“No, I don’t know, I mean, I’m not looking for a couch, but I think yeah, it’s all free.”
“Why would they give you free furniture? They’re a furniture store.”
“I don’t know man. Let’s just go check it out.”
“You sure you don’t want to check out the Salvation Army first?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay man.”
Gregory drove us through town to the furniture store. It was evening. We pulled into the parking lot and they were closed.
“Okay, now what?”
“I, don’t know… Drive around back.”
“Why?”
“Maybe it’s all around back.”
“If you say so,” he said.
We drove around to the back side of the store and there by the loading docks was a pile of furniture with a cardboard sign that read in bold black letters “FREE”. I didn’t understand the logic, but I was thankful.
“See? Told you,” I said.
“You were right man. All right, so let’s see what we’ve got. Maybe I can find a nightstand or something.”
We parked and got out. The pile of furniture was mostly mattresses, box springs and chairs. Off to the side was a coffee table and what may have been an end stand or a night stand poked out from under a pile of dining room chairs.
“I wish we had a bigger vehicle. We could fucking load up and refurnish the whole apartment,” Gregory said.
“We could make a few trips.”
“True. Do they do this all the time, or…”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, do they refill the pile?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll have to swing through occasionally and check.”
“Totally.”
I went digging through the pile, flipping mattresses and looking for stains, smelling, feeling for moisture. It hadn’t rained in quite some time and everything was dry and nothing smelled.
One, under another, still had plastic on it and looked well padded.
“I found a mattress,” I said.
Gregory threw a dining room chair out of the pile in an attempt to retrieve whatever sort of stand was under the chairs. “Yeah? Throw it on the roof. I have rope in the back. See a box spring and a frame?”
“I don’t see any frames, but, There’s a few box springs here.”
I dragged the mattress out and tore some of the plastic on a chair leg. With only the complications of it being cumbersome and spineless I lifted the mattress up onto the roof and slid it into place.
Gregory emerged with an end stand. “Do you think it matches the coffee table?”
“It’s brown, so, yeah. I guess.”
“Awesome. We’ll throw this in the back then. You got the mattress up. Cool. Box spring now?”
“Yeah.” I went back to the mound of saving grace and shoved a few more mattresses out of the way, eventually finding a decent box spring. It wasn’t brand new, but it was a queen sized, like the mattress and looked and smelled clean. It was stuck a bit between other things, but with a shove here and a pull there, it came free and somehow easier than the mattress I pulled it out and carried it over. Gregory took one end and we lifted it up and threw it on top of the mattress.
“Awesome. Free bed,” he said.
“Seriously. We didn’t have to buy a damn thing. Want to get drunk?”
“Absolutely buddy.”
“All right. Let’s tie this fucker off and get some booze.”
Gregory walked around and opened the back of his Bronco. He slid the end stand in and rifled around in the back. “You haven’t seen the rope have you?”
We drove slowly through town to Abbots Liquors and then home.
13.
Rent was due. The first time I had had to worry about it on my own. Somehow it always ended up being the responsibility of whichever girl I was living with at the time. Not putting up the money, but paying it on time. I wondered if maybe I should have taken over from the start.
I was sitting outside of work with my back against the stucco wall and my ass on the sidewalk. I had my legs out and I was smoking a cigarette and wearing sunglasses and pretending I knew shit about budgeting.
It was hot for September. Had I not been in the shade, I would have been drenched in sweat. Customers walked out of the store and looked at me on the ground and I ignored them and smoked.
The door opened and two of the girls from the hair salon came out. The Smolderer looked at me and smiled. I smiled back and tried not to piss myself. The other one didn’t look and who would give a shit.
I was due back inside and my cigarette was finished, but I didn’t want to go in yet. I lit another cigarette. The Smolderer kept stealing glances. My blood rushed through me and I pretended I didn’t notice her and stared out over the embankment across the parking lot.
The other hairdresser was going on and on about some poor guy named Paul who I’m sure was sick of her shit.
Paul didn’t fuck her anymore.
Paul must think she’s fat.
Paul’s going to get his car keyed.
“I’ll tell the fucking cops he raped me,” she said. “I’ll just fuck him and then scratch myself up and then call them. They’ll believe me too.”
I looked up at her. The other one looked at me.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” she said.
“A fucking bitch, apparently.”
“Fuck you.” She flicked her cigarette at me and she was terrible at it. “I’m going back in. Are you coming, Becks?”
The Smolderer, “Becks”, glanced at me. “No," she said. "Not yet. I don’t have any appointments for a while.”
“Fine,” she said and looked down at me again. “Human garbage.” She went inside.
“Sorry about her,” the Smolderer said. “She’s…”
“Human garbage?” I said.
She smiled. “Yeah, a little bit sometimes.” She sat next to me against the wall. “I’m Rebecca.” She stuck out her hand.
I shook it. “James.”
“Nice to actually meet you James.”
“You too.”
“Do you have another cigarette?”
I had three until I got paid. “Sure.” I took one out and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She lit it and leaned back against the wall and we both stared over the embankment. My heart was racing. My skin was flushed. I was trying to keep calm.
“So, you know Lauren?”
“Well, I guess. Not really. I think Gregory’s trying to fuck her.”
“Yeah, that’s what she says.”
“You think they will?”
“Probably. She’s pretty slutty.”
“Is it slutty to fuck someone after they’ve been trying to get together with you for a while?”
“With Lauren it is,” she said. “It won’t mean anything to her.”
“Does it have to?”
“I don’t know. I guess not. I like it to.”
“So you aren’t slutty then?”
“Do you think I am?”
“I just met you. I mean, we aren’t fucking now, so, I suppose that earns you a few not-slutty points, but the night is young.”
She laughed. “True,” she said and smoked the cigarette.
I wondered what that meant.
She tapped my foot with hers. “I have to go back in.”
“Yeah, I was supposed to go in a while ago.”
“Why are you still out here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She smiled, opened her purse and took out a pen. “Give me your arm.”
I did.
She wrote on it. “You should call me.”
She got up and went inside. I still needed a few minutes.
14.
“So, you got her number?” Gregory asked.
“I did.”
“You dirty fucking dog you! Goddamn! I knew you could do it!”
It was night. I had walked home again with her in my head and on my arm and before I knew it was home. Gregory and I were sitting in the enclosed side porch on two ruined chairs drinking Keystone and I was smoking.
“I don’t think I had much to do with it. She sort of, commanded it.”
“Commanded, eh?”
“Yeah, it was kind of… awesome.”
“I bet. So you guys going to hook up now?”
“I don’t know man. I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Well, any of it, I guess.”
He sipped his beer. He hated the taste. His father had always bought expensive imports and that was what he had been raised on. I didn’t give a shit either way. “Getting a girl’s number? You’ve never done that?”
“Not really. I mean, not in any professional manner.”
He laughed. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not some fucking alpha, lady-admiral who just knows all the moves.”
“Dude, you’ve had girlfriends like, your whole life.”
“Yeah, but, only a few long term ones,” I said. “They just sort of, happened, I guess.”
“So, you’re lost, then.”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“Want me to help?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on! Why the fuck not?”
“I don’t see any women around here.”
He sipped his beer again and squinted. “Well played.”
“We need to get a phone now,” I said.
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have grocery money?”
“Friday, man.”
I unpacked my boxes and looked around my room. It was a little after noon and I had the day off, though for the first time I wish I didn’t. I wanted to see what fire I could kindle. What feat I could conquer… I had told Gregory about the Smolderer smiling at me. He was certain this meant I was “in” and kept cheering me on.
“You just got to get in there man. Just get in there and do it,” he said over and over again in a thousand ways.
I realized I didn’t have a bed. I had a dresser that I had taken from my mother’s basement, but nowhere to actually lie down.
There was no closet in the room so I figured I would have to either fit all of my clothes in the dresser or try to cycle my laundry days so that half of my clothes were always in the hamper while the other half were tucked neatly away in the dresser.
Gregory would be out of work at four and I figured we could see about getting a bed for me then. I had heard that there was a furniture store across town that occasionally left things outside. I’d stop there first.
Also, I could use a fucking lamp.
I went out to the kitchen and filled a glass with water. Though the summer was ending, the temperature still swelled around me and I found myself drinking much more water than normal. I drank down the glass and noticed the kitchen window was open. Fresh air breezed in and the sounds of birds and the busy road echoed down the driveway and into the kitchen. I didn’t miss anyone. A beautiful girl smiled at me. I was free, and after so long, I felt alive. As if I was being welcomed into the world, instead of being dragged around the powdered glass fringe of it, bleeding and gagged. I felt beautiful.
The winter before, in February, I remembered staring out of the bedroom window, out into the snow and mud covered endless field. At the flat disjointed hell of farm country, and thinking “if I smile even once this week, I won’t hang myself in the basement.”
On the fifth day, after giving away a number of my clothes, CD’s and DVD’s to people at work and the sister of my then girlfriend, I heard a song on the radio, and smiled. For months after that I wished I hadn’t.
Now, I was glad I did. I couldn’t even imagine then the simple beauty of a moment like this. The fresh air wafting through my kitchen, free of scowls, free of guilt, free of my own self destructive logic. Here I was, barefoot, enjoying the twilight of summer, drinking my water and wondering if a smile meant more.
Life is beautiful.
I put my glass into the sink and went to take a shower.
12.
“So, you just show up and what, steal a couch or something?” Gregory asked.
“No, I don’t know, I mean, I’m not looking for a couch, but I think yeah, it’s all free.”
“Why would they give you free furniture? They’re a furniture store.”
“I don’t know man. Let’s just go check it out.”
“You sure you don’t want to check out the Salvation Army first?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
“Okay man.”
Gregory drove us through town to the furniture store. It was evening. We pulled into the parking lot and they were closed.
“Okay, now what?”
“I, don’t know… Drive around back.”
“Why?”
“Maybe it’s all around back.”
“If you say so,” he said.
We drove around to the back side of the store and there by the loading docks was a pile of furniture with a cardboard sign that read in bold black letters “FREE”. I didn’t understand the logic, but I was thankful.
“See? Told you,” I said.
“You were right man. All right, so let’s see what we’ve got. Maybe I can find a nightstand or something.”
We parked and got out. The pile of furniture was mostly mattresses, box springs and chairs. Off to the side was a coffee table and what may have been an end stand or a night stand poked out from under a pile of dining room chairs.
“I wish we had a bigger vehicle. We could fucking load up and refurnish the whole apartment,” Gregory said.
“We could make a few trips.”
“True. Do they do this all the time, or…”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, do they refill the pile?”
“I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll have to swing through occasionally and check.”
“Totally.”
I went digging through the pile, flipping mattresses and looking for stains, smelling, feeling for moisture. It hadn’t rained in quite some time and everything was dry and nothing smelled.
One, under another, still had plastic on it and looked well padded.
“I found a mattress,” I said.
Gregory threw a dining room chair out of the pile in an attempt to retrieve whatever sort of stand was under the chairs. “Yeah? Throw it on the roof. I have rope in the back. See a box spring and a frame?”
“I don’t see any frames, but, There’s a few box springs here.”
I dragged the mattress out and tore some of the plastic on a chair leg. With only the complications of it being cumbersome and spineless I lifted the mattress up onto the roof and slid it into place.
Gregory emerged with an end stand. “Do you think it matches the coffee table?”
“It’s brown, so, yeah. I guess.”
“Awesome. We’ll throw this in the back then. You got the mattress up. Cool. Box spring now?”
“Yeah.” I went back to the mound of saving grace and shoved a few more mattresses out of the way, eventually finding a decent box spring. It wasn’t brand new, but it was a queen sized, like the mattress and looked and smelled clean. It was stuck a bit between other things, but with a shove here and a pull there, it came free and somehow easier than the mattress I pulled it out and carried it over. Gregory took one end and we lifted it up and threw it on top of the mattress.
“Awesome. Free bed,” he said.
“Seriously. We didn’t have to buy a damn thing. Want to get drunk?”
“Absolutely buddy.”
“All right. Let’s tie this fucker off and get some booze.”
Gregory walked around and opened the back of his Bronco. He slid the end stand in and rifled around in the back. “You haven’t seen the rope have you?”
We drove slowly through town to Abbots Liquors and then home.
13.
Rent was due. The first time I had had to worry about it on my own. Somehow it always ended up being the responsibility of whichever girl I was living with at the time. Not putting up the money, but paying it on time. I wondered if maybe I should have taken over from the start.
I was sitting outside of work with my back against the stucco wall and my ass on the sidewalk. I had my legs out and I was smoking a cigarette and wearing sunglasses and pretending I knew shit about budgeting.
It was hot for September. Had I not been in the shade, I would have been drenched in sweat. Customers walked out of the store and looked at me on the ground and I ignored them and smoked.
The door opened and two of the girls from the hair salon came out. The Smolderer looked at me and smiled. I smiled back and tried not to piss myself. The other one didn’t look and who would give a shit.
I was due back inside and my cigarette was finished, but I didn’t want to go in yet. I lit another cigarette. The Smolderer kept stealing glances. My blood rushed through me and I pretended I didn’t notice her and stared out over the embankment across the parking lot.
The other hairdresser was going on and on about some poor guy named Paul who I’m sure was sick of her shit.
Paul didn’t fuck her anymore.
Paul must think she’s fat.
Paul’s going to get his car keyed.
“I’ll tell the fucking cops he raped me,” she said. “I’ll just fuck him and then scratch myself up and then call them. They’ll believe me too.”
I looked up at her. The other one looked at me.
“What the fuck are you looking at?” she said.
“A fucking bitch, apparently.”
“Fuck you.” She flicked her cigarette at me and she was terrible at it. “I’m going back in. Are you coming, Becks?”
The Smolderer, “Becks”, glanced at me. “No," she said. "Not yet. I don’t have any appointments for a while.”
“Fine,” she said and looked down at me again. “Human garbage.” She went inside.
“Sorry about her,” the Smolderer said. “She’s…”
“Human garbage?” I said.
She smiled. “Yeah, a little bit sometimes.” She sat next to me against the wall. “I’m Rebecca.” She stuck out her hand.
I shook it. “James.”
“Nice to actually meet you James.”
“You too.”
“Do you have another cigarette?”
I had three until I got paid. “Sure.” I took one out and handed it to her.
“Thanks.” She lit it and leaned back against the wall and we both stared over the embankment. My heart was racing. My skin was flushed. I was trying to keep calm.
“So, you know Lauren?”
“Well, I guess. Not really. I think Gregory’s trying to fuck her.”
“Yeah, that’s what she says.”
“You think they will?”
“Probably. She’s pretty slutty.”
“Is it slutty to fuck someone after they’ve been trying to get together with you for a while?”
“With Lauren it is,” she said. “It won’t mean anything to her.”
“Does it have to?”
“I don’t know. I guess not. I like it to.”
“So you aren’t slutty then?”
“Do you think I am?”
“I just met you. I mean, we aren’t fucking now, so, I suppose that earns you a few not-slutty points, but the night is young.”
She laughed. “True,” she said and smoked the cigarette.
I wondered what that meant.
She tapped my foot with hers. “I have to go back in.”
“Yeah, I was supposed to go in a while ago.”
“Why are you still out here?”
“I wanted to talk to you.”
She smiled, opened her purse and took out a pen. “Give me your arm.”
I did.
She wrote on it. “You should call me.”
She got up and went inside. I still needed a few minutes.
14.
“So, you got her number?” Gregory asked.
“I did.”
“You dirty fucking dog you! Goddamn! I knew you could do it!”
It was night. I had walked home again with her in my head and on my arm and before I knew it was home. Gregory and I were sitting in the enclosed side porch on two ruined chairs drinking Keystone and I was smoking.
“I don’t think I had much to do with it. She sort of, commanded it.”
“Commanded, eh?”
“Yeah, it was kind of… awesome.”
“I bet. So you guys going to hook up now?”
“I don’t know man. I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Well, any of it, I guess.”
He sipped his beer. He hated the taste. His father had always bought expensive imports and that was what he had been raised on. I didn’t give a shit either way. “Getting a girl’s number? You’ve never done that?”
“Not really. I mean, not in any professional manner.”
He laughed. “What does that mean?”
“I’m not some fucking alpha, lady-admiral who just knows all the moves.”
“Dude, you’ve had girlfriends like, your whole life.”
“Yeah, but, only a few long term ones,” I said. “They just sort of, happened, I guess.”
“So, you’re lost, then.”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“Want me to help?”
“No.”
“Oh, come on! Why the fuck not?”
“I don’t see any women around here.”
He sipped his beer again and squinted. “Well played.”
“We need to get a phone now,” I said.
“First thing tomorrow.”
“Okay.”
“Do you have grocery money?”
“Friday, man.”
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Again
A letter came in the mail. My unemployment benefits had been suspended until I reported to the class at the Employment Office at 9:01 a.m. on Wednesday.
So Wednesday came.
I woke up late, alone, and fucking tired. I had six dollars in my bank account. Well, sixteen until the ten in gas from last night cleared. I couldn't decide if I should take advantage of that and put sixteen in the tank again or not. Who knew when my unemployment would clear up. I had already sat on that money for two weeks. I would put the gas in and close my account. I could always start a new bank account. I didn't give a shit about longevity. I didn't know if it mattered when it came to credit and buying a house or a car or whatever, but I didn't give a shit about those things either. It seemed like I owed money to everyone already. My landlord. The power company. The fucking I.R.S., the state. I just wanted to keep myself out of jail and breathing. At least for a little while longer.
I sat on the side of my bed and closed my eyes.
"Come back to bed," Defeat said.
I have to keep moving.
I stood up. I got dressed. I went to the bathroom. Pissed. Washed my hands and face. Put the remaining shreds of deodorant on and the plastic from around the edges of it tore at my armpits. Better scraped than smelling. I threw it in the trash.
I made coffee and leaned against the counter while it bubbled and dripped and filled the pot.
Defeat was a brunette with homicidal curves and a tight red dress and she pressed against me and kissed my neck and ran her fingers through my hair, down my back and "come" she said. "Let me have you." I did my best to ignore her and began to pace in the kitchen.
"Let go," she said.
No.
"Let go and you can have me."
I don't want you.
She bent and posed and tempted and the coffee stopped. I wanted her. I was getting nowhere. I was going nowhere. I had no plans. No idea what I wanted in life. My youth was fading quicker each day and any hope of success went with it. What difference would it make if I lived out my days, however many they may be, with her? My damned untouchable mistress.
I poured a cup of coffee and took it to the dining room table. The blinds over the window were open and it looked colder than yesterday, but still okay. I sat and stared out the window.
She pulled out the chair next to me and sat down, crossing her legs. Exposing her perfect thigh all the way up to the very curve of her. She leaned over the table and her dress held barely anything. "Look at me."
I am.
"No, look at me."
I looked. Her hair was long and almost black, in wave after wave. It spilled over her arm. Her eyes brown and endlessly deep.
"I'll be yours. Forever."
Leave me alone.
"You know I can't do that. I couldn't leave you. I'll always be here."
I ignored her and finished my coffee staring out through the blinds.
It was time to leave. I got up and put my cup in the sink. I felt her watch me. The chill on my neck. The weight in my chest. I put my jacket on.
"I'll be here when you come home."
I know you will be.
She bent forward. Teased me.
I left the house and went to the Employment Office. Again.
So Wednesday came.
I woke up late, alone, and fucking tired. I had six dollars in my bank account. Well, sixteen until the ten in gas from last night cleared. I couldn't decide if I should take advantage of that and put sixteen in the tank again or not. Who knew when my unemployment would clear up. I had already sat on that money for two weeks. I would put the gas in and close my account. I could always start a new bank account. I didn't give a shit about longevity. I didn't know if it mattered when it came to credit and buying a house or a car or whatever, but I didn't give a shit about those things either. It seemed like I owed money to everyone already. My landlord. The power company. The fucking I.R.S., the state. I just wanted to keep myself out of jail and breathing. At least for a little while longer.
I sat on the side of my bed and closed my eyes.
"Come back to bed," Defeat said.
I have to keep moving.
I stood up. I got dressed. I went to the bathroom. Pissed. Washed my hands and face. Put the remaining shreds of deodorant on and the plastic from around the edges of it tore at my armpits. Better scraped than smelling. I threw it in the trash.
I made coffee and leaned against the counter while it bubbled and dripped and filled the pot.
Defeat was a brunette with homicidal curves and a tight red dress and she pressed against me and kissed my neck and ran her fingers through my hair, down my back and "come" she said. "Let me have you." I did my best to ignore her and began to pace in the kitchen.
"Let go," she said.
No.
"Let go and you can have me."
I don't want you.
She bent and posed and tempted and the coffee stopped. I wanted her. I was getting nowhere. I was going nowhere. I had no plans. No idea what I wanted in life. My youth was fading quicker each day and any hope of success went with it. What difference would it make if I lived out my days, however many they may be, with her? My damned untouchable mistress.
I poured a cup of coffee and took it to the dining room table. The blinds over the window were open and it looked colder than yesterday, but still okay. I sat and stared out the window.
She pulled out the chair next to me and sat down, crossing her legs. Exposing her perfect thigh all the way up to the very curve of her. She leaned over the table and her dress held barely anything. "Look at me."
I am.
"No, look at me."
I looked. Her hair was long and almost black, in wave after wave. It spilled over her arm. Her eyes brown and endlessly deep.
"I'll be yours. Forever."
Leave me alone.
"You know I can't do that. I couldn't leave you. I'll always be here."
I ignored her and finished my coffee staring out through the blinds.
It was time to leave. I got up and put my cup in the sink. I felt her watch me. The chill on my neck. The weight in my chest. I put my jacket on.
"I'll be here when you come home."
I know you will be.
She bent forward. Teased me.
I left the house and went to the Employment Office. Again.
Friday, March 9, 2012
On the House
Fifty dollars.
I sat on the bed with that fucking yellow light glow from that stupid fucking lamp filling the empty fucking bedroom and staring at it. A wad of cash on the bed.
My chest was full and heavy and cracking open wide enough to crawl inside and pretend none of this was happening. My eyes stung from the salt. My vision clouded. I was exhausted. I thought I could win. I thought I could save the day. I couldn't. I didn't. I was defeated.
I heard her car start in the driveway.
Run to her.
Run.
I stayed.
While you still have the chance.
I stayed. I heard the car back out. I heard the engine fade. I heard nothing. Tears filled and burned my eyes and fell. I cried over her.
I laid on the bed and tried to breath.
How did I let it all get to this? I could have been better. I could have done better. I could have. I could have but I didn't. My wife.
I cried over her.
The word echoed in my head. Wife. My love. My partner. My love. My love.
After a few minutes and what must have been a thousand deep breaths, I sat up. I could feel the swelling around my eyes and cheeks. The salt on my skin, in my mouth. My love.
My head filled with thoughts of taking it all back. Making everything right again. Of worlds where none of this ever happened and everything was beautiful and fresh again and we were still in love. Where she still loved me.
I looked at the wad of twenties and fives on the bed. Fifty fucking dollars.
I couldn't understand why she left it. What is some sort of fucking severance pay? Was it supposed to numb or soothe or heal? Fifty fucking dollars?
She was gone. Marie. My love. I had lost her.
I snatched the wad up and jammed it into my pocket and got up. I put sunglasses on and left the bedroom and house. I needed a drink.
The sun was high and the August heat was gracious. I walked through the neighborhood and stared at each passing car wishing desperately that it was her. Please.
I kept my face solid. Stone. Straight. A mans emotions belong to him and him alone. And his wife.
I imagined impossible and ridiculous scenarios as I walked, with each car. She had parked hers somewhere and picked up this one, a blue truck. Or that one, a white van. She had painted it green like this one. Or, she had a second car somewhere and she was coming back to get me. To start over with me. To be with me. To love me. To let me love her. I watched and and crumbled as each car passed.
I walked into town and I was drained. I went to the first bar, an Irish themed place less than classy. I sat down at the first stool. It was three-thirty. The bartender, a woman, maybe mid thirties, blonde, used up, came over.
"Hey sweetie," she said. "What'll it be?"
"Whiskey. Double. Neat."
"Coming right up," she said.
The bar was mostly empty, save for her, a guy at the other end of the bar and another at the pool table in back and myself. There was a baseball game on the television in front of me. Guns and Roses played on the stereo from somewhere behind me. I looked at my hands and waited for my drink. I felt my phone in my pocket. I waited for it to vibrate and it didn't. It wouldn't. I waited anyway.
"Here you go, sweetie" the Bartender said as she laid a coaster down and set my drink on it. "Four bucks."
I threw it back. "Another."
"Sure thing," she said. "You want me to open a tab."
"Please."
"Okay." She went to the other end of the bar and came back again with the whiskey. She handed it to me.
"Thanks." I threw it back.
"Another?" she asked.
"Please."
"Sure." She didn't go anywhere. "Are you all right sweetie? You don't look so good."
"Rough day, I guess."
"Work?"
"Wife."
"Oh. Well, that's marriage."
"Was."
"I'm sorry?"
"Was," I said.
"I heard you. I just meant, I'm sorry."
"Yeah," I said.
She stood there a moment longer and then left to get my drink.
I looked up at the television. Some team was playing some other team and I didn't know or care. My phone didn't vibrate. The whiskey warmed me.
My drink came.
"You want to talk about it?" she asked.
"Not really. It doesn't matter."
"Things get better," she said.
"We'll see."
"It's true," she said. "I used to date this guy in Florida, and well, you probably don't want to hear this, but I don't know, anyway, I used to date this guy in Florida."
"Okay..."
"We were together for like eight years. The first four were great, you know? He was loving and supportive and just great, and let me tell you, he could fuck. I mean, he could fuck. Anyway, around the fifth year, he starts getting sort of angry. Like, a little at first, then a lot. The next few years he just gets worse and worse. He starts screaming at me more often than not. he starts beating me almost daily. He starts berating me in front of people, and the whole time, all I can think about is 'what's wrong with my man?', you know? So I just try to keep him calm and make him happy, but it's killing me. I just, I saw the whole world as this like, deep, empty dungeon where it was just me and his anger. He broke my nose. Both arms. Two ribs, and I wanted to leave, but I just couldn't, abandon him, you know? Finally, my friend Rob, that's him at the end of the bar there, came to visit me, and I had bruises and shit from the night before and Rob just looked at me and said, 'Get in the truck, we're going back to New York.' Then we did. He took me out of the situation. This huge terrible thing that I thought I needed, and everything now, is well, beautiful. Sometimes, you can't see it until after, you know?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Hang in there. You drink on the house tonight."
I smiled as best I could. "Thanks."
She kept the drinks coming. As soon as I finished one, she brought another and soon it was evening and I was smiling at nothing and considering calling Marie. In one last moment of clarity, I called Marco, a friend from college, instead. While it rang I washed down the last whiskey and went out back to the smoking area to talk.
"Hello?" Marco said.
"Hey man."
"James! What's happening my brother?"
"Come out to this skeezy Irish fucking Bar and drink with me."
"Where?"
"Fucking skeezy irish fucking bar place. Near my house. You know."
"Are you drunk already?"
"Yes," I said. "Now, come drink with me."
"Okay. I'm in town. I'll be there soon."
I hung up without saying goodbye. I went back inside and went to the bathroom. I pissed and splashed water on my face.
Marie.
I refused to give in and I sort of walked back out to the bar. "Another, please!"
The bartender smiled at me, whether happy for my new attitude, or wary of it, I don't know. I sat down and she brought me another whiskey.
"How many does that make?" I asked.
"This is nine."
"Nine fucking whiskey's? Good lord!"
"Impressive. You going to have someone drive you home?"
"I have a friend coming."
"Good. I'm sorry, but I have to cut you off now sweetie. I'm worried about you."
I drank the whiskey and looked into the bottom of the glass. "Okay," I said. "You're very nice."
"Thanks. Things will be better."
"I know."
"Good." She walked away to the other end of the bar and Rob. I waited for Marco.
I sat on the bed with that fucking yellow light glow from that stupid fucking lamp filling the empty fucking bedroom and staring at it. A wad of cash on the bed.
My chest was full and heavy and cracking open wide enough to crawl inside and pretend none of this was happening. My eyes stung from the salt. My vision clouded. I was exhausted. I thought I could win. I thought I could save the day. I couldn't. I didn't. I was defeated.
I heard her car start in the driveway.
Run to her.
Run.
I stayed.
While you still have the chance.
I stayed. I heard the car back out. I heard the engine fade. I heard nothing. Tears filled and burned my eyes and fell. I cried over her.
I laid on the bed and tried to breath.
How did I let it all get to this? I could have been better. I could have done better. I could have. I could have but I didn't. My wife.
I cried over her.
The word echoed in my head. Wife. My love. My partner. My love. My love.
After a few minutes and what must have been a thousand deep breaths, I sat up. I could feel the swelling around my eyes and cheeks. The salt on my skin, in my mouth. My love.
My head filled with thoughts of taking it all back. Making everything right again. Of worlds where none of this ever happened and everything was beautiful and fresh again and we were still in love. Where she still loved me.
I looked at the wad of twenties and fives on the bed. Fifty fucking dollars.
I couldn't understand why she left it. What is some sort of fucking severance pay? Was it supposed to numb or soothe or heal? Fifty fucking dollars?
She was gone. Marie. My love. I had lost her.
I snatched the wad up and jammed it into my pocket and got up. I put sunglasses on and left the bedroom and house. I needed a drink.
The sun was high and the August heat was gracious. I walked through the neighborhood and stared at each passing car wishing desperately that it was her. Please.
I kept my face solid. Stone. Straight. A mans emotions belong to him and him alone. And his wife.
I imagined impossible and ridiculous scenarios as I walked, with each car. She had parked hers somewhere and picked up this one, a blue truck. Or that one, a white van. She had painted it green like this one. Or, she had a second car somewhere and she was coming back to get me. To start over with me. To be with me. To love me. To let me love her. I watched and and crumbled as each car passed.
I walked into town and I was drained. I went to the first bar, an Irish themed place less than classy. I sat down at the first stool. It was three-thirty. The bartender, a woman, maybe mid thirties, blonde, used up, came over.
"Hey sweetie," she said. "What'll it be?"
"Whiskey. Double. Neat."
"Coming right up," she said.
The bar was mostly empty, save for her, a guy at the other end of the bar and another at the pool table in back and myself. There was a baseball game on the television in front of me. Guns and Roses played on the stereo from somewhere behind me. I looked at my hands and waited for my drink. I felt my phone in my pocket. I waited for it to vibrate and it didn't. It wouldn't. I waited anyway.
"Here you go, sweetie" the Bartender said as she laid a coaster down and set my drink on it. "Four bucks."
I threw it back. "Another."
"Sure thing," she said. "You want me to open a tab."
"Please."
"Okay." She went to the other end of the bar and came back again with the whiskey. She handed it to me.
"Thanks." I threw it back.
"Another?" she asked.
"Please."
"Sure." She didn't go anywhere. "Are you all right sweetie? You don't look so good."
"Rough day, I guess."
"Work?"
"Wife."
"Oh. Well, that's marriage."
"Was."
"I'm sorry?"
"Was," I said.
"I heard you. I just meant, I'm sorry."
"Yeah," I said.
She stood there a moment longer and then left to get my drink.
I looked up at the television. Some team was playing some other team and I didn't know or care. My phone didn't vibrate. The whiskey warmed me.
My drink came.
"You want to talk about it?" she asked.
"Not really. It doesn't matter."
"Things get better," she said.
"We'll see."
"It's true," she said. "I used to date this guy in Florida, and well, you probably don't want to hear this, but I don't know, anyway, I used to date this guy in Florida."
"Okay..."
"We were together for like eight years. The first four were great, you know? He was loving and supportive and just great, and let me tell you, he could fuck. I mean, he could fuck. Anyway, around the fifth year, he starts getting sort of angry. Like, a little at first, then a lot. The next few years he just gets worse and worse. He starts screaming at me more often than not. he starts beating me almost daily. He starts berating me in front of people, and the whole time, all I can think about is 'what's wrong with my man?', you know? So I just try to keep him calm and make him happy, but it's killing me. I just, I saw the whole world as this like, deep, empty dungeon where it was just me and his anger. He broke my nose. Both arms. Two ribs, and I wanted to leave, but I just couldn't, abandon him, you know? Finally, my friend Rob, that's him at the end of the bar there, came to visit me, and I had bruises and shit from the night before and Rob just looked at me and said, 'Get in the truck, we're going back to New York.' Then we did. He took me out of the situation. This huge terrible thing that I thought I needed, and everything now, is well, beautiful. Sometimes, you can't see it until after, you know?"
I nodded. "Yeah."
"Hang in there. You drink on the house tonight."
I smiled as best I could. "Thanks."
She kept the drinks coming. As soon as I finished one, she brought another and soon it was evening and I was smiling at nothing and considering calling Marie. In one last moment of clarity, I called Marco, a friend from college, instead. While it rang I washed down the last whiskey and went out back to the smoking area to talk.
"Hello?" Marco said.
"Hey man."
"James! What's happening my brother?"
"Come out to this skeezy Irish fucking Bar and drink with me."
"Where?"
"Fucking skeezy irish fucking bar place. Near my house. You know."
"Are you drunk already?"
"Yes," I said. "Now, come drink with me."
"Okay. I'm in town. I'll be there soon."
I hung up without saying goodbye. I went back inside and went to the bathroom. I pissed and splashed water on my face.
Marie.
I refused to give in and I sort of walked back out to the bar. "Another, please!"
The bartender smiled at me, whether happy for my new attitude, or wary of it, I don't know. I sat down and she brought me another whiskey.
"How many does that make?" I asked.
"This is nine."
"Nine fucking whiskey's? Good lord!"
"Impressive. You going to have someone drive you home?"
"I have a friend coming."
"Good. I'm sorry, but I have to cut you off now sweetie. I'm worried about you."
I drank the whiskey and looked into the bottom of the glass. "Okay," I said. "You're very nice."
"Thanks. Things will be better."
"I know."
"Good." She walked away to the other end of the bar and Rob. I waited for Marco.
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