Rolling My Eyes

Soul Stealers

2011-12-26T04:16:00.006-05:00

There just wasn't any reason to hold him longer, so Tommy was released from the jail two days short from the end of October. The skies threatened rain, but the sun, a bright orb, was up for the battle against the steely grey. Tommy was waiting outside of the gates smoking the cigarette the lady guard, Bonnie, had palmed him on his way out. 'Fuck, kid, calm down. Most kids are excited to be leaving here.' She shook her head at him.
Poor fucking kid.

Tommy didn't really want to leave the jail. He liked it there. At least better than home. In jail, he had food every day and his body felt good. There was lots of time to think in jail and that was good too. He wanted a different future, one that didn't include Momma.
"Thanks for coming to get me, Momma", he still said, When she pulled herself out of the backseat of the taxi. She fussed with her hair; a brighter blonde than he had seen on her before.
"What a bunch of bastards, Tommy," she declared, as she threw herself around him, "We can sue."
"Yeah, Momma," he whispered, pushing her away, "I don't think so."
Tommy looked at her as though she were crazy. And Momma flinched. "Let's just go home," she said.
Tommy stared out the window, as they drove through the country roads. It was so nice to see trees, and houses, and cars again. He wanted to ask the driver if he could roll down his window; just to feel the air, but he did not want to make anyone else cold. It had been cold every day in jail.
Momma soon started again. "If we sue, we can talk about deplorable conditions. I am sure everything was terrible there, wasn't it, Tommy? Besides just falsely arresting you....."

Inmates pissed on everything they could. In the corner of their cells for the hell of it Most of the prisoners would not drink the coffee, but Tommy wouldn't eat the eggs or potatoes either. He knew they were powdered mixes.
(More)
It had been bad.

But Tommy just snorted out a laugh at her, "Momma, quit showing-off to cab drivers." And that had shut her up real quick.
When they were home at the entrance of the apartment building, she grabbed him by the back of his shirt, "Just get in the fucking house, Tommy," and she added, words of no thought tumbling out of her mouth; just anger. "Since you think you are a big man now, you need to start carrying your weight. And since you are mostly a good-for-nothing, I don't see how else you can come into some money to support yourself. Because that's what men do. Support themselves. So, you'll have to sue. I'm not gonna keep paying for ya.""
"Momma, all I want to do is go home and go to sleep in my bed..."
"You don't have a bed anymore," Momma said. "Until you pay some rent, you got the couch."

There was nothing for dinner that night. "Men feed themselves," she told him.

"Where are you going?" Momma asked Tommy, an hour later, when he started to put on his shoes.
"Out."
"Where?"
"Men don't need to tell people where they are going," Tommy spit and slammed the front door behind him.

His footsteps slapped the slick sidewalk, the rain came when the moon climbed higher than the sun. He kept walking anyway. He did not want to go back to Momma's. Not yet. It was after 11 o'clock when he sneaked his way down the familiar driveway.
But Minnie would not answer Tommy's raps on the window. Not even when he drummed out her favorite Judas Priest song.

He heard the car behind him and knew who it was without looking.
"Out looking for new victims?", the cop sneered; rolling down his window.
"Hey, man," Tommy answered, "I'm not looking for any trouble here."
And he kept on walking on.

*Needs to get here
-Not even in a free country were their acts tolerated
*Last Edit
February 2nd

Opaque

2011-12-19T00:58:00.009-05:00

She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't expect this at all. She wants to cry out, instead she chokes on the heart in her throat. The very worst and the best in her life have always happened together.

She remembers it all. The fear. The anxiety. Wanting to vomit from something she could not yet describe, and from the snot. And then there is Johnny at her window. He would have been 13 years old then, and she had to have been just turning four, her birthday in late spring and she is wearing her Tuesday panties and she is warm; she remembers her hair slicked to her forehead. Sweat. Or maybe it is more blood.
God is punishing her for being disrepectful to thou parents.
Because she dropped her glass and broke it.
Because she told her mother what to do.
'Stop yelling at me!'.
And as she cried, she wondered why Mother was not going to bed right now too. And she knows god wants you to cause no one harm. And Samatha's mother had throw the butterknife at her and the blade had stuck into her head.
Samantha knows her mother hates her. And she is pretty sure God wouldn't either.
But there is Johnny, with his brown hair always in his brown eyes. There like he always was when she cried.
"Hey now, baby, everything's going to be ok..."
And the joy she felt when she looked in his eyes.

And the joy she feels when Tommy kisses her, his dark eyes and hands, they move right into her.
And suddenly she is there. Mother.
What is the reason? How is the reason...?
Samantha gets up from the picnic bench and runs.

Her family asleep and snoring as they always do. The skies were the transparent blue of a fine summer's night. She is going into the fifth grade. And she has snuck-out onto the porch to celebrate her favourite time of the day and she would end up forever wishing she could remember the name of the book she had with her; a random one pulled from under her bed, as cover up if caught.
She could hear his tears as he walked by.
And she said, "Hey, now, everything's going to be ok" and because she couldn't bring herself to say baby, her words came out sounding confident. Tough.
Or so Tommy thought. So, he toughened himself up too. Because girls,even if they were just kids, can't be tougher than him. At any time. Ever.
So, he sniffed off his tears and said back to her,"Hey, baby, everything is always ok."
And the light of the night shone over him, as if he were an Angel, she thinks.

* Needs to Get Here
-pigment used to block out particular areas on a negative
*Last Edited
-Feb. 8/12

It Figures

2011-07-29T10:32:00.003-04:00

It would be me who cannot follow the simple Blogger templates and screw it all up, despite the fact they practically do everything for you.

I fixed the white links by repeatedly copying and pasting and retyping the very basic html code I learned years ago. From a boy. Who used to fix shit like this. And when I look over on his site, I see he is under construction and having issues with blogrolls too. The difference is that his template is so much more advanced than mine (not that I want mine to look advanced; I like it plain), but I know he will fully fix his someday--he is smart like that (despite the fact he is American). Me: Well, I will just keep banging my head and trying to steal design off blogs I like and never get it right.

And when I am fully sick and tired of doing that, maybe I will post something worthwhile.

Under Some Sort of Construction

2011-07-28T02:21:00.002-04:00

Why are some of my links along my sidebar in f-ing white?

Sigh.

This makes me unhappy.

I am going to bed.

Read On Another Blog

2011-07-21T15:49:00.001-04:00

Have you ever had that feeling, the one where you tell everyone that your real ambition is to write, when really all you do is read what other people write?

These Are My Words, My Neon, SIliconed, Carcinogenic Words. But This Is My Poem, My Poem About Elvis.

2011-05-11T02:08:00.003-04:00

It was her first day in town.
Chewing on a fresh stick of gum, she was looking up and down the street; eyes sliding over the bustle of sweat and sin.
'Little girl lost?' I asked.
And she sighed.

I would say to her over and over again on that first day,'Laugh with me, Jenny,"
And sometimes she would.
Especially when I made my funny faces at her.
She would try not to; she would just roll her eyes at me, but that smile would come. White teeth and soft lips.
And then she would laugh and laugh and laugh, until her body shook and her hair was covered her eyes.
And I would want to kiss her and kiss her and kiss her...
But I dared not try.

I took her to see the kittens down at Paul's pet store.
She held them close to her, rubbing them with her face, but she fancied the talking bird more. He said, "Hi, beautiful," when he saw her. Really, to any woman walking by, but she did not know.

I took her down to see Bruno and his lunch-time sound; strumming his guitar and sucking his cigarette like there was nothing else to better to do. Washing the melody down with tequlila and rum. We sat in the corner and she leaned her head and her body against me. She closed her eyes. "Music is the best thing in life," she said. And it seemed to me an uncontestable truth.

I took her to Wagner's and she tried on all the pink shoes and I bought her a pair of 25 cent flip-flops and she hugged me and after that we held hands and I took her down to the beach; grit between our toes, swelter of skin.

And then back up to Sam's. He smoked with us a joint, in his tiny room, and we were mellow. When he told us the weed came from Wisconsin, she laughed with him.

We skipped over to Joey's and we ate some fish and when I tried to feed her elegant little bites from my fork, she was laughing with me again.

And when we left, I told I was sorry for all the walking and she said, 'Who owns a car? I came by bus.'

I took her back to Sam's for the night; there wasn't anywhere else to go.
I heard her in his arms that first night. I heard the soft whispers and moans.
I heard his voice.

Well, fair exchange bears no robbery,
And the whole world will know that it's true.
Understanding solves all problems, baby,
That's why I'm telling you

And on that second day, she would say over and over again, 'Laugh with me, Paul.' And sometimes I would, but only when I thought about the crabs Sam handed out to everyone.

I took her down to the graveyard. We read the old stones and I stole flowers from them to put in her hair. And when she went to pee behind some bushes, I ran off, back down to Bruno's, back on the prowl.

Later This Week

2011-05-09T01:37:00.003-04:00

Perhaps I will just ignore my Dashboard for awhile longer. Blat on about my days or nights. I used to do that here too.

Get used to the feel of the keyboard under my fingers again. You know, write more than the 140 character twit.

It's not that I am empty. Just dissatisfied. And then, not even with everything.

There is joy in my life.

And it is springtime in Canada.

Always a good time for new beginnings.

Flexing

2011-05-01T01:42:00.004-04:00

It's rarely quiet in my home these days. Even now as 2 am closes in around me the television blats in the background; more of William and Kate. I should be in bed. Children always wake early on a Sunday. Why is that? I remember sunny days and being out the door by 7 o'clock myself. The new dew soaking my sneakers, the cool breeze of early light.
Life used to be more than about the Everyday. More than going through the motions of the mudane tasks. It used to be about more than just breathing.
It was just a few years ago when the police officer pulled over Charlie and I on one of our middle of the night drives thinking he was a dirty old man with a teenager in the car. Now I look in the mirror of my 33 year old self knowing rationally that I am not all that old, but I can see the subtle changes in my features. I am aging. Somedays it consumes me. Enough Somedays that it is becoming the mundane too.
I used to think I could live on into the immortal with my words. One of my old Everydays took up too much of my time. Then I started doing things like smoking my cigarettes outside. And then I felt a sense of cynisism and bitterness start to set in. The lack of new and exciting. Just the same old. The same old. The same old.
I guess I'll start with a draft or two sitting in my long neglected Dashboard...

Blank Slate

2011-04-26T01:31:00.003-04:00

I have no idea what this blog will be turned into over the next little while. No idea if I can go back to creating the worlds of long ago. Or if I am capable of creating new ones.

Sometimes life happens and you forget.

3000 Miles to Nowhere

2009-07-17T16:23:00.003-04:00

Mother complained, “When are you coming home?” And Father complained too. “The only part of Canada without decent skiing. Your mother is driving me nuts.”
“My parents are dead,” she told him, serenely, as though thanking God.

He constantly wanted to brush her hair out of her face, but she would fuss, even swear at him when he tried. “Please, don’t.” “Will you fucking stop?” But he would forget so easily, maybe on purpose, he was always just wishing to see her face, to see her burning eyes staring back into his. She found it rude to stare. She told him so. She liked to sneak glances at people who were unaware of her. Or at least unaware of her eyes on them, her hanging limp hair serving a purpose.
He was in love with her. He told her all the time. But she saw it in his eyes, his movements, heard it in his voice and his everyday words, felt his actions, those of concern and care. She could see and recognize and accept his feelings. She could not be sure she felt the same. Of course, she knew she loved him, but she had learned long ago that butterflies and blushes and sex do not equate to in love. She wondered really if there were such a thing as in love anyway, or if it was just all about hormones and stupidity. He acted stupid lots.
She approached everything in life differently these days, down to even the most commonplace of acts; she started brushing her teeth in the kitchen. Unless he was over. She did not want to make anymore mistakes. She did not know if she would ever want the things he did. He knew it too, but he was determined to prove himself worthy of her. She wondered if she would ever know happiness again. He endured her moods and her hysterics and her distain, so he could show it to her. It would take some figuring out, he assured her, but he was certain he could do it. “Just you wait.”

“Go away,” she would tell him, when he hovered over her, like a mother-hen.
“I just want to be near you. Make sure you’re okay,” he would reply.
And this would irritate her further. “Go away,” she would repeat.
And he would.
And when he was leaving, he would say, “This wasn’t enough. I’ll be back soon.”
She would never know if she should love him more or less for this.

She did not have pets of her own, but she loved cats, and fed the neighbourhood strays, and a few of the ones with homes too. If she had ever doubted animals spoke to each other, she knew for sure now they did. She wondered what they had named her place. Suckers Inn. They would come and meow at her window announcing their arrival and some would run away when she opened it to place the bowl of food outside, leaving it open in case they wanted to come in. Sometimes they did.
He brought the cat food over now; she refused to leave her home. He brought her food too, that she would refuse to eat most days. He cooked anyway. He brought her the Bic pens and she chewed on their lids, but she seldom used them otherwise, unless to do numbers. He brought her the drinking straws that she would chew between cigarettes, and the cigarettes, he brought them too, even though the smell and taste upset and disgusted him. He sat in her gloomy, smoky living room and watched old black and white movies, or did nothing, nothing at all, waiting for her to look up at him and glare or smile. He would bet against himself. If she smiles, I will do my dishes when I gets home, if she’s all bitchy, I will do hers….
Somedays, she would not say a single word to him. Everyday, she would mumble and laugh to herself, as he watched her pencil fly across the paper, or her fingertips glide over the keyboard, and he would wonder, What are you writing? He would leave little notes all over her apartment. She placed them carefully in photo albums (he did not know) or some she placed on the bathroom mirror, and she would write back to him in lipstick…

Fuck you.

Eat shit.

Go home!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes with a heart, and sometimes not.

One night, Jimmy told him, “You’re nothing but a whipping boy.” And maybe Jimmy was right. But since he did not have other whipping boys to compare himself to, he did not take Jimmy’s words too seriously. Besides, he slurred them when he said them. “You should go talk to that blonde.” Jimmy pointed to a tart all permed and in hot pink and heels.
“I think the Jimster should take this one,” he offered back.
They tipped their beers at each other, as Jimmy and his boots swaggered off.
He would inevitably wind up at her window after a night out with Jimmy, and she would let him in. His kisses forceful, wet and all teeth; she would push him away and then once he slowed down she would give into him, barely uttering a sound, as he moved within her. And unavoidably, he would cry real tears. “Please…Please…” And she would really cry too. “I love you. I do. I love you. For always.” He would hold her desperate, and pretend to believe she meant more than what she was saying.

For Caerleon

2009-03-06T01:54:00.001-05:00

"I have let down the blood in several places, and applied the dressings to the wounds. Keep them in place for an hour. He will be comfortable now, but he will not last the night." He touched her shoulder briefly, as he continued shuffling down the great hall, letting himself out.
She rushed to the windows and looked into the early evening light.
Something was so good about these lands. Something so good, it overwhelmed her sometimes. Made her sick to her stomach.
And they are to be mine now.....
She didn't want them.
Of course she didn’t. She was only seventeen, and she had never left the walls of Caerleon. She wanted to rebel, to be free.
She had wept on her father's chest for the last three nights in a row, but not for his coming death.
"Find a husband," he had croaked out his solution, while he smoothed her hair away from her face.

She had almost left Caerleon once. When the dark-haired stranger had shown up in town. He had slept with the horses like any other wanderer passing through. He was one of the few who had ever dared speaking to her, not caring about his place in the world. "Want to go for a ride, lady?"
Startled by his request, she agreed before she realized the improperness of it all. But soon the rides became daily occurrences; the horses frolicking through the sun-streamed canopy of trees.
He spoke to her of another life, another time, a little hut and tamed animals and working the land with his hands.
She said, "I want to come home with you."
And he replied, "I can never go home. The Romans would find me. But we can give ourselves a new home just like it."
She believed him, and they would laugh and dance and jump in the excitement of their love. He would kiss her hand. And then her lips.
Then they would make their plans of escape.
But the lands were invaded the night before they were to depart, and he had taken up the sword for Caerleon. Saving the day. So impressed her father had been, he made him leading commander for his army; wiping out her chance for freedom. But not love.
"Here; I have found everything I have ever wanted to be," he whispered in her ear.

She mourned for three days after her father’s death, before addressing the people of Caerleon. Meeting them out in the street, they soothed her soul with soft murmurs; taking turns to touch her hands, and she soothed theirs with her words. "I promise you Caerleon will always be as it always was."
And they cheered accolades for her and the land.
But she had only told them half the truth.

Life Is More Than Who We Are

2008-11-28T03:27:00.004-05:00

If she wanted it that way, then it was going to be that way. It had to be that way. There was no other way.
Everything was black and white. Even if others did not want to admit it.
Did it mean she felt an overall bleakness towards the foibles of humanity--no. Did it mean she escaped overwhelming emptiness sometimes--no.
She was twenty-three years old when she left her hometown. She would not return. She knew she looked at everyone differently; she saw the things others did not, chose not. She knew their truths better than they did and they could read it on her face; she could hurt them with it. Sometimes, she did.
She did not want to be cruel anymore.
She left for somewhere new. Things would be better.
And they were. In Los Angeles. That's where she went.
Some nights she would dance in her living room to ZZ Top or paint pictures of fairies and Snow White on the cardboard of cereal and Hamburger Helper boxes.
When it rained, she would put on blue jeans and her favorite sweater, sit on her apartment balcony, coffee mug in hand, and call the day her own.
It was selfish, her whole life, she did not care.

Sincerely, he was a good man. A good-looking one, with lips that could pout. The kind of man all women look at. Her first true lover.
Three days after moving to Los Angeles, she met him. She had told him her name was Susan, and it was not. She did not think he would call her, when she left him her number in the morning.
But he did before she even arrived home.
It began as purely sexual. Sometimes she would stroke the side of his face after lovemaking, and think, "I hope you are my toy too."

And then it changed.
He liked her.
She liked him.
And she let it go on.
She told herself, 'I will end this next week.', 'On Tuesday', 'I will just stop answering the phone', but it was as if she never really heard herself.
Until one night, she was drunk, she told him.
And he asked her to leave; he did not ask her real name.

She worked harder than most out there, and cried herself to sleep listening to old Elton John records.
They found her 'refreshing', and she knew in this day and age, she was just a novelty that would soon wear off. She was twenty-eight and a half when she wrote and directed her first feature film; 'raw', 'honest', 'painfully truthful', they said.
She told them her name was Linda, and it was not.

Giving Shit

2008-03-03T04:18:00.004-05:00

For the rest of the week, Edward Julian Watson did not take phone calls from Amy, and Becki did not make phone calls to him. Edward Julian Watson avoided as many phone calls as he could from his mother. But he knew he could not let that go on forever. He would have to call her tomorrow.
Or his mother might get back on the plane. And then get to his apartment and have the landlord let her inside. "Well, I see you're not dead!" she had accused him. And then she had stayed with him for the next three days and nights and had slept in his bed. And he knew he would have to get a new one after she left or he knew he would never be able to have sex in his room again. When his mother was back home, Edward Julian Watson decided to switch bedrooms too. Just in case.
He did not want to go through that again. He did not feel like moving entirely. Yes, Edward Julian Watson would call his mother tomorrow.
But today he was going to call Amy.
"I was back home at my mother's," he told her.
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
"It is now," he replied.
And they made plans to eat sushi.
And then committed to who-knows-what-else? after that.
Becki couldn't help but wonder about that, when she tried to call Edward Julian Watson that night.

Punks

2008-02-12T08:00:00.001-05:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. When Daddy came home drunk again on Friday night, she waited in the kitchen playing Solitaire, until she could hear him snoring.
Creeping through the house and then into her parent's bedroom, Minnie knew she would find her father's pants on the floor beside the bed. The glow from the hallway bathroom provided the light for seeing into her his wallet.
Shit. There were no tens.
Oh, well. She took a twenty.

When Tommy saw Minnie on the other side of the glass, his heart leapt into his throat and he was so happy he wanted to cry. He put his hand on the glass and waited for her to put her hand up against his, and when she did not, he sat down.
He picked-up the phone and said to her, "Why haven't you come? Have you been getting my letters?"
She shrugged. Brushed her hair from her eyes and for the first time really looked into his.
"Oh, Minnie. I'm so glad you're here..."
Her eyes were empty of emotion.
"Aren't you happy to see me?" he asked, and then he whisper rushed into her ears, "...Minnie, I love you..."
But nothing changed. Her eyes stayed blank.
"Oh my God, you think I killed her! Please, don’t do that…”" Tommy cried.
And she charged him, "I saw you with her, Tommy. I saw you with her."

Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose

2008-01-26T05:36:00.001-05:00

Punks

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. But stoned or not; even asleep, Tommy's words would come back to haunt her.

Dear Minnie,
How could you leave me here to rot? How could you not come see me? You must think I did it too. Well, fuck you, Minnie. FUCK YOU!!!!!!
Tommy

She cried and cried everytime she read the letter; and she could do almost nothing else but. She wanted to go see him, but she was too scared.
Climbing through her bedroom window late, Minnie walked the all-night over and over again.
And waited for the next visit from Officer Rialian. He stopped by every other day.

She did not go to school. She stayed in her room and her mother never came down the stairs to notice. She erased the school's messages from the answering machine every day, before her father came home, until the one day, Daddy stayed home and Minnie had to go prentend going to class. And when she came home Daddy was waiting for her, with an envelope in his hand from the school. Thirty days missing. One more day and she would be expelled.
And he hit her.
He hit her.
He hit her.

Her return to school was the news of the week.

in excelsis Deo.

2008-01-10T23:08:00.001-05:00

It's winter here again and I don't like it. I should have headed back home years ago; back to the sunny days and the warm basking bodies, but I just stay here year after year instead. I lie to my mother. "Yeah, Mom! I love it here! You should see the polar bears…" and all that other bullshit. Fuck. I really thought it would be cool; that I would get to see some penguins and shit. Well, I haven’t seen a fucking penguin yet. How did I end up here? I mean, what kind of guy just up and says, "Hey! I am gonna move to Canada!" And not just to Canada, but way fucking up north Canada? I am an idiot. I swear it snows eight months of the year up here...

So, I sit at home a lot and there is nothing ever on television anymore. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick the channels. That’s what I do until I want to swear and yell and throw the remote against the wall. But if I did that I would break the fucking thing and then I would have to stand in front of the TV to flick, flick, flick the fucking channels...And fuck that. It’s bad enough I have to clean the satellite of snow almost every day. At least I do not pay for all this bullshit: reality TV craze and Oprah Winfrey and fucking Anderson Cooper, I steal my satellite signal. Too many bad things are happening. On the TV. In books. In the paper. No one wants to hear about anything else but the bad and then we all sit around bitchin’ and maonin’ and fucking wondering why we aren't happy. Fuck. I am guilty of it too. And then we will all smile at each other, when we would rather scream; never genuine. Yeah. Everybody wants to get good on everybody, but nobody wants to do any of it. Upward and onward, my friends...

Hell. It's like that up here in Canada too. Sure, these good ole boys would take their shirt off their back for you, but no one is paying Peter to feed Paul. Everybody’s greedy everywhere. Even I came up here because they offered me fifty thousand dollars more a year than what I could make anywhere back home. Fifty thousands dollars. I can do a lot with that, I thought. Stupid scholarship student who had forgotten every word they taught him, except the promise of wealth. Fifty thousand dollars more a year don't mean shit. It means even less up here. What the fuck am I gonna spend it on? The fucking bowling alley? No thanks, I'd rather drink alone...

Yeah. So, I stay here. I don't go home for holidays. "I am needed here, Mom! People are fucking freezing to death! A lot of Indians like killing themselves around this time of year!" Happy cheer and a Ho-Ho-Ho. I send her a check for ten thousand dollars every Christmas and I think she would rather have that instead of me home anyway. It pays for her hair and her nails and all that other useless shit my mother likes to do with herself. None of it helps her find a husband...

Up here, there is two kinds of women. Those empty-headed fatties who wear their tops too tight showing off their giant stomach rolls and...it's gross. I know there is nothing better to do but sit around this fucking place, but still...I have standards. The other half are skinny, pale and soulless. Be Marilyn. Be Farrah. Be fucking Paris Hilton. Anyone but yourself. Fake blonde is even dumber than natural blonde, but who the fuck is gonna tell them that? I spent the first five years up here wanting to smack every single one of them; wanting to watch their heads shatter like glass…until I forgave them for doing nothing about who they are; for living the way they do. Realistically, who the fuck wants to be Canadian? Of course, they have to pretend to be something else…

Probably over half of the people up here are on some sort of welfare. It barely covers their rent. Barely gets them that case of beer. No one can afford electricity. So two years back, I am in bed one night, when I start to feel bad that I have all this extra money just sitting around and there are all these sad Canadian people and their pathetic children going without and I start thinking of myself as a would-be hero. I devised a plan. I was gonna be fuckin’ Boogie Woogie Santa Claus! Goddammit. I was going to give-away that extra fifty thousand dollars a year! And it’s the first time I can jerk-off in over a year and a half. And then I go through the records the very next day and I decide that the nine families that have lost a parent to murder or suicide are going to be the recipients of my money. Five thousand, five hundred, fifty-five dollars and fifty five cents. Five is my favorite number…

And I did it too. I gave away all that money away. On Christmas Eve, almost four o’clock in the morning, I was parking my truck on the outskirts of town, so no one would see me sneaking around. I hummed Christmas carols when I could get away with it and went through a few windows to put my envelopes under the tree when I could get away with that too. I felt all the joy forgiveness promises to bring. But with forgiveness also comes sacrifice. I could see her walking into town from half a mile up and I think that I should hide. No one is allowed to see Santa Claus. She doesn’t see me...

And Ang and I are the first on the scene that morning and we are there late into the afternoon before anyone else shows up. Ang brings a thermos of hot chocolate and a thermos of coffee and some Christmas cookies. And I realize that I have brought nothing. I realize she is the only one who ever brings something. I tell her I am sorry for being selfish-Merry Christmas- and she laughs and says, “What? Are you kidding me? You do all the driving”. And I feel better about myself because yes, yes I do do all the driving, even though we’re suppose to take turns. We only look at the girl once when we get there. And we both gag. And then cover up our honesty with lopsided smiles and jokes: “It’s was Kris Kringle,” Ang says. And I tell her, “No, one of Santa’s reindeer.” We laugh, as we head back to sit in the truck. And when the coroner finally comes, he gave us a quarter bottle of his special bourbon and burps out, "Merry Christmas, folks…", and then he clutches his chest when he sees her, straight through to his heart. “Jesus Christ…” He thanks the Lord he is alive…
And you know, I thank Him everyday too. I thank Him for the food on my plate and for the fact I’m alive and the fact some others aren’t…

I tell her all this on the drive into town. A little plump Indian with large brown eyes. I tell her, “This year I gave the money to nine woman who had are being abused by their partners. Maybe they will move away.” She nods her head, “That is a good thing.” And she nods her head again when I tell her, “You know I’m gonna kill you.”

Punks

2007-12-07T03:33:00.000-05:00

Dear Minnie,

You didn't come. I wonder why. Maybe because you thought I was going to get out on Tuesday anyway. Is your Mom sick again? I guess by now you know I didn't get out. The judge did't show-up for court and the other one was on vacation or something. My lawyer was freaking mad. He was jumping up and down and stuff. He said "We'll get those fuckers! We're gonna fucking sue!" He's a crazy guy. He gets so excited I swear he is gonna have a heart attack. But he also says for sure I will get out for Monday. They only have proof I was drunk. I want you to come see me on Saturday even though I am getting out on Monday--no matter what. Promise? The guys are cool here and all but I really want to see someone from home. I want to see you.
Did you go to the funeral?

Love,
Tommy

Comfort and Joy

2007-12-01T00:33:00.001-05:00

And now it's thirty years later; she's almost 40 and she is lonely and sometimes she shakes her head and she wonders, Why, why, why am I so lonely? And then she remembers why.
It's Daddy. She buried him five years a go. And good.
She showed-up early in the morning and asked the diggers, if she could help. And they let her.
She took off her heels and shoveled dirt till the end.

Back when the summer shone everyday, she would run around or ride her bike, or swim in the lake with her friends, or run into the bush and meet up with Tyler Johnson and she would let him kiss her and she would let his tongue slide around all inside her mouth, or sometimes, she would just hang-out with her brother.
However, he was mean, as brothers can be, and he would do mean things to her- like hold her head under the lake’s water too long or practice his karate moves on her-and she would cry to her Mom, "Make him stop." But she never would.
No one ever listened to her. That's what she thought.

Into the middle of the night, the Christmas lights that covered the Johnson's trailer would shine too, and she could see them from her bunk, at bedtime. She would watch them blink on and off, and sometimes she would squint her eyes, so all the colors would blur together. She loved the lights.
She loved the Johnson's trailer. It was shiny in the daylight too. Mr. Johnson had spray-painted it bright green and yellow and he called it his John Deere. And that would make Daddy snort. He said the only thing Mr. Johnson ever farmed was pot.
But she knew that wasn't true. Drugs were not something good people did.

On Independence Day, there would be a street party and the park would light up, everyone was merry and red. Dancing and laughing. To Bruce Springsteen. The Doors. Duran Duran. Olivia Newton-John.
She thought it was the best time.
Until the year Daddy punched Mr. Johnson in the mouth. It was late, like 10 o'clock and she was tired and she almost did not believe it. But her Daddy did it.
And some of the folks even clapped.

Tyler met her in the woods the next day anyway.
"I'm sorry 'bout what my Daddy did." She did not even say hi.
"It's not your fault," he said. "Your Daddy knocked out one my Daddy's teeth."
And she could feel her body fill with shame. She was gonna cry.
"No-no," he said, grabbing her shoulders. "Don't worry, Emmie. Look at me. He's all excited about gettin' a gold one."
He hugged her.
And that's when they heard, "Get your filthy hands off my daughter.
It happened so fast.
Tyler let go and Daddy rushed him.
And Tyler fell. His head cracked open on a rock
And she couldn't or wouldn't scream.
He grabbed her by the arm, "We gotta walk outta here."
And they did.
And no one ever blamed Daddy.
Not even Mr. Johnson.

Punks

2007-10-15T03:50:00.000-04:00

Thursday Afternoon

Dear Minnie,

I have been here for three full days now. The lawyer says he’ll get me out Monday. He’s a pretty cool guy. He goes on about how the cops are the real rats and they’re all corrupt and he tells me we will nail those bastards to the wall. He makes me laugh. It's fucking great. Most of the time I spend playing cards with some of the guys or drawing tats in my cell here. I have given some of my flash to some of the guys here. A few already have some tattoos. Mostly stuff they have done to themselves here. Mostly without color. Mostly terrible. But that's okay. A whole bunch of the them said they would come see me to have them covered up when I set up shop. If they all show-up, I have figured out I’ll make 6000 dollars so far. That's fucking awesome. I can't wait until I am old enough to apprentice. Birdie says she'll teach me, but she doesn't think I will want to do it for very long. Says I will probably give up. Don't you think she's crazy? Old people forget about destiny, I think. I do not know why I am writing about all the stuff I’ll just be telling you on Saturday. Just excited about it, I guess. It's not too bad here in the joint really. Someone cooks me three meals a day. And I get a clean jump suit everyday. They are orange. You would probably love them. The guys told me not to drink the coffee here cuz the guards like to piss in it, but I do not like the shit anyway. I'd rather be drinking something else. The worst thing is I can't smoke in here. I want one all the time. I will probably tug out all my hair before I get out. I'm not joking. There is some weird Mormon kid with big ears in here. Some of the guys says he's here for fucking a sheep. I am not sure I believe that. But the kid is pretty creepy. All pale and stuff. There's two black kids with AIDS here too. I wish you could see them, Minnie. But this is no place for a girl. I never want to see you here. No, that is not true. I DO want to see you on Saturday. I just mean I never want you to have to come here as a prisoner. I am not gonna be coming back here either. I miss outside. They do not let us out here. I guess I miss that even more than i do a smoke.
They're starting to let kids outta their cells for supper so I gotta go.
I meant what I said in the park that night.

Tommy

Giving Shit

2007-09-29T03:53:00.000-04:00

Edward Julian Watson was feeling rather numb. It had been a long, rainy drive home from his mother's house. The night before had been long, lying awake, in his old room. And Edward Julian Watson also had not eaten anything, since shoving his face full of Double Big Macs from McDonalds the evening before, an hour after getting out of jail.
And now it was evening again.
All of this combined contributed greatly to the numbness Edward Julian Watson was feeling. But his brain was contributing more.
He made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, but even standing over the hot stove did not take the numbness out of his bones, let alone his mind.

Becki was feeling rather numb too. It was not her mother's mention, during dinner, of, "You look pale tonight, dear. Are you coming down with something?" that made her aware of the numbness she was experiencing, but it was not happening because she was becoming ill.
She knew that putting Edward Julian Watson in jail had been too much.
And she was also feeling terribly frozen because Edward Julian Watson had found her last night, after she left her mother’s house and he had followed behind her, in his car, almost all the way back to her home. Screaming at her. Becki was starting to wonder if Edward Julian Watson was the ill one.
Becki hoped that he would call her. She did not have enough nerve to call him.
Passed-out drunk from Ms. Johnson’s rum, Becki stopped feeling numb around 7 o'clock Tuesday morning. The headache was terrible.

He called her three days later.
"Well, do you have something to say?" He said, not even bothering with hello.
She countered, "Like what, Edward?"
"Like how about I'm sooooory..." Indignation rose in Edward Julian Watson's voice.
It was the wrong thing to say.
"What do you want me to be sorry about, Edward?"
"You know what, Becki. I could have been having an emergency. A car-accident or something-"
"It could have been the case, Edward" Becki was agreeable, "but we both know it was not."
"I have you figured out, Becki. I understand you.. You're jealous. I know you want to marry me and-"
"I want to marry you? I am jealous of…-?" Becki asked
"Yes, you want to marry-"
The calmness of her voice suddenly surprised them both. "I want to marry you, Edward?.....Are you fucking kidding me ?"
When Edward Julian Watson did not answer her quick enough, Becki hung-up the phone on him.

And Edward Julian Watson knew a few minutes later that he had approached the conversation in completely the wrong manner. But because she had not said sorry to him, he was not going to call her back after she had hung-up on him.
So then Edward Julian Watson got back on to thinking, ’Well, what if there had been a car accident... or something?’, until he caught Orange looking at him. The kitten was sitting inside one of his running shoes. That's when Edward Julian Watson realized he wasn't feeling numb anymore. Because that’s when Edward Julian Watson simultaneously realized that Becki probably wouldn't care if he died in an accident...or something and that Orange was not sitting in his shoe, he was pissing in it.

The Slush-Pile Reader

2007-08-24T03:22:00.000-04:00

Daryl wanted to touch Marissa's boobs. “I am gonna have to let him soon,” she told Miguel. “I have been his girlfriend for 2 months now.”
Miguel told her, “I think that’s gross.”
But Marissa did not care much about what Miguel thought. She stuffed her training bra with socks and she made him lay down on the bed beside her anyway. And he obeyed his older sister because knew she could kick the shit outta him and no one was home to save him.
“Touch my boobs,” she demanded. And when he did, his sister started making low moaning sounds. Miguel did not know why she was doing that, but it made his penis hard, and although his penis had been hard lots of times before, this was infinitely more exciting.
After that, whenever the parents were not home, it would always be time to ‘practice’. It was not long before Marissa was making him touch and lick her real boobies. It felt good to press himself against her body, while she was writhed her own beneath him. It lasted for half a year, but then it was done, his sister never made him touch her again. And Miguel missed touching her terribly. But he never told her that.

Every now and then, Miguel's father would let him come downstairs to hideout. They would watch wrestling, on the television, without any of the women yapping around them. Sometimes they would play a few games of pool, and sometimes, Miguel's father would let him have a beer. Or two.
Miguel liked it when his father would go upstairs, to use the washroom, because Miguel could play with the ashtray that sat on the bar and not get caught. It was the image of a man; a Budweiser can for a body. The ashtray was worn as headdress that reminded Miguel of what Julius Caesar would have worn. When you lifted the ashtray off, presumably to clean it out, the can of beer would rise up and a large red penis would pop from out from underneath it. Miguel could lift off the ashtray over and over again and always want to laugh, but sometimes he would wonder why the penis was so red.
Miguel liked it better when his father would go upstairs, to answer the telephone, because he knew his father kept his dirty magazines underneath the sofa. Often he would see them spilling out from the sides. Miguel was twelve and a half years old the first time he took one his father’s magazines. He would hide them under his shirt, inside the waistband of his jogging pants, his jeans, and once his leather pants. He would look at the pictures; by candle-light, late at night, in his bedroom, and he would remember ‘practicing’ with his sister, his fingers touching the glossy images of boobs. He liked the centerfolds best. The larger the boobs, the more of his hand he could use. Carefully; he did not want to rip the pages of the magazine. He did not want to get caught.
And because Miguel could read as well, he soon learned how to pleasure himself too.

Daryl broke-up with Marissa and she had spent the next three months crying and eating and locking herself in her room. “Leave me alone…just leave me alone…” she had moaned through the door, and for the most part, everyone would. She stopped going to school and after a few weeks of phone calls from the secretary, the principal and her history teacher, even they became willing to accept her request. But finally, the parents had enough of Marissa and her ‘attitude’. They enrolled her in fat camp.
Miguel got to stay home, instead of going with them, on the long ride to drop her off. And after an hour of being alone, Miguel ventured downstairs to the magazines. And an hour after that he found his father's pornographic videos. He set the alarm on his wristwatch. Then he hit rewind and play all day.
Her jerked off twenty-seven times, in just under 11 hours. He could not get off more than 9 times. He wondered what was the wrong with him. Miguel did not know yet that this was an amazing feat, nor did he realize the implications this would have later in his life. But he did know pain the next morning, he doubled over getting out of bed and looking down at his red penis, while he peed, he realized he and the beercan-ashtray man were idiots.

By the time Miguel was sixteen, he had his own modest assortment of pornographic material. His best friend, Fernando, had connections and money. Enough money that he hired Miguel to do drops for him. And Miguel was happily paid with porn and little bits of coke. Fernando’s nickname was Gopher. It should have been Hustler. Fernando was a good friend.
Most drops Miguel made were to women. It didn’t matter most of them were fat and older than him. They liked to share their weed and they were the girls with the biggest tits anyway. And Miguel liked doing things with tits. Grabbing them, shaking them, sucking them, rubbin’ his motherfucking face in them. And maybe it was just because those ladies were holed-up too long getting horny waiting for Daddy to come home and help feed these three damn children; but he didn’t care; he was getting to touch a lot of tit.
Sasha was the first one to let him tittie-fuck her. She was tall and black with a big, fat ass and belly rolls and a mountain of boobs. The first night he made a drop there, she had rubbed his head in her cleavage when she hugged him good-bye. Miguel had an erection for the walk four miles home. The next time he dropped her dope to her, they fucked and this worked well for the both of them for the next six months. One night, about three months in, she made the offer. It excited him. He would never have the nerve to ask for this, although he had been masturbating to the images for 3 years. He ejaculated all over her face and all into her hair, and she screamed; so angry and offended. “I am not a piece of shit, ya know?” she cried. And he had calmed her down because he knew she wasn’t, but he was really confused about why she did not like it. It was certainly not the reaction he got when he entered the porno business himself two years later though, through Fernando's connections. They asked “Lucky Rodriguez’ to do it and he did and they all likedit. He could pop quick and often. Tittie-fucking became his money shot.

Exit

2007-07-30T03:47:00.000-04:00

Sitting in the back of the car, Tommy was sad Barbara would not allow him to get a dog. He had wanted one so bad. For so many years.
The world rolled by fast, as Dave drove down country back roads and the fields of corn sure were boring for Tommy. So he asked, "Why are all of us dressed in white?"
"It's Sunday; it’s God's Day. White represents the cleanliness that He wants us to live our lives with."
"Oh," said Tommy.
"And white clothes also keep us cool on terrible days such as today," she continued, and then to her husband, Dave, "If we put the top up, we can put on the air."
Dave laughed and reached over to pat her leg, but otherwise, ignored her.
"What does the color green mean, Barbara?" Tommy had picked his nose and was looking at a booger.

It was too hot in the church, so some of the boys had brought the long wooden pews outside and set them up along the side of the church. Most churches Tommy had been to were boring, but Tommy had never sat outside for a service, so he was a little excited. They seats were set-up right beside a river and birds were chirping everywhere and Tommy started wishing he had a gun cause then he would shoot a few, so he tugged on Barbara's hand and asked for one of those.
"I'll teach you what to hunt, Tommy." Dave laughed, thinking it was a good idea.
"Right on!" Tommy was exclaiming, as they were taking seats in the back row.
"I am glad I brought my hat today," Barbara was complaining.
And that is when Tommy noticed everything was different at this church. First off, everyone was black. And they kept popping out of their seats to clap their hands and sing. And the Preacher! He would run around everywhere, up and down and all around the congregation. Tommy could not help it. He did what they did.
"It's a mighty fine day, today. Oh, yes, it is! Our Lord gave us this day!" The Preacher was yelling. "A nice day for the water to cleanse our souls! Come and take a dip with Jesus. Won't you come?" He was looking at right at Tommy.
And oh, boy, Tommy was coming! This church was awesome! He couldn't believe they let you go swimming.
"The smell of that water will never come out of your clothes." Barbara grabbed Tommy by the back of his collar.

After church, Dave decided they would stop at McDonalds for French fries, but Barbara would not let Tommy use any ketchup on them. "Not in those clothes."
And Barbara added, "The first thing you do, when we get to the house, is move your butt to your room and get them off."
Remembering Barbara's words, Tommy was out the car door fast, when they arrived home. He heard Barbara say to Dave, "Can you believe the nerve of that preacher?"
"I think he's cool," Tommy paused to say through window, before running towards the house. He tossed over his shoulder, “I'm a quarter black."
"You mean a quarterback," Dave yelled out, correcting him.
And Tommy stopped to turn around for a second. He shook his head. "Nope. My Momma told me so all the time."
Dave and Barbara sent Tommy back to the State.

Giving Shit

2007-07-22T01:35:00.000-04:00

Later on, Edward Julian Watson was sitting in a jail cell and the local police force was ignoring his pleas to use the telephone again. He had tried to use it several times, but when he had picked up the receiver, there was no way in hell he could bring himself to dial his mother's phone number. Edward Julian Watson should have just called a lawyer.
Because now he was in a honest state of crazy. He jumped up from the bed and went to the bars. “Come on, guys. Let me make a call! You know I haven’t yet!”
And the officers in the lunch room laughed. They had been laughing at him for the past three hours.
"Everybody sucks! You’re all jerks!" Edward Julian Watson.
Jimmy popped his head out the door and yelled, "Shut-up, tough guy, or I'm gonna go arrest me some bikers to throw in there with you!"
Edward Julian Watson sat down, cross-legged on the floor and thought about smashing his head off the floor. It was almost lunchtime. Maybe he would go on a hunger strike. Maybe he was gonna sue the badge right off that stupid nigger cop too...
Nobody offered Edward Julian Watson lunch.
But they finally did let him the chance to make another phone call. An hour and half after he had shut his mouth.
And Edward Julian Watson called for Becki.
"You did this to me. Now you need to get over here and make them let me outta here. Hurry, Becki."
And Becki replied, "I do not know what to tell you, Edward. I really don’t want to."
And Edward Julian Watson hissed into the phone. "Quit acting like a mother-fucking princess and get your ass down here now, Becki. This is not funny anymore."
And Becki knew it was not. But her senses were offended by his hash words. Becki said nothing.
"Becki...are you still there? Becki...Becki....oh, do not have hung-up! Oh, jesus..."
And she could not help but laugh at his anxiety.
"Come on, Becki," he said, "I have to go home and feed Orange." He knew it work.
Becki walked six blocks over and Jimmy let Edward Julian Watson out of jail. But she did not stay at the police station and when Edward Julian Watson figured this out, he drove the side roads that took her to her home. But he never found her.
So Edward Julian Watson went to his mother’s and spent the night.

Giving Shit

2007-07-14T01:43:00.000-04:00

Edward Julian Watson arrived to pick-up Becki at 10 p.m. He was supposed to be there between 2 and 3 in the afternoon.
At 8 o'clock that evening, Becki had told Ms. Johnson, "Just tell him I went out."
And Ms Johnson did as requested, always willing to keep her tenants satisfied.
"Sorry, sir, but Becki is out," she informed Edward Julian Watson.
"If you just let me go up and knock the door to her room, I know she is home," he wanted to convince.
But Ms. Johnson just shook her head at him. "I'm sorry, sir. There are no visitors in the rooms after 9 p.m."
"But you see, she is spending the weekend with me. This is how I know she is not out." Edward Julian Watson was becoming indignant.
"Oh, no, sir. Becki went out with a nice boy tonight. His Daddy is a banker and his shoes and his hair were so shiny. Oh, and so was his smile! He dresses real well too. Appropriate. Not like yourself, sir. Can I ask why you wearing a black man's shirt?"
"I-" Edward Julian Watson began and then said loudly, "She's ignoring me! I know she is! She does this!"
"No, sir," Ms. Johnson assured. "Tonight Becki went out with a nice boy. Clear outta here." And she closed the front door on Edward Julian Watson's nose.
Becki had been listening from the top of the stairs, chewing off her pink nail polish and her eyes had been growing damp. She knew Ms. Johnson was telling the story of what she hoped for Becki's future.
Becki was feeling love for Ms. Johnson.
Even if it was her Mother's vision too.
And Edward Julian Watson, well, he was making his way back out to his car. He was swearing and he up for a fight. He wasn't clearing the hell outta anywhere.

It was such a sunny morning and when Ms. Johnson pointed towards the window, Becki could not see out it at first, even though she barely opened the curtain.
But yes, she finally saw him. There was Edward.
"I noticed he was still out there about 3 in the mornin'. Scared me a bit and thought I'd get out the shotgun, 'til I noticed he's sleeping."
"He still is." Becki affirmed and after a pause, "Ms. Johnson, let's call Jimmy."
And Jimmy smiled through the telephone. "Why Ms. Johnson, you know I'd do anything for you. Even leave church on a Sunday. Let me talk to the girl."
Then Jimmy put on his hat and kissed his wife and left. He parked his car a house down from Ms. Johnson's. He made big displays about sneaking up the driveway and over to the car because he knew Ms. Johnson was watching him. Both women were and they were giggling. Becki covered her mouth with her hand.
Jimmy made monkey faces at Edward Julian Watson, before he knocked on the window and waited for him to wake-up and roll it down.
"May I see your license, sir?" Jimmy asked.
And Edward Julian Watson was already fumbling into the back pocket of his pants, before the words were out and he handed the card over.
"Have you been here sleeping in your car, since last night, sir?"
"Yes, but-"
"Haven't ya been here long enough now, sir?"
"No.-"
"Yes."
"No," Edward Julian Watson was going to explain. "I have driven from-"
"Sir, you cannot stay here any longer."
"Yes, I have come here to see-"
"It does not matter, sir. Time to clear outta here." And Jimmy rapped his knuckles on the roof of the car.
"She is ignoring me! I know she is! She does this!" An excitable Edward Julian Watson.
"Sir, can you get out of the car, please?"
And Edward Julian Watson did what he was told. Instead of just agreeing to go.
And slap went the cuffs and Edward Julian Watson thought, ... what the fuck- and Jimmy was whispering in his ear, "You got a real nice car here, sir. Too bad Leroy'll be comin' to tow it."
Jimmy was laughing.
And Edward Julian Watson was yelling, "WHAT?!?! WHAT?!?"
And the police officer asked, "Sir, do you want to calm down and get the hell outta here now or not?"
And Edward Julian Watson, he said, "No."

Punks-Big Mistake

2007-07-04T04:12:00.000-04:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. Mostly with other people. But that had not been happening too much lately.
There is no Tommy. There is no Krystal. There is no one who wants to know her.
Except Billiy-Boy. Always fucking Billy-Boy.
And Phillip.
And Phillip is so popular. And he is so blonde and blue eyed.
He says he will talk to her in front of others--but he doesn't; at Minnie's request.
He really wants to walk her home at night.

It surprises Minnie how much you can get to know when people claim you as invisible. She hears a lot of conversations these days.
"I bought some new lipstick..."
"That Susan Howe makes me so mad..."
"I love Patrick sooo much..."
"I love the colour. It's great, right?"
"I am gonna punch her in the face, I swear."
"I just know he is going to ask meee out."
Melaine, Sandra and Nancy; smoking, in a circle of self-interest.
And she hears Phillip isn't asking anyone out. No one at school thinks he's a fag.
"He fingered me once...like a year a go..."
"He's hot. I'd fuck him..."
"He probably has a girlfriend in Toronto. Or Paris or somewhere..."
"...A fashion model in New York City!"
and
"That's the best muthafucka out on the field. My boy!" High Five.
It was always good news about Phillip.
He doesn't deserve it. To be asociated with her.
So, when he says, "Minnie, I promise I love you...", she just kisses him or grabs his dick--whatever will shut him up the quickest.
Nobody ever says anything bad about Tommy either.

Bridging

2007-06-26T02:23:00.000-04:00

Samantha always hated going to church. 'Thou shall not this' and 'Thou shall not that'. She felt it was pointless to be told not to do what she wouldn't do anyway. And since she turned 13 and officially too old for Sunday school, there was no escaping Reverend Patrick's rants. His very long, very loud, two-hour rants.
Not that Sunday school had really been any better. Everyone was loud there too. Poor Mrs. Chute’s voice was so high-pitched, when she yelled "Quiet!", she just blended in with the screaming kids. Samantha felt bad for her, so she hid in a corner pretending to read her Bible; a pocket-sized copy of Huckleberry Finn or The Swiss Family Robinson tucked neatly inside, while the other kids ran dizzy around the room wearing the plump, little woman out. Mrs. Chute also came to teach religion class twice a month at the school. Mostly she would teach songs and read the stories she was never able to during Sundays' classes.

At home, Samantha read other things. Things she would not bring into a church out of respect. If her parents were home, Samantha would read her school books. One time, she had been in her sister's room and found a dirty magazine filled with naked pictures of women and stories sent in by the 'readers'. After reading three of the tales, she deemed them trash. She had put the magazine back where she found it. She would never rat her sister out for anything.
But she had let Krystal know anyway. "I see you have been reading."
And Krystal had let her know too. "So what, Miss Prissy? I will tell Mom and Dad you sneak out every night to the library. Who's ass will they be burning then?"

When Samatha was twelve, she asked Tommy, "Don't ya think it is creepy...? cremation...? burning yourself like that?"
"No, I like fire," Tommy had replied. "I think I'll do it when I die."
And Samantha had been horrified. She said to Tommy, "It reminds me of....Hell."
"I'm a hellraiser, Sammy. I might as well get used to the burnin' a bit before I get there." And Tommy liked the sound of what he said. He filed it away to use again and again. It creeped out the other kids too.
But he drew the pictures for Samantha. Jesus Christ on his cross and burning flames surrounding him.
She told him, "I think Jesus was black."
But Tommy thought they would make real cool tattoos.

No Sugar Tonight

2007-06-18T03:08:00.000-04:00

Sissy threw her cereal around the kitchen from her highchair. Milk and Cheerios hitting the kitchen cabinets, before sliding to the floor.
"I want a cookie, Tommy, I want a cookie," she wailed over and over again.
But Tommy was late and he did not answer her. Instead, he wheeled the highchair into the living room and flipped on the television; finding a cartoon.
"Let Momma sleep awhile," he warned his little sister. Momma was still asleep on the couch.
"O-tay, Tommy," she replied, and Tommy reached over and took the two-dollar bill that was on the coffee table, and he ran out the front door and to school.

The big green doors of the school were pretty big compared to Tommy. He looked up at them and then down to himself reflected in the dark glass.
Maybe I won't go to school today.
Tommy had thought this before. Sometimes as a daydreams and sometimes as bed dreams and sometimes at times like these.
Tommy hated walking into class late. Everybody staring at him.
Everybody knew mothers were supposed to wake-up.
Everybody knew if you were late to class it was because your mother didn't.
The kids hated him.
His teacher pitied him.
And Tommy knew it.

Tommy decided he would go to the arcade. He didn't think to hide from people. Instead he ran to the arcade, and it was probably because he was running that no one noticed him. Tommy was the fastest kid alive. He could even beat a cheetah.
Tommy caught his breath
He looked up and the fat guy behind the counter was staring at him.
"Whadaya doing here, kid?"
And Tommy thought the guy was nuts for asking, but he answered him anyway. "I come to play video games, sir."
"Yer not supposed to be here," he sounded angry. "Yer supposed to be at school."
And Tommy conceded, "Yeah, but it ain't like this is habit or anything."
And Joe thought that was a good point, so he didn't call anyone to tell them about the boy.
Instead, he introduced the kid as 'my friend, Tommy' to all the men that came in to play pool that day. And he let him sweep the floors for more quarters. And he fed him Slushies all day long. And because Joe had kids himself, he knew when to shout, "Tommy, school's out!"
Tommy gave up the racing game he was playing immediately and he was sad, but he hurried towards the front of the arcade.
He felt obliged to say something to Joe. He said, "Thank you, sir. I had a really good time."
And Joe wanted to smile, but instead he pointed at the boy and said in his meanest, nastiest voice, "I don't wanna see you back here for at least a month, kid."
And Joe scared Tommy a little bit, so he turned, yelling, "Yes, sir!" as he ran out the door.

Giving Shit

2007-06-13T01:53:00.000-04:00

She could not smell the gin.
She could not taste the gin.
She could feel the gin and the slow burn down to her belly every time she took a swallow.
She looked around the room and noticed her half-read Emily Bronte. She wanted to be like her.
Just like a man.
Maybe, if she were just like a man, maybe then she could forgive herself for wanting to do this. For allowing her heart to be part of this.
And then she threw out the thought completely. Stupid, men are always right; therefore, never in need of forgiveness...
“What is the matter with you?” Her mother asked her twice through dinner and Becki had been Emily Bronte then. Stone-faced, she had stone-walled her mother’s questions and asked others.
“Mother, are those new shoes?”

Edward Julian Watson had let the cold water run hard and fast earlier, so he could make juice, and now much later, he was trying to fix the kitchen faucet. The big drops of wet that had continued to hit the sink, interupted his reading now, but had not bothered him, in the least, on his way out the door for a run. Or when he returned home and watched Conan the Barbarian for the second time that day.
Looking into the living room, he noticed Orange sitting atop his copy of The International Jew.
"You better not be pissing on that, Orange!" He yelled into the next room. "I'm reading that!"
But Orange did not respond to him. Did not even look his way.
And Edward Julian Watson did not know how to fix a faucet.
So he lined the sink with a whole roll of paper towel.
He said, “Take that, bitch!”
And the sink did not respond either.
Edward Julian Watson went back to his reading.

It was a miracle she could still stand on her feet. Working all day long at the bookstore, and then walking all the way to mother's and then to her home. And with all this drinking...What was she thinking?
She was not thinking about being in Chicago; midnight the next night.
She was thinking: Maybe Mzzz. Johnson would like a drink.
So she grabbed her bottle and went downstairs to the porch.
And they laughed and they drank and she cried.
But she woke-up Friday feeling fine.

And Edward Julian Watson was feeling fine too. Styling and smiling in the hallway mirror, he snapped his fingers, before pointing at himself.
Edward Julian Watson was wearing a yellow and purple-striped golf shirt.
And he and Amy were having breakfast together.
And breakfast turned into lunch.

Not The End

2007-06-08T04:11:00.000-04:00

As the tears dripped down her cheeks, she looked up to find Tommy standing over her, with his hands held securely at his sides.
She could see that one fist was more bulged than the other, and before she had time to think of the trouble, he stabbed her in the chest, taking the baby, while she and the pillow fell to the floor.
There was no crying, and no gasping for air, only running out into the cold January air where Tommy slipped on the ice, landing on the same knife he just stabbed her with.
The baby could never withstand the cold, she knew this, when she looked through the window. He was only wearing his diaper and undershirt and the wind was whipping.
She turned on the outdoor light, watching Tommy for the next hour, to make sure he was still breathing.
He had stabbed clean through her left tit. No real damage done.
When the rain started coming, thick with frozen ice, she turned it off and went to bed.
She set her alarm for 4:30 in the morning.
And Tommy was easy to wake-up then, and the baby was blue then.
Inside, she drapped their bedroom blanket over his shoulders and sat down beside him.
"So,how we gonna get rid of it, Tommy?" She pointed to the playpen, where she had put the baby.
Tommy started to cry.
And Tommy started thinking. Where...?

by
jessy & Queenie

Again

2007-06-04T03:25:00.000-04:00

I feel lonely. She thought it to herself for the 100th time that day. Even amongst the stuff of others. The stuff she would trip over. The stuff in every freaking corner. Even amongst their mutters and moans, their words, their letters. Alone.
She rationalized. She generalized. Of course, everyone secretly feels this way.
Of course, they do.

Tommy didn't pay his half of the rent again yesterday.
Of course not. She saw it coming, watching him pretending it was not.
He tried to give her 100 dollars.
"Way to go, Mr. Coporate Confrence-Call."
She was disgusted with him. With herself. She had seen it coming.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away...
She remembers the chanting voice of her first grade teacher. Mrs. McDonald. She was so old and she would move around the classroom so fast. She would go home and ask her grandparents why they did not.
She believed in that little rhyme.
She knew she was human. She knew she had to eat. And she hated the doctor.

Tommy said to her, "I could turn blue talking to you and you would still not listen."
And when she looked at him, it only confirmed the obvious.
"Get out of this house."

Daddy used to bang his fist on the dining room table and boy, it would scare the hell out of her. It was heart-stopping, scary shit.
Do you know how much fucking money the roof over your heads cost?
Do you?
Do you?
Do you?
She learned quickly to never look up. Daddy's mouth was so large. And his stained teeth were long and menacing. He looked like the wolf that ate Little Red Riding Hood's granny.
It was just smarter to keep an eye on his fist, so at least you could see when it was coming your way.

For a long time, Tommy sat in the couch, instead of leaving.
"Let's go for a drive."
"No."
"Let's go for a drive."
"No."
"I am going for a drive," he said.
And he did.
And when Tommy came home, he went upstairs to sleep, while she sat on the couch staring at the blank teleivison screen.
Because there was no cable.

She would pick up the baby when he cried. But he did nothing to elevate her loneliness. This mindless, drooling thing.
She would walk around the house holding him.
When she kicked one of Tommy's shoes across the kitchen floor, the sudden movement made the baby spit up; some of it landing on her retreating foot.
She took him over to the couch and when she was done changing him; she placed a pillow over his face.
But that is not how she killed the baby.

Giving Shit

2007-05-29T04:16:00.000-04:00

Edward Julian Watson loved Sunshine Travel. That was the name he had choosen for his new shop. He loved to say the name out loud. He would say it over and over again to would-be vacationers. And would he say it to himself in the mirror all the time.
There was really no one else to talk to. So it is a very good thing Edward Julian Watson loved his business.

It was evening on Friday and Amy was not caring for much. When she paid for her things at the pharmacy checkout, a little red sign told her the candy bars were on sale. Two for a dollar.
So, she figured she could short the cable bill five dollars that month and she bought herself some right away.
She sat down on the bench, just outside the store. She ate a Snickers bar first.

"That's a lot of candy bars," Edward Julian Watson said out loud, as he walked out the pharmacy doors, but more to himself about his own bag of goodies.
Amy thought otherwise.
"Do you want one?" she offered.
And later he asked her, as they fell into her bed, "Do you have AIDS?"
And she laughed and replied, "No, baby, just candy."

Edward Julian Watson was speaking to Becki by 11 o'clock that night. A common occurrence.
And Edward Julian Watson told Becki he would be going on vacation this coming weekend.
Of course, Becki wanted to know where. She asked him.
"I am going camping."
And Becki inquired, if it would be with Bob and Edward Julian Watson affirmed the negative.
And he blurted, "With Amy."
Becki was apparently abrupt, when she changed the subject. "And how is Orange today?"
And Edward Julian Watson watched Orange sitting and glaring at him, from the other end of the couch; edge of arm, for a good thirty seconds.
"I am just joking, Becki," he said, "You're coming to Chicago this weekend."
Becki laughed, when she answered him. "Is that so, Edward?"
"It's really about time," he replied.

Suzy.

2007-05-20T02:39:00.000-04:00

Suzy walked down the hallways, books and files clutched firmly against her chest. She caught herself clenching her teeth. She hadn’t managed much sleep the previous night. She wondered how Tommy’s exam went. She wondered if he had went through her binder. She wondered if he had looked at chapter 4. She wondered if he had looked at her handwritten notes, especially the ones written below the algebraic formulae table.

“Fuck,” she thought, as she recalled for the thousandth time the intricate heart-crossed figures with Tommy’s and Suzy’s names in it...

~by vinny~

Suzy felt like an idiot...

But Suzy was no idiot. Tommy knew that.
For a fact.
He knew damn well he had passed his test and it was only because of her. He even admitted it right on his test. He answered the essay question with their dialogue.
Suzy was the smartest girl Tommy had ever known.
He had seen the pretty little hearts and his name always written in bold, with her black pen.
And Tommy loved Suzy too.
He sat on his bed and sketched her hearts, then wove flowers of skeletons through the curves. He drew a dagger underneath. He liked his drawing.
He thought it would make a cool tattoo.

And Suzy- no, no. Suzy was no idiot.
She met Jon McDermott, after class, at the abandoned factory down by the tracks. Sun shone through the green glass, and he just stood there up against the wall.
She got on her knees and undid his pants herself.
Jon McDermott's daddy was a doctor.
Jon McDermott paid 50 bucks a pop.

"You're really smart," Tommy said to her, when he found her by her locker the next day. "All I can do is really draw."
He handed her his drawing and she blushed because of the hearts.
"It'd make a real cool tattoo," Tommy told her. "You want to hang out for a bit after school?"
And Suzy agreed, but was not even sure if she had said yes or only nodded her head.
Tommy asked her where she would like to meet after class, with a shrug and a 'Anywhere.'
And feeling like an idiot again; Suzy couldn't even stop herself, she asked, "How about we meet down at the old factory?"

Look What You've Done

2007-05-01T00:59:00.000-04:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. And man, she wished she had a joint right then. But she had rolled up all the roaches for Tommy earlier.
Minnie could feel her heart starting to race again, she felt like she was going to puke again. She raised her hand to cover her mouth. But it smelled of river water and rotting wet leaves.
She could not stand the smell of the summertime creek stained to her hands.
And Minnie puked again.
And Minnie swallowed it again.
Her eyes burned worse than her throat. She did not let a drop out of anything out.
What if they could use her vomit to figure out she was there? Through DNA or something? That thought would rise up much higher in her throat and it was strong enough to make her swallow.
But not strong enough to make her leave the park.
She knew a joint would give her the courage.
She just walked in circles.
Until she saw him.
He was there. Sitting with his head propped up against the seat of a bench and sleeping; a large bottle of vodka stuck between his legs
"Tommy, you gotta get up." She bent down to speak loudly in his ear, when she reached him.
And Tommy opened his eyes.
"You gotta go home." Minnie tugged on his shirt. "Come on."
And Tommy smiled at her and he pulled her over close to him, so her head was on his chest and he said, "In a minute, Minnie...in a minute."
And her clothes were so wet and she was so cold, and he was sleepy warmth, so she stayed for a minute.
"I love you, Minnie. I promise." He muttered; hugging her closer.
“You gotta go back home then, Tommy.”
“I’ll go, if you go,” he said.
So she grabbed the bottle out from between his legs and said, “I am taking this with me” and she brought the half empty bottle up to her mouth and she closed her eyes. Liquid white tore down the back of her throat.
Minnie did not kiss Tommy good-bye. Instead she warned, “You better leave”, and then she turned and walked away.
And Minnie did not look back.
When it started to rain, it did not make her feel clean. She stopped and tried throwing her head back and stretching out her arms, but she knew she did not have the right to.
She knew she could forget every minute of the night.
Even Tommy telling her he loved her. Her mother had warned her a long time ago, to never believe a drunken man saying that shit.
So instead, she just kept on walking home and thinking about the DNA that might collect in pools of water.
She drank the other half of the bottle.
And when Minnie got home, she washed it carefully with warm water and dried it with a dish towel, placing it under the sink with Daddy’s collection of empties.

The Best Part Of My Day

2007-04-28T05:16:00.000-04:00

Driving around and it is late and we were drinking cold things that will only keep us awake.
But a cop starts following us anyway.
And five blocks later, he turns turns on his cherries, and Charlie says a swear word and we pull over. The cop drives his car along side us, and windows are rolled down.
And the cop he just stares.
And stares.
And then says, "How old is she? You're looking a little young to be out."
I stated my age at the same time Charlie, the asshole, was stating how old I was gonna be.
The cop says, "No shit?" And I let him know I loved him.

Giving Shit

2007-04-01T00:56:00.000-04:00

Edward Julian Watson bought a kitten.
And he regretted it badly, while he was walking home from the pet shop, arms full of expensive cat food, scented litter and the orange box containing the orange cat, that Edward Julian Watson had decided to name Orange. He regretted buying the animal because the sounds coming from the box appalled him. The cat sounded like a human. A small one dying and scared. It kept scratching at the box.
Edward Julian Watson could not get the sight of Jessica McClure out of his mind.

Three days went by and Edward Julian Watson still felt lonely.
The kitten did not like his new home.
And neither did Edward Julian Watson.
He seldom ever saw the dumb animal. It spent all its time under furniture.
In whatever room he was not.
He never heard it make a sound.
But apparently his neighbour did. She opened her door, when he was getting into his.
"My god, the scratching and howling....What do you have in there?"
"I'd tell you, if i ever see it," Edward Julian Watson said, as he went inside.

"I bought a kitten," he told Becki, holding the telephone in one hand and a pen in the other. Edward Julian Watson was supposed to be working the books for the business.
"I love kittens!" Becki sounded excited in his ear. "Do you love your kitten?"
"I love my kitten, " Edward Julian Watson lied.
"And someone bought your old TV shop, I see," she went on.
And he said, "Becki. You would love Chicago."
And she laughed, but not loud. "Do you miss me, Edward?"
"Kinda," he said.

Edward Julian Watson climbed into his bed at three in the morning. He was so ready for sleep. He felt so nice and warm under the covers.
And then Edward Julian Watson smelled shit. He sniffed the air twice to make sure.
Yep. Shit.
"I don't like you, Orange," Edward Julian Watson said out loud to a cat that did not care.
And then he thought, Oh my god, I am soooo tired.
But now he could not sleep because he smelled shit.
"Fuck."
He noticed his stick of deodorant, in the red glow from his alarm clock numbers. And the idea quickly formed.
He rubbed the deodorant underneath his nose.
And then Edward Julian Watson went to sleep.

Number Three

2007-02-25T05:14:00.001-05:00

When I was young and on my way to school most mornings, I would notice Ms. Johnson and she would notice me. Sitting on her porch, wearing her green housecoat, Ms. Johnson and her cigarette would wave.
And I would always wave back.

When I got to be around 14 and Jimmy and I would be on our way to my house late on weekend nights, whenever we saw Ms. Johnson out on the front porch of her house, Jimmy and I would grin. Ms. Johnson would always give us a smoke or two.
The first time she handed one over to us, she asked us, "Does your Mommas know you smoke?"
And Jimmy replied, "Oh yeah!"
I knew she could see Jimmy's lie written all over my face, but she let us have the cigarette anyway.

Whenever we sat with Ms. Johnson, Jimmy would tell her that he could play the harmonica. "I can play it real good," he would boast.
And she would laugh at him and lean down to turn up the little transistor radio, that she kept by her feet, and she would sing and Jimmy and I would keep time, stomping our feet and snapping our fingers and watching her breasts sway in the shadows.

Jimmy brought his harmonica out one night. When he started playing along with the radio, I just about shit my pants. Jimmy was real good. Everything seemed to disappear and I was so caught up in his sound, it could have been an hour, before I noticed Ms. Johnson was not singing.
Sometimes Ms. Johnson drank a little gin, when she sat out on her porch. Late that night, she poured Jimmy and I each a drink and we stayed out there until four in the morning, sipping the drink that drove away all the summer heat.
On the way back to my place, Jimmy said to me, "I think Ms. Johnson wanted to kiss me."

When I worked Danny's Diner late two nights a week, I could always count on Ms. Johnson to be up and out on her porch, when I was coming home.
One time I told her I could play guitar. Real good. And she leaned forward and she chuckled in my face and the taste of her gin went up my nose. It tingled. She put her hand on my knee. "Oh, darling, I always know when you lyin'!"
And I turned red and I wanted to hide, so I looked down. At the round tops of her breasts. And I wanted to sink my whole face between them. And I could not help it. My mind just kept seeing things, like my tongue all over those breasts.
And she knew exactly what I was thinking too because she laughed some more at me. "You're a sweet boy, ain't ya?"
Then she pinched my cheek and she sent me home. "Honey, time to go on back to your Momma."

It took me a long time to get good playing guitar. I almost gave up right away. My fingers bled so much. When I was 22, I came back to town for a few weeks. I brought along my guitar. I was in a band. We called ourselves the Helmet Heads. I wanted to go and tell Ms. Johnson.
She clapped her hands, when she saw me coming up her stairs. "Oh, I just knew you were coming to see me, boy! Your Momma said you were gonna be in town for awhile!"
And I played my guitar for Ms. Johnson and she sat in her chair and she smiled at me. And when I was done, she poured me a glass of gin and asked me how I liked living in the city.
"I love it," I told her. She turned on her transistor radio and we shared stories until late in the night.
And then I asked her, "Ms. Johnson, why do you sit out here all the time? What are you waiting for?"
"Fantastic," she said, she leaned over to pinch my cheek. "Now you go on home to Momma now, boy."

Jimmy called a few days ago and says to me that he is moving to Canada. Bought himself some small-town construction business. And I think to myself. Damn. There are already 400 miles between us. I ask him if Sue is happy with it all and he tells me she is, but his daughter wants to kill him. "She says she's in love."
"Ms. Johnson passed on about two weeks ago now," he tells me. He suddenly remembers.
And I am stunned and I do not know what to say. "She had great tits," I blurt out.
And Jimmy says to me, "Yeah, man. She let me touch one once, you know?"

They Just Slip Away

2007-02-06T14:53:00.001-05:00

She thought the baby would come, but it did not.

Matthew was in her car, parked behind the laundromat. He sat sideways, with his feet propped up on the dash. He smoked cigarette after cigarrette. Her 11-month old son was sleeping in the backseat. The front passenger side window was open, but just a crack. It was pissing down rain outside.
He had met her almost six months a go. She was almost five years older than him. And three months pregnant.
And he didn't care.
He worked the afternoon shift. Drove the forklift, for cans of soup. Brought home his pay check.
And he had cable TV and cigarettes. All the time.
She was easy to get along with.
He had decided love was only an action. And anyone could act.

She thought the baby would come, but it did not.

He drove them out to a country road. It was after two in the morning. It was no longer raining. And it felt so good, to be behind the wheel, driving too fast. He rolled down the windows. He felt the dampness of the June night right down to his bones.
And he could do this, just drive, if he wanted to.
Yeah.
He could just drive.
She would let him too.

She thougth the baby would come, but it did not.
So, they wheeled her into the operation room.

Matthew went back to town. Pulled close to the curb, outside of the bank. At the ATM, he emptied out all but 100 dollars.
Smoking cigarettes the whole way, he took Dustin to Chicago first.
He called her seven days later.
'Where are you?' is what she asked.
And he told her.
So, she walked the mile to the bank. She ached every step. She carried her new daughter in her arms.
She put the twenty-five dollars back into the bank account, so he had enough gas money to get home.
She knew he thought love was an action. He had told her so once or twice.
She had told him she thought love was a want.
When he arrived home, they had sex.
Three months later, Matthew quit smoking.
And he took off with Dustin again.
Because he wanted to.

Tommy, 13

2007-01-20T01:57:00.000-05:00

Tommy grasped his hair in exasperation as he flipped his notes furiously.
The clock was ticking fast.
“I’m never going to make it in time,” he thought. “Only 4 hours till the exam.”
He took out a stack of notes, crisp sheets of paper filed neatly in a binder. The name “Suzy” was penciled smartly at the top, happy pink drawings of flowers as decoration. The little hearts that accompanied the flowers caught his attention. He raised an eyebrow.
And then he wondered with disgust how the girl has her head in the clouds.
“Chapter 4, chapter 4,” mumbled Tommy. He frantically turned the pages. He froze in horror as he found the right one.
“…the fuck?”
He examined the scribbling, shaking his head slowly, like some imbecile.
And then Tommy fished out an eraser quickly...

~by Vinny~

He scrubbed the pencil lines off of the page. Erased her name.
Tried to erase the picture of her in his mind.
He tried focusing on the fast ticking of the clock; reminding him he had work to do. Tried remembering that he was in a library and he should be reading. Like everyone else. He tried thinking about Suzy. How she would be there in 20 minutes, and how he needed to know something. But everytime he looked down, he saw the imprint of her name left behind on the page.
Read Chapter 5, he thought. And he flipped the pages, until he found it.
But it did not work. He just could not stop thinking of her. And he did nothing else.
Until Suzy's voice came from behind him.
"Oh, good! You are on Chapter 5!"
He turned around, in his chair, and smile at her.
And she smiled back at him and reached out to tug on his arm. "Come on. We got to get out of here."
And Tommy could not agree more.
They sat under a tree, at the park across the road.
And Suzy had a little radio. And she turned it on. "Listen, Tommy. The Berlin Wall is coming down."
"Who cares?" he replied.
"Did you even read Chapter 4?" Her eyes opened wide.
He spent the next 20 minutes doing just that.
And then he had three hours left until the exam...

All Your Blogs-The Greatest Hits Collection

2006-12-29T04:59:00.000-05:00

ticknart

Jessy

Brian

Autumn

Steven Novak

Love Lost Fiction

2006-12-28T05:18:00.001-05:00

THE CITY'S STILL DARK
by Queenie

for Christine Smith

Chapter One
the tired spaces

He drove back to the old place again. He did not know why. He had not even noticed he was doing it, until he saw the red car parked in his space. Swearing under his breath, he went to turn his car around and drive the 35 minutes out of the suburbs and into the city. And to his new home and to his new bed.
Five hours later, he would be up and on his way back to the airport and to a long three days in Milwaukee.

She was happy in her new home. She loved the living room windows; so big. She loved the fireplace in the kitchen; so not-needed. She loved that she could sit outside her front door and see what was going on.
And she loved looking at her red car. Parked in her driveway.
And she really liked her new bed too. So, usually when he was pulling in next to her car, she never noticed.

Except this night. This rainy, spring night, when he decided not to turn his car around, but to sit in his car in front of his old home and think, she was sitting on her front porch.
And it kind of scared her, when he did not leave. Will they kill me? Is it someone I know? Is it a robber? She decided not to move. And she decided five minutes later that it must be a drunk passed out. She decided to make sure.
And he was embarrassed, when she tapped on his window. He laughed, "I used to live here. Remember me?"
And when she looked closer at him, she realized she had seen his face before.
And it had been on moving day.
She paused to think before answering him. "...Do you want to see what I have done with the place?"
She showed him every room, but the bedroom.

Chapter Two
what you wanna be

He found himself thinking of her often. Her hair and her smile. The touch of her hand. He never wanted to make her cry.
And everywhere he went, something would remind him of her.
He liked thinking about her.

She only thought about him when he was in front of her. Making sure the governor kept his job was her top priority.
She let him fondle her breasts twice and secretly liked it both times, before she let him see the bedroom. About three weeks later.
And the bed was on the opposite wall from where it used to be, and after their lovemaking, he thought that he was glad the room did not feel like his old room. The bed was so much nicer too.
And he always wanted to know."Was it good for you?"
"Yes. This is good for me" was her answer.
So he slept there that night.
And then the next night too. He liked the warmth of her body. "I'll be the one that will hold on to you," he whispered more than once.

Chapter Three
the steady shore

He talked to her on the telephone every night. Usually for half an hour. No matter what. Both liked to talk to each other over the phone. They would laugh and smile. And then sometimes cry.

They always had sex in the city and every other night that he was over at her house. They only went to the city three times in the six months. There was all that traffic and neither could sleep very well.
He was usually over at her house.
He loved running his fingers through her hair.
She loved the 1000 smiles he seemed to own.
The living room was yellow now, instead of white, but the furniture was where he thought it should be, instead of where his ex-wife had it.
They watched football and Jerry Springer on television. They played golf at the club. She gave him back his parking space and they went to Hawaii together. Twice.
He walked into her home whenever he wanted to.
He gave her a key to his.

Chapter Four
she's walking wrong

And she had the key for three months and she never used it.
Except this night. This rainy winter night, when she used the key to let him in because his arms were full of lots and lots of packages from the stores. She let him in first and then she ducked into the washroom, right inside his front door, just as he managed to turn on the hallway light, with his elbow.
And then he walked into his living room.
And a minute later, so did she.
She walked into a room, where there were two people kissing.
And she said outloud, "Oh, my god."
And the couple jumped back from each other.
And the next voice said, "Jesus. You could have told me someone was here." And then the other woman continued, "I am going to go get dressed. And then I am going to leave."
The other woman did not say sorry to her, as she walked passed her. Nor did cover herself. She felt cold.
But she looked at him and he looked at her.
And after a pause she asked, "How did she get in here?"
To which he replied, "That is my wife."
And when his wife came out of the bedroom and in the entry way, to put on the brown shoes neither had noticed before, no one said a word. The other woman did not slam the door behind her.
But she kept her eyes locked on him.
Even though he was turned to the wall, covering his eyes with his hands.
"How did she get in here? Answer my question." she repeated.
"I did not think she would be here." He turned around to look at her and then walking towards her, he said again, "I did not think she would be here."
"How did she get in here? I want to know the answer to that. I am asking you that."
"She is my wife." He stopped in front of her.
And she slapped him. "How did she get in here? I am asking you that."
And then she could not help it. She started to cry. She was really sad.
He thought she was hysterical.
So he slapped her back. "I didn't fucking kiss her."
Taking two steps back, but not falling down, she was still crying from behind her raised arms. "I am going home. And you're not." And then she turned to leave and caught glimpse of one of the bags he had brought in a few minutes ago; slid under the Christmas tree, with his foot. Inside of the bag was toliet paper.

She let herself in through the kitchen and threw her keys on the counter. She made herself a cup of tea and the telephone rang a few times. But she did not answer it.

He had never spent much time in the kitchen of the house before. Made toast there once or twice, but she had made him cook. Every other time he was over.
Her only telephone was in the kitchen. The same black rotary one that had been there, up on the wall, when the place was his.
He imagined her sitting on the floor beneath it; her knees up. Wishing the phone with stop ringing. A lone tear sliding endlessly down her face.
He knew she was hurt.
He did not know for how long.
In reality, she drank the tea she made herself. She read a book. And she cried.
And she thought, isn't it ironic about that toilet paper?
And she did this all in her bedroom, where she could not hear the phone anyway.

Chapter Five
second hand heart

All he wanted to think about was her.
He started doing things like buying matching towels and feeding the birds that came to perch on his patio. He would light Cinnamon scented candles and sit in the dark rooms, listening to Enya. He kept his television turned off and he started taking long walks.

One time he went to her place. And the door was locked.

She wanted to call him once. Then twice. But she never did. Sometimes, the thought of him made her angry and sometimes, she missed him.
Sometimes she thought about using the key she still had to his apartment. Sometimes she even thought, what if she did use the key and his wife just happened to be there too? Would they drink all his coffee or all his wine? It would depend on the mood.
Sometimes when she would masturbated, she would think about drinking the wine and kissing his wife for herself.
Sometimes he thought of her while he masturbated too.

He wanted to call her. Tell her the things he had been thinking about. About how they should meet up. For coffee or something.
Sometimes, he imagined just bumping into her.
He wondered how she was doing.
And he wondered who was telling her she was beautiful. She liked being told she was beautiful.
He knew someone had to be doing it.
He was always thinking about her.
Because she was his wife.

Soul To Keep

2006-12-10T03:33:00.001-05:00

She got herself a ride over to the next town and then she walked for the rest of the night. She walked a lot during the day too, and that next night she slept in an abandoned car, behind a gas station. The owner found her there in the morning, and gave her two cigarettes and a cup of coffee, before sending her on her way. He did not have the mind to care where she was from.
But she did.
So she walked some more.
Until she found a pay phone and she called back home; collect.
"Hi, Mom."
"Nobody is looking for you, Miranda," her mother replied, listening to her daughter sigh in relief.
"You haven't called the police?"

Miranda walked all day. She found a dollar and then a little shop that sold coffee for that much. She sat at the counter.
The man who sat beside her wore a red plaid shirt. He offered her one of his donuts. "You're too skinny," he said.
And she laughed and took the offer. "Where you headin'?"
And he replied, "Nowhere, I am parked for the night."
He asked if she wanted to have a nap in the cab of his truck.
She took that offer too.
The lights from the parking lot barely made it into the sleeping space of the truck. He came on her stomach, but he never touched her, happy just to look at her out-lined naked.
He offered a ride for all of the next day.
And she accepted. "Thank you."
In the morning, she went to wash up.
"Here's five bucks. Get us some coffee, while you're in there," he had said to her.
She cried in the parking lot, when she realized he was gone. Until she remembered the pack of cigarettes in her coat pocket.
And then she started walking again.

She walked until she met Tad, inside just another little town. He said he drove. He said if she came over to his house, he would borrow his fathers car and take her somewhere. Anywhere.
"Where do you want to go?" He asked her.
"Who cares?" she laughed, as she followed him home.
But his father was not there.
And he said, "That's okay. He will be home soon." They would hide her in his room until then.
And the next morning, Miranda left without getting a ride and with a ten-dollar bill balled up in her hand.

On another simple Main Street she walked, until she saw the pay phone.
"Hi, Mom," she called again and before he mother could say anything she rushed out, "I am pregnant."
And then her mother said, "Jesus Christ.....Miranda.....Miranda, don't come home till you get rid of that."
She hung-up and walked into a pharmacy. She wandered up and down the aisles, listening to the radio. Music she did not know. She looked at hair dye and she looked at shampoos. She wouldn't buy anything, but would stand in front of the notebooks and pens and wonder if she should.
But she knew she had to walk.

Just three miles from the highway rest stop, she thought she would collapse. It was past two-thirty in the morning and she knew there would be no ride.
Two hours later, she arrived, blood soaking through her pants. She was crying so loud the waitress called an ambulance.
And the doctor at the hospital said her baby was fine. It still had a heartbeat.
And she turned to the wall and she cried some more.
And the doctor said, "Did you not want it to be?"
And she said, "No."

When she woke-up, the doctor was standing over top over her. "Are you listening - can you hear me?" And when she nodded yes, the doctor told her, "It has been taken care of."
The doctor said she could stay in the room for a day or two. She could have food to eat and she could get some sleep and she could use the shower as often as she wanted.
And she could make phone calls.
But this time when she called her mother, no one answered.

What If I Need Them Again Someday

2006-11-14T00:08:00.001-05:00

"I am leaving," she said, but he got to them first.
"Give me my keys," she smiled sweetly at him. Damn. She still wanted to smile at him.
He laughed and smiled right back. "Not a chance."
"I don't want to be here," she replied. She meant it. "Give me my keys."
"But I already took back everything I gave you. You're shit out of luck." He laughed, right in her face.
She had agreed he could have it all back if he wanted, afterall, she knew.
And it had not bothered her. Even though she would really miss the Guns n' Roses album. It had not bothered her too much. To give back the things he had gave her.
She had not even thought of her car.
Or the fact that he owned half of it.
So while he laughed, she shook her head and when he was done, she said, "It does not matter. I did not own a car six months a go. I know how to get around this town." She reached down for the coat; near her feet. She put it on.
"You're not going anywhere." And his boyish smile believed his words.
And she thought, The arrogance.
But he felt it all slip away, when her hand reached the front door. "Come on. Why are you doing this?"
"Because you lie." She answered fast.
"Well, you don't have a car anymore. Stupid," he called her.
And she turned back to look at him and she smiled again because she wanted to. No, she agreed she did not own a car anymore, as she reached inside her bag and pulled out the little black book. "But you don't own this anymore either, now do ya?"

Punks

2006-11-01T00:48:00.000-05:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. Minnie also liked to get drunk.
Phillip liked getting drunk too, but all his friends had plans.
"Minnie," he said to her, when he saw her going into the girls room, during class time. "Minnie, do you wanna come over on Saturday night?"
And Minnie sneered at him. "Fuck off, asshole," she said.
And she watched him as he did.

Minnie sat on her bed Friday night.
Listening to her mother. On the phone, in the kitchen. Still only coming out of her bedroom when she had to.
"Mom...Mom....I know, Mom...." She repeated, into the phone.
When Minnie could not listen to whining anymore, she reached over to her stereo and put on Fleetwood Mac as loud as she could. She listened to Go Your On Way and thought of Tommy.
When her mother came downstairs she noticed her, but pretended not to. Until her mother reached over and unplugged the stereo.
"What the fuck?" Minnie said.
And her mother replied, "Grandma is coming over tomorrow for supper. She thinks your presence there on Sunday would just upset everyone else."
Minnie did not bother to say another word to her mother. She leaned over and plugged back in the stereo. She hit tape deck #2. Slayer pierced the air.
Minnie picked up the phone book and found Phillip's number ten minutes later.
"Are we going to get drunk?" She asked him.
"Of course," he replied.

Minnie showed up at his house at three in the afternoon. He was still wearing the clothes he had slept in. And his hair was flat. Rubbing the sleep from his face, he said, "Lets start with a gin and tonic."
And Minnie agreed. "Whatever."
While he made the drinks, Phillip asked her how her how her weekend was going.

He showed her every room in the house.
Then he showed her the Nintendo. They played all the games.
They watched the evening news. Just in case his parents' flight went down.
Then they played some pool and the rum came out. And the rum did not agree with Minnie.
He rubbed her head and back, while she vomited in the toilet.
She looked in the gold frame mirror, after she rinsed out her mouth. And Phillip came up behind her and cupped her breasts.
"It's my birthday," he whispered to her.
"I am missing my Grandma's party to be at yours." She turned around, so he could kiss her.
In the morning, as she was leaving, Phillip said to her, "I do not believe the things they say you did, Minnie."
"You're not the only one, Phillip," she replied. "You're not the only one."

Red Rover

2006-10-16T04:25:00.000-04:00

She lay stretched on the couch, two pillows to prop up her feet, for three days. She never changed her clothes. Just wore her blue jeans and a pink t-shirt. Her bare feet and a pale face. She never seemed to move; except her mouth. "If you are hungry, make sandwiches for you and your sister."
Tommy would ask her if she were sick and she would say things were fine. Everything is alright.
But at night Tommy could not sleep because he heard her crying.
"Goddamn you, Chet, Goddamn you..."

The sunlight bursting through the leaves prevented Tommy from looking up. It was just as well, looking up only reminded him that he could not climb a tree. Instead, sitting on his shadowed hillside perch,straight in his line of vision, Tommy saw some of the other recess children who were with joined hands, holding up those who ran away from the blacktop with their arms.

Tommy ran home from school.
He did not walk with Mirko.
He figured Sissy would likely be starving by now, just like yesterday.

Momma was not in the kitchen. Tommy came in the back door, so he could sneak an apple,to eat first by himself, but soon he discovered Momma was not in the living room, on the couch either, poking his head around the corner, before opening the fridge.
Tommy found Momma in the bathroom.
And there was blood.
And she was naked. Naked and screaming, "Tommy, get out. Get out, Tommy. Get out." Red hand trying to do just that.
He got out, before it touched him.
And then Tommy called his father.

Tommy waited in the corner of the kitchen. And he did not want to hang up the phone.
He heard his father come in the front, but Tommy watched him take Momma out the back door.
Still naked and red.
And sobbing, "I lost it. I lost it. I lost it."
Before his father stepped through the doorway, he looked over his shoulder at Tommy. He said, "You mind your sister and I will be back soon."
But no one came back for two days.

Giving Shit

2006-09-24T02:57:00.000-04:00

Besides being scared that he was losing his hair, Edward Julian Watson also feared other things.
Small rodents, microwave ovens and typically, death.
But most notably, Edward Julian Watson was scared of his wife.

She called, one fine day, at a blissful 7:30 in the morning.
Edward Julian Watson was waking up with Linda and the sex had been good the night before. But because he was waking up with Linda and it was not at his house, he did not hear his telephone ring or his answering machine come on.
At 8:30 in the morning, Edward Julian Watson heard the message his wife had left him, while he was adjusting his tie, almost ready for his day.
His wife was asking to meet him for lunch.

When Carissa had walked away from their marriage, it had came as a terrible surprise to Edward Julian Watson. He believed his wife loved him.
She said, "I never see you. You run your stupid shop and I bust my ass for school. You love TV and I love books."
"Alright," he had replied. And he had wanted to say, "But..." But she was already closing their front door. From the outside.

Edward and Clarrisa Watson had seperated after only three years of marriage.
The last time they spoke, she had called him pathetic and worthless. He had shrugged it off. Edward Julian Watson knew he was worth plenty.
The last time they spoke, she reminded him that he was everything her father had ever called him. She said to him, 'Daddy always said you married me for the money', and Edward Jilian Watson had not denied it.
The last time they spoke it had been on the telephone and he could not believe she was being honest with him; that she hated him the way she said she did.
Afterall, Edward Julian Watson had not gone to law school because his wife had.

They met at the diner across from his work and Edward Julian Watson ordered their lunch. A cheese burger and fries for him and a salad and water for her. When they were done eating, she asked if he ever missed her, to which he answered yes.
She wanted to know why.
"Mostly the sex," Edward Julian Watson replied.
She glared.
That is when he told her he was moving to Chicago and that he would be opening his own travel business. He even ventured, "Do you want to come?"
And she replied, "What? Mommy won't pay?"
Edward Julian Watson had enough money to do it on his own, but he did not tell his wife that. Instead, he said, "I get laid three times a week. What about you?"
And her eyes opened wide. "Fuck you," she seethed at him, before she pushed herself away from the table and then walked herself out of the diner.
Edward Julian Watson laughed. Maybe she would finally give him the divorce.

To Whom This Does Concern

2006-09-11T23:06:00.000-04:00

Your brother came to see me last night. It is funny how the years can melt one into another blurred, uneven, so long, so close. He looked the same, save longer hair. Same easy smile.
And Wendy was here. And Charlie was here. And Marty is always here.
And your brother spoke of you.
Wendy and I, our eyes locked. Duplicate worry. Duplicate pain.
But he told us it was okay, she takes care of you well. And we prayed for it.
Later on, I said to Wendy, "I think my heart stopped."
And she said to me, "I think mine did, too."
I went to bed and I cried for you. I felt I had to. Your brother said your spirits were high.
But then I wiped my eyes and I rolled myself over to love. Something you reminded me was attainable, when I had the least belief in it. I would not be where I am now, if it were not for you. I have much to thank you for.
And I will wish the best for you for Everyday.

1000 Days

2006-08-31T01:08:00.000-04:00

Everyday I wake-up in the same house and I see the same faces, I see the same rooms, I see the same trees in my front yard.
Everyday my shoes hit sidewalk and I travel to the same place and I see the same things. The same people.
Hey there, Steve and Tracey.
Hey there, Terri.
Hey there, other Terri.
Hi, Sara. Hi, Dakota. Hi, Austin. Hi, Tamera.
Everyday I find reasons to go into the corner store.
Everyday I find reasons to leave this place.
Everyday for 1000 days.
And now I am.
I have made it happen.
Tomorrow when I wake-up, it will not be like Everyday. Tomorrow when I wake-up, I will take down the curtains. I will unload my freezer. I will bag up the fish. I will box the cats.
And then the movers will arrive.
And not just to move me from one end of this city to the other, but to take me to a new city.
I have lived here for all of my adult life. Over one third of my entire life.
I chose this place. It is more hometown to me then where I grew-up.
And now I am leaving it.
I was so happpy and now I want to cry.
I wonder if Everyday I will long to be back here.
Good bye, Steve and Tracey.
Good bye, Terri.
Good bye, other Terri.
Good bye, Sara. Good bye, Dakota. Goodbye, Austin. Good bye, Tamera.
Good bye, London.

Hell's Edge of the Ghetto

2006-08-07T04:26:00.000-04:00

Tommy walked along the dark side of the apartment building. He knew he could get in through the back door, but going back up to the seventh floor again just scared the shit out of him. He had tried to rob the 7-11 three times for milk. But he just couldn't do it. Now instead, Tommy was on his way to the apartment building's dumpster. Tommy wanted to kick at the dirt and the broken beer bottle glass that littered the weeds under foot, but he did not.
Tommy wanted to cry too, but he did not do that either. It was getting too late for him to be making sounds. He knew someone would likely hear him and then back to Yolanda's he would have to go.
And the sounds of the night surrounding him were loud enough, anyway, with the televisions and their broken-up voices and the mixing of music coming from bedrooms. Loud were the whirl of the fans that made Tommy notice even more the dead air, that hung humid to his skin. The crickets were calling for rain, cars were chugging and squealing and people were yelling; Roy, get me some water and Tisha, where's that cat? A basketball pounded pavement.
Sneaking by; the orange light was dim, but it caught Tommy's eye and he turned towards it. A bedroom window and a girl on her hands and knees. She had a man's penis in her mouth. Her hair, slicked to her forehead, was as dark as his skin.
And Tommy could not believe what he was seeing. And Tommy did not know what he was seeing.
When it slipped out of her mouth, Tommy gaped at the thought of how much bigger his penis could grow. He would not look away.
Until she looked up, spotting him through the ripped window screen. "You fuckin' pervert kid. Get the fuck outta here."
He noticed the sweat beading between her breasts, before he ran. From the best stuff he had ever saw.

Yolanda had spent up all of the money for him fast. And then her welfare did not come. A letter came instead saying she was suspended. And Tommy knew when he was suspended from school that he had to stay home. After a few days, he discovered the same thing happens, when you are on welfare suspends you. Yolanda just sat at the kitchen table most of the time, in her green pants, with her bottom swallowing the seat whole. She seemed bigger every time Tommy looked at her. Her white teeth more menacing.
"Good for nothing bastard," she muttered, when she dropped his plate of food in front of him, in the evenings. The only meal anyone was getting.
And finally one morning she yelled because the girls were crying for milk. "Ain't you a man, Tommyboy? Go get us some goddamn food and don't you show your white ass back here till you do. You hear me? I'll hurt you, if you don't, Tommytommytommyboy."
And Tommy knew it was true because Yolanda had hurt him before. With her fists and with flyswatters.

Tommy slowed his running as he came around the corner, to where the garbage was kept. He was breathing hard from the run, and taking was taking big breaths, so Tommy tasted the garbage before he smelt it. His body gagged. He looked at the large grey container and saw the bags sticking out of the top. And then he saw more bags, on the ground, ripped open and slimy like flesh rotting.
I don't want to do this. I do not like Yolanda or her girls. Or the gross people who live here. His mind was yelling. And this time Tommy kicked when he wanted to, but he was kicking cement, so he hurt his toe. "FUCK."
And then suddenly, one of the people stuck her head over the top of the dumpster. She had twenty red bows in her hair. "Look what I found," she hissed at him. She held up a picture frame and Tommy noticed, as he walked closer to her, the shards of glass sticking out from the wood.
"That's just junk," he said to her.
"Oh, I have lots of panes of glass at home. What are you looking for, kid?"
She told him her name was Pepsi, when Tommy asked her it to avoid answering her question and he laughed and believed her.
She told him she was eleven, when Tommy asked her how old she was, but she would not really be that age for another four and a half months.
She told him that she made the long pink earrings she was wearing, "from lamp shades", and that she had made all the red bows in her hair, too, but they were really just old Christmas decorations she had found in the dumpster last week.
But Tommy trusted her big brown eyes. So he decided to tell her why he was there.
"You can't eat anything from here. That's nasty." she told him.
"I don't want to," he told her.
So, Pepsi told him about a place five blocks over. "They hire people who cannot cook." She talked on the way over there about how Ed's Pizza and Pool Hall was the place where people went to drink beer and after they were drunk, the place where they ordered pizza to take home with them. "It's a rough place. People are always getting into fights. My Momma worked there and had a knife pulled on her." She also told him they would have to go through a dumpster, anyway and Tommy noticed, the whole way there, that she continued to faintly smell like the trash she had just been weeding through.
He was scared when they approached the back of the pool hall, the music was too loud.
The kitchen door was open.
Pepsi swore and said, "I'll have to do it. Stay here."
And he did and he watched her and she did not make a sound. She just walked over and opened the bin like it was no big deal. Then she was handing him two pizza boxes and turning him around and saying, "Let us hope for the best."
Two steps later and the voice was loud. The voice was deep. "What are you two doing?"
When Tommy turned the sudden nightness merged with the man's skin, who was standing right in front of them. Tommy only saw his teeth, his blue eyes and his apron.
"We're going to eat some pizza," Pepsi said. Again with the no big deal.
And the man said, "Alright."
Tommy and Pepsi ran the five blocks back home and tip-toed quietly to the back door of the apartment building.
"She's not gonna let you eat, kid. You better do it now," she whispered, when Tommy went to go inside.
"In here; under the stairs," he whispered back and she agreed.
When they opened the boxes, the cheese and pepperoni pizzas were burnt, but when Tommy offered her a slice she took it. He ate three himself, before he asked, "Do you wanna put your mouth on my penis?"
But Pepsi just laughed, as she took off running up the stairs. "Next time, kid."
And Pepsi was right. Yolanda woke-up the girls up and sent Tommy to bed without offering him pizza. After she hit him with her fists again.

She's Three

2006-07-22T05:23:00.000-04:00

Sissy was wearing her blue hat and mittens and her red rubber boots. She was going to the store with Momma and Tommy.
"I want some gum." Tommy said to his mother.
And Sissy wanted gum, too.

The park was on the way to the store. When they were close, Momma said they could play there for a little bit.
Sissy went up and down the slide and laughed.
Tommy sat in a swing and kicked dirt.
Momma smoked a cigarette, in the shade.

Jackie was driving down the road and Sissy saw the red car first. Jackie pulled over and said, "Let's go for ice cream."
The kids climbed into the back seat and Jackie put the top down. She turned to Sissy and said, "I like your red boots."
"Yeah, Jackie," answered Sissy.
At the ice cream parlor, Jackie held her up and read to her the kinds of cone she could have. "Chocolate..Vanilla..Tiger Stripe..Bubble Gum..P--"
And Sissy remembered she wanted gum, too.

Momma said okay, they would go over to Jackie's house, so everyone ate their ice cream in the car.
"Andrea is already at home and John and Zack and their Daddy should be home in about an hour," Jackie told Tommy and Sissy.
Sissy was licking her arm; melt running off the cone. "Yeah, Jackie," she nodded. "This is good ice cream."
"I don't like mine," Tommy mumbled and dumped his treat out onto the road.

Andrea set up the sprinkler, after her brothers came home. Momma and Jackie sat under the tree, with Crystal Light and vodka between them.
Tommy would not go in the water.
And Momma had told Sissy to take off her mittens and boots, before she could.
"No, Momma" defied Sissy each time it was mentioned. She would not go in the water without them.
Instead she lay motionless, on the ground, with her baby legs burning in the full sun.
Tommy went for a spin on John's bike. He rode around and around and around the block. When he came back, Tommy was sweaty. And Sissy was still laying in the sun.
"It is hot, Sissy. Let's go in the water."
"Yeah, Tommy."
And no one said a word about her hats and boots this time.

Afterwards, Tommy was itchy and the mosquitoes were biting Sissy.
She was screaming and hitting herself. "Bad bugs. Bad bugs."
"Let's have hot dogs," Jackie said, then yelled at the house, "Jason...Come start a fire."
His voice yelled back from inside the house. "I love fire."
"Let's take off your mittens," Jackie said to Sissy. "The bugs like your mittens."
"Yeah, Jackie," Sissy agreed. But her wrinkled fingers scared her and she started to scream again. "Look the bugs do. Bad bugs."
Then the fire was lit and the children dried.
And Sissy liked the fire. It made her skin feel warm. She took off all her clothes.
Zack started to sing, "Oh, Canadaaaaa..."
And Sissy finished for him, "The land of the freeeee..."

Giving Shit

2006-07-11T03:52:00.000-04:00

By eight o'clock Edward Julian Watson had slept off his plane ride and he had watched The Facts of Life. When 227 started, Edward Julian Watson decided he did not want to sit at home for the night.
No, not at all, he thought.
He drove his blue Datsun over to Maple Street and called on Becki.
The negro woman, who owned the house, opened the door and said, "No visitors allowed upstairs after nine pee emm." She went upstairs herself to inform Becki of her visitor, raising her green skirts and leaving the door closed on Edward Julian Watson.

"It is going to be hot tomorrow." Edward Julian Watson made small talk with Becki.
But he was thinking of other things. Like about the lunch he was having with his mother the next day. And how much he did not want to go.
And Becki was sitting on the porch next to him just sighing. "Edward...I tell you all the time I avoid weather reports, so I can wake-up each day surprised. Why do you insist on telling me this news all the time?"
And although he did not care for the tone in Becki's voice, he asked her anyway," Would you like to come to lunch with Mother and I again tomorrow?"
"Alright," Becki said, "but can we go get coffee now?"
Edward Julian Watson was suddenly tired again. He looked up to the night sky. He thought the clouds surrounding the half moon looked like a witch and her one eye.
He sighed. "Alright."

"You remember Becki, Mother." Edward Julian Watson let Becki slide into the booth first.
Becki rolled her eyes at Ms. Watson. "Lillian, I have brought you a book. I think you will like it."
And Becki did an almost-fantastic job of keeping Edward Julian Watson's mother occupied. That is, until they were waiting for the bill. His mother suddenly turned on him. "Edward, you were joking about selling the television business, I would assume?"
"No, Mother. I am not joking."
"This is just another ridiculous idea-"
"Mother, you have no say in the matter-"
"I have plenty of say. My money is what got you started in the television business. And a lot of it."
"I do not recall you signing anything." Edward Julian Watson was almost sneering at his mother.
"Just your life insurance policies, do not forget those, Edward." Lillian replied.

Enter

2006-07-07T06:02:00.000-04:00

Everyday, at Dave and Barbara's house, Tommy woke-up to the sound of the alarm clock going off at 6:15.
It was way earlier in the morning than Momma had ever made him get-up.
Tommy would wonder why the birds seemed so happy, when all he wanted to do was bury his head back under the covers. Which he often did. And then Tommy would get up to go pee and then play with the trains or pick his nose or do any other variety of little boy things--even sometimes doing his homework from the day before, just to prolong going down the stairs.
Everyday, after Tommy had wasted as much time as he possibly could, he would put on the school clothes, left out the night before by Barbara.
And everyday when Tommy came downstairs, Barbara would tell him to take a bath. In her high, clipped voice and while casting a disapproving stare down at him, she would say, "Go take a bath, Tommy."
And Tommy hated baths.
In general, Tommy just hated bathrooms.
Everyday trudging out of the kitchen anyway, Tommy could count always count on the order to brush his teeth too, before reaching the stairs.
And Tommy hated to brush his teeth.
And he hated Barbara, too.
She was always making him clean something.

One day, when Tommy came down the stairs, Barbara did not say, "Go take a bath, Tommy." Instead she said, "Come here, Tommy." Then Barbara order Tommy over her knee and she pulled down the elastic band to the waist of his jogging pants and the three slaps left Tommy ass an angry red. He felt it.
"Bitch," he said.
Barbara pulled Tommy to his feet, she gripped his arms, She said, "Do not ever come down my stairs, without a bath again."

Tommy had a bath and went to school that day. At morning recess, Tommy found some moist clay in the sand, near the back edge of school property. The was grey and he thought he could work it well. Tommy built the beginnings of a city. A house. A variety store. A bank and a bar. At least this is what he told himself, after he had built the four identical lumps. He decided he needed some sticks. He did and then the bell rang.
At lunch hour, Tommy decided to gather a few more things, before returning to build his city. He gathered fancy stones and gum wrappers(for windows). He picked-up straws and other loose bits. He asked Bobby McGill if he could borrow one of his dinky cars. He found a Coke bottle and decided it was a tower.
He gathered the stuff for most of the hour.
Miranda followed him to his city, for final recess. "Where yah going?" When Tommy told her to go away, she said to him, "No. I want to know where you are going."
Miranda ended up adding leafy weeds(for trees)to the city.
"Want to meet after to school and build some more?" she asked, when the bell rang again.
"I can't," he told her.
"I'll let you put the Coke bottle in me," she offered.
To which Tommy replied, "I can't. They'll call the cops, if I am not there on time."
"Who will call the cops?"
"The Parents." He nodded his head at her.

Tommy noticed what a mess he was, during his walk home from school. As the day wore on, the sun had baked him into a chalky mess.
And it felt gross between his fingers.
Tommy decided he had better sneak in the back door and up the back stairs.
And after he did, Tommy had himself a bath. He was horror-stricken by the mess he left behind in the tub.
And Tommy turned in surprise and more fear, when the bathroom door opened. He covered himself desperately and Barbara dropped half the stack of towels she was carrying. "Oh, Tommy. Fuck. I am sorry. Oh my God, what a mess."

Two days later, when Tommy came down the stairs, Barbara said, "You're going to see the doctor today."
Barbara did not speak to him, during the car ride there.
And Barbara only wanted to talk to the doctor, while they were at the office.
"It will hurt, Barbara." Dr. Stewart did not like what Barbara had asked, after the nurse had taken Tommy to be weighed and for a lollipop. "He will remember this for the rest of his life."
"Listen, Paul," she began, "I really would not be asking for this to be done,
unless I thought it were imperative to do so. Tommy came to us just...Filthy. You should have seen his toenails! And the problem here is that bathing does not simply solve the problem. Dirt just naturally clings to this child."
"Dirt clings to every child, Barbara," the good doctor tried to reason. "You're not really being serious about this."
"Paul, we have known each other for twenty years now. You should know when I am being serious. This child is constantly...Filthy. There really is no other word to describe him. I am his foster mom. There is no way I just should go in there and scrub him all down. Who knows what he could say to CPS."
"Exactly. Child Protective Services. They are not going to want to pay for this."
"Paul...We both know it is better for him. Cleaner for him." She sighed.
Dr. Paul Stewart sighed, too. "Fine. He has an infection. Let me write you a prescription. I'll get a day set and call you tomorrow."

When Barbara and Tommy were taking the car ride home, Barbara began. "Tommy. I know sometimes it is hard to talk about stuff."
"What kind of stuff?" Tommy replied; politely.
"You know...Penis stuff."
Embarrassed, Tommy did not reply again.
So Barbara went on. "The doctor says you have an infection. We have to go to the pharmacy now, to buy you medicine. He says you have an infection is in your penis. A bad infection. And now you have to have an operation."
"What?" Tommy yelled.
"Don't yell at me, Tommy, it is not my fault you didn't tell me that your penis was hurting."
And then, since she mentioned it, Tommy did notice a tingling, at the end of it. And over the night it got worse.

Giving Shit

2006-06-28T03:10:00.000-04:00

"Are we going to be spending the night there?" she asked Edward Julian Watson. She blurted this question, as if it had come out of nowhere.
Putting his chin in his hand and shrugging his shoulders; all with such seriousness, he asked, "Do you want to?"
"It's up to you, but you need to let me know." She looked away from his face.
"Alright."
"Alright what?" she asked, looking up towards him.
"Alright we'll stay," Edward Julian Watson had decided.
And Becki was suddenly nervous.

The next day, she found the number for the highway hotel. She dailed that number and made the reservation.
And Becki was calm.

When the night and the day was almost done, they went to the hotel to check in.
Becki smiled and said her name to the short, dark man bulging behind the desk. He looked at her oddly. He tapped his whole hand on the top of the reservation book, before he pointed a finger at her. "I know you."
Becki smiled at him and she winked quietly. "Of course you do, Manny."
"You owe me money."
"What?" Becki stepped back.
"Yeah," he waved his finger faster and started shaking his head. "You owe me money."
"What?" Becki asked again. "I owe you...what?"
"Money. Lots of money. You lived her for free!"
"I lived here for free? What?"
"For free! You lived here for free! I know who you are. It was a long time a go, but I know who you are. You owe me like three thousand dollars."
"I what?"
"You owe me...you owe me three thousand dollars!"
"I owe you three thousand dollars? For what?" Becki asked.
"I told you-you lived here for free!"
Becki looked over her shoulder and she smiled at Edward Julian Watson. "Run", she said.
And Edward Julian Watson's eyes bulged, but the rest of him stayed motionless. "What?" he aked.
Turning to face him and starting to laugh; all with such seriousness, Becki repeated, "Run."
And so they did. Back to the car.
"It's time to get out of town. Let's just go to your place." She was still laughing.
And Edward Julian Watson decided again. "Alright."

Giving Shit

2006-06-24T02:55:00.000-04:00

Edward Julian Watson had enough. He was going to quit the television business.
He decided this on the airplane ride back from Jamaica. It had been his first vacation in eight years.
Yes. He was quitting the television business and Edward Julian Watson was going into the travel business.
He told his mother, by telephone, when he arrived home. He had promised to call her first.
"I am going into the travel business," he said.
"Oh, I see," she replied. "And the television business?"
"I am quitting it."
"Oh, I see," she said. "You are being stupid."
"Well, I made it home safe, Mother. I will see you for lunch tomorrow." Edward Julian Watson ended the conversation.
He told Bob three days later.
I am going into the travel business," he said.
"And the television business?" Bob replied.
"I am quitting it."
"You're firing me, man?"
"Not if you want to move to Chicago. Hey, buddy, close up the store tonight. I am going to leave." Edward Julian Watson ended the conversation.
"Who ya seeing tonight?" Bob wanted to know.
"Just Becki," Edward Julian Watson said, leaving the store.

A week later, Becki was at the doctor's office.
"You're joking, right?"
The look on Becki's face made the doctor want to lie to her. But the Socrates in him could not allow it. "Unfortunately, no I am not. I am sorry, Becki."
"We can clear this up?"
"Yes, Becki, we can clear this up."
While the doctor explained how, Becki did not listen. The doctor handed her a pink pamphlet. "Do you have any question for me today?"
"No," she replied.
"Perhaps you will, after you read the pamphlet." He handed her a prescription. "Come see me next Wednesday."
On her way out of the office, Becki walked through the waiting room. She saw that other woman, Julia. She was sitting in one of the green chairs, with her hand in her lap and wearing very much the same look Becki herself had worn only twenty minutes beforehand.
Becki noticed the dark brown hat on Julia's head. It made her think of the green one she was wearing.
And then she knew.
Edward Julian Watson had given her head lice.
Becki's pharmacist was located across the road from where she worked and she wandered and wondered slowly, on her way over there. She noticed the big red-lettered signs Edward Julian Watson had put up in the windows of Star Television.
GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SALE!
THIS MONTH ONLY!!

Over Your Head

2006-05-29T04:30:00.000-04:00

When Tommy woke-up he found himself staring up at the ceiling and then at the window, up too high. Not right.
The sunlight coming in the room was leaving dusty rays on the window sill and in the air.
What the fuck...? Tommy could not understand anything. He sat up fast, his bare feet hitting cold cement. He was suddenly alert; his eyes scanning.
"Oh, fuck," he whispered. "Oh, fuck."
White painted bars. Steel toliet. Bars. Bars. Bars.
Fucking bars...Where the fuck are my shoes?
"Oh, fuck," Tommy squeaked. He felt dizzy.
He focused his eyes on his feet; stretched them across the steel. He noticed the bottom of his jeans were damp and itchy against his skin.
"Don't puke, Tommy," he said outloud.
Why the fuck am I here?
Tommy called out, "Hello...?"
But no one answered.
On shaky feet, Tommy made his way to the bars. "Hello...Hello..."
He looked down the hallway as far as he could, noticed he was in the last cell. Noticed the white video camera up in the corner.
"What the fuck?" he yelled. "Hello."
He grabbed the jail cell bars and tried to shake them. "What the fuck?"
And the officer who came down the hallway had gray hair and shiny black boots. "Just calm down, Son."
But Tommy didn't want to do that.
" What the fuck? Why am I in here? Let me the fuck out of here." He clenched at the bars, until his knuckles went white. He let go, when he noticed the officer watching his knucles, too.
"I think you know why you are here, Son. Your mother will be here soon."
"What? I don't want her here. You tell her fucking not to come."
"Then you will never get out of here, Son," the officer reasoned, with the angry boy.
"Where the fuck are my shoes?" Tommy screamed in the officer's face and slammed himself against the bars; his last-ditch effort at being brave because he could feel the tears coming on.
"So young and so vicious and so frail," the officer sang, as he turned his boots around and walked back down the hallway.
Tommy threw himself back onto the metal bed.
And then Tommy cried.

Time kept dragging on. Momma did not come for hours. Tommy listened for the whistling trains as they left town. Four of them went by, before she arrived.

When she came, her face was gray and her dress was yellow. Her white shoes moved slow down the hall. She clutched the cold, white bars of his cell; keeping her eyes on the concrete floor.
Tommy did not get up from the bed. Just looked at her. "What the fuck is going on, Momma?" he finally asked, when she did nothing.
And her laugh was bitter and when she looked up her eyes were anger. "You little bastard, you stole my fucking last bottle of vodka."
"Oh, my God. Is that why I am fucking here? Did you fucking call the cops on me Momma? Holy fuck."
"Shut the fuck up, Tommy. They found you passed out and stinkin' in the fucking park."
And Tommy knew it was true.
She shook her head and snorted at him. "Samantha is dead."
And Tommy knew that was true, too.
"Do you fucking kill her, Tommy? Did you fucking kill her?" He watched Momma lose grip of the bars, collapsing low to the ground, onto her knees. She clutched at her thin sides. She shook. She whimpered. "Did you fucking kill her?"
And Tommy did not get off the painted bed. He just turned his head, so he did not have to watch her cry.
"God will forgive you, if you tell the truth, Tommy. God, just tell them the truth when they ask you, Tommy."
And Tommy snapped his head towards. He could taste the scream in his mouth. "Just get the fuck out of here, Momma. Get the fuck out. You fucking pitiful whore, Momma, just go."

Punks-Third Time's the Charm

2006-05-25T01:06:00.000-04:00

It's 3 a.m.

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. She felt bad that she had not saved Tommy any of the pot he had bought earlier that day. But he did not ask her where any of it was, instead he just pulled her down to the floor beside him and filled his mouth with hers. She ran her fingers over his bare, smooth chest and felt his heart race beneath her fingertips. She did not resist, when he turned her around, as he undid the zipper of his jeans and lifted the red t-shirt she was wearing, so he could enter her from behind. He leaned, reaching forward, grabbing her breasts and squeezing hard,as he used them to push and pull his dick in and out of her.
She could feel his teardrops falling on her back. When he was done, she gave him her KISS sweater, so he could keep himself warm, then she rolled the roaches that were left; mixed with tobacco from one of his cigarettes. She let him smoke the joint to himself. After, he told her he liked fucking her that way, then he kissed her and left.

Minnie was smoking the first of the three cigarettes Tommy had left her. She was tired and would save the other two until morning. And because she had decided not to go to school in the morning, she did not set her alarm clock.
She knew the footsteps on the stairs were her father's, before she saw him. She had not heard him cross the kitchen. He knew.
He was standing there, at the bottom of the stairs, in nothing but his red underwear and he knew.
"Well, well, well," he said, as he strolled over to the foot of her bed. He crossed his arms, over his chest. He shook his head. Tongue in cheek. "Well, well, well...I knew you were a whore, but I just could not prove it."
He grabbed her ankles, jerked her downwards. The red t-shirt slid up.
No fucking underwear," he muttered, staring down at her nakedness.
And she did not care because at least he was not looking in her eyes.
When he yanked her legs, spreading them wide apart, coming up between them, Minnie thought he ws going to hit her in the face. She put her arms up over her face.
He reached in underware and pulling himself out; he moved himself over her and rubbed the head of his cock up and around her hairless cunt lips, then over the inside soft and pink flesh; still slippery with Tommy's cum. And then he slammed himself inside of her.
She came three seconds after he was inside of her. God help her, it felt good.
He could feel her muscles tighten and relax; could feel her quickened breathing on his shoulder; oh she was so tight.
He grunted, when he came inside of her.
And when he pulled himself up off of her, as he began to walk away, he said, "That boy didn't do that for ya though; now did he?"

...and I Must Be Lonely

Samantha was sitting on her front porch, as he walked by. She whispered his name, jumping up, to run towards him.
"Jesus," he jumped, too. "What are you doing up so late?"
"Shhh," she whispered. "Lets go back to the park."
"What are you doing up so late?"
She looked down towards the ground, then handed Tommy over the book he had just noticed. "I was reading this, again."
Tommy looked at her queerly, after he read the title, in the streetlamp light. "Charlotte's Web? I had to read that in Grade Five. Why are you reading it?"
She looked at him, embarrassed. "I like to read it once a year still. I probably do at least once a year."
"But what for?"
"It makes me remember."
"Remember what?"
"Come on," she began to run. "I'll race you to the park."
Tommy beat Samantha fair and square, to the picnic bench, near the big oak tree.
When she sat down Tommy wasted no time; he never could. "God, Samantha, I really want to kiss you."
"You always want to kiss me, Tommy, and I always tell you no." She sighed at him, but smiled.
"But you never, ever stop me," He said and to prove his words were true he kissed her.
And when Tommy right hand covered her breast, she pulled away from him and said, "Oh, Tommy, I pray the Lord forgives me for you."
And Minnie, standing behind a different tree, at the park, was crying hot tears of betrayal and was swallowing,No, you better be praying to God, so He'll fucking save you from me...
That is until she saw Samantha's mother, storming towards the picnic bench.

Tattoos of Memories and Dead Skin on Trial

2006-05-09T02:16:00.000-04:00

Dear Tommy,

I do not know what to do. It is two o'clock in the morning and I am sitting up here in the hospital and I should be studying for my history test, if I am awake anyway, but I am bored of reading. Mom's at work tonight and everyone else is too tired to come up here and I did not want Grandma to be alone. It would have been the first time. Everyone says she is going to die. No one comes right out and says it to me though. Which is stupid. I am fourteen years old, (almost 15!) not four.
I went to visit your grandma for a little bit tonight too. I hope you do not mind. I just know it is really hard for your family to make sure there is someone there for her all of the time.
It is so weird that both our grandma's are here doing the same thing, at the same time.
Sometimes I feel really bad because I think of all the times I just hated my Grandma.
This one time, Mom had found some writing that I had done. I was in grade five. I kept it tucked into the book I was reading, as a bookmark. And I would read it every time I opened the book. Sometimes I would read it twice. I know I read it a lot. I remember.
I knew it was good too, Tommy. Because it scared me. It really, really scared me. My own words terrified the crap out of me.
It was about Hell. How it must look. How it must feel.
When my Mom grabbed me by the arm, she was pretty mad, waving my piece of paper about. That scared the crap out of me too.
She dragged me to the car and Dylan and Scott were already strapped in the backseat and she made me get in.
She said, "I called your Dad at work. He is going to meet us at your Grandparent’s."
And they were all there. Dad and Grandma and Grandpa and all my Aunts and Uncles. They made me sit there in a chair, waiting on Aunt Deborah and Uncle Wyatt to show-up, while they passed around my writing; gasping and looking up at me to shake their heads. Even my two older cousins, Drake and Phillip were there and they read it too. (you know Drake. remember you met him that time at the church picnic?)And when Aunt Deborah and Uncle Wyatt finally arrived and read my words...all Hell broke loose.
And that scared the crap out of me too.
They yelled at me: "Where did you copy this from?" "What book is this from?" Drake aside: The Satanic Bible "The Devil is in you" "She is going to Hell. You are going to hell"
Just this dizzy sea of angry red faces.
And it made me angry too because they did not believe I had written the words. I kept saying, "I wrote it. I wrote it."
I looked at my grandmother and I said, "I wrote it." And she believed me. But instead my grandmother said, "The Devil wrote this." And then she lit her green lighter and lit the paper on fire.
And I cried and I cried and I cried.
I hated her so much for taking my words away.
The Devil did not write it. I had. Even if the Devil had worked his way into my soul, why would he want to show his kingdom under such unforgiving and terrifying light? In fact, if my soul was taken over by anyone it would have been God. Maybe He was letting me in on a little secret.
When I think back on it now, I am still sad I do not have that writing anymore. I tried to re-create it so many times, but never could. But I think my grandmother was trying to do some good. When she pronounced the work of the Devil everyone else took it to be I was in the clear. Saved from Hell. Whatever. She might have saved me from them bleeding me.
And besides, I know God is on my side and I have known that for a long time. And I know He is on your side too.
But I still did not talk to my Grandma for three months.

I feel really bad because of the other day, when you told me you could not come see your grandma because you felt bad for not always liking her. You are not alone. I feel bad too, but I still wish you would come up and see your grandma and stop beating yourself up over all the bad things you think you have done. Because you do lots of good things too, Tommy. Like making me smile. And He knows that too.
And that’s all that really matters.
Write back soon,
Samantha

I, Robot

2006-04-22T13:51:00.000-04:00

Outside the sky looks hazy. I notice my windows need cleaning. Sara runs around in her short skirt and pink shirt. She must be cold. My daughter wears her jeans, at least.
The three boys ride their bike lazily, circle after circle in the driveway.
The Bratz are everywhere. Even coming off of the stereo.
And then they are off to Jamie-Lynn's, my daughter pops her head in the door and is gone again.
The work is piled up on the desk. A deadline Wednesday. Two deadlines Thursday. One extension until Sunday.
At the dreaded midnight.
Kittens are everywhere. One stupid one always caught under the couch.
And the house is so messy, I wish the city would find a reason to just bulldoze it.
And Charlie is gone.
A polite fuck you and the blocked door.
For three days, I have secretly wanted to strangle any person who smiles, as I smile back at them, but I don't.
Because smiling.
That's what friends are for.

I do my dishes first. Placing the glasses along the outerside of the drain rack. Wash silverware. Wipe away at the plates.
I poke my head in the living room, knowing I will have to grab the cups and probably the one bowl that will be sitting on the table.
The sound of the rushing tap water does not make me want to cry. It is, instead, a reprieve. It is doing the job for me.

I wonder what it would be like for someone else to feel it all. Just for ten minutes. Everything that I feel stirring in every part of me. To feel my gut, my throat, the energy coming off of my fingertips as I write this...
Just anyone. I do not care who. As long as they were willing to let me take what they felt.
Because maybe we could help each other figure it all out.
Maybe they have felt what I am now and maybe they have answers.
To whatever it all is.
But I wonder if we would just find out, we all feel the same. Think the same.
We just act out differently.

My daughter comes in the house. "Sara does not want to be my friend. It's not even my fault."
She crosses her arms, when I ask her why. "I am going to watch TV"
She watches Scoobie-Doo, until she comes out in the kitchen, where I still am. "Her Dad said I am not allowed to play with her too."
I ask why and she blames Stephen. She blames Shawn.
"Then go explain to her father."
But my she gets mad at my advice. "I don't want to." And there she goes with the arm crossing again.
And I sigh, "You need to go apologise to Sara for whatever it is you did."
She glares at me, before she goes back out the door.
"No, Mom," she says.
And I wish I could just apologize. But neither I, nor Charlie, have anything to apologize for.

I take out the windex and I am out of paper towles, so I pull out the newspapers.
Then I am looking out my window. And at my daughter and her friend. Hand in hand.
"We are going to the park." The blonde head pops in and out of the door, again.

Kind Of Blue

2006-04-14T01:25:00.000-04:00

The boys were playing Flamenco Sketches, in the background and she was looking up at me from underneath that red hat of hers. Her eyes were the same colour as the smoke coming off my cigarette. We were sitting near the back, at one of the tables and not in the office.
She never wanted to go back in there.
"I don't know what you want from me, Ellie," I shook my head at her.
"More than this, Addley, more than this." Her gloved hand waved in the air, stopping on the boys. "My Daddy says I cannot come here anymore. He says niggers are good for nothing, except drinking and smoking their lives away...and that is all I see when i am here."
"This is all I have ever wanted," I swept my hand around to show her what she had shown me. I stopped on the boys too and we both watched them play for a minute, before I spoke again. "You're a big girl now, Ellie. You're 18. You don't got to listen to your Daddy any more."
"I thought I was all you ever wanted?" Her blonde curls bounced, as she took her eyes away from the stage, to flash them at me.
"Baby," I said, "I don't recall ever saying that."

Scratch

2006-04-03T01:54:00.000-04:00

The sun was just starting to set and the world took on a hazy orange that he could see in the corners of his eyes. He turned off the radio. The silent air that did not come in, through the open windows of his car, made him wonder if the day's heat would linger on through the night, despite all the weather reports calling for rain.
The highway was an almost empty one.
He was figuring he was tired of hocking toothpicks and napkins and cheap ketchup packets. He was tired of explaining the refinement of salt and the brittleness of the plastic cutlery sold by the other guys.
The thing he did most in his life was drive the highways; the endless highways.
But he wanted to walk.
He wanted to run.
He wished he were Wade Boggs.
Or at least Don Mattingly .
But instead, he'd been up and down those damn roads so many times, in the past twenty-three years that his mind seldom thought of the road always in front of him. He left that work up to his eyes. Just like he had back when he had first found work with Huxley & Ward. Back then, they had loaded up the men on buses leaving them with nothing better to do than stare out the windows, the driver dropping them off here and there, in this city or that, with instructions on when they would be back around to pick them up. And to sell, sell, sell. But the bus idea had not lasted long; only about three years. The Negros had kept killing each other. Policy changed and to be employed by Huxley & Ward, you had to own your own car. His father bought a new car and gave him his old one and for the last twenty years, he'd been driving along singing with the music, bitching at talk radio or more recently, using the CB radio, when he wanted to talk to other lonely, traveling men.
He owned mostly button-downed shirts, short sleeves, in blue and yellow. The pink one stayed at the bottom of his suitcase, with its neatly folded lines deep with crease.

He saw her walking along the side of the vacant highway. She wearing a short skirt; he noticed her long legs first. She was in white heeled boots, and she was slipping in the roadside gravel. As he drove passed her he slowed the car down, so he could stop for her.
And through his windshield mirror he noticed that she kept her head bent and he wondered if she would need a ride at all. But she did stop, a few feet from the passenger side door, bending to look in the open window of the dark green car. She did not speak. Despite the heat she was wearing a short blue fur coat.
"Do you need a ride, young lady?" He finally asked.
"I do not know," she replied, bending herself closer towards him, her dark eyes peering in at him.
"Well, where are you heading? If I am going that way, I can help you out," he repeated his offer.
She did not answer right away. Instead, she bit her lip.
But then she leaned forward for the handle and slid into the front seat. She said to him, "Kansas City. You want to come?"
"I do not think your parents would like that," he laughed, "Are you running away?"
And she rolled her eyes and crossed her arms, as he put the car into drive again. “How old do you think I am?”
“I dunno,” he mumbled, “Fourteen.”
"I am fucking twenty-one years old. I even have the ID to prove it. But do you fucking know what?"
Looking overly startled at her outburst, he looked over at her, before replying, "No."
"Most fucking bartenders tell me my government-issued identification is fake! Are we going to Kansas or what?"
"I only got about enough to get myself home. The Boss is pretty stingy with the gas allowance,” he apologized.
"Where is home?"
"Mount Pleasant," he laughed.
"Close enough. What's you name?"
"Eugene," he said, with a twinge of embarrassment. He always hated saying his name to anyone on first introduction.
"Well, hi there, Eugene. I like your name. You can call me Sugar." She smiled and leaned over to change the radio station.

They drove for fifteen minutes, listening to mostly rock music. Loud. She turned down the radio once to tell him that the autumn was her favorite time of year. She mostly sang to the trees zooming by. He looked at her thighs and wondered about her boobs, but she never took off her coat.

When she turned down the music again, they were driving passed a nightclub on the outskirts of Georgetown. "You do have enough so we can stop and have a beer, right, Eugene? I have enough cash for my own."
"Well, yeah, I suppose we can do that," he replied.
"Good. I can get enough money to get us to Kansas, if we go to that place back there."
He looked over at her, as he slowed the car, to turn it around. She was smiling.
"Is that so?" he laughed and smiled with her.
And she said yes and stopped smiling. "Stop the car here, Eugene."
He did.
"Listen to me. You let me go on ahead. In 15 minutes or so, drive on over there and get yourself a beer. Sit yourself down right at the bar. When I walk by you and rub your head that means I want you to leave in five minutes. Wait for me in the car. Okay?"
"What?" he laughed. "You're not serious?”
“Yes, I am.”
“What are you going to do?”
She took his hand and tugged at it, his hairy hand in her white one. "Don't worry about me, Eugene, I'll be okay" she said, pulling his hand closer to her.
And when he looked down, he saw she had lifted her skirt. Pushed her cotton underwear to one side.
He pointed his middle finger just in time to have it slide inside of her. She breathed out through her mouth, when she pulled him out of her. She dropped his hand and reach for the door handle. “I’ll see you in fifteen minutes,” she said. “Go for a drive or something.”
As she began walking towards the country bar, she waited until Eugene had pulled away. Pulling her underwear down and over her white boots almost made her fall. She stuck them in the waistband of her skirt.

Randy Travis and then CCR came blaring from the bar, before Eugene worked up his courage to enter inside. Twenty-two minutes later. It was not his kind of place. The lot was full of motorcycles and transport trucks. It made him feel nervous. It made him feel unmanly. Even if Eugene did all the maintenance on his nine year old car.
The roadhouse was dark and smoky; sweet with the smell marijuana and hot with the smell of moldy alcohol and fermented man urine. Sugar was dancing with a man wearing leather. They were the only ones dancing and every other man spoke too loudly; pretending not to notice that they were laughing, as she rubbed the backside of herself against him.
"Hey there," the permed barmaid said to him, as soon as he sat down. She was wearing a blue tank top and she let him see her cleavage. "A long day of traveling?"
"Yes, ma'am," he smiled, but not at her.
"What can I get ya?"
"A Bud."
Eugene drank two beers and for the next half an hour, watched Sugar dance with a half dozen men, who all appeared to from the same biker gang. But he mostly kept his eyes on the barmaid’s chest because she let him.

She left the boys for the ladies room. And when she came out, she made her way to the bar. Eugene was talking to the server, so she leaned over him and smiled. “Can I have one of whatever Badger drinks?” And then to Eugene, as she rubbed his head. "Hey, Daddy-O. Save me a dance."
Up close, she smelled of Ivory soap.

"What about you, Badger? Don't you want to dance with me? Everybody else has. And I got to get back on the road."
And the other guys hooted. Hollered.
"Go for it, Boss!"
"Do it."
“That’s okay," he shook his head, in protest.
She pouted. "I gotta leave in ten minutes, if I am going to make it to the airport on time. Won't you please dance with me before I head on back to Kansas? I bought you a beer." She brought it out from behind her back; surprise and handed it to him.
He took a swallow; half the beer. "I don't liked gettin' picked last for nothing."
“I was just saving the best for last, Boss." she said and she grabbed him by the ear, hauling him up to his feet.
He only followed her out onto the dance floor because the tugging on his ear hurt like hell and he was into pain. And because he could dance really well. And because his wife, who could also dance well, always wanted to stay home.
Lynyrd Skynyrd’s, Freebird, was playing too loudly, but Badger made his moves anyway.
“Oh,” she laughed at him. “You think you’re John Travolta!”
“I am, honey,” he grinned.
She jumped up and wrapped her legs around his waist. "Show me," she said, feeling the rigid thickness of him against her. She grinded herself hard into him, grabbing his ass.
Six minutes later, she was walking out the door and Badger was fingering the damp spot she left behind on his jeans, drinking down the last of the beer she bought.
He did not notice right away that his wallet was missing.

"Alright, Eugene, lets get out of here," she said, opening the car door and slidding in. They drove for five minutes, before she took the wallet out of the waistband of her jean skirt.
She turned up the music and then opened the wallet to count the money.
“Shit,” she yelled. Then she snapped off the radio. “86 dollars, Eugene. That’s fucking it. So much for Kansas, buddy.”
“That’s okay,” he said.

They drove for awhile in silence and then she asked him, "Don't you ever get tired of all this driving?"
He just laughed.
"Well, I am tired. I have enough money so we can stop and sleep at a motel," she offered.
"Can't you sleep in the car while I drive?"
"No," she said, firmly.
"There is a place about ten minutes up the road," he decided.
The Oasis was a long green building, advertising rooms for $19.95. The weekday special. The vacancy lights were flashing pink. She counted out the bills, in the parking lot and handed them over to him.

When Eugene flicked on the switch, just inside the doorway of the motel room, two brown lamps on either side of the bed lit up. The room was wood paneling, with green carpet. The bedspread was yellow and flowered.
She ran across the room and jumped on the bed, landing in the middle on her back.
"Eugene, I am hungry. Does this place have any food?"
"Just a pop machine at the desk. I've got some donuts, in the car. I will go get us both."
The first thing Eugene notice when he walked back into the room was that she was not wearing her coat. She was still on the bed and the next thing Eugene notice was that her skirt was hitched up. The next thing he noticed was that her underwear was completely gone this time.
"Did you lick your finger, after I got out of the car to go into the roadhouse, Eugene?" she asked.
He almost dropped the glass Coke bottles he was carrying.
"Eugene," she continued talking when he did not answer her, opening her legs wider, moving her hand over legs to touch herself, "why are you just standing there like a dork? Don't you want some more?"
He put the pop and donuts off the floor and took off his shoes, before walking over to the edge of the bed and pulling her by legs, and kneeling his face into her woman parts.
She was almost hairless; fine black hairs growing upwards. He kissed the hair, moving is mouth to kiss her more. Opening his mouth to use his tongue, sliding it deep into the folds of skin; tasting her. Fresh and clean; not like the day.
He undid his pants, pushing them to his knees. He touched himself. Stroked himself, but knew he would come, so stopped. Instead, he pressed himself hard into the bed and took his hand to place a finger inside of her. He listened to her moan.
When he withdrew his finger, he reached up for her mouth. "Taste yourself," he urged.
Her nostrils flared, taking in the smell of herself. She thought she smelt like onion rings. She put her lips over her fingers, anyway.
The pounding on the door startled the both of them.
“Fuck,” she said, sitting up.
“Jesus Christ. Which one is it going to be?” Eugene asked.
“The big one," she answered.

Badger pounded on the door some more. “Bitch, you let me in there or I am breaking this door down. I am giving you one minute!”
Badger counted backwards in his head and when there was no response, after that one minute, Badger broke the door down. Kicked the door right off the hinges with one kick. The first thing he saw was a fat man standing beside the bed. The next thing he saw was her sitting on the bed; chin to knees.
“Give me my wallet, bitch,” he said, holding out his hand. “Give me my fucking wallet or you are both going to be sorry."
And Eugene knew it was true. He could hear the sound of the motorbikes outside. And then, through the opened door, the sound of sirens edged into the twilight.
“Fuck!” Badger swore. “Give me my fucking wallet.”
“Did you sniff my underwear, after you found them in your back pocket?” she asked him instead.
Badger shook his head. “Better they deal with you then me.”
When the two officers walked through the door and asked what was going on, he was the first to speak up. “Why don’t you tell them, honey.”
And she burst into tears and pointed at Eugene, "This man picked me up and he brought me here and tried having sex with me.” The she pointed at Badger. “That’s my Daddy. He has come to save me. I am only fourteen!"
Oh, fuck, my wife is going to kill me, Eugene thought.
"Is that your dark green Mercedes out there, sir?" one of the officers asked him.

Giving Shit

2006-03-20T15:17:00.000-05:00

Becki could not believe her eyes, to see Edward Julian Watson standing in front of her, when she looked up from keeping the books. Not ten minutes after meeting up with him. And that other woman. Julia.
He rang the little silver bell, anyway.
"May I help you?" she asked and the fact she did not want to was very apparent on her face.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
Her eyes went to the books, to conceal her further disbelief. "Quit asking stupid questions," she replied.
"Fine," he stated, "How are you?"
And she did not care about her eyes any longer. She looked at him and said, "Please, quit asking stupid questions."
Edward Julian Watson told her fine again, as he turned to walk away. "Since we are still on for six tonight, I will see you later."
Becki's mouth opened, but nothing came out, and Edward Julian Watson made it out the front doors of the bookstore, before she could close it again.

Edward Julian Watson pulled quietly into her driveway and cut the engine to the Datsun.
Becki said nothing. She listened to the engine tick; as it cooled down.
"Can I come up?" he asked, in his happy voice.
And Becki replied, "I do not think so." But when she reached for the door handle, the car suddenly came back to life.
"Let's go for a drive then," Edward Julian Watson said, still just as happy.
"Fine." Becki slouched back into her seat and folded her arms across her chest. She stared out the window, as Edward Julian Watson drove down the empty, midnight streets, aimlessly.
"I am going to call your mother tomorrow," Becki spoke finally, but did not turn to look at him.
And Edward Julian Watson voice was incredulous. Alarmed. "What for?"
And Becki finally smiled.

Punks-Something You Forgot

2006-03-16T03:25:00.000-05:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. It was two o'clock in the morning and she was still up, even though it was a Wednesday night and there would be school in the morning. She had already decided she would not go.
It was getting too hard to go.
She could not stand the stares and the hate and the whispers. She knew the teachers were offended by the sight of her. And keeping her head down had only gotten her tripped.
And spit on by fucking Melissa Walker.
Laying on her bed, Minnie pounded the thin mattress with her fists. She was angry.
She was angry most of all with Tommy because he had not shown-up that night. He had not met her at the arcade and so she had smoked the whole gram of pot to herself, in her basement bedroom.
Even though he had paid for it.
It was not like her mother noticed a damn thing anymore. Locked in the spare bedroom, with her over-the-counter sleeping pills. The ones she sent Minnie to get every other day.
"Get me three boxes. The purple boxes." Nothing more then whispered moans from the darkened room.
Fuck. Sometimes the alarm clock would go off for hours, before her mother snapped out of whatever those fucking yellow pills really did to her.
...And where the fuck was Tommy? Tommy always showed-up to be with her. Tommy loved her...

And of course Tommy showed-up; he knocked at her window and instead of running to open the side door to let him in, she just opened the window. And then she felt bad for not rushing to him.
Tommy's right eye was swollen shut and there was brown blood on his white shirt.
She took it off him, as soon as she had him standing next to her bed and then he collapsed at her feet. He sobbed. "Why is it so hard? Why is it so hard?"
She felt his ragged fingernails scrape up at the skin on her legs and her hands dropped the ruined shirt and went into his hair.
And she cried because he did. Only quieter.

Good Going

2006-02-27T03:21:00.001-05:00

Ace and I mostly busied ourselves by keeping our eyes to the ground and not saying a word to each other.
While we let her fix the truck.
But I was looking her, when she jumped down from the bumper. I watched her as she wiped her hands, leaving greased-stained fingerprints against her buttocks, and I watched her as she reached high, stretched on her toes, to slam down the hood of the truck.
Behind us, the moon hung high and large and I could feel its frosty radiance on every part of me; the hair on my arms prickled up from the moon-time air. And she was cold, too. She was wrapping her arms around herself, when she turned around.
I put my eyes back to the ground and I tried shuffling my feet in the dirt, and then, so did Ace. And when I looked up at him, he was looking at me and that bastard was already grinning.
He knew how stupid the both of us looked.
"Well, which one of you is gonna get back in there and see if this fucking thing runs now?" she demanded.
And because Ace is always the asshole, his grin turned into outright laughter, as he hopped back into the driver’s seat and this time, she slid into the truck next to him.
And I honestly wanted to punch him in the face worse than I ever have before. I felt like an asshole for thinking it.
Ace and I had never liked the same girl.

Ace is my best friend. We usually hang around at school all week long, and then downtown most Saturday afternoons and nights; slipping in and out of the library or the mall from the cold or from the rain, or sometimes, on the nice days, hanging down behind the old glass factory, smoking weed and throwing rocks. Sometimes, I used to go to his church or he would come to mine. Of course, now that we are both on probation, we are not supposed see each other. Ace and I have loved coming down to the factory since we were like eight years old. Running across the railroad tracks full-speed ahead, just throwing rock after rock at the sheets of glass that make up the factory walls. Which were built in 1932, apparently; so it says above the main doors of the place. But they face the road, so Ace and I figure it is probably not a good idea to break the glass out of them.
Most rocks just bounced right off the rest of the stinking glass, anyway. In fact, Ace and I have figure out that it takes on average about 150 different rocks, hitting just-right to weaken the glass enough to break the glass at all and the usual result ends up being only a break in one corner of the pane. With every rock we have ever thrown, we have always been hoping that one of them would completely shatter one of the large, green panes. It has never happened
But Ace and I; we also figure glass companies should be able to make good glass.

When we were eight years old, we started cutting by the train tracks every day, on our way home after school, just so we could go by the old glass factory. We miss that now that we are in high school and have to ride the school buses and feeling like we are niggers on our way to some sort of awful prison or something.
We got to saving rocks all week long waiting on Saturdays, so we could show-off our pieces, as we will make our way to that abandoned building.
Somehow, all the way down those tracks, even though Ace and I feel nothing but long weeds scraping our legs because the tracks haven't known a train in like ten years now, it still feels a little dangerous to be walking down them somehow.
Probably because of my Daddy.
Because I remember back when the trains did come through town. I was sitting on my Daddy's knee, behind the red steering wheel of the old Ford truck; when it was new, so I was like four years old. He was bouncing me on his knee, and my thighs were lightly bumping the steering wheel and we were parked and he was letting me watch the trains speed on by. I liked watching them. Until Daddy started talking.
"Those things; they can kill you, Donald. Oh yeah, they’ll run you right over, split your body in half...whooo, yeah, Jesus Christ, for sure right in half, slices, Jesus Christ..."
My legs were hitting the steering wheel harder and I do not know what the hell Daddy was seeing in his head, but what I was seeing in mine scared the shit right out of me. I puked all over that red steering wheel.
And Daddy looked at Momma and told her this was the proof I was going to be a fag, when I grew-up.
“It’s the fucking milkshake you forced on him at Burger King, you idiot," I remember Momma saying.

The glass factory closed just about the same time the trains stopped coming through this town.
Anyway, we have broken 113 pieces of glass at the old building. Ace and I have this book, so we record those sort of things And we know what kind of rocks make final breaks and a whole bunch of other stuff, too.
So we know stuff like whoever else who throws rocks has only broken 44 sheets of glass.
Yep. Ace and I always have rocks in our pockets.
You might say it is a little bit of addiction Ace and I have. Not really much else to do around here. You know what I mean. Going down to the factory every Saturday; it's like tradition.

So that Saturday, we were sitting right down on those train tracks like we often do. We were in front of the glass factory and we had an hour until game time. So we were smoking our joint because we like to smoke our joint before we throw rocks. And Ace and I, we could see every pane we had ever broken and I was showing Ace the flat, red rock and we both thinking about the same pane of glass; high up on the top level, and we were strategizing like we always do, before we throw rocks.
And Ace was fucking mad, but since the smooth red rock is famous and all, Ace was trying his best to be happy for me; he does not make me ask for the joint. The smooth red rock has a nickname. I let him say it first.
“Foxy.”

Nine Years Old

2006-01-11T23:33:00.000-05:00

for amber harper

3:36 pm

Tommy practically ran all the way. And he practically ran fast the entire time, too. His blue shirt flapped loudly in the wind and his sneakers slapped louder yet on the sidewalks and the roads that led him home. And Tommy was excited; his smile was huge.
He still wore his shiney face, when he ran through the front doors of his house.
"Momma! Momma! I got 2 A's on my report card, Momma!"
And at first, Tommy did not notice that there was not anyone home to notice him.
But he caught on, after he took his shoes off, when he did not hear Momma answer him; even from her bedroom. He threw his report card; in its brown envelope, onto the mat, in front of the wood door. And then he punched the wall.
His knuckles did not hurt, when Tommy put back on his shoes.

Tommy's blue bike was leaning up against the yellow brick house. The rusty chain was hanging loose again, scraping at the driveway and when he bent to fix it, Tommy noticed the weeds growing out of the pavement.
Ugly fucking things, he thought.

Tommy rode his bike around his block.
He rode around his block again and again.
Eight times.
And Tommy would not cry.
Even though he wanted to.

Tommy rode downtown. He travelled up and down the main street sidewalks three times.
And an old man grumbled, "Get out of my way, dammit!"
But everyone else said, "Hello."
And Tommy smiled and thought about throwing his fist into Momma's face. Or of delivering a flying axe-kick to her head.

It was only 4:30, when Tommy pedaled across his front lawn.
And Tommy was so mad to see the wooden door still open. So much madder to see his report card still there, laying on the mat.
"Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you..." Tommy spoke his nonsence.
And then Tommy's thoughts cleared and he wondered if maybe Aunt Lynn would give him a few dollars for getting these A's on his report card. Maybe she would even give him five bucks.
He could stop for a milkshake at the Sub Shop and play a few video games at the Arcade.
And he would not have to sit at home, waiting for his lying, stupid mother.

He dropped his bike in Aunt Lynn's driveway and when Tommy ran up the few steps to the kitchen, the first thing he saw was his grandmother, sitting at the kitchen table. Burnt toast and jam.
"Want some?" the old lady barked. Tommy watched her old boney fingers grip the butter knife.
"It's not breakfast time, Grandma," he replied.
"Is for me. I just got up. Pretty lucky, aren't I?"
"I got to A's on my report card, Grandma," he spit out.
And she asked, "Do you got this report card that proves you aren't a dumbass?" The sound of the knife going back to the table made him jump. He did not take off his shoes, he crossed the floor and tried to hand her the brown envelope.
But she was putting back in her teeth.
She reached inside the pocket of her housecoat. Put two quarters on the table.
"What would you do with those?" she asked, rubbing her hand across her nose, sniffing.
"I don't know," he said, turning away from her.
"Bullshit you don't."
"Couple arcade games, I guess," he mumbled.
"What game?"
"Rush'n Attack," he looked back towards her.
"Is it fun?"
"Yeah."
"Killing Commi bastards should be fun!" she agreed.
"Momma gave me two dollars a piece for my A's," Tommy lied.
And Aunt Lynn said, from behind him, "Tommy, you are such a liar. Your Momma's been here since one o'clock. You got the note on the coffee table, didn't you?"

Giving Shit

2006-01-02T23:40:00.000-05:00

With his mouth, on her nipple, she could feel the sensations to all of her upper body. When her back arched up in reaction, this worked only to further her breast into Edward Julian Watson's mouth.
And this sucked for Becki. It tickled far too much for her liking.
But she would not complain. She had not told Edward Julian Watson she would prefer if he touched her pussy first.
So Becki just pulled Edward Julian Watson's big head back up towards her mouth, and kissed him again.

Becki turned out the lights, before Edward Julian Watson was even down the stairs. Then she went to her chest of drawers, opening the top one and slid her hand into the back and beneath her undergarments. And when she heard Edward Julian Watson's blue Datsun start up and pull away, she walked over to her window and she opened the it. And the night air was warmer than she had expected. She took a cigarette from the paper packaging and she lit it. She stared at the tops of the trees and the moonlight and the stars.
"What the hell was that?" she finally asked herself out loud.
And Ms. Johnson,from below, said "Girl, I do not know what the hell anything is most times, but things I do know right now is that you got a cigarette up there and I know too, that I told you about smoking in your rooms when I rented to you. So I think you better get on down here and share that with me."

Christmas in July

2005-12-19T22:02:00.000-05:00

A warm day, like it had been the last day and the last day and the last day before this day and it was warm day like how all last days have been and will be.
These were the days when fans blasted out hot air, so you turned them off.
These were the days when everything sagged and sighed; the trees, the buildings and the human lives.
This was the the day that was to be the last day that my children would be living at home.

My children informed me of their plans to run away, after lunch.
"We are running away," they said to me.
"Okay," I said, back to them.
"After supper," they further said to me.
"Okay," I completely agreed with them. "If you want to go, then go."
And, "Yes," my children agreed, they would go.
My children reminded me several times an hour of their plan.
I nodded.
And supper hour came and went.

It was quarter to eight, when my daughter asked, "When are we having supper?"
"No supper," I said.
"What do you mean NO SUPPER?" she replied and she was unhappy.
"I am not hungry," I said.
"What do you mean? You are not going to feed us?"
"You are running away. Which means you do not live here. I did not recall inviting you to dinner." I reasoned. I smiled.
"You have to feed us," she said.
"No, I don't," I said.
"Then, we are running away now." My daughter glared at me, straight in the eye, before storming towards her room, yelling her brother's name. "We are going. Now."
And when my children came out of their rooms, they both wore backpacks full.
"We packed bags," my daughter said. Looking smug.
"Good idea," I said.
"Want to know what we are taking?"
"No," I said. And this seemed to make my daughter very angry because she grabbed her brother's hand and pulled him to the front door.
"Good-bye," I said to them, from the couch.
"Good-bye," said my son. But I just barely heard him. My daughter was slamming the front door behind them.

Five minutes later, my daughter walked back in through the front door and joined me on the couch.
She did not say anything to me and so I did not say anything to her.

Five more minutes later, my son walked into he house and he stood in the doorway. "Let's gooooo," he insisted to his sister.
"We're not going," she said. She crossed her arms.
I would have asked her why, but my son became quite loud. He began crying. Like it was the last day of earth. His face was red and suddenly, he was bolting his fists to his side and his neck was strained and he could barely talk.
"I-am-pissed-offff---at--you!"
"Why is your brother so mad at you?" I asked my daughter, with raised eyebrows.
She shrugged, still unwilling to talk to me.
And my son sobbed, "We're-going-t-t-to-live-at Wal-Mart."

..What Are You Waiting For?

2005-11-25T03:01:00.001-05:00

She had a real calm smile; it took its time creeping up into her eyes. And there she was looking up at me.
She was sitting, right down there on the sidewalk, up against the wall of the bank. Her hand was wrapped around a red pen; buried into a magazine.
And I was walking by her.
Her eyes were brown.
I did not smile back at her. One can never be too sure about anyone who is downtown.

A few days later; it was grey and chilly, and I saw her again. With the same simple smile; this time growing into recognition.
She stood just inside the entrance way of the video store, ducked, despite the fact she was barley five feet tall and the doorway was at least ten. Funny girl, I thought.
Her smile passed by quickly, and then she bent her head down, to the inside of another magazine. She took a long, lipstick drag off a cigarette.

"What are you doing?" she asked, when I was passing by her a day and a half later. And I stopped my step, for I was truly stumped. I looked down at my brown shoes, and for lack of better wording, “Walking," is what I said.
"No, you're not," she said to me and her brown eyes asked me if I were stupid.
"Yes, I am," I said, agreeing to everything, and started myself moving again.

I saw her the week after.
"Who you going to see?" she asked me, offhand, like she knew me.
"A man about a dog," I replied.
And we both smiled bright and big at each other, but I did not stop walking this time.

Tuesday then, and she was sitting underneath a shade tree. Head bent; hair tousled over shoulders, onto her black sweater. I watched the strands of her hair move with the air, when she looked up and at me.
And this time her quiet smile let me know she was happy to see me and it made me stop walking; it made me smile back at her.
"What would you rather be doing?" she wanted to know.
So I told her.
Jesus Christ, I did not even call into work.
She took off my shirt, the minute I shut the apartment door behind us.
We fucked right there in my hallway and after we were done, she asked me another question.
"Where is your dog?"
Funny, funny girl.

Rage Of Angels

2005-10-31T12:59:00.000-05:00

Punks-Tomorrow

Minie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
And since Tommy liked to get high, too, they had agreed to meet, before school started, at the edge of the woods.
When Minnie stepped through the leaves and needles, the first thing she saw was Tommy, in jeans and his crumpled hair covering his eye. She stopped to watch the morning fog cling around him; owning him.
And she smiled.
Tommy was beautiful.
It was 7 a.m.
And she had brought two joints.

They were walking down the road; no sidewalks. Tommy's feet shuffled along slow, a dream. She hauled off the joint, to the same slow beat of his sneakers.
She looked up to see him looking away. Bringing his joint to his lips, Minnie knew he was nowhere, but in his mind.
And so she just watched him looking away, blowing from his lips the smoke; a grey swirl just hanging out with the fog.
"Are you scared, Tommy?" she asked.
But he did not answer her, even though he had heard her.
They threw away their joints, stepping up the concrete step, to the inside of the corner store. Minnie watched Tommy play the same video game, until almost first class.

It rose inside of her, high and made her head hurt, when they stood in front of the school. It only lasted a second. She took a deep breath, just as Tommy grabbed her hand. Their fingers laced.
She looked up at him.
He looked down at her.
She noticed his hand was cold.
And she did not know what he was thinking. Did he love her?
It did not matter; they were walking up the stairs and walking into the stares.
Just stares. All around them. And even more, when they stepped through the large glass doors and into the hallway of lockers.
She did not grip Tommy's hand tighter.
Instead, she smiled, a wide, wide smile. "Hi, y'all!" She said it loudly.
But who would answer her?
So, Tommy walked her to her locker. And then to first class.

Her first class was English and she sat by the window.
She stared down at her notebook. She penned

I love Tommy
Minnie loves Tommy
Miniie & Tommy
4-ever

over and over, again.
She could feel eyes on her.
Then the crackle of the P.A. System half an hour into class. And she knew.
"Mrs. Carmichael, are you there, please?" The voice, pleasant and asking.
Minnie watched the teacher move, across the room, close to the speaker; smooth and fast.
"Yes. I am here."
"Is Minnie in your class this morning?"
And Minnie muttered, “Fuck,” standing up, before Mrs. Carmichael even looked towards her.
"Could you send the young lady to the office, please?"
"It must be your birthday," Mrs. Carmichael smiled, clear and bright, when Minnie brushed passed her.

Enter

2005-09-26T00:24:00.000-04:00

On Sundays Dave and Barbara would bring the white suit; slung casually over Dave's arm, into the room they had said was his. "Hey, buddy. It is time to get ready for church." Dave would smile down at him.
And on Sundays, Barbara would always smile, too. "We can get orange pop, on the way back. If you keep your suit clean."
And Tommy would wait until they left the room they had said was his, to throw the clothing over his head and onto himself. Then he would look at himself in the mirror.
And on Sundays, Tommy knew he had never went to his Grandmother's church dressed like this.
When Tommy was ready, and when Barbara had scrubbed his face clean one last time, they would go through a door in the kitchen, to the garage.
They would climb into the blue convertible and the top would be down.
It would still smell of fresh oils and lemon.
Because on Saturdays, Tommy and David would scrub the car clean.

Tommy had never heard someone talk of summer like Barbara talked of summer. She kept saying the days were dogs. This had somehow tied into the reason why everyone had to stay indoors; with the air-conditioning.
Tommy did not care too much if he had to stay in Barbara and Dave's house, all of the time. There was a television in the room they had said was his. A colour television.
Dave and Barbara were nice people.
They were nice to Tommy.
Tommy recieved everything he asked for. All he had to do was stomp his foot. Only one footfall for Barbara, taking two for Dave.
There had only been one thing Barbara had been firm on.
On this Sunday, on the way to church, Tommy had asked for a dog.
Barbara had turned in her sat, she said, "We would have to walk him. And it is only fit for dogs to be out in that heat. End of discussion."
And Tommy knew she meant it because Barbara turned to Dave and said to him, "Why can't we put up the top?"
"Be quiet, Barbara, or I will buy the kid a dog. End of discussion," Dave replied, to her.
And Barbara must have knew Dave meant it because she turned quiet, too.
So Tommy wondered, instead of asked, why humans shouldn't be outside in the summer.

There Is No Better Time Than Today

2005-09-02T02:11:00.000-04:00

Don lived alone and three days after his wife died, he bought himself a riding lawn mower.
His late wife had a solid annoyance for slothfulness.
One time, Don had let Tommy ride with him. Let him steer the mower, even.
Don would throw Mr. Freezes to the children, over the back fence, in the summer.
His dead wife would have baked Tommy and Sissy cookies, instead.
His dead wife would have probably made them fresh lemonade, too.
And had it all sitting on a freaking plastic tray, when she presented it to the little brats that grew-up next-door.

Four and a Half Years Old

"I just wanted to let you know that we are going," Tommy said, seriously to Don. "We might never be back."
"Alright," nodded Don, agreeing. "I have a few things for the two of you. Things you might need. Come on in here for a minute."
"Okay," Tommy agreed and led Sissy through the white door, that Don was holding open from the other side. The inside.
The living room was all blue couches and pink flowers. Still. Only because it was almost-new, Don defended the room, in his mind.
Tommy thought Don's house smelled gross.
The kitchen took up half the floor space on the bottom floor of the house, and everywhere, in the room, was bookshelf and fishing net.
The kitchen was weird. Tommy felt weird, standing in it.
"If you are going to run away, the first thing you need to do is find a bag. One you can fill and carry comfortably," Don said.
And Tommy looked at him because this made sudden sense to Tommy.
"What would you put in a bag that you could carry?" Don asked the boy.
"A pillow!" Tommy replied; smiled, thinking he was smart.
But apparently, this was not a smart reply. Don shook his head. "Do not be a dumbass."
"Dumas," Sissy repeated.
"Shut-up, Sissy," Tommy glared.
"Food. You want some damn food." Don threw in half a loaf of bread into the grocery bag that he had grabbed, from the bottom drawer. Crackers. Raw macaroni noodles.
"I am going to give you this peanut butter, too." Don held up a small jar. "You will need a knife for this. Always take a knife, when you runaway."
"To stab the bad guys," Tommy nodded, knowingly.
Don whistled. "Oh, Dumbass has a bit of a brain, eh?"
"Dumas!" Sissy cheered, again.
And this time, Tommy smiled at her.
Don threw into the bag; a knife, two spoons and two metal-canned fruit cups. Then threw in the other two that came in the green package. And one can of baked beans.
Figure that one out, Dumbass...
"Books!" Sissy pointed.
"Good idea. Everyone should read," Don said, to her blond head; his eyes staring at Tommy, before turning them to his shelves.
Don spent a long time looking over his books, flipping fish net that tickled his nose, out of his way.
"Here it is." Don tapped his finger on spine. Happy, he stuffed the book in the bag and handed it to Tommy.
"Next time you run away, remember to bring a change of clothes. Some washcloths. There is room left in that bag, do you notice? Always bring one thing you love. If it is a damn pillow, bring a small one! And only take food from the cupboard," Don was explaining, as he took the children back to his front door; opening it. "Good-bye, children."
"Thank you," said Tommy, stepping through, with Sissy in tow.
"Tankyouuuuuuu," Sissy smiled and smiled and smiled, up at Don. Twinkle eyes.
But Tommy hurried her along. "Lets go, Sissy, lets go. Lets go. Lets go now!"
Stopping at the end of the driveway, Tommy turned and looked and saw that Don was watching them, as they left. "Don. Do you know my Dad's phone number?" Hopeful eyes.
Don wanted to say, yes.
What Don said, instead, was, "No, Dumbass."
Tommy turned, tugging on Sissy fast.
He was mad at Don for calling him names.
Don was not smart. Cleaning was not fun. He would NEVER bring washcloths. Not when he knew that he could fit his dinky cars in the bag; instead.
Tommy was storming down the sidewalk.
Sissy was toddling. "Dumas...dumas...dumas."
Tommy did not think about the book that Don had put into the bag or the possible space it might be wasting.
Tommy did not even know the name of the book was Roots.

Giving Shit

2005-08-30T13:03:00.000-04:00

Friday at Almost 6 p.m.

The high school has a basketball net.
It was the first thought Edward Julian Watson had, when his eyes rested upon the basketballs stuck in the large cage. Edward Julian Watson was in the sports department of the K-Mart.
What Edward Julian Watson really wanted to purchase was a pair of kneepads. He liked to wear them when he scrubbed his white kitchen floor.
So, Edward Julian Watson bought a blue pair of kneepads, along with a basketball. He was the last person to leave the store; an employee, of some-sort, locking the door behind him.
Edward Julian Watson threw the kneepads, towards the couch, when he walked into the front door of his house, and Edward Julian threw on his sneakers, immediately after.
He had not played basketball in a good five years.
Along with his sneakers, Edward Julian Watson also wore a what-the-fuck-does-Larry-Byrd-have-on-me-? attitude, when he ran back out his front door, towards his blue Datsun.

Edward Julian Watson approached the driveway, on South Street, where the high school was located. The driveway leading into the parking lot that only teachers were allowed to park in.
There was a chain along with the tar, breaking up the fence and grass, preventing him from entering school grounds. A big chain, with a big lock. Edward Julian Watson decided to go around the block, to the back of the school, where there was another enterance.
A minute later, Edward Julian Watson was putting his car into park and jumping out. To look at another fence; face puzzled. He sighed. This fence was twice his height.
Perhaps the science geeks have nuclear weapons inside, he thought to himself.
He looked all up and down, side-to-side, along the wire.
And then thought to himself:
What would Larry Byrd do?
Edward Julian Watson went back to his car, to shut it off, sliding the keys into his pants. He made the throw, with the basketball; it landed over the fence. He hauled himself onto the fence, and Edward Julian Watson climbed. Using his elbow, when he was near the top of the fence as a hoist. Small barbs were embedded on the top of this fence, in fact, tearing Edward Julian Watson's shirt. And his elbow. Despite the damage, Edward Julian Watson, did indeed, make it over the fence and onto the ground, without further incident. Edward Julian Watson had long legs, after all. Quite admiral Edward Julian Watson could climb a fence at all, considering he was wearing his work clothes.
Edward Julian Watson was also un-decent, while he had carried himself over and onto high school property. "Fuck....shit....what the fuck....fuck," he sputtered like boiling water.
"That's quite the mouth on you, sonny," said the voice, before Edward Julian Watson noticed the body attached.
.And what a body, he thought, while he chuckled outl loud. Touched his elbow.
"There is a hole in the fence, down beside that bush, you know?" the tanned woman, in pink sweat pants, pointed with one hand; her other holding a can of pop.
Edward Julian Watson chuckled more. "What are you doing here?"
"I run the track. What are you doing here?" she tossed back.
Reaching down, Edward Julian Watson grabbed onto his new basketball, tried to spin in on his finger.
And failed miserably, doing so.
The woman chuckled then, too. "How about some one-on-one?"
"Sure," Edward Julian Watson shrugged. "I am Eddie. Who are you?"
This made the woman laugh more. "I am Kim. It is nice to meet you Edward."
Kim took a drink, from the can of Dr. Pepper.

Giving Shit

2005-08-18T03:39:00.000-04:00

Earlier That Day

It was eleven-thirty in the morning. Edward Julian Watson always woke up on Saturdays, at eleven-thirty in the morning.
Edward Julian Watson was in a white bedroom.
It was Edward Julian Watson's bedroom.
Edward Julian Watson had a elbow-ache because he was on the bed, in his white room, and it was a white room because Edward Julian Watson had not painted it. He rubbed his elbow and that is when he noticed he was wearing the same clothes that he had on the night before. Then, he noticed his watch on the pillow beside him.
Edward Julian Watson could taste the grit on his teeth, soured salsa and hamburger.
"I have to go," Edward Julian Watson said, out loud.
"Okay," his body answered him, weary and aching as he upped himself onto his carpeted floor.
Edward Julian Watson always met Bob for lunch, at noon, on Saturdays.

Becki was running through the downtown streets, the same streets she walked everyday to work. They sky was grey and there were bricks everywhere; the building material of a downtown. Trees reached to the skies. She looked down to make sure her white sneakers were still laced. Not that Becki was much of a runner. She would run, only when she woke-up feeling groogy. Only on weekends.
Becki hated running.
But she did love the things she saw on her run, including the outdoor display of lovely and bright red apples, stuck in-between the lemons and the lettuce, at Mr. McGregor's grocery store.
"These apples are of the lovliest red, Mr. McGregor," Becki said to him, when she purchased three of the bright pieces of fruit, and as Mr. McGregor placed them into a clear plastic bag for her.
These lovely and bright red apples helped Becki fall, when she dropped them, not too long after she started running again.
Flat-legged, landing on the sidewalk, Becki grabbed at her ankle, when she heard a voice in front of her question, "Becki? Oh, my God. Are you okay?"
"I think it is my ankle," she said. "These apples tripped me."
"I will save you from those evil apples!" Bob said. "We can take refuge from them in my apartment. It is right here, right above Jenson's, where the brown door is."
And when Becki smiled at him, Bob just jumped right over to her and hoisted her right up over his shoulder.
She was so unprepared for such, she could not help but laugh.
"Bob, put me down," she asked.
And of course, Bob did not put her down, instead carrying her over and through the brown door and up his green stairwell, to his apartment, with the green couch.
And because when Bob, who lacked the skills of the caveman that she called him, went to place her onto his green couch, Bob did not mean to bounce her onto it with such sloppiness. Or have her ankle bounced off the his white tiled floor.
"Becki-", he said.
"It is okay," she said, and nodded at him.
"I will get you some ice," he said.
Okay. Thank you, Bob," Becki replied.
Bob flipped on his stereo, on the way through, to his kitchen

Wohoh, Black Betty, bam-e-lam
Wohoh, Black Betty, bam-e-lam
Black Betty had a baby, bam-e-lam
Black Betty had a baby, bam-e-lam...

came through the speakers and it was not Ram Jam singing.
The knock on the door startled Becki, but the door actually opening startled her more.
"Holy fuck, Bob, I have been waiting for like ten minutes down-" Edward Julain Watson stopped, when he noticed Becki, on the couch, apparently keeping Bob occupied.

Giving Shit

2005-08-07T03:00:00.000-04:00

Later That Day

Edward Julian Watson took things for granted.
Edward Julian Watson was on his way home from Saturday lunch, driving in his blue Datsun. The oil light was on, flashing red.
Edward Julian Watson would stop at the gas station, close to home, he thought, as he ploughed through the streets.
But the gas station close to home was closed and he did not understand why. The gas station was always open.
So, Edward Julian Watson just drove his blue Datsun home.
And watched the baseball game on the television.

Becki was standing staring at the bank teller. In her yellow skirt.
“I cannot give you advice on this,” John, the man behind the desk, said to her, as he handed her the green folder back; fast.
“Thank you, anyway” Becki smiled up at John.
“You deserve some help,” John replied. "I will call over to the main branch. I am sure they can help clear this up for you."
And Becki smiled at him, again.
But she wondered what it was she was so deserving of this help? She wondered if it was important; whatever she had done? And why was it so deserving, that it deserved this nice man going out of his way for her?
Becki just stood there in front of the bank teller and Becki just plain wondered what she had done.
And she did not hear John clear his throat.
“Are you okay?" John’s voice finally broke through her thoughts.
And Becki smiled at John, one more time, but it was weak.
“I would be, if you could tell me what is the most important thing to be okay about,” she answered, as she handed him back the green folder and added, "You might need this."

The oil light was flashing red still, as Edward Julian Watson pulled his blue Datsun out of his driveway. It was 1:30 at night.
Edward Julian Watson was going to see Becki.
After he parked his car on the stone driveway, and after he had grabbed a few of those stones from the driveway, Edward Julian Watson cut across some grass, to the side of the house, where Becki's window was.
He threw the stones at her window.
But Becki never came to the window. Edward Julian Watson had thrown five stones, so Edward Julian Watson cut back across the grass and he got into his car.
He noticed the flashing red oil light.
Edward Julian Watson would stop at the gas station, close to home, he thought.
But the gas station was still closed.
So, Edward Julian Watson just drove his car home.
And watched the baseball highlights on the television.
Edward Julian Watson had the suspicion that Becki had been home; ignoring him.
Again.

Play Out Our Lives

2005-08-03T02:24:00.000-04:00

The yellow bike was everything. When Tommy was four years old, riding across Chapel Park, he had looked down and back, watching his training wheels cut through the grass and molding the dandelions to the earth. Tommy had felt happy, when the weeds did not pop back up.

Now Tommy was six years old and Tommy was racing himself. Up and down the sidewalk, in front of his house.
Where Momma was having the yard sale.
Tommy would switch the gears on the yellow bike often. Tommy liked doing that best. He did not understand why he could pedal backwards and the bike would still go forwards. He felt like he was from a different planet every time he switched the gears, so Tommy would pretend that his skin was green and that he had yellow eyes, to match his yellow bike. Which was really his spaceship.
Tommy was a well-liked alien on the planet Earth because Tommy The Alien could go fast.
Tommy was pedalling fast around the corner, head down, crushing down the sidewalk, up along the side of his house, when a voice shrieked.
"Tommyyy!"
Tommy looked up and he saw Mari-Anne and Todd and Gordie and Grayston, standing on the sidewalk, so Tommy threw his sneakered feet to the ground fast. He almost fell, but did not, when the bike stopped quick, forcing his whole body to be thrown forward.
"You scared me again, Tommy," Mari-Anne snivelled.
Tommy told her to shut-up.
"I don't wanna," came Mari-Anee's high-pitched whine.
"Just shut-up," Tommy said louder, crossing his arms over his chest, standing beside his yellow bike; propping it up with his knee.
When Mari-Anne began to pout, Todd and Gordie and Grayston laughed. "Yeah, shut-up, Mari-Anne," they chorused together.
Mari-Anne was about to cry, the tears just threatening to come over the edge of her lower lids, when the sound of the Dickie-Dee Man's bells came within earshot, and when all the children's heads turned, they found within viewshot, too.
"My mom said she would buy everyone ice cream," Tommy spoke fast, mostly to make sure Mari-Anne did not whine and cry anymore. Tommy was rewarded with a wide smile from the girl, who jumped up and down, along with her blonde pigtails tied in red elastic.
"Yay!" she simply said.
So, Tommy slipped onto his bike, speeding away, with a "Come on!' thrown over his shoulder, to the three that had to walk.
Poor people, Tommy thought. People do not own spaceships.

"No, Tommy," said Momma.
"But I told them you were going to."
"You should not have. I did not say I would buy any children ice cream from the Dickie-Dee Man."
"Momma, I told them-"
"I do not care, Tommy," Momma interrupted him.
Just as Grayston was the first of the walkers to show-up. Mostly because Grayston had chosen to be a runner.
"Because you are going to buy us ice cream; thank-you," spoke Grayston to Momma; ever-always polite with adults.
Momma was tight-lipped, while the children danced around her, as they picked out the ice creams they wanted. $6.75, in quarters, is what she handed the boy with the crooked smile, who was not a man.
Sissy screamed, from the playpen, too hot, despite her soft yellow dress. Too hot from her too wet diaper.
Too hot despite the goddamn tree.
"MOOOMMMMA! MOOOMMMMA!"
Momma bought the rainbow popsicle for her.
But Sissy threw it into the grass, too mad and without reason, when Momma handed her the carefully wrapped in wrapper-ed stick.
Momma only sighed, as she picked up the popsicle. She was picking off the dirt, when she noticed the ants in the playpen.
"Can we go to the park with our ice cream?" Tommy asked, from behind her.
"Yeah," said Momma, without looking at him, but Tommy had turned to go with the others before she spoke, anyway.

A blue car pulled up, rusted fenders; door bottoms. A Ford. The man wore a white shirt. Blue jeans. His gut spilt over.
"That yella bike," he said. "How much fer it?"
Momma looked at the bike.
She looked at the man; his unshaven face. The case of beer, on the backseat of the car.
"Six dollars and seventy-five cents," she kept her voice neutral. Even.
The man looked at her queerly and reached into his back pocket, for his brown wallet.
Black, greased hands touched hers, a silent exchange. The man picked up the bike, tossed carelessly in the grass. He left.
And Momma thought to herself. I have enough.
I have enough for the moving truck.
Diapers for Sissy.
Two bottles of vodka.
And the bike.
Tommy's favorite colour was blue.
And since it was almost four o'clock, Momma decided to pack-up the yard sale.

Oh, Yes, I Am

2005-07-21T02:02:00.000-04:00

My Roommates moved out.
And left their cat. My Roommates said they would be back. I do hope they meant for their cat.
Not that My Roommates' cat requires much, to be honest. Besides a open Front Door once in awhile and my front lawn to roll all her grey fur upon; Smokie seldom even eats here.
And although The Grass is starting to yellow in spots, I do my best not to blame Smokie.
Indoors, Misty is my lovely cat. Misty is approaching five years old.
Misty was unsure that she was a cat. She would growl if someone knocked upon my Front Door. In fact, I am certain Misty really had no clue what she was.
Even after living with Lucy, for a year, back three years a go.
(Don't you mean Lucifer? The Voice is laughing at me, over my shoulder, as I type this.
And I will let you all know that I only turn to glare at The Voice, for Lucifer was indeed Lucy's real name.)
My Roommates' cat has a most lovely growl, as well. Accompanied, usually, with a tremendous hiss. The spitting variety, common to Detroit back alleys, I imagine.
Smokie likes to growl. And hiss. Because Smokie will put on this performance every time Misty crosses Smokie's path.
Even when Lucy, in fits resembling distemper, clawed Misty to bleeding, my lovely cat never hissed.
Misty hisses now.
Smokie will also spit at my little friend, Prowler.
Prowler also had no clue what she was, but there was still hope, being she has only been in-being for three months.
Prowler has clawed her way through a window screen to go roll on The Grass.
(And everybody likes to sleep on the kitchen table! The Voice dares to remind me. With glee. Say hello to my little friend! Ha, ha! Ha, ha!
Sometimes, I think I should change Smokie's name to Ashes, I tell The Voice.
Here Kitty, Kitty, I say to the air.

Fast Dreams

2005-07-18T15:09:00.001-04:00

James cut the engine and slammed his hands on the steering wheel, gripping and wanting to shake it, as the boys leapt at the car, happy and reaching in to pat him on the back.
Fucking third,he thought.
The boys were thinking the same thing, but with exclamations points.
The boys were happy. It was their best finish all season.
And that is what pissed James off.
He took off his helmet, felt the dirty sweat gripped to his head like ooze, and got out of the car.
He did smile at the boys.
He just looked at the sky and ignored everything else, but the smell of burnt rubber, always dirty in his nostrils. And he thought of the word dirty, and he thought of Jews and he thought of Niggers, and he knew dirty was a bad word, had been back as long as his goddamn mind could remember. And if what he smelt was goddamn dirty, why the fuck was he doing it?
I am 36 years old, his thoughts just continued. 36 years old.

Punks-In June

2005-07-17T06:48:00.000-04:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
And now it was after dark, and after the stories.
It was after Sissy.
It was after another two joints.
Minnie was so stoned, she did not realise she was rocking Lydia, in her arms, not noticing until she felt the faded yellow hair trail down her arms; Tommy with his hands, dragging down on the dolls legs; gently, until the doll broke free from her.
"I didn't do it, either, Tommy," Minnie whispered, just a whisper and she did not look up. She did not stop rocking.
And Tommy noticed Lydia and Minnie both had red lines for mouths.
It just doesn't matter, he thought, and then their lips were touching; just like that, and it was hunger and he could taste her mouth, taste her lips and she could taste him, too. Bitter nicotine on the tip of her tongue.
Tommy noticed his hands clenched to her shoulders, pushing her shirt from her shoulders. He wanted to kiss the skin there and so he did. He felt her hand pressing down, down his chest; he felt her slip inside his pants.
"Tommy?" she asked, and when he did not reply, she took him out of his pants. She placed her mouth upon him, and he did not want to move. The night was so goddamn hot to begin with, and now his mind was exploding with the familiar strangeness of fire.
And when she took her mouth off him briefly, he could feel her moist breath beat down on him, like a hot summers fan.
"You better hold my hand at school tomorrow," she told him, and then he was inside of her mouth, again.
Tommy swallowed the huge breath that came out of his mouth because he knew he had to
And he still did not want to move.

Something For You

2005-07-16T21:10:00.000-04:00

...they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and every body goes "Awww!"

`Jack Kerouac
On The Road

Chapter 7

2005-07-02T02:43:00.001-04:00

Upon the completion of the reconstruction of the un-motorised motorhome, Tim believed nothing bad could touch them again because his reason led him to believe lightening never struck in the same place twice, so why would a tornado? But as we can previously recall, all Tim's walk that fine line between stupid and idiot.
Further proving our mutual knowledge, not understanding the value of money, Tim bought seven cases of beer with the cash he had saved on replacing the roof. Tim decided he was going to have himself a party.
The party would be on the very next night. A Friday! But since it was Thursday and there were seven cases of beer, Tim decided he could drink one of those cases on this Thursday. And at least another on Friday!
Tim was really happy. He thought it was a wonderful Thursday.
But it was on this Thursday, in the night, when they were sitting outside and around the Hibatchi, roasting hot dogs with Justin, who had dropped-in, so Justin was drinking beer, too, while both men, with bare feet on patio stones and faces full of chew, and while all were listening to the CD player that was sitting in the back bedroom's window, playing Garth Brooks and ZZ Top on random, that Tim was to find out bad things do touch people. More than once. Lightening struck first. It hit the television antenna, rigged to the roof. It started a fire.
"You stupid...fucking...idiot," his wife said to him, waddling out of the lawn chair, her hands fully of baby-belly, walking to the dirt road, in her ducky slippers. "I am going to Linda's."
An hour later, she was drinking coffee and still bitching.
And Tim and Justin were at Rusty's Tavern.
When the second tornado hit their un-motorised motorhome.

God's Greatest Gifts

2005-06-27T02:52:00.000-04:00

July

Chet,

I get to hear it a few times a month, and it always startles me.
"Momma, can I, can I call my Dad?"
And those words come from our son.
And I feel my heart stop for just a minute and I want to scream at him NO because I hate you. But his eyes are so bright, you know how they get when he is really excited to do something. I tell him yes. I watch him reach up to the phone on the kitchen wall. He used to have to use his tippy-toes, but not anymore.
Fuck. He has probably grown 4 inches since you saw him last.
You piece of shit.
I know you are one because I get to sit and watch his shoulders slump, when you never pick up the goddamn telephone, on your end. I get to watch that bright light in his eyes burn out. I get this shit:

Why does my Dad not love me, Momma?

I say, He does.

I want to see my Dad, Momma.

I say, I hope you get to see him soon.

But I have already watched you break his heart. Been through the nights and the tears and the holding him and his goddamn anger and pain. And after watching that, I do not hope anything for you.
Sometimes, I think it is my fault you aren't coming around here to see your kids. I think it is my fault because I ask God to kill you, so I can give them some sort of reason for why you are doing this to them. I ask God, let him choke on his own vomit, let him swallow his tongue, for making me see this look on Tommy's face.
Every time I let him call you, I am breaking his heart, too.
You fucking bastard.
I hope someone hits you in the head with a baseball bat.

Tumbling After

2005-06-17T14:21:00.001-04:00

Jill thought she should maybe write the journal. It was fast becoming her final decision.
Her therapist, Johnson, said it would help.
Jill knew Johnson really meant do something, anything. Don't give up. Life is good!
Whatever.
Jill knew she had never liked writing, but she thought about Johnson's words and she had rationalized down to: when was the last time she had wrote anything besides a grocery list, anyway?
Jill knew she liked to talk and that is why Jill was a telemarketer.
Higher paid than most.
Her therapist was praised often, by others, who seemed sane.
Jill would follow his advice.

Jill thought to stop at the Wal-Mart on her way home. She needed dog kibble. She needed shampoo and a plant.
And she needed a notebook, too, she reminded herself, when she walked through the doors of Wal-Mart.
But Jill soon forgot, and then remembered, while she was in the checkout line. When she saw the bright orange notebooks. For ninety-seven cents.
So, Jill bought one, and a black pen, too, with her dog kibble. And her shampoo and her plant. The cashier's name was LYNDA.

Jill went to the park the next day because it was a Saturday.
This was a nice park.
A nature park.
Except for the benches and picnic tables, that is.
The park Jill went to had lots of trees; Jill chose a picnic bench, beneath one.
Jill wrote the date on the first lined paged of the notebook.
And then that was it.
Jill lived in San Francisco. And Jill was a lovely girl, in all reality.
She truly would have liked Jack.
But more importantly, on that Saturday, Jill had worn her favourite dress to the park. Which happened to be purple, with white polka dots. Jill wore it whenever she could.
But poor, poor Jack.
He lived in Chicago.
This is a guy who gets no breaks, folks.

Bettin' On A Darker Shade of Red

2005-06-16T15:34:00.000-04:00

February 14th

Minnie,

I just got home from visiting my grandmother in the hospital. I brought her some flowers. Some pink ones. I think they are carnations. She is always planting flowers. All over her bedroom. And in anything. Margarine containers. Pill bottles. She always buys me things on Valentines Day. Not just a card or some chocolate. I get that stuff, but I also get a new outfit (that is always cool) and things like walkmans and shit, too. It's kinda like it is my birthday. She usually kisses me like a hundred times. I can't stand it, to be honest, when she is kissing on me. She is always buying me shit, and I…never buy her anything. So, I went to cut a few lawns with Bobby on the weekend and bought her the flowers. Then I just sat there with her. She did not wake-up, but she is not going to wake-up, anyway. I remember the first time up there, at the hospital to see her, like three weeks a go. This nurse says to me, 'Talk to her; she will hear you.' And all I thought was what a load of fucking bullshit. I heard Aunt Lynn and my mother talking. The doctors confirmed there is nothing working in her head, but her brainstem. That means she can't think, probably. But when I sit there with her, it is...nice and peaceful, even though, I know, we are all just waiting for her to die. I do not think she knows I am really there with her. But I do think she is probably having a really nice dream about me when I am there. I hope I am smiling in the dream. I feel really bad, Minnie. I don't even like her. It makes me feel real bad. So, I just sit in the room and I talk about you.

Tommy

Jack Shit

2005-06-13T04:49:00.001-04:00

Jack was a mighty, jolly chap. It is even what he considered himself to be.
Yes, Jack was quite the fellow.
Jack fancied polka-dots on his ties, only for the wearing of this type of tie, fit his definition of what it meant to be a fellow.
Jack believed the world was his stage, that he was the lead actor and that everyone else on earth were co-stars, but only to each other.
Jack lived his life. His way. Jack was jolly, so he was allowed to, by and large, by others.
And others could never figure out why Jack was as jolly as he was, for Jack was as skinny as hunger.
In his shiny black suits, to outfit his polka-dot ties.

One time, Jack walked into a house and it had pale blue walls in the kitchen. White, painted polka-dots stood up from these walls, too. Jack bought the house and Jack lived in the house, although the kitchen had been the only room he fancied, in the entire house. Jack found the backyard was too big, too.
But Jack was jolly, anyway.
Fred, who lived next-door to Jack, was…ahem…gay. So, Fred would cut Jack's grass for Jack because Fred saw that Jack would leave his house very early, in the morning, and not come home until later, sometimes much later, in the evening. And Jack was still always wearing his polka-dotted ties, and so Fred believed that this was the way Jack tortured himself, for being...something and so, Fred, being gay (as in happy), wrote poetry about Jack.
And once a song. A song that Fred would hum whenever Jack came to say thank you to Fred, for cutting his grass. Jack would bring Fred things like relish or cartons of milk and say, "Thank you for cutting the lawn, again, Fred."
Fred thought Jack might be psychic.
Because Fred never had, in his house, whatever Jack brought over.
Fred wondered how Jack knew what was needed.
But sadly, for Fred, Jack was not gay (as in...ahem...) and so, a love story did not develop between the two men.
Of course, that is all depending on what your definition of a love story is.
But by jolly old chap, Jack's, standards, he could not continue to be a gay fellow, if he were...ahem...homosexual.
But you and I both know, love stories are a dime a dozen, but did you know sadly, also for Jack, most women who wear polka-dots are fat?

Have You Heard?

2005-06-11T05:30:00.000-04:00

I started a new Everyday, just over a month a go.
I was able to ensure what I always have ensured before. That most Everyday is another day that I get to open my eyes and my ears get to hear my Alarm Clock Music. Taking place at a definite 7:30 a.m.
Most Everyday.
This should make me smile.
Except for-there is This Bird.
This Bird that makes noise. Louder than all the other birds.
At 7:30 a.m.
I do not know This Bird.
I have never seen This Bird.
And I do not want to, either.
I am already guilty of throwing a cup of coffee out of my bedroom window, last week. And I can blame it on This Bird, if I want to.
I fear I would become Al Bundy, if I ever laid eyes upon This Bird.

My new Everyday can be a lot of fun.
But it is not as...stimulating as my last Everyday.
And The Voice agrees.
Just admit it, The Voice will say to me. You are getting lazy.
When The Voice says this to me, I get mad.
I tell The Voice to Bite Me.

Because my new Everyday has a more...relaxed atmosphere than my last Everyday, I am able to stay up later.
And I like that.
For I am most fond of night.
I tell The Voice, I am glad to find you up with me.
The Voice says, Everybody has a job, Stupid.

Sometimes, because my new Everyday can be so...easy, I find that I am able to stay-up as late as I want to at night. I am never tired.
Sometimes, I am up until 4 a.m.
When all the other little birds are quiet. Because it is still dark.
Except, there is This Bird. This Bird who makes noise.
Before all the other birds.
At four in the morning.
And it is This Bird who wakes-up all the other birds.
And This Bird is the same bird that I know from 7:30 a.m., Everyday!
The Voice just laughs at me, when I get to complaining about This Bird.
Go to bed, then, The Voice tells me what to do.
And I say, I might as well. You could have a least made This Bird a fucking rooster.
That would have been a story to tell.

Punks-In June

2005-06-09T22:58:00.000-04:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
She did not think Tommy noticed her in the school parking lot. But he knew she was there. She was always there. It was where they used to go together.
Tommy did not know what to do, after reading Minnie's letter.
So, Tommy put the red envelope into his back pocket and then he just walked away.
Tommy raised his hand only five minutes after his math class had begun and asked if he could be excused to the washroom. He did not have to go.
When Tommy arrived in the blue-stalled bathroom, he sat on one of the toliets and Tommy read Minnie's letter again.
Then, he crumpled her letter into a ball. Tommy had felt his fist clench tightly, felt his hands weild all his mighty, Tommy power upon paper. Which somehow seemed wrong, so Tommy loosened his grip. He smoothed out the paper, on his knee; with his hand.
And Tommy read the letter again, before going back to algebra.

Tommy saw Minnie a lot during the rest of the day, and into the night.
But it was only in his head.
It was after dark, when he rooted around through his closet to find a red envelope; just a shade deeper than the one in his back pocket.
He did not open the darker envelope.
He gave it to Minnie the next day, after his first class, when he passed her in the school hallway.

Say Hello To My Little Friend

2005-06-06T02:41:00.000-04:00

A few weeks a go, my son and I were on our way towards home, a short trip to the variety for milk. Terri poked her head outside of her front door.
"You want a cat?" she asked.
"No," I replied.
"Well, how about a kitten?"
"O.K." I replied back that time and watched a smile spread across my son's face.
"You better pick the cutest one," I threatened him, as we walked up Terri's steps.
And so the parade began.
One unfortunate kitten had lost his paw, after birth. A neglectful mother bothered not with umbilical cords, and his own had twisted around his foot, and now the stump thumped on the floor, when he walked. Thus he was named, 'Thumper'.
An ugly cat with a ugly brown circle of fur above her lip was fondly called 'Madonna"; Terri laughed, bent, as she sputtered the name.
The other four were called Cat. Or sometimes, Kitty.
I had not even looked over the other four, when my son held out a small ball of grey fur.
"She is the cutest," he said.
"It is a boy," said Terri.
So, my son and I took the grey cat home. Heliked being outside. His heart did not race.
"What shall we name this cat?" I asked my son, as the kitten reached for my shoulder, to eye everything better.
"Flower," he said.
"It's a boy," I said.
"I like Flower," he said.
"He does not look like a Flower," I said, outloud.
We thought awhile, and when we arrived inside our front door and let the kitten down to explore, my son said, "Prowler."
And I said, "Okay."

Two days later, Company came, and Company informed me that Prowler was a girl.
The next morning, when I broke the news to my son, he was rather upset.
"How do you know?" he asked me.
"Charles told me," I admitted.
My son demanded we re-name the kitten Flower.
"She does not look like a Flower," I said, outloud.
That is when the kitten poked her nose out from under the couch.
"Come here, Flower," said my son.
"Come here, Prowler," said I.
And the kitten came to me.
So, I won the name game.
My seven year old son asked me to move out.

For Winston

2005-05-29T05:33:00.001-04:00

George Martin, a banker, was sitting in his living room in a well-to-do suburb of Boston reading a local story in the newspaper headlined "Barking Dog Saves Family of Five." But this is not the the story of George Martin. Or of banks. Nor is it the story of a dog who saved five lives.
However, this is indeed, a story of a dog.
A brown dog.
A brown dog with rather large brown eyes.
Who did not live in Boston.

The brown dog was sitting on the floor, facing the front door. He was staring straight ahead. He had been sitting there for over an hour. The brown dog was just waiting.
And thinking, too, for brown dog really wanted to smell something new. And the newest thing the brown dog knew of was the fat, gray cat that had been living in his house for close to a month now. But the fat, gray cat hated the brown dog. Or so the fat, gray cat let on. She would arch her blobbed back, her hair straight as arrows; thick as a well-kept lawn. She would open her mouth and her sharp teeth would spit. Every time the brown dog came near her. Which was not too often, but the fat, gray cat had to sometimes use the washroom. A lady can only hold herself for so long.
The fat, gray cat would also see the brown dog every night. When she walked by him on her way to eat her supper. While the brown dog was slept.
The brown dog never ate the cat's food.
So, the big, fat gray cat would also see the brown dog every night, when she would curl up next to him for a after-dinner snooze.
However, it was not nighttime now. And cats are fickle creatures, besides.
It was just after eleven in the morning, so the big, fat gray cat was hiding. Behind the bed, where the brown dog could barely fit his nose under, in the first bedroom down the hallway.
The brown dog was bored, this being his fifth hour of being alone.
Every window in his house were covered with dark hangings. Half an inch of light glimmered from the front door windows; spilling a fat beam of star dust across the floor; beautiful and blocking the ugly.
The brown dog felt hidden in the cool dampness of the city and he could hear the loud cars and the many voices; so grainy and muted in his ears, he wondered if the sound came from his head.
The brown dog had barely seen anyone in days.
He wished he could smell some grass. He had not smelt grass in a very long time. He liked to pee on it best.
The brown dog was tired of smelling his house and even the cat could not have brightened his spirits, anyhow. He hunkered himself down onto the floor and placed his face into his paws. Then the brown dog whined and rolled, so the inch of light, coming from the door, could cover him. He found he liked it best when it covered his ears. The warmth made him dozy, and he thought to take a nap.
It was the very best thing he could do here.

And then it was around one in the afternoon, when the keys jangled into the lock and the brown dog perked his ear, opened both his eyes.
To the thick brown door swinging open and a burst of light, so white, so bright. It blinded the brown dog and he could not see. He scrambled to his feet anyway and slipped on the floor. The brown dog fell, flat to his belly and was scrambling up for the second time, when he began to see shadow.
But the brown dog already knew it was Mom and Dad and he knew that he knew the smell of the other person with them. Someone who had not been over in awhile. And then the brown dog saw all three of them, as the big brown door was closing, and it was the woman with the crazy hair with Mom and Dad. This made the brown dog excited. He lost his footing, as he rushed towards her, trying to run and trying to jump all at once.
He fell. Three times. There was something almost new to smell in his house!
"Sit," yelled Dad.
"Sit," yelled Mom.
Okay, but I want to jump, thought the brown dog. And run.
"Sit," yelled Dad.
"SIT or I will not PET you," said the woman with the crazy hair.
And then she said it again.
And again.
And again.
And so the brown dog sat.
"GOOD BOY to SIT, now I will PET you," said the woman with the crazy hair.
And she did.
In fact, Good Boy remembered he really liked the woman with the crazy hair because she would always pet him.
Good Boy followed the three people a moment later, into the sitting room, with the green couches and the small television. Everyone lit a cigarette and that is when Good Boy noticed Mom.
She looked skinnier and grayer. She did not talk, curled into a tight ball, cramped into the arm of the couch.
Nobody talked.
Good Boy walked over to Mom to get her attention, sniffed at her leg, nudged her hand with his nose, but Dad pointed his finger and yelled, “Go!”
Then lady with the crazy hair snapped her fingers.
She said, “Come here, Good Boy.”

Punks-The Tuesday After Saturday

2005-05-21T15:09:00.000-04:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
Minnie never slept anymore, so Minnie was high a lot.
It was 6:30 in the morning and she could hear her father awake, moving in the upstairs, from room to room. She could hear the drag of her mother's feet following him. And she could hear her mother crying, whimpering.
But everybody knew it was going to happen this time.
This time, her father had not changed his mind. This time he had not given in.
Minnie could feel the hate wrench in her stomach, could feel that same hate in her eyes and across her mouth, as she took the last toke off the joint. She did not care anything for her father.
Minnie tried to care for her mother.
She heard the sudden thump and patter of Teddy and his seven year old feet upstairs. Minnie tossed the roach into her ashtray, lit, and got up off her bed; quickly, to cross her basement bedroom floor. She climbed the stairs, into the kitchen, where her parents now were.
"...fucking mess. Everything. You. You are a fucking mess," her father's voice full of disgust.
And when Minnie entered the kitchen, she saw her mother's face, so ugly. So at the end of its world.
And Teddy appeared in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes, in his red Power Rangers pajamas. "Mommy? Mommy? Minnie?" his voice soggy; he was not awake. He could not remember that today was the day.
"Teddy, go back to your room. Go back to your room, Teddy," Minnie said, to him.
Minnie’s father turned to look at her, then over to his son sitting in the kitchen doorway.
"No, no, Teddy, stay right here" he urged. "Take a good look at what women are and draw your own conclusions."
"Shut the fuck up, Daddy," Minnie said, to his back, and he turned towards her, again.
And Minnie watch her mother slide to the floor, in front of the refrigerator. Minnie watched her mother cover her ears and her face, and hide herself in lap.
"No, no, no," the woman cried, into herself. Within herself. For herself.
Minnie’s had his shoes already on and he was looked at his daughter.
"Remember when you were only just a whore?" he said, to her.
And when he laughed, Minnie spit it his face. The spit was thick, the pasties starting to come on, inside Minnie's mouth. It landed and hung from his eye and then plopped on to his cheek, a slow ooze, sliding.
And Minnie smiled her best smile at her father.
And when he slapped her across the face, all she did was laugh back at him. Minnie had kept her footing.
"Daddy’s little girl...Daddy's little girl...Daddy's little girl," she chanted into his eyes. She chanted until he turned. She chanted until he walked out the back door of the house, picking up the two suitcases that had been sitting there, waiting, since the last night. He did not care enough to slam the door. Instead Minnie’s father left it hanging, left it to figure itself out.
And when the door finally found its place, Minnie's mother let out the sound.
Of nothing.

Eight Years Old

2005-05-11T10:40:00.000-04:00

It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and Tommy was sitting outside. On the front lawn and under the maple tree. It was raining; had been raining all day. Drizzle and five-minute breaks of fat and fast and rolling rain. Tommy's legs were in shorts, knees gripped to earth. He was wearing his jacket. And the maple tree was old and thick and full.
Tommy could hear Momma from the house sometimes. The windows were open and there were no curtains hung up yet. Momma was still unpacking.
Momma was swearing.
"Fucking piece of shit," she would say, and Tommy would repeat it back, whispered into his chest.
Tommy had not spoken to Momma all day.
Nor had he spoken to Aunt Lynn the two times she had already been over.
Nor had Tommy ate breakfast that morning.
And Tommy had not went into the new house for lunch.
Because he did not care if it was pizza. Or who had paid for the stinking shit.
In fact, the only person Tommy had spoken to all day was the friendly delivery boy, bearing the pizza.
When the friendly delivery boy stepped out of his car and said, Hey, buddy. I like rain, too, Tommy had snarled at him, Fuck off.
The best part of Tommy's day was giving the finger to the little blonde-haired girl who rode back and forth, on her bicycle. All day long. In the rain.
Tommy thought she was stupid.
Tommy hated everything.

Giving Shit

2005-04-30T02:58:00.000-04:00

Earlier That Day

It was ten-thirty in the morning. Edward Julian Watson always woke up on Sundays, at ten-thirty in the morning.
Only Edward Julian Watson was in a blue bedroom.
And Edward Julian Watson usually slept in a white bedroom.
Edward Julian Watson had a headache because he was on a bed, in a blue bedroom and it was a blue bedroom he had not been in before; at that. He rubbed his temples and that is when he noticed the crumpled green dress on the floor. Then, the rumpled, red hair and white pillow beside him.
Edward Julian Watson could taste the grit on his teeth; sour rum (the real reason for his headache).
"I have to go," he said, out loud.
"Okay," said the red hair; the red hair that did not move.
Edward Julian Watson always woke-up at ten-thirty in the morning on Sundays because Edward Julian Watson always met his mother for lunch at noon.

Becki walked through the automatic opening door that brought her into the mall. Dim lights and brown, glossed brick everywhere. Plants reaching for the sky lights.
Becki looked down to make sure her white shoes were still white. She smoother her yellow skirt. Then Becki looked around. There were corners to this mall and on one of the corners, Becki noticed a Flower Shoppe.
Becki loved flowers.
The Flower Shoppe had a lovely display of fresh cut tulips outside of its doors and Becki was looking at the tulips, when she noticed Lillian walking down the mall's brown paths towards her.
"Lillian," Becki said, loudly and smiled, when Lillian was within earshot. "How are you?"
Lillian stopped and looked at Becki.
"Oh-" Lillian said. "Oh, you are Becki, from the bookstore. How are you, dear?"
"I am good, Lillian. It is nice to see you."
"It is nice to see you, too, Becki. I have been meaning to come out to the bookstore. Aren't these tulips lovely?"
"Is that so? Is there anything I can put aside for you" Becki smiled, at Lillian. "They are beautiful tulips. I am thinking of getting the white ones for my mother."
Lillian looked at Becki out of the corner of her eye, and she said quietly, "Do you have the new Jackie Collins still in stock?"
Becki smiled and picked up two bunches of flowers, "I think I will get these pink tulips for you, Lillian."
"You are a very nice girl," Lillian nodded her head and further said, "Thank you."
And Becki smiled again, and as she turned to walk inside of the store, Becki almost walked into Edward Julian Watson.
"Oh-," she said.
"Oh-," said Edward Julian Watson and then he cleared his throat and looked passed Becki. "Hello, Mother."
"Hello, Edward. How are you, dear? I have been talking to Becki. You know Becki. She works next door to your store. At the bookstore."
Edward Julian Watson nodded, "Yes. Hello, Becki. How are you?"
"I am good and how are you, Edward?" Becki asked.
"Good," Edward Julian Watson replied, and then he looked at his mother.
"Becki is coming to lunch with us today," Lillian said.
"Oh-" said Becki.
"Wonderful," Edward Julian Watson concluded.
Edward Julian Watson still had a headache and Becki would keep his mother occupied.

Giving Shit

2005-04-24T22:17:00.000-04:00

Later That Day

Edward Julian Watson took things for granted.
Edward Julian Watson was on his way home from Sunday lunch, driving in his blue Datsun. The oil light was on, flashing red.
Edward Julian Watson would stop at the gas station, close to home, he thought, as he ploughed through the streets.
But the gas station close to home was closed and he did not understand why. The gas station was always open.
So, Edward Julian Watson just drove his blue Datsun home.
And watched the football game on the television.

Becki was standing at the meat counter. In her yellow skirt.
“I gave you an extra half-pound,” John, the man behind the counter, said to her, as he handed her the package of cooked ham; wrapped.
“Thank you,” Becki smiled up at John.
“You deserve it,” John replied.
And Becki smiled at him, again.
But she wondered what it was she was so deserving of? She wondered if it was important; whatever she had done? And why was it so deserving, that it deserved this extra half-pound of meat?
Becki just stood there in front of the meat counter and Becki just plain wondered what she had done.
And she did not pay for the ham.
“Are you okay?" John’s voice finally broke through her thoughts.
And Becki smiled at John, one more time, but it was weak.
“I would be, if you could tell me what is the most important thing to be okay about,” she answered, as she handed him a five-dollar bill.

The oil light was flashing red still, as Edward Julian Watson pulled his blue Datsun out of his driveway. It was 10:30 at night.
Edward Julian Watson was going to see Becki.
After he parked his car on the stone driveway, and after he had grabbed a few of those stones from the driveway, Edward Julian Watson cut across some grass, to the side of the house, where Becki's window was.
He threw the stones at her window.
But Becki never came to the window. Edward Julian Watson had thrown five stones, so Edward Julian Watson cut back across the grass and he got into his car.
He noticed the flashing red oil light.
Edward Julian Watson would stop at the gas station, close to home, he thought.
But the gas station was still closed.
So, Edward Julian Watson just drove his car home.
And watched the football highlights on the television.
Edward Julian Watson had the suspicion that Becki had been home; ignoring him.

Iron Clothes

2005-04-22T00:23:00.001-04:00

It was not a good day, the day Gwen’s mother never came back. Her father had made her sit in the corner, close to the fire all day. A hot day.
She played in the dirt and the soot, fingers opened or closed, the filth still seeped through her hands.
But all too soon her hands were streaked with sweat. A hot child.
She sat at the fire for a long time (three hours), before she realized the silence.
She wondered why. She knew it was Saturday. And Saturdays were feast days. And feast days were always loud.
Her father was with her all day long; she wondered why he was. Gwen could not see her father; she could only hear him breathe.
He had grabbed her, woke her from her sleep, earlier that morning. She screamed until she saw it was him, but he had dragged her to the fire anyway.
“Sit here and shut-up,” he had said to her.
They were the first words he had ever said to her, so Gwen had listened.
Gwen did complain when she became hungry, nor did she wonder where her mother was until nightfall.
She did not worry of her mother until she was cold.
Her father had not kept the fire going.

When Gwen had awoken the next morning, she was covered and warm and beside a lit fire.
When she sat up, she saw her father. Sitting on the ground, by the door.
“Go see Merkin,” he had said to her.
And Gwen listened to her father and left through the door, to go see Merkin. But Gwen already knew she had to go see Merkin. Back then, Gwen had to go see Merkin everyday.
Merkin would not tell her where her mother was.
“She’s not coming back,” was all Merkin had said.
Gwen believed Merkin because Merkin was always right.
"Go to bed," her had father said to her, when she walked back through the door, later that day.
Gwen listened to her father again. She went to lay next to the fire, where her covers still were. She laid down, on her side, with her back to him.
"I am leaving after next feast day," her father had suddenly said.
Gwen's heart jumped and she said nothing.
"You better not tell anyone. It is a secret," he had finished.
Gwen told no one, until she had to go live with Ban.

Ban was overseeing. It is what he did. Every morning, he would get up and he would oversee everybody, on the tiny hill known as Benwick. The hill, which was only six feet tall and very steep, plateuaed an area of land, big enough for 32 families to build their huts and businesses. Ban oversaw all 118 persons, who made their homes and businesses out of the sticks and mud of the earth, on top of this hill.
Gwen would often join Ban, while he was overseeing, when she came to bring Ban his midday meal. She joined up with him on this day, while Ban was overseeing the miller. The miller took care of the grains; he protected them, day and night and not just from the rodents.
Lodegreaunce was the real overseer of Benwick, but he had been gone for a full two years now. Lodegreaunce had been overseer for twenty years and he was much loved. Everyone from Benwick had called him King. Everyone missed him greatly, when he left Benwick, for no one had known Lodegreaunce was leaving.
Ban was never called King by anyone.
Ban was only the overseer because of Gwen. Gwen was Lodegreaunce’s daughter. One early, twilight evening, Lodegreaunce had come to ask Ban to take charge of his daughter while he went on adventure. Lodegreaunce had left for his adventure less than an hour later. He held his sleeping daughter in his arms, handing her over to Ban, before mounting his black horse.
Gwen did know, however; that her father was leaving. It was not like when her mother had left. Gwen’s father had told her he would be back.
“Have you kept my secret, Gwen?” her had father asked her, on the night he left Benwick.
“Yes, Father,” Gwen had answered him. It was the fist time he had ever asked her a question.
“I leave tonight,” he had answered her.
“Now that you are leaving and you are King, I shall gladly take over and make a grand Queen for you, Father, in your absence,” Gwen had suddenly spoke said, a steady trill.
Lodegreaunce wanted to laugh at how serious she looked. How determined.
“Now is not the time for you to be Queen. You are still just Princess,” he said instead, sternly. “Go to bed.”
Gwen turned to go to her sleep space, beside the fire.
“Father,” she turned, back to him. “Are you coming back to Benwick?”
“I am coming back,” he had said.
“Will I become Queen when you come back?” Gwen had asked.
“Shut-up,” her father had roared at her.
And Gwen had listened.
It was because Gwen told everyone this exchange, between her and her father, that Ban was not hung and the people of Benwick made him overseer.

Ban and Gwen had moved from the miller and were now overseeing the fuller. Ban instructed Bolden (the fuller) out of the vat, so he that he might inspect how the wool was coming along. Ban also had to smell the animal urine in the vat, which helped to cure the wool, to make sure it was clean. Bolden knew how to do his job. He walked in urine circles, in the large vat everyday, but Saturday. Ban knew Bolden knew how to do his job; Ban just liked looking at the toenails of the man. They were always so clean and white. He was marveling this thought for the umpteenth time, when he heard the trumpets sounding.
He grabbed Gwen by the arms and they smiled at each other and jumped, before both turned; running to meet the Romans.

Iron Clothes

2005-04-12T01:06:00.001-04:00

489 A.D.

Everything felt new to Gryfflette, as he wandered through the thick grass; it was damp and his ankles were cold. Everything felt new to Gryfflette because in a sense, everything was new. Springtime had begun and the many rains over recent days had started the growth of life.
On this day, Gryfflette saw that the sun was sometimes hiding behind the clouds; they were rimmed in grey, but otherwise white. When the sun hid behind these clouds, Gryfflette would feel horribly cold; no relief he could think of for his bare arms. But this was not reason enough for him to go back home.
The wind whipped his blond curls; sometimes covering his eyes, so sometimes Gryfflette could not see.
Gryfflette was not far from home. He was only twenty feet away, down the small steep hill of Benwick, and his mother knew where he was. She knew her child and her child was always wandering, wandering.
Malaline was Gryfflette’s mother. Malaline had lost Gryfflette once, but only once. Just for ten minutes, just that one time, when Gryfflette had just turned to the age of three.
Just that one time, when Gryfflette was chasing that snake.
Malaline’s heart had pounded so, those moments when she realized she had lost Gryfflette. For Gryfflette was her only son and her husband would surely have killed her, had he been found dead.
However, Gryfflette had not been found dead because on that day, he had only been chasing that green and gold snake, which was fat in the belly, and slow enough for three-year old legs to keep up with.
And thankfully, slow enough for Malaline’s legs to catch up with, too. Her hands were also quick enough to catch the snake. She had made Gryfflette eat it for supper that night.
She had also smacked his face, when she had caught up to him.
Gryfflette was four and half, now, so he never wandered, wandered very far.

Gryfflette had only stopped wandering now, for he was enthralled with the white-lined body of wiggles he found beneath the rock, which he was holding in his hand. The wiggles were grubs, but he did not know. He was deciding whether to eat one and he did not hear the sudden silence, until the trumpets sounded.
Romans arriving.
Every hair on Gryfflette’s body stood on end. This was another new feeling for him. He knew everybody in the village would be excited, and he turned to run home because he was excited, too.
His mother was running towards him, down the hill; Gryfflette noticed right away. When they reached each other, she scooped him into her arms.
“Gryfflette,” she murmured, into his curly hair.
The rock in his hand dropped back onto the ground, killing a spider and severing off three of its seven and half legs. His mother began to run, tripping on her brown dress skirts, as she climbed back up the small hill.

Iron Clothes

2005-04-04T02:04:00.000-04:00

So, the other night Charlie is over. Sitting on my couch. And Jake is sitting at the computer. Jake is giggling sometimes and it is sometimes worth looking over your shoulder to find out why.
Charlie has the television remote. So, me and Charlie watch an infomercial for ten minutes.
About these ceramic hair straighteners.
Made with REAL ceramic.

So, this very night, Jessyca and I are having a chat.
I am sitting in my living room. Hans Frauenlob is on my TV.
And Jessyca loves my hair. I know this because she always says she does. Tonight was no exception.
...A ceramic hair straightener...she also says these words to me. On this very night.
But, to get right to the point, Jessyca thinks I should try one.

Assholes.

Momma

2005-04-02T14:21:00.000-05:00

They were walking home.
“I am not doing that,” Tommy yelled, and slammed his feet to a halt on the snow and sidewalk. He was not going to take another step. Ever again.
Tommy hated cleaning his room.
Momma stopped to turn and look at him and Tommy noticing, stomped his feet again, dirty, grey slush flying fast and hitting the white snow of someone’s lawn.
“I mean it!’ he yelled, at Momma.
And then Tommy took off his blue mittens and threw them. Into the snow bank. Turned to glare at Momma.
She turned around and continued walking down the sidewalk.
“I am not picking up these mittens!” Tommy yelled at her. “I don’t want them! I am staying here!”
Momma did not answer Tommy. She just continued walking.
“Momma!” he screamed at her, and again, “Momma!”
She hoped he would stop now, not further this. Then she heard his boots pounding the sidewalk to catch up with her.
“I am not going back to get them, either,” he said, not looking at her, when he did.
“Okay,” said Momma.
“I mean it,” he folded his arms across the front of himself, marching along.
“You will have cold hands. I will not buy you another pair,” she replied, her head was starting to ache.
And Tommy was silent, before he sighed.
“Will you walk back with me to get them?” the four year old asked.
And Momma said, “Yes.”

Punks-In June

2005-03-24T04:44:00.000-05:00

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
She took a long drag off her cigarette.
Tommy watched her lips slightly slip a part; watched the puff of smoke slide between them.
"You still think it was all my fault," she looked at him. Longer than she wanted to allow herself.
Tommy fixed his eyes onto the ground.
Minnie could feel the hurt fly fierce into her eyes. She threw her cigarette on the ground.
Tommy watched her blue sneaker grind it into the gravel.
He watched her feet turn and begin walking away; shoes scratching.
Fuck, she never looks back, he thought.
"Minnie," he said, after her.
Tommy...
"Minnie," he said, again.
And she stopped walking.
Tommy had never seen Minnie cry before, so he went to her and he held her.

They were in Tommy's bedroom.
On the bed and near the open window, they passed the joint between each other, but not words.
The radio played.

I lose my head
I close my eyes
They won't touch me
'Cause I got somethin'
I been buildin' up inside
For so fuckin' long
They're out ta get me
They won't catch me
I'm fuckin' innocent
They won't break me

Tommy roached the joint, then put it inside his cigarette tin; tossed it onto his pillow. He put his hand on Minnie's bare knee.
"I want you to meet Lydia," he said, biting his lip.
"Who?" Minnie asked, as Tommy stood up.
He walked over to his closet doors.

A Minute in Seconds

2005-03-23T02:02:00.001-05:00

"Do you want bubbles, Sissy?" Tommy asked.
She jumped twice, arms flapping in front of her and then she stopped. She looked up at him.
"YES!" she shrieked, then pulled at her clothes.
The cookie clumped on her face and mashed between her fingers made Sissy look ugly, Tommy thought.
Dirty and ugly.
"Shut-up, Sissy," he said to her, as he bent over the tub, pouring shampoo into the warm water. And Sissy jumped some more, behind him.

Sissy hated soap, so Tommy was very wet, as he sat down on the toilet lid, to wait while she played in the water, for awhile. The cuffs of his shirt were sopping and his wrists were itchy.
He thought about rocket ships. He stared at the ceiling.

Sissy was dressed for bed and they were standing in the bedroom, but now they could not find Lydia.
And now Sissy was crying; loudly.
Her fists were in a ball and her feet looked as though nailed to the floor.
She was screaming and red in the face.
Tommy ran out of the room and did not stop until he was in front of the coffee table, in the living room. His heart was racing.
Tommy looked at the ceiling, again. He screamed.
"FUCK!"
Then he took a deep breath. His heart slowed.
And when he looked down towards the floor, he saw Lydia's wool hair poking out from under the couch. He clentched the hair tight in his fist, when he picked her up.
But he did not throw the doll.
Sissy went right to sleep once Lydia was in her arms and the sheet covered her shoulders, the day too hot, the tears too many.
Tommy went to the bathroom to take off his shirt and to run himself a bath.

Giving Shit

2005-03-11T14:33:00.000-05:00

Edward Julian Watson was beginning to wonder why he ever bothered to look into the mirror.
My cheeks are getting fat....GAWD, and he patted his hands against them.
They were definately getting fatter. He then shook his cheeks with his fingertips.
Oh, and definately wobblier.
Edward Julian Watson was wearing a white undershirt. And blue boxer shorts. And brown socks.

Edward Julian Watson was driving in his blue Datsun and it was 7:09 AM, his really cool digital watch had told him. He had glanced at it because he was sitting at a red light and really had nothing better to do.
This is also why he looked in the rearview mirror.
And noticed his cheeks again.

Edward Julian Watson went dining on his lunch break. To K-Mart.
Edward Julian Watson placed many white paper napkins on his lap, while he ordered the hot beef sandwich.
The peas that came on the white plate were just too green to eat.
Edward Julian Watson had drank too much coffee on this Tuesday morning.
And poor Edward Julian Watson always washes his hands after peeing.

Edward Julian Watson was at home and he was sitting in the dark. And dammit, he was a man, so he had his feet up on the coffee table.
Edward Julian Watson wanted to tell someone that he thought his cheeks were getting fatter.
But, we've already said Edward Julian Watson was a man.
He sighed, as he stood up, leaning over the arm of his couch to turn on the lamp.
And when the light came on, the first thing Edward Julian Watson saw, were the Yellow Pages. Since 1886.

Stones and Arrows

2005-03-09T18:14:00.001-05:00

She opened the crumpled paper carefully.
It was more than just another oddity spring cleaning turned up, though it was found buried in the corner with a heap of credit card receipts and discarded napkins.
The letters were scrawled in a familiar hand. It was only the ink she didn’t recognize.
She slouched down into the kitchen-table chair that resided next to a clutter she called affectionately, “computer desk.” The kids were screaming about something in the backroom.

Sometimes sound has no meaning.

Bills were pushed aside. The computer bleeped to say that Tom had just signed in.
She laid the paper down in the small clearing in front of the keyboard. She didn’t like the strange silence of this new one as her fingers flew across its keys.
Her eyes lingered over the paper, then she got up to find her cup of coffee. Then she sat back down. Then she got up again as there was no lighter to spark her cigarette into a flame.
Before calling in the kids to find it, she looked at the words one more time.
Written as neat as could be managed, “First love shoots you with an arrow, then life throws stones at it. I understand.”
She let the kids be. She lit her smoke over the stove.

Purge

2005-03-04T11:47:00.000-05:00

She scooped the Kraft Dinner out of the thin pot, onto the gold and white plates and then placed a naked hot dog, beside the noodles. Wanted to vomit from the smell that filled her nose.
"I want ketchup," Tommy said, from behind her.
"Me, too. Me, too," Sissy echoed.
No manners. But it did not matter.
"There is none,” Momma picked up the smelling plates; her eyes watching a ray of sunlight splashing the wall underneath the cupboards.
And Tommy said nothing in reply, but she could feel his eyes burning into the kitchen table; right through the metal.
She turned and two steps and dumped the plates; fast, onto the table, in front of the two children.
Then Momma left the room; headed towards the washroom. Could feel the bile, burning the back of her tongue. Her cold feet slapped to a stop in the middle of the living room.
She took two, deep breaths.
Relax...
Momma sat down on the couch. She busied herself, pushing back her cuticles, from scratched nails.
She heard the backdoor open; metal on wood.
"Daddy!" Sissy shrieked, just a second later; bubbled with laughter.
Momma looked down, at herself. She had been wearing the yellow dress for three days.
And today, she did not even care, as she stood up.
Running her hands to smooth her skirt, she stepped over to lean herself into the kitchen doorway. Arms crossed.
Chet needed to take those two children out for supper; even though she hated hotdogs.

Giving Shit

2005-02-27T15:48:00.000-05:00

One day, Edward Julian Watson had on a yellow dress shirt only; he had not done up the buttons on the cuffs yet and this is what Edward Julian Watson noticed, while standing in his yellow bathroom, looking into the mirror, that was above his bathroom sink.
Of course, what Edward Julian Watson noticed was not noticed at first. In fact, Edward Julian Watson almost looked away from the mirror; but when his eyes snapped back upon the reflection of himself; those eyes widened; so wide were the whites.
And yes, Edward Julian Watson's hand did indeed grip the edge of the sink, as he leaned forward and perched his puckered pinched fingers to his hairline.
Edward Julian Watson was wondering if he should be fainting.
Because his heart was pounding very fast and wanted to leap from his chest.
Edward Julian Watson was scared.
Because Edward Julian Watson noticed he was going bald. He just knew it.
So, he did not touch his hair, not even with the very tips of his fingers. Instead, Edward Julian Watson stood up straight and took a long, stiff look in the mirror, at his head. His hair.
I am sexy, he thought.
Not for long now, Bozo, Edward Julian Watson's thoughts answered themselves.
So, Edward Julian Watson decided to look down at his nipples.
But, he just had to look back up to his head. His hair.
And that is when Edward Julian Watson become aware of the fear in his eyes.
“Snap out of it,” Edward Julian Watson said out loud, but he was still paranoid, when he walked out of his front door ten minutes later.
Edward Julian Watson decided he better shave his moustache.
What? You want to lose more hair?
Shut-up,, Edward Julian Watson strangled his thoughts.

Becki stood in front of the mirror in her yellow room. Becki was wearing a green dress. She was happy.
It was probably because her hair looked nice.
It almost always did. It had taken her years to perfect how to do so. And Becki could do so in many different styles, to boot.
I am not empty headed,to herself, without defiance.
Becki was having dinner with her Mother. In less than half an hour, she would have to be there.
Becki had purchased her Mother a lovely bouquet of daffodils, on her way home from work. These flowers were waiting paitently on the wooden stand that was beside her door. They were wrapped in pink paper; green stems poking out from the bottom.
Becki smiled one last time in the mirror.
Prouder than peaches of herself.
Because her lipstick looked great, too.
Becki picked the yellow blooms up carefully on her way out. She was not wearing a coat, as she walked down the back stairwell and out into the early April evening. Quietly.

Edward Julian Watson adjusted his yellow tie.
The white banner above the entrance of the Glenwood Community Centre said Saturday Night Singles Dance in red lettering.
Edward Julian Watson licked his teeth and stepped inside the glass doors; Eric Clapton's guitar filling his ears. Edward Julian Watson scanned the dimly lit room for a green dress.
Edward Julian Watson would worry about his hair tomorrow.