*A note: I wrote this piece in 2010 and recently re-discovered it in my archived email folders. 

It was the summer of 1996. I don’t usually remember dates because they are numbers and my brain doesn’t do data, which is funny now because my job is data-entry (go figure). The reason I remember ‘96 is because of the Olympics, specifically, because of the “Magnificent 7” - the American Gymnastics team. I can still remember all of their names: the two Dominique’s (Mocianu, my favorite, and Dawes, my brother's favorite), Amy, Amanda, Jaycee, Shannon, and Kerri, the vaulting hero of the games. That image of Coach Bela Karolyi carrying Kerri to join her team on the medal stand, her leg in bandages and tears streaming down her face, is burned into my brain.

It was the year that I decided to organize my very own neighborhood Olympics. I was 10 years old and had been taking gymnastics since I was 3 and was so obsessed with it I’d managed to get my Grandpa Frahm to build me my own bars and beam in the back yard. I thought it was the coolest thing in the entire world. 
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I began this undertaking first by enlisting the neighborhood kids to join. There was me, Elizabeth who was my age, Meaghan, who was a few years younger, and her younger brother Matt who was about 3 or 4 and had a head like a giant watermelon. Every day I worked with them, trying to teach them routines. Practice! Practice! Practice! I was like a drill sergeant, never taking “no” for an answer. One day we had a little set back as I was trying to teach Elizabeth to do a cartwheel on the beam and she missed her footing and scratched her leg pretty bad. “These things happen,” I yelled, in my crazy northern accent as she ran home crying, “You just gotta suck it up and get back up there!” She came back a few days later, though she never did that cartwheel again which was a big disappointment for me because it was gonna be one of our biggest, and most crowd-pleasing moves.

As the day drew closer, our beam, bars and floor routines finalizing, I decided we should all pick different countries to be from. I chose Romania because as anyone who knows anything knows, all the greatest gymnasts are from Romania. It’s practically the origin of gymnastics--not really, that’s Greece, but when’s the last time you saw Greece take home a medal? Exactly.

I secured a torch bearer (my best friend, Amy, carrying… now, this might just be my childhood imagination, but I believe it was real fire which later lit a barbecue--wait, that doesn’t seem right. Would they really let a child carry a fire-baring torch? Maybe it was just a fire drawn on paper). I also got a sweet sound machine (our karaoke). I got my parents, brother and our Swiss exchange student, Karim, to act as judges. Now, this is where it got a little controversial. I wanted everything to be fair, but my Mom wouldn’t cooperate unless the whole thing was rigged so everyone was a winner and since I didn't have the funds to hire real Judges, I had to go along with it. God that really pissed me off. “But Mom, in real life EVERYONE can’t always win. I know you’re trying to be diplomatic and everything, but that’s just not how life works. Only one person can win. And, hey, I’m not asking for any special treatment here, I want to be judged fairly, too. I demand it!” But she was right, I was the only one with any real training, those other kids didn’t stand a chance. I would have to just satiate myself by judging them all silently in my head.

We bought those fake, toy gold medals from the dollar store and made four score cards, which all read “10!” Then the day was finally here. The parents of all the kids came out and sat on lawn chairs in our yard as the opening music began and Amy marched us gymnasts into the Olympic Games with her “flame." We covered our hearts as the anthem played and then we were off to the events! Beam came first, Matt got up and successfully walked his big head down the beam and half way back up before dismounting with a jump of boredom. Everyone cheered and he received the first “10!” of the games.
 
Next went a wobbly Elizabeth, still staving off jitters from her fall earlier in the week. And we all screamed in joy (mine fake) while she received what she believed was her justly earned “10!” while I silently gave her a “6." Meaghan got up next with a forgettable routine and Matt shouted at the top of his lungs, “Hey Mom! I gotta go the bathroom! I gotta go the bathroom! Mom!” while he grabbed his peanut weenie and ran through the yard back to his house, his mother chasing after him. I just hung my head at the unprofessional-ism of it all. Professionals hold it in!

My beam routine was flawless, of course, and I received the only truly just “10!” but by that point word had started spreading pretty fast amongst the competitors that the games were rigged and I had to play the innocent and defend the stupid judging to keep their heads in the game, which ended up being much easier than I thought. We moved on to the bars. Matt got back from the bathroom just in time for Elizabeth to pick him up and attach him to bar. He swung back and forth three or four times and then, still clutching the bars, smiled proudly and said, “I’m done!” before falling to the ground with a thud. Meaghan was again forgettable. Elizabeth’s routine was boring. I think she peeked on the beam. I went up and dazzled them with my one-kneed twirling and my backwards flip off the high-bar, sticking the landing! Now that calls for a “10!” And it did.

Despite the emptiness of the scoring, I was feeling strong as we moved to our final event. The floor. Queue the music! Little Matt’s big head provided the perfect physics for somersaults, allowing him to stay weighted mid-air for a moment of anticipation while his tiny torso found its way over. He rolled a couple more times and then had to be encouraged to stop so the next competitor could begin. This time, Meaghan’s performance would not be forgotten. This was her moment.

The music was queued and she began with a running start. As she lifted her arms above her head, preparing for a cartwheel, the music suddenly sped up into chipmunk mode and this jarred the inexperienced gymnast who faltered and fell to the ground.  I remember shouting “Keep going! Meaghan! Keep gooooing!!!!!” as if I were a soviet coach with everything on the line. She got up and decided to try again. Backing up to get her ever important running start, she was off and just at the very moment, as if God himself were some cruel, comic/dj the music sped again into chipmunk mode and young Meaghan, learning nothing from her previous mistake, fell on her face again. This time, the crowd couldn’t help but laugh as my own frustration grew. She was making a mockery of these games! This was unacceptable. I yelled louder and harsher, taking on a 40 year old smoker’s voice, “Keep going! Meaghan! Focus! Keep going, damnit!!”

The poor girl, managed to get to her feet and pranced around for a little while, avoiding the cartwheels until the end of her routine. One last attempt at glory. “You can DO it Meaghan! Do it for your country!!!” I egged her on, "Do it for China!!!" And at that moment, she seemed to accept the responsibility I was placing on her shoulders. She nodded. She stood at the edge of the selected grass area. Here goes. Surely it wouldn’t happen a third time. Surely.

Her arms hit the air, her left foot came off the ground and the music, on cue, yet again sped to chipmunk speed as her body seemed to freeze mid-air for the briefest of moments, "Would she make it?" The crowd hushed and stood to watch as she again fell flat on her nose in utter shock and horror. Laughter followed, her own mother even joining in. I could only look at my feet. The disappointment so great. This is what I get for letting amateurs in, and worst of all, perhaps, was knowing she would be getting a “10!” The same score I would get.

The Olympic Games ended and in the years to come, as neighbors shared their video from it with us, I would get to relive it every so often. I came to see the humor in it. The photo of all of us kids standing on the beam proudly and not-so-proudly wearing our gold medals (some of which were actually bronze or silver, masquerading as gold). Matt’s barely fit over his giant head. Mine stung of what I then considered wasted sweat… all those hours, early mornings, and late evenings practicing, all for a medal that didn’t really hold any meaning.

Looking back now, I can see these games one of two ways. In one way, I am really proud of myself for bringing a neighborhood together and for making a reality out of a dream I had. I think it was one of the first times I learned to believe that I could do anything if I really applied myself. In another way, I see these games as one giant metaphor for life; Everyone telling you all these morals have meaning, that if you put in the time, live your life a certain way, it will all pay off… but really, in the end, we all share the same fate, hard-fought or not. A fate that does not take into account our many actions, or the time we’ve put in. Some work hard to little merit, others fall into greatness by chance or a rigged system.

My first thought, a much happier one.

The reflections of light on water played in her heart when she looked at him. He wasn't the beautiful sort by any means, but his intensity and smart wit more than compensated for his aesthetic shortcomings. She loved an odd, ugly type with black shoes and white socks pulled up to mid-calf- the kind of person who seemed like each movement was a question or a threat. Henry was all these things in spades. He could never meet your gaze for more than a few seconds before casting it just off your face, a little above or to the side. And when he laughed at something, which indeed was rare, he seemed to lose control of his body- almost as if his brain hadn't told his limbs what it was reacting to and his limbs, startled by the overwhelmingly loud and boisterous noise, were trying to escape. It was a funny thing to see and she tried daily to strike his funny bone- for it was her favorite and most important goal.

She was the type to fill journals with poetic musings- and I mean journals. Plural. Many plurals. It's like her mind was constantly on fire with thought and her hands, pen and paper a slave in the effort to put it out. Not that it could ever be put out- not that it should. It was, at first, his favorite thing about her. So mysterious. What was she writing in those things? He had to find out. It look him a long time to be allowed entry into one but in the meantime he found other favorite things about her- like how comfortable she was just being- anywhere- just present. She would look you in the eyes and it would be terrifying because you had her full attention. If she was looking at you, it was in the eyes, with open ears and open heart, with every thought anchored on you. He was not brave enough to hold her gaze. He did not trust what she would find there. 

I was swallowed up by performance high ‘till 5am, followed by spontaneously changing desires. For example, the one spurred by the falling lowland of inadequacy- and when started by inadequacy, one is often driven to accepting a Booty Call, or soliciting if none has been offered.

My day started at 8:30am on a money diet. I awoke to the receivers ringing in the hallway and the loudly spat words of my neighbor’s business. I had the sicks, but no money for a cure. I picked up my phone and texted Minnow, “I almost died tonight.”

I got up and tripped over fat cat who seemed to be hoarding my underwear. “Olive,” I said, “My opinion? 30 is far too old to be living like this.” The fat cat looked back, purred and said, “But we fart glitter and explore all day!” “Yes,” I said, “But we’ve no money, live in a shit tiny room in a shit tiny motel-“ “On the greatest island city in the world!” Fat cat finished. “Somebody’s well rested,” I said. “Woke from a Woody Allen play,” fat cat said, “His best one yet.” “I’m going to the caregiver,” I said. “Kisses?” fat cat asked. I grabbed my jacket and bust out the door. No kisses given. No kisses for fat cat.

While walking to the fourth floor, where the caregiver lives, I consulted my phone. No texts, so I text, “please text” to Minnow. At the door to the caregiver I try the knob with no luck and so knock. Beazer walks by shouting, “The caregiver is MALFUNCTIONING. Kisses!” And then makes a smooching sound. At first I’m confused about if there is a “period” between malfunctioning and kisses; was the caregiver malfunctioning kisses? Or was the caregiver simply malfunctioning and Beazer was offering me kisses (why)?  Why was everyone saying that to me today? How could the caregiver be malfunctioning? What did that mean in terms of a human? Was he mentally ill?

I walk back to my room calculating the probability that the caregiver is not actually human, but a robot. When I reach my door I hear fat cat chanting, “Imma imma imma be, imma be dead,” and turn around and leave the building. I can’t deal with the lunacy that is fat cat while under the weather. I don’t have to be at the theatre until 5pm, so I wander to Minnows house. On the way there a young boy stops me in the street, clutching a clipboard, “PUBLIC CENSUS! Will you answer?” I nod, “Go ahead.” “Am I counting my blessings tonight? Yes or no.” I look him up and down, all 58 inches, and say, “I believe you will, yes.” “Thank you,” he says, “Kisses!” Then turns to the next passing pedestrian. “PUBLIC CENSUS! Will you answer?” I hear a slap or a shove or a hit, but am 20 or so steps gone by then. Not my problem.

I let myself into Minnow’s building and up to the thirteenth floor. I can’t remember the apartment number so I just begin spewing my delivery all over the hall. “I ALMOST DIED TONIGHT. WHEN I BREATHE IT FEELS LIKE SLIGHTLY BURNT CRISP AIR. CAREGIVER IS MALFUNCTIONING. EVERYONE KEEPS SAYING KISSES. YOU WILL NOT REPLY TO MY TEXTS. FAT CAT IS BEING MORBID AGAIN. PUBLIC CENSUS DETERMINED BOY WILL COUNT BLESSINGS, THOUGH NOW PRESSUMED BEATEN OR DEAD. WHERE ARE YOU? OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!!”

Minnow bursts out of apartment 1307, red faced, “It barges in with your words! Jesus! Can’t you just buzz or knock like normal folk?”

“I texted,” I explain.

“I don’t give a shit. I was asleep,” he counters.

“Well, anyway, I don’t know your apartment number.”

“1307.”

“I see. So, do you care?”

“Do I care?”

“I almost died tonight.”

“Tonight?”

“Last night.”

“So, you mean last night.”

“Yes, last night.”

“How?”

“How did I almost die?”

“Yes.”

“May I come in?”

“Into my home?”

“You’re apartment- which is to say, your home, yes. I’m almost dead you know. I must sit, lie.”

“Ugh, fine!” Minnow proclaims, seemingly exhausted from the exchange.

I lay on his floor prostrate, though beds and chairs are open to me.

“So, how did you die?”

“Almost, not yet dead. I’m breathing slightly burnt, crip air- feels like my insides are on fire and for forty-five minutes last night I couldn’t remember my name or age. And fat cat keeps chanting ‘imma imma imma be, imma be dead.’”

“That’s disconcerting.”

“It is.”

“Would you feel better if I told you that you are looking very attractive today?”

I shake my head no, “I’d spit in your compliments.”

“Because?”

“Because they’re lies.”

“Well, I’m going to the gym.” Minnow grabs his keys and bounds out the door. I follow quickly behind.

A new child approaches us yelling, “PUBLIC CENSUS: Will you answer?” Minnow kickes up his pace, but I grab his arm, halting him, and consent for us both. “Have you heard of the fire that broke out across the sea?” I look at Minnow confused, he is nodding so I ask, “Have you?” “Of course.” “I’ve never heard of fire that broke across the sea,” I confess to the boy, “and Minnow Davis, I believe, that’s on you.” “Me?” “You know you’re my only news source!” “Bullshitsticks!” He proclaims and rushes forward. The child jots in his notepad as I scurry off to re-join Minnow.

Minnow enters the gym doors. I enter just after, the exertion catching up with my illness and me, drawing a coughing fit conclusion that leads to blood spit. Minnow doesn’t bat an eye, just pumpes his muscles up. I sigh, “It’s an extra gooey, oops batch of all human behavior, then an end. Isn’t is?” “Pretty much,” he grunts, wholly unflenched.

“How long’s it been,” I ask him, lying on the floor.

“Since?”

“Since you’ve been ignited by that sizzling, rising heat called lust?”

“Two years- maybe three.” Minnow starts pumping with greater intensity- not coincidental, I think.

“Marriage is obstructing your favorite fruit,” I say, “Which is to say sexy-time.”

“Sex is a fruit?”

“Fruit is a metaphor.”

“Fruit is a metaphor for sex?”

“Yes.”

“How? I don’t see that.”

“You don’t see that? The seeds, the supple, the sticky, the shell, the interior, the forbidden, the oblong, the round- nothing?”

“All I know,” Minnow says, “Is there will hold a damn fault for falling deep, deeply – particularly when married already, but in general as well. It never ends well.”

“In lust or love?”

“Both.” He says, “Yesterday my hand laid gently on the boss because I really appreciate her work.”

“And?” I lead.

“9 days in a whispered word- that’s how weighted her breathy intonations are. They last within me, but-“

“Yes?”

“Ah, fuck off. You get me talking like this and- shit.”

“What?!”

“You know these days entertainment begins its demands on Youtube or worse and what are we left to do? The stage performing, yearning for live audience types? Wait tables, wait death?”

“Get back to the sex talk. Your boss.”

“I can’t talk to you anymore. You’re too dumb.”

I look at him with a warning that says my hurt is exceeding the normally tolerated amount.

“Just kidding,” he says, “They too have been taken to heart- you’re words.”

“The thing about it all is, my friend, it must be done and work gradually inland ‘til bed. See?” I say, and in my mind have just summed up the theory of everything. “Get it, eh?”

“I guess. Small steps. Big goals. Acceptance that you may not ever get there. Knowing death looms.”

“Right.” I say.

When we leave we are both spent, but have a show to do. We get dairy-free-ice-creamed calories and jug water until the adrenaline comes. Then, we warm up our bodies, voices and minds and deliver a show to an audience of fourteen patrons and one public census boy with a bloodied nose. After the show I have performance high until 5am and fat cat tells me the plot of the Woody play he’d dreamed. It's not half bad. Then, I go to sleep.

I should stay with the people, I think, even though the morning was filled with a nauseous headache that kept me writhing on the floor and running to the bathroom. I feel slightly better now, though uncertain of how long I’ll be able to maintain “slightly better.” Being around the people, thick and smelly and occasionally too loud as they are, I feel a bit energized, a bit more focused somehow.

I’ve written too often of the syrupy sweetness of summer’s dewy dawns. The grassy smells, sticky sun, and erotic breezes eat up my poetic language easily. I’ve written less about the stormy, humid, oxygen sucking days where the temperatures rage between drop dead cold and sizzling egg; the clouds circling like vultures about to attack, and the crisp natural electric waves that cause tension of the jaw. I’ve been caught now, and for the past three days, in this current of tension between hot and cold.

I think about Cary- how I shocked him recently, showing up as uninvited as a natural disaster. I think about chronic singleness and how and why it occurs. I come to the conclusion that chronic singleness is a sign of fierce independence and bi-polar apathy/obsession. I’ve become accustomed to independent living and know nothing else. I find romantic/sexual interest in other humans rare and am often apathetic to it until I am not and then become obsessive with it, due to its rarity, and try to hold on to and squeeze it until it dies in my hands.

The man next to me sneezes with the force of a volcano and spews his snot lava all over the table. I shudder in germaphobic horror. A child screams a few feet away as their mother attempts to drag them out the door. A woman two tables over explains to her friend in an overly animated fashion how the man she is dating is a complete, and total idiot. She explains it over and over; apparently convinced her friend is also incapable of comprehending simply stated opinions.

I check the battery on my computer and notice I’m at 13% as a blond, tan, middle-aged woman comes to commandeer the last open electric plug for her iPhone. “Do you mind?” She asks the overweight, bald, middle-aged man beside me. “No, go for it.” He replies, much too excited for such a mundane request.  I can practically hear the fapping commence. I close my eyes and squeeze the back of my neck with my hand, trying to release the tension in my jaw and between my temples and around my eyes. I sip on my iced coffee and try to make the dehydrated feeling in my mouth go away. Neither action achieves the desired result. I sigh.

The crowd has become a nuisance much quicker than I thought it would, it’s time to go home. A woman in sweaty gym clothes is looking around, walking from table to table. She stops at an open chair and asks the woman at the table if she can sit there. The woman at the table says that the seat is occupied; she is waiting for someone. The standing woman renews her search and finds the small table next to me unoccupied. She slides in the cramped bench seat and nibbles on a small pastry. She has no book; her phone, if she has it with her, is tucked away in some hidden gym-clothes pocket. She sips her coffee and stares out in silence. I feel a sudden, inexplicable urge to say hello.

I stop typing.

“How’s it going?” I ask, glancing her way.

She laughs, “Fine. Just people watching. Sorry.”

I don’t know why she apologizes, but I find it endearing how considerate she is; that she considers her silently sitting next to me may be a distraction.

“No. You’re fine.”

“My son is looking at books. He can look at books all day long.”

“How old is your son?”

“I have two. The one that is with me here is Ethan. He’s eleven.”

“Oh. That’s nice.”

I turn back to my computer and pretend to work. I don’t want her to feel like she has to keep talking, but I find I am enjoying it. The conversation comes easy. There is no tension or awkwardness.

“I like your hair.” She says of my milk-braids.

“Thanks.”

“Are you from around here?”

“Sort of. I went to high school nearby. Melby? Do you know it?”

“Oh yeah. My friend went there. What year did you graduate?”

“Uh, 2004? I think. I’m not good with time.”

“Her names Mallory? Mallory Knight? I think she is a few years older than you.”

I shake my head that I don’t know her.

“After that I went to school in Maine and then lived in San Francisco for the last 6 years. What about you? Are you from here?”

“Yup. Lived here all my life.”

“You like it?”

“It’s a good place to raise kids. I’d like to live some place else, maybe Colorado- I like to be active, I like the outdoors- maybe when the kids are grown. So, maybe in 10 years.”

I smile. It’s weird. Normally when Mom’s talk about their kids it’s just not that relatable to me, their abdicated selflessness. She was different though, maybe because my first impression of her was as a woman alone, like me. Or maybe it was her quiet, calm nature; how content she was just to sit there and observe our fellow humans reacting to their self-created chaos.

“So, what do you do?” She asks.

“I’m an actress and writer.”

“Oh? Have you done anything locally?”

“Yeah, this month actually I’ll be performing at the show at the University.”

“I was a drama major there when I first started.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I loved it, but eventually I just felt like I had to take a more practical career path so I went into advertising.”

Most of the time when people say things like that it sounds condescending- it didn’t sound condescending from her. I could tell she was speaking only about her personal experience and not making a judgment on mine. I wanted to ask her about her career in advertising.

“My kids are into theatre. And my boyfriend does improv. So, I’m still around it a lot.” She continued.

Her son, a nerdy but sweet looking blond haired boy with glasses, comes up to us with a large book in his hands.

“Look, Mom.” He says, showing it to her.

“Oh, that’s cool.” She says and then turns to me, “I’m Christy. This is Ethan. What’s your name?”

“Emily.” I say, “Hi Ethan.”

“Hi,” he says quickly and then turns his attention back to his Mom. “Can you help me with this? I only have $20.”

“Will it count for your reading assignment?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“Okay. You want anything else? You want to go to the used bookstore after this?”

He shakes his head no.

“Alright,” she looks back to me, “It was nice meeting you.”

“You too.”

“What show are you doing at the University?” she asks.

“The Children,” I say.

“I’ll have to get a ticket,” she says and then turns and leaves, her hand tenderly resting on her son’s back.

I take in and let out a refreshing deep breath as I watch them walk out to the parking lot. The café is starting to thin and my headache is easing. What a nice, simple moment of connection, I think. In our short interaction I found myself appreciating many of her traits. She was observational, considerate, complimentary, inquisitive, honest, compassionate, loving, and tender. In that small moment with a passing stranger I had found the meditative medium between hot and cold. It was the cool, easy calm of nothing to gain and nothing to lose, just kindness and conversation for their own sake, two passing souls sharing time, not trying to be anything or anyone to each other but company.

I’m running and the sirens are blaring so loudly it takes everything I have not to look behind me, but I know that the split second it takes to look back could mean the difference between getting out alive and being dragged back into the death chamber. They said it couldn’t be done- “they” are always saying things can’t be done, whether they know it or not, they say it like it’s fact. That’s the main difference between “them” and me; they assume limitations, while I assume none. 

The tip of my foot catches on a branch and I stumble, but am able to hit the ground with my palms and push myself back up without missing a beat. My heart’s racing in my chest, my breath panting, my legs cramping and shaking, but I know they won’t dare give out on me now. I feel a sharp, fast shot of air blow past my left ear. It isn’t until I see it land in a tree trunk, that I realize it’s a bullet. They’re shooting goddamned bullets at me now! Holy shit. They must have gained. I start zig-zagging my run and hear the mechanical translation of whispered voices coming out of walkies. I start laughing maniacally- the adrenaline too large inside of me to keep in. I might die soon, I think, but at least I’ll die trying and running free! The thought of freedom, narrow and splitting as it is in this moment, strikes me with such a gust of laughter I think I might actually propel myself off the ground.

This is more living than I’ve done in the last 4 years on the row. I duck to clear a branch and feel another whiz blow past my head. Thank you, branch, I think, and swerve right towards the underpass. We’re getting close to suburbia. They won’t dare let bullets fly so freely there, with children playing in the street? Perhaps I can find a sweet hiding spot or lift a car to Timbuktu. Do children still play in the street, I wonder?

I clear the underpass and slip behind a shed where my hand happens to brush up against a blue hoodie on top of a woodpile. I slip it on without a second thought and start speed walking across the lawn to the street behind their house. I can’t hear the walkies and the siren’s sound farther away. Maybe I'll get lucky and lose them? I spot a black Cadillac. I can’t believe my eyes. It’s a ’69 Cadillac Eldorado, just like the one my old man had when I was growing up. I throw a “thanks pop” up to the heavens and jimmy the door open. Once inside, I see the keys are in the goddamn ignition. Then, I see this guy come running out of his house on the phone and the goddamn AAA in my rearview. I turn the keys and push the gas peddle until it wouldn’t go down any further and she flies off down the road in a cloud of grey smoke- her owner cussing and coughing and punching air on his lawn.

I know I have to be smart. The cops are still near enough to gain and within minutes they’ll be looking for this exact car. I’m near the freeway, but skip it and instead jump over to Oliphant Street, then Doobey, Morris, and across to Howel Avenue which circles out to what most people think is a dead end, but if you know where to look, you’ll find there’s a small (really small) dirt road that skirts around the lower-east side of town and then down into Maperville. The Cad is just barely too wide for the road, but I figure a few scrapes and scratches are the least of her troubles. Heck, it’s 2014- she’s had a good run.

I freestyle it after that, turning wherever my gut nags me, until I reach Sudderstupe, which is just left and north of Maperville; it’s a small town of about 350 people that is known for its Red Salt Sugar- or anyway, that’s what the handwritten and misspelled “Welcohm sign” says. I don't recall ever seeing this town before. I pull into the bus stop and assess the schedule. There’s a bus coming by in about 15 minutes to St. Louis. I can take that and then hop, skip, leap on up to Chicago, keep north and eventually cross the boarder into Canada. That is, if I can find a leak; there’s always a leak in things, if you know where to look. First, I’ll have to dump the Cad though. I drive three blocks north and find a rundown K-Maht. I park the Cad, and inspect the inside for cash. I get lucky with a twenty, get out and kiss her hood, then I’m back on the run to catch my bus. I think of Sam and tell the vision of her in my head that I'm coming. I laugh again, so overwhelmed with freedom and joy and anticipation.

I make it back just in time to walk right on. The first thing that strikes me is their faces. There are 12 or so on the bus, plus the driver. Granted, I’ve been in solitaire for a while and have only seen the occasional guard or prison mate, but I could swear to you these people look different than I remember people looking. Their eyes are kind of purple and turned down and their hands seem much too large for their bodies. I don’t know if it's all the Red Salt Sugar or what, but they definitely seem to be moving slower than a person normally would and all of them have impressive guts. Their skin seems flakey and irritated, and they smell of sulfur. The driver growls up at me while I’m staring at them and says, “Mehr, yerh gonnehr puttehr ierhn?”

I turn back to him and see his teeth are yellow and scarce; his eyes dart back and forth in his head almost like they're not really attached. I start looking around, like you do when you think something is a joke and there’s an audience hidden somewhere watching and laughing, but no one is laughing. I get kind of scared in the pit of my stomach. I try to think back- the Cad guy looked normal enough, the cops were masked and uniformed but they ran fast and their mechanical, muffled voices in the walkies came out more discernable than whatever this driver just said. He is still looking up at me expectantly. I hold up the twenty, like a question, and he slowly pulls it into the bucket next to him and shifts gears to go. I jolt with the bus’ forward motion and try to ask about change, but the eery fear in my gut grows, leadens and stifles me into submission, so I just shuffle to the back.

There is one aisle with no one sitting in it, so I sit there and shift my gaze to the country-side. I can’t focus on these freaks or I’ll get side-tracked. I have to stay focused on the mission at hand. Firstly, securing freedom. Second, Sam. I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about Sam. That was my favorite, virtually my only, activity on the row. I can’t wait to see her, to touch her, to smell her, to feel her smile fill my body with sunshine. Sam was my rat. She’d fed me to the snakes, but I forgive her for it. We were the ones that threw the grenade in the park and if she hadn’t given me up then she would have been the one who stayed locked up until they injected the death into her veins and I couldn’t have lived with that.

Sam. Oh, Sam with her golden hair, blue/green eyes, tall as clouds, and lithe, lithe, lithe. Sam with purple, upside down eyes, with gut as wide as- wait, what am I thinking? Sam with purple, upside down eyes- NO. Sam with golden- very large hands. Stop it! Sam with belly like buddah and mumble speech. Sam with yellow teeth. Sam so slow she don’t know whah shah gohhhhhhhh.

I start feeling something. Woozy. Something I feel- not right. Clumsy. Like. Brain not working. Gohhhhh fahhhstehr.

Drool drop drips on my hand. Hand seems grand. Large. Large hands.

Look out. Bus stops. Look up. Bus dumb-dumbs look at me with red lollipops. Some dumb man with truck hat says, “Red Salt Sugar Pohp?”

Bus driver shouts back, “Lick it. Lick it now.”

Tweedle-dee lady with pig-tails turns around, “Ya better lick it or else die!”

My god. I understand them now. Must mean. I think. Must mean. I am. One of-

Truck hat puts Pohp to my mouth. Tongue shoots out- my tongue. Stick. Lick. Stick. Lick. Stick. Lick. Stick-Stick-Stick. Pull! Ouch. Still stuck!

Bus dumbs laugh. HA HA HA

Tongue still stuck. Bus dumbs hold out their tongues. All red and spots missing on some. Tweedle-dee lady grins, “You one uh us now. Ah ha.”

“Ahhhh!!!!!” I say back, but it sounds dumb. There’s no fight in it. “Ahhhh!” I try to say again. I try to say, “Shit. Fuckers. Leave me alone. I go to Sam. I go- I- You dumb. Me. Smart. Fahst.”

But me too dumb/slow to speak. Shit. I think. Cops must near now. Cops will catch me. Where leak. Leak. Piss. Shit. I think. "Rip" goes tongue. "Ouch" goes mouth. HA HA goes dumbs. HA HA HA. Sounds like tear in universe. Like perverse merry-go. Like HA HA. HA HA HA.

Jokes on me now.

This- what I get. Momma said, "Dreamers die twice. Once inside and once outside." 

HA they laugh. My tongue starts to twizzle. I try to think SAM. I think SPAM. I think purple eyes, not blue/green- NO. Purple eyes, upside down. NO! Spam. I think of Spam and think of Spam. I think of Spam. 

GODDAMMITTTTTTTTAHHHHH!

HA HA.

HA HA HA.

Spam? I luh you. I truh tuh couhm toh youh.

Wooh-wee-wooh. Sirens buzz-scream. Wee-wooh. Sirens buzz.

HA HA. Scream bus dumbs. HA HA.

Freedom was nice. I think. Freehom wah nih…

BOOM BOOM.

BLACK HEAT SINKS IN.

“Weeek” goes walkie talkie, “Errrr, we gottem surrounded, over.” “Errrr, target acquired, over.” “Errrr, take yer shot if yer gotter.” “Errr, forgot to say over, over.”

BOOM BOOM.

I’m duhn….

Spam.

Spam.

Spam.

Freedohm wah nice foh a while.

The drips of water elongated until the distance broke their hold and they fell to hit the pot below.  It was rhythmic and hypnotizing and I could feel a trance come over me; the rest of the house was quiet. I realized then how strange it was not to be stimulated by sounds and visuals, by technology and people, the rush of modern life. I realized that I could hear my thoughts, my fears, the little and big anxieties I’d pushed away for so long. The drips of water faded and I suddenly wished the electricity would pop back on, the TV glaring with a laugh track, the computer open to all my friend’s thoughts and events, the lights so bright I could see everything I owned around me and none of the things inside me. 

The room stayed dark and quiet. The drips stopped.

I decided I wasn’t strong enough to be alone, grabbed my keys and coat, and hit the unlit road. My motivation wasn’t very strong- I didn’t know where to go. I stood there a moment looking around. I was alone. No one direction seemed more suitable for wandering than the next, so I just put a foot in front the other and went where my body went. The movement helped. Occasionally I would hear a scream, a shout, an orgasmic wail, a child, an animal, or the wind. The storm had passed it seemed. Rain and thunder were done. It wouldn’t be long before the electricity came back. 

At about the four-mile mark, nearing the Gamble Forrest that lead to the Dippler River and then ran along the Goldcoast Tracks, I realized that my sight was adjusting to the pitch black and I could see the edges of things. I stopped in front of the hedge of trees that seemed to cower over me, un-intimidated by my presence; in fact, they seemed almost eager to greet me, swaying hellos in the wind. I approached further until I was inside them and they engulfed me. The Forrest had its own soundtrack and seeing became a more difficult feat. I walked with arms held out in front of me, palms out to high-five the tree-trunks. 

I had never been this far from my home before. Once, when I was five, I had wandered off and my guardians thought I had been taken. The authorities found me two days later trailing an ice cream truck on my tricycle. No one could explain where I had been in the hours between. Apparently I told them some tale about a green monster with a purple house that floated in the sky until eventually they stopped asking. 

I stopped walking, suddenly hit with exhaustion, which shouldn’t have surprised me, but I’d forgotten, with all the chaos, that I hadn’t slept in four days. I hit the muddy, leafy ground with a thud and closed my eyes. I wondered if anyone else was in the woods with me- if they would find me and try to kill me or wonder if I would try to kill them. I wondered why so many killings happened in the woods, but then remembered the how dark it was and how few people came into them. I thought about Emmitt and wondered how he was faring in his home and became suddenly concerned it was one of the ones that got burnt down. I really should have walked there instead, but then, what if he was perfectly fine? Snuggled in bed with his new lover, Brandon? No, that would have been too humiliating; me caring—him…not needing my care. 

With that thought, my brain switched over to sub-conscious sleep and on auto-pilot, I reached for my keys, suddenly sure I was walking into my house after a long night of drinking at O’Malley’s with Emmitt. He was right behind me, guiding me with his strong and steady hands- never much of a drinker and I the opposite. We manage through the door and he spins me around to take advantage, lips on lips, hands below, we rock. A boat—for some reason, we’re on a boat, but it makes perfect sense because I thought I felt us rocking and here we are on a boat. The waves swell to frightening heights and he holds me and tells me, “We’re going to get through this.” I believe him. “We’re going to get out of here alive.” I hold on to him and kiss him hard.

Something hits my head, a wave I suspect, but when I open my eyes it’s an acorn and the sunlight burns. I’m alone on a damp Forrest floor. In the distance I can hear shouting and music. I’m thoroughly confused and take a minute to sit myself up and remember the last 24 hours. The storms, the riot, the black-out, the wander, the Forrest. Emmitt. Just a dream. I stand up and dust off. I look back towards the shallow opening of the Forrest, I hadn’t made it very far in. I look to the other end of the Forrest, dense—seemingly unending. I start walking back the way I came.

When I get back into town, I see the electricity is back on and the authorities are busy supervising the reconstruction. There are bands playing on almost every block and kids screaming over open fire hydrants in the street. I reach my house, but am not yet ready to stop walking. There is something in the air—an energy, a lightness, a happiness. It’s as if the entire town has collectively not only weathered an exterior storm, but also cleared their own individual storm clouds within. We all were walking a little higher on our feet. 

Before I knew it I had reached Emmitt’s house, wholly un-burnt as it was, and felt strangely compelled to knock on the door. I stood there a good fifteen minutes just staring at the house until some kid blasted me with a water gun in the back of the head. I whirled around and the kid flashed me a huge, toothless grin. I laughed and pretended to lunge at him while he ran off down the street. When I turned back around Emmitt was standing there in his bathrobe with a cup of coffee. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” He said. “Make it through the night okay?”

“Yeah. You?” I asked.

“Sure.”

We stared at each other, neither knowing what to say next. Too many things had been said in the past and there were too many things we could still say, but since we weren’t together anymore, it didn’t really matter, did it? 

“Well…” He started, turning back to go inside. “Have a good one.”

“I still love you.” I blurted out. It surprised me, but it seemed I was no longer in control of my motor skills. “I had a dream about you last night. We were on this boat that was getting ready to capsize and you held me and told me that we were going to get through it, that we would survive and I believed you. When we kissed-“ I couldn’t believe that I was crying, but I was. “-I can’t help it. My god, Emmitt. I can’t help but love you, no matter what we’ve been through. I need you. Please.”

I could tell he was looking at me, but couldn’t bare to bring myself to meet his eyes. Children had stopped what they were doing to watch as well and I accidentally made eye contact with one of them. The child gasped as if he’d just seem a man beheaded and then ran off. The tears wouldn’t stop rolling down my face.

“Come inside,” Emmitt said.

“What about-“

“He’s gone out to help with the reconstruction,” Emmitt explained.

We sat at the dinning table and I watched his hands slowly journey across the tabletop to land on mine.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t come here to say that. I didn’t know I was going to say that. I didn’t know I was going to come here. I’m just, you know, sleep deprived.”

“I understand,” Emmitt said. “Would you like some coffee?”

“No. I shouldn’t stay, you know…. I should… go.”

“It’s just coffee.”

“Well, alright. But just, forget what I said, would you?”

“Forgotten.” He said, pouring me a cup.

We sipped our coffee in silence. I wanted to die. I couldn’t believe myself. 

“You can’t just forget what I said- I mean, I said I still love you. You can’t forget something like that. I show up out of nowhere and tell you I need you- I begged! You don’t forget something like that. You’re going to laugh about it with Brandon later and years down the road you’ll tell this story to someone you want to impress- look at you-you who made someone so crazy in love with you-“

“Okay, stop it. Enough!” Emmitt said, with a strange forcefulness. 

“What gives you the right to assume I would tell Brandon, let alone anyone about this? What gives you the impression that I would ever talk badly about you behind your back? I loved you, too, you know? That was real. And I never speak badly about the people I’ve loved. If you knew me at all… Jesus.”

He seemed genuinely hurt. I had no idea I could still elicit such a reaction from him. He put on his reading glasses and I finally met his gaze, the lenses somehow providing enough of a shield for me to not be completely under the spell of his beauty. For the first time, this close to him, after several months apart, I noticed three gray hairs in his right temple. I smiled tenderly.

“What?” He snapped.

“My god,” I said, “We’re growing old.”

His hand subconsciously rose to cover the offensive grays and then he lightened.

“Well, I certainly am,” He said, “Though I can see no evidence of this on you.”

“It’s hit me in different… areas.”

We laughed and I clasped his hand.

“I thought we were going to do this together.” I said, choking up again. “I have to admit, it’s hard to go it alone.”

“It’s only been 7 months, Gregory!” He laughed, “You’re such a drama queen.”

“I know. But I can’t help thinking- knowing even- I’m never going to feel about anyone how I feel about you. I’ll be alone. And here you have Brandon… and I have all these years of decaying ahead and no one to face them with.”

“Gregory…”

“No. Don’t. It’s not your problem. You’re happy- so… You are happy?”

He nodded.

“So, you’re happy with Brandon and I’m just… accepting my reality the best that I can- by making a fool of myself. That’s all. But, don’t worry about me. I’ll get used to it.”

“You’ll meet someone,” He said. “You’re too handsome and loving and smart and wonderful not too. You’re heart is so big- You’ll fall in love again. You’ll see.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” I offered, though I didn’t believe it for a second. 

I rose to my feet and saw myself out as Emmitt watched. I could hear him crying when I shut the door. I felt good about that, because even if I did fall in love again, I’ll never forget what I had with Emmitt and I finally felt validation that Emmitt would never forget it either; what we had was special. Which, in the end, may not be everything, but it sure is something to hold on to.

Her tears flew away on a midnight ship towards Paris as thunder clapped in the clouds like a long and sad applause. They’d left to join his heart, which had been torn from hers only moments earlier. Heaving inside her chest now was only lungs- the trees of life cycling oxygen in and out of an empty cave. Bones clanked together in what was now wide-open space. Her skin began decompressing to accommodate her smaller size- the size of grief- the weight of loss. This may seem counter-true as grief is large as the world is round, but the person in it’s midst is thus shrunken down. And in her eyes, in her eyes, in her eyes- where had once been held the look of love, so powerful and all encompassing, so true and of soul-bound stuff- now sat a darkened stare that could only be described as the quietus stone face of a tomb yet cold.

Had she the tools of a conductor she would have demanded an encore. Applause, applause, applause- it all felt untrue, and insincere. At some point she would have to leave the stadium, gather her things and walk into the streets. She would have to put one foot on the ground even as her hands reached futile towards the unreachable sky. Wishing, she was wishing for the gift of flight- fighting, she was fighting for every breath she took- not to take another, but to snuff them out. If he couldn’t stay, she didn’t want to stay either. All was ruin and in this ruination she was decompressing to the point of no return.

Her heart, her heart was gone. Aboard a ship to Paris. Thunder clapped and was insincere. Her concaved breath smelled shallow with indifference. Her feet repelled the earth. Fists shot up and birth was a tale best left untold.

Eternal rest is an oblivion with no return, but the other side of the coin is a preceding life.  A crescendo written only in the music sheets of time- a book that can’t be read but in hindsight. And as she fell to the ground, sure-fire earth bound for as long as it was written- she felt a feeling that could only be described as LIFE- a pounding in her chest as soft as the first hues of light in the early morning sunrise. Enduring life, enduring loss, in doing, doing what she must to keep on breathing- she’d survived and garnered a tinge of strength. From where it came, she did not know, but felt it just the same.

A new heart was drumming out a beat.

She stood upon her feet.

She gathered all her things.

She hit the street, she hit the street.

Marching on, 

she would not forget, 

but heal, heal-

heel toe heel toe heel toe

to the finish line.

Her story was not yet

a tale to be told,

a trail gone cold.

Just a chapter bookened

to another.

On she goes.

On she goes.

The house was a mess. The mess was a distraction. I couldn’t stand it, but I did nothing about it. The doorbell rang. I answered it. It was Bill. Bill Biggins. Bill Biggins said, “I came by about the horse.” The horse in question was a rocking horse. A child’s toy. I was going to throw it out. Well, I was considering it. I mentioned the idea in passing on the way to church with my mother who must have then told her boyfriend’s son, Bill Biggins, about it. Bill Biggins was married to Syl Biggins and she had just had a baby two or three years ago so it was time for him or her to learn to ride the rocking horsey. Bill Biggins said, “I’ve come about the horsey.” I said, “Yeah, alright.” I pointed at the rat and tattered thing. Part wood, part cloth, all stained. I said, “Fifteen dollars.” He scratched his head, “For that?” “Well,” I said, “Five at least.” He scratched his shoulder, “For that?” “Well,” I said, “Four?” He scratched his neck, “Again, I ask, for that?” “Three?” I barfed. He scratched his forehead and opened his mouth. I cut him off before the words produced sound, “What’s a matter with you- you got fleas?” “Huh?” He baffooned. “Scratchity, scratch, scratch, scratch.” “Oh.” He said. “No fleas. Just the winter itch.” The winter itch, pffftt, I thought. Dirty sonofabitch, I thought. “Get outta here, Bill.” I said. “Come on. I want it.” He begged. I said, “Fine. Ten dollars.” “For-“ “Yeah, for that. For the horsey. Ten dollars.” “Fine.” He said and handed over the green. He picked up the horsey with great grumpiness and stormed out with nary a thank you. I put the green in my secret money hiding place and went about my day. This included laying on the couch and watching reality television while eating potato chips and drinking diet coca cola.

I should give you the tour. Pardon the mess. It’s a 6 bedroom ranch style home in southern Arkansas. There are 2.5 bathrooms. There is a 20 acre yard with a garden. I have a lot of money. You probably wouldn’t guess that if you met me on the street, but there you go. You’ve got the inside scoop. I inherited most of it from my grandparents. They owned stuff, like, important stuff. I don’t know too much about it on account of my parents were estranged from them and refused to talk about them, which is why when my grandparents died the money skipped straight past them and right into their only grandchild’s lap- that’s me. I am, since you can’t see for your own two eyes I’ll tell you, 5 feet and 4 inches tall. I have brown wavy hair that comes to my shoulders and I mostly wear it in a ponytail. I am 28 years old. I’ve lived in this house that I bought with the inheritance money 5 years ago. I also quit my job about 4 years ago. See- I kept working for a little bit after the money came, which I think says something good about me. But then, eventually, I quit and now I don’t do anything, which I think says something bad about me. So, I have money. So, you get it.

My best friend is Marshal. He is 27 and he works at Subway. He’s kind of ugly. But so am I- I guess. I weigh a bit more than “they” say a person of my height’s supposed to weigh. So, I’m fat and Marshal’s ugly on account of his acne and his deep brown circles swallowing his eyes and his lankiness and his occasional drug use and his long hair. So, that’s us. He stays with me sometimes but then I always get sick of him and throw him out.

My parents sometimes want to borrow money from me, which is fun and funny. And most of the time I say no but sometimes I say yes. It’s nice having that power over them now. Growing up they were dumb as rocks and never gave me an allowance and wouldn’t let me do anything of the things I wanted to do, like go to space camp or ride the mechanical horsey at the supermarket. So, now I get to say what and when and whatever they can and can’t do. So, ha!

I get these huge cysts behind my ears. Well, not HUGE. It’s not like anyone else can see them, but I can feel them. They are huge and painful and sort of itchy and I always try and pop them like a zit, but they’re not a zit and it just makes them hurt more but then sometimes they do sort of pop and this white puss comes out of them and the bump goes down. I inherited that from my father. Real nice, right?

Oh, look. Here comes Jim. Jim’s my occasional boyfriend. He’s ugly but not so ugly as Marshal. He’s kind of cute ugly- you know, like one of those mutt dogs? He’s like that. Scraggly. He’s about 43 though so the cute’s bout to start wearing off and then he’ll just be ugly. He’s knocking on the door right now and I’m answering it. “Yeah,” I say. He doesn’t say anything, just walks right in, goes to the couch and takes his clothes off. “Okay,” I say. I take just my sweatpants and underpants off. I get on top of him and ride the horsey. We finish quickly and I roll off of him and we watch some TV.  He coughs. We watch. He coughs. We watch. He coughs. “Jesus,” I say, annoyed. “What?” He asks, annoyed. “Coughity, cough, cough, cough.” “I can’t help it. I’ve got bronchitis.” “Shit, man. Did you just give that shit to me?” “I don’t fucking know.” “Get out of here. And take some goddamn vitamins!” “Ah, fuck you.” He gathers his clothes, puts some on, leaves some off, and slams the door.

“Jesus.” I say to the empty house and then get up and run a bath. I like to bathe. It’s pretty good. That steam rising up off the hot water and twisting and turning out the open window. It’s snowing outside right now. They say we’re supposed to get about 10 inches by tomorrow. We’ll see about that. I call up my Mom while the water runs.

“Hey.”

“Hey.” She says back, and I can hear the clanging of plates in the background.

“What are you doing? Eating? Or doing dishes?”

“Polishing the silver.”

“What silver?”

“The silver.”

“Huh. What did you do today?”

“Worked. Came home. Made dinner. Cleaned. Polished silver.”

“Cool.”

“What did you do?”

“Ya know. Same old.”

“Nothing.”

“No, not nothing. I did something. I sold that old wooden horsey grandma left me.”

“You did? Why?”

“Well, I was going to throw it out, like I told you last Sunday- didn’t you tell Bill Biggins that?”

“Oh, right. I mentioned that to him. But I thought you’d just give it to him. That’s what I told him.”

“Well, why would I do that?”

“Well, you don’t need the money, do you? And they’re hard up.”

“Well, that’s life, isn’t it? You can’t get something for nothing.”

“Well, you did. Didn’t you?”

“Well, that’s me. I’m the exception.”

“Think mighty high of yourself.”

“No, Mom. It’s just the facts of the lottery of life. I don’t think I deserve it, but I don’t not deserve it. Same as anyone. Just happened to happen to me. Can’t help it. But that don’t mean I gotta go giving everything way.”

“Well, what did you charge him?”

“15 at first, but he only paid 10. See, I’m nice.”

“10 for that old piece of crap? I’m not even sure it’s safe for kids anymore. You test it out?”

“On what? It’s not like I can ride it myself anymore.”

“Honey, you couldn’t ride it when you were a kid either. You little chubbybubby.”

“Thanks. Well, I’m sure it’s fine.”

“We'll see.”

“Okay. My bath’s ready for me now. Don’t want to keep it waiting.”

“Alright then. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Bye.”

I stuck my toe into the water and it zapped me with its scalding temperature. “COLD!!!!!!” I yelled, even though the word I wanted was to say was HOT. That ever happen to you? You go to say something and you end up saying the opposite? Weird brain stuff, huh? I ran some cold water as I undressed the rest of the way. I put on a fancy facemask to make my skin look radiant. I tested with my other toe. Just right, said goldilocks. I slipped the rest of the way in and under and listened to my heart beat under the water.

When I tell the story I am cool as codfish and no one reacts sentimentally. It’s a tragic tale- father disowns daughter, takes entire extended family with him, turns them against her, leaves her to fend for her own. But the way I tell it, you don’t feel too bad, none of the parties become sympathetic. You forget the humanity of it and just hear the words like a telephone book being read aloud. And when I’m done we all take three beats and then go for pizza and a song. The past, the past, it’s all so forgettable, isn’t it? No one’s left who cares, yet still, we get bored so the tale gets told and then we carry on through the devaluing world.

I like Dominos pizza the most. I get the vegetable kind on account of I don’t eat animals because animals are basically humans, too. I mean, do you know what I mean? They feel and fear and get pain and sadness and happiness and they know more than some of you but yet they are defenseless. If you take advantage- like we’ve taken advantage for so long- so long- so long- so much advantage taken- so much rank pulled- we are HUMANS GODDAMN LOOK AT US HEAR US ROAR- well, I say, fuck off HUMANS! Fuck the fuck off! You’re nothing special to look at. You make me sick.

I saw it once. The killing of the pigs. They knew what was happening. They were afraid and it was OB-VI-OUS. They coward and tried to hide behind each other, crowding in the back corner as the gun-thing, killer-man approached and shot BANG BANG and as they watched their fellow pig-ones die they became more and more distressed. They vocalized this distress and tried and tried to hide and hide and BANG BANG BANG ‘till all were dead. My body went into shock. I convulsed. I cried. I moaned. I cursed the killing-man. I swung my fists, tried hitting him. I could not be comforted. It was a massacre and it happens several times a day all over and in every state. Precious baby animals being born into this world to be abused and used and made into super-duper processed chemically enhanced PRODUCTS. THESE ARE NOT PRODUCTS! They have hearts and minds! They hear, see, feel, beat and comprehend. And humans have abused their abilities to the most evil of extents. See: dollar signs.

And no one cares.

“Let’s eat,” they say. “Habit and I couldn’t because… inconvenience and taste and nutrition and-“ so much bullshit I can’t even re-spout it. But who cares right?

To HELL IN A HANDBASKET! The hurt of the world’s become too much to bare- we numb it all away- don’t dare to feel a single ounce.

Tomorrow they are coming over- into my house. The maintenance people- to insert a carbon monoxide detector. This gives me anxiety. I don’t want these people in my sacred space. My home. And my animals disrupted. What if they try to kill and eat them? Plus, I have erotic art on my walls. I could take it down- I wont. I will force them to see the giant penis. The cunt. I will force their eyes to be opened. I will cut them up and slice their civility until they realize civility is a useless cloth, a veil to keep us from reality- contain our humanity. Where is the humanity in our lives anymore? Show me some! There’s such deficiency. The whole race needs a giant vitamin.

I have this friend- this homeless friend- I can’t speak to anymore. I don’t want him to ask me for anything. I don’t want to feel obliged to give him anything. I can barely contain my own contents. I can’t hold his. I can’t be responsible. I turn my face the other way and close off my heart to him. I wait for him to shrivel or thrive. Shrivel or thrive. At the same time, my own existence rests on my own ability to shrivel or thrive. Shrivel or thrive. Which way will it go? For each it’s the gamble of the universe.

I can’t tell you about the loneliness I feel because it’s not active enough. A story’s got to be active, you know? Protagonist. Antagonist. Comic relief. Confidant. I must be all these things because I live inside of the loneliness of being just one person. One person alone. Well, expect for my animals. They are my safe keeping, they guard my soul. Though if I were to die of natural causes and they ran out of food, I would fully expect them to turn on me, but in that case it would be an act of love. On both accounts. Oh, the loneliness. I wish we could talk about it. I wish there were a way to say it. But there’s not. So, on we go- plowing through the fields of-

Glory! Have you felt GLORY before? What GLORY doth GLORY be? Where can it be found? Tell me? Is GLORY a part of my humanity? Or is it a heavenly manipulation intending, like capitalism, for ambitious structure?

How are your finances? In order? Mine… are not.

What does it feel like to be loved? To be pursued? To be so comforted on the regular? What’s it feel like coming home? What’s all this about the one? What’s the family like? What’s the feeling of being liked? Where’s the person I’m supposed to meet? What’s the deal with this thing called life? And why- most of all I ask you WHY all the GODDAMN LIES? Life is not a storybook! Movies are not life! Disney is not the end-all nook. News is wrong as the day is long. I cannot tell you anymore what I was expecting to find at the end of the rainbow- all has been forgotten in the wake of these endless and lonely, disappointing, adulthood tomorrows. All I can say is to the adults of the 80’s- YOU GOT IT WRONG. That was not the life I lived- the one I thought I was getting. It’s not real.

I told my dogs twice today and twice yesterday and twice I will tomorrow- they try eating things- not food- things- I shout- “NOT REAL!” They look at me. “NOT REAL!” I keep shouting it and it resonates within me on a deeper level. I get it. NOT REAL. NOTHING FEELS REAL- how could it? I spent a childhood expecting another reality and the one I’ve got's so much farther from the one I thought it’s impossible to reconcile them. I live alone.

You know?

Do you feel the beat of my words? The heart underneath? Do you see my invisible soul? Does such a thing exist? Do I now? Where and who are you? And what’s taken you so long to come? And will you leave me soon? And will I forever be alone? And do you feel the beat of my words? And do I have a heart? And am I worthy of your love? And will my efforts ever be enough? And will I always fall short the things I want most? And how many tomorrows shall I go on? And will the world ever improve? And why do people keep having children when there are already children here who have no people? Don’t they understand LONELINESS? GODDAMN.

Don’t be cool as codfish. Care. Feel. Bleed. Need. And do it better than anyone. We are not the BLASÉ FAIR generation, if we so chose not to become.

We are not the fortunate ones; we don't have the privilege of forgetting. We lay in streets, where others, if tired, resist the urge because it is not "proper." Proper things, the civility of life- it all goes out the window when you hit dog poor. If you are helpless and no one can or will or wants to help you, you lay down wherever the hell you damn well please to. It's the one comfort you have.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix

I had always seen them. I guess not always. Maybe when I was younger and living in a small mid-western town, I guess I don't remember seeing them then. It probably wasn't until I moved to the city. Then, I definitely saw them. I saw them a lot. I don't remember the first one I saw, but I remember the first one I saw that was definitely dead.

I didn't do anything about it. Which made me feel bad. I just kept walking. But what could I do? He was already dead.

Then again, I didn't do anything for those who weren't dead either. What can you do? You can't help them all. Maybe I could have helped one or two. Maybe I could have done that, spared a dollar, you know? But what good is a dollar, really? What difference does it make? They'll always need another and you can't keep giving. I don't have that much myself. I mean, I have enough. I have enough for me, that is.

So, I don't do anything. I don't know if I should look and nod and smile or just look straight ahead. I alternate it. I'm never mean, though. I don't look down on them or anything. I keep an open mind. I picture the best case scenario that could have landed them there. I make it so it's not their fault and I never think they're on drugs or drinkers. I blame the government and the economy and the under staffed, under funded vet programs and mental illness and the housing market and personal tragedies.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix

They walk by me with their iPods and their Starbucks and their bubbles for their bubble baths and their cat food and their DVD's and they can't spare a dime. Can't spare it. Don't have cash. Hell, I'll take your card. Give me the plastic. The paper. Whatever ya got. They can't spare it. Meanwhile, they live in excess and they think they're struggling to get by. Buddies never seen a struggle in their lives.

Sometimes they smile. Don't give you nothing but a smile. Smile don't keep your stomach down. Don't keep you warm. But a smile's better than a scowl. Better than nothing. Let's you know you're still visible. Makes you feel almost human for a second. 

The hardest part of all of it is the transition into it, out of wherever you're coming from. Accepting it. Once you stop fighting and accept it. It's all easier from there. You realize what matters. And things ain't it. They just toys to keep the fortunate mesmerized and distracted while the devil sweeps in unnoticed to steal their souls.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix

I like clothes. I like buying clothes. I like getting dressed, putting on make-up, doing my hair. I like becoming characters and transforming myself and getting lost in it. Escape. I like movies. I like going out dancing or to dinner with a group of well dressed friends. Sometimes on our way in or out we have to side step around some street people. I hold my breath until I'm a few feet away. It can be hard to hold it for so long, but it's better than whiffing in that disgusting scent. It gets stuck in your nose and you can't get it out.

I know it's a problem. These street people. It makes me feel bad. Sometimes I think about what if circumstances ever turn out so that I end up on the street? How would that be? I don't think it will happen though. I have family and friends and I'm a pretty resourceful worker. 

I wish everyone had a place to live and food to eat, but at the same time, you gotta wonder... how many of them choose to be where they are? Couldn't they help themselves if they really wanted to? I guess most of them can't though, for mental or physical reasons, or maybe they just don't have anybody to give them a hand. I guess I could give them a hand. Somehow. Maybe. I don't know. I mean, it's not really my place, is it? I mean, who am I? I'm nobody! 

I'd really just like to stop thinking about it now. I think I'll go watch some TV.

"How opposites appear
side by side!
Here the solemn - and
right beside it, the
comical.
To me they seemed
absolutely to belong
together"
-Otto Dix


Everyday we wake up to reality slapping our faces. Sometimes that reality is the police or a rat or a stranger's boot or another vagrant snooping for goods or your own pain from a hard nights rest. There is no escape for us. Just reality, day in and day out. The plain, cold, hard facts. The truth. The ugliness. The rare, unexpected beauty. The brutality of human nature and mother earth. We're forced to face ourselves every bit as much as well, which is perhaps the harshest reality of all. There is no escape from our thoughts. We're at the mercy of others. We're living in Sartre's hell.

These people passing by- the epochs of each generation, different and yet the same- and we've become the life stamps, pounding our faces into the journals of the pavement for them to walk and shred upon like objects- artifacts in a Neue Sachlichkeit movement.