Back to One: Ch 1

There was the loudest crash he had ever heard. The sound of breaking glass and spewing liquids, mashed together with rocks kicking and thin, dried branches snapping. There was a chorus of groans, the kind of scraping groans that would be made by a two-ton lava rock being dragged, violently along a chalkboard surface. He was overcome by the pulling and pushing vibrations caused by crumpling steel.

Then the symphony of eardrum-shattering noise crawled to a halt. The only sounds remaining were that of the open door indicator, and one stuttering windshield wiper that was erratically beating itself against the passenger side windshield post. The automobile rocked, slowly, poorly balanced on its roof. He contemplated the immense complexity of the situation for a few seconds and then slowly released the seatbelt, fell to the ceiling, and crawled out through the shattered driver-side window out onto the broken glass that was strewn on the highway shoulder. Not a single scratch, but his head was pounding as if a platoon of war drummers from ancient cultures long passed had chosen his cranium as a grand place to start their procession. He had survived the stupidest thing he had ever done, and all he could think of was that he left his credit card back at the Splendid Donkey. His unhealthy love affair with the Donkey contributed the most to the untimely destruction of his automobile. There were other establishments which annied up on behalf of his self-destructive evening, but the Donk is where he neglected to sign off on a rather large bar tab. Oh how he hated to leave an open tab fluttering about after an extended evening, granting some resentful bartender the right to decide how much gratuity would be leveled against the liquid principle.

“They always charge me an extra twenty percent on my tab when I fucking walk that shit.” He muttered to himself, pulling up to vertical, noting that the impact of the crash, probably the first light pole, had knocked the drunk out of him. He started to systematically pat his pockets, intending to take inventory for other items potentially misplaced during the evening’s drunken, substance-laced lunacy. Specifically, he needed his phone to call someone, although he had no usable names in mind, to come and pick him up.

Checking his pockets for his cell phone, he found many things missing. The phone was included in this mental list of curiously absent items. Also missing were his wallet, house keys, two packs of “complimentary” Camel Menthols, his favorite Jim Beam labeled Zippo, and a shot glass he wrangled from some already-forgotten-shot-bar at some already-forgotten-time during the night.

Surely that shot glass would have broken and been imbedded in his knee, since the parking brake sure felt painfully lodged there not but ninety seconds ago. He shrugged the loss of these personal effects as a drunk-tax, taken by the general populace for putting up with this evening’s raucous antics.

At least they left him his car keys, he thought, which was the one thing they DEFINITELY should have taken.

He slumped onto the glass-speckled freeway shoulder, wondering how to handle this rather ridiculous situation. He also wondered where all the other cars were. He estimated that it was only three in the morning. Surely he wasn’t the only traveler out there. But if he was the lone drunkard out there, lucky thing. For they might have gotten tangled up in his self-inflicted mess. But then again, fuck ‘em if they had gotten tangled. That would be their fate, a fate as miserable as he felt. Amazing, aside from the feeling that his head was being beaten by aboriginal tribesmen gone bat-shit with the bass, he was in pristine condition. Hell, he felt better than he did this morning.

Oh. This morning. What an awful day this morning’s cruel sun introduced to him.

His inner voice struck up a conversation with itself concerning the news he received today about Tim, his best friend from high school, the guy who was his best man at his wedding four years ago… “Suicide? Fucking asshole. He stole the twenty years we shared. The times we conquered, the times we suffered, and the times we just enjoyed being friends together. He stole all that with a long walk off the short observation deck of some office building in San Francisco. I don’t even know what commodities are, let alone how trading them could push a person to that. Fuck him… but what about his kid? Holy… what about MY kids? Jesus, I really need to get my credit card and get home. I need a really good story to platter-out for Amy. She’ll be expecting a really good one this time. But the car… man, that’s a loss. She’s going to kill me.”

The car was now silent. No more dinging indicators, irritable wipers, or any other “last gasps” from the fading automobile. The Corolla was ready to be tire-tagged.

All those shots… the coke… whatever the hell those pills were that he bought from that pimply-faced nerd at the collegiate club… How the hell did he end up there anyhow? What was he thinking? That he could just walk back into being young and strapping? That he could just continue acting like his life had no limits? Of course there are limits to being him. Family concerns, job obligations, pensions to build, IRAs to contribute to, mortgages to be met, and all the other trappings of middle-age. Lines of cocaine and unmarked pills from Mexico do not factor well into the settled life that is: married with children.

But, life is for living, he argued against himself. The kids still get fed. The bills, eventually, get handled. Responsibilities, the important ones at least, get met. But not like this. Certainly not by breaking loose and letting sanity take a breather. That is a great way to end up passing out at the wheel, and end up sitting alone on a highway shoulder, halfway from home, next to the simmering hulk of metal that once was your mode of transportation, with no money or identification. This, unfortunately, is the picture of both irresponsibility and the beginnings of personal disaster. Must pick up the pieces, and sweep them under the rug. Time to get up and start walking. Time to find a solution to these, most immediate, problems.

Just as he started walking back toward the last exit he passed, a pickup truck appeared on the horizon, careening toward him. Loud yet indiscernible music was blaring from the cab. He heard the sound of “hooting and hollering” from what sounded like drunken teenage boys, but he could not be sure. The truck, in dire need of maintenance, was rather loud with the sounds of slapping valves, a ticking alternator, squeaking springs, and various loosened parts rattling about in the engine compartment. The truck must have been older than he was, and at thirty-six, this put the truck in the category of “unstable at any speed”. He stepped off the highway entirely, hiding in the weeds to avoid any possible encounter with the decrepit truck’s occupants. It smoked and squealed as it approached him at a speed well beyond the limit and slowed as it neared his overturned Toyota, smoking on the shoulder. After stopping and pausing for a few seconds by the wreck, one white reverse light illuminated, and the truck was floored back in his direction.

It slid to a halt in front of him, and through the thick combination of burning tire steam and various smoking contraband that signaled from the cab and the bed, he made out four characters. Two were up front, and two appeared to be partying in the open-air of the rear. They all seemed to be singing different music, poorly, or perhaps just babbling to themselves. But all four were extremely animate, and in exceptionally good moods. He figured they were all out raising hell, and were high/drunk/stoned/all of the above. The driver leaned over his passenger and yelled out.

“Hey Jay, you need a ride buddy? The party wagon has arrived!” The passenger chimed in, “Fuckinaye Jay! How you been bro! Shit man, we been lookin’ for yer ass for like, forever or some shit.” The two strangers in the bed became eerily quiet. Jay approached the truck, apprehensively, crinkling his brow and darting his looks back and forth between the cab and the bed as he emerged from the tall grasses, hoping to recognize someone’s face before he got within arms’ length of anyone. How did they know his name? Drinking mates from earlier in the evening? Bounty hunters? Just because they knew his name was certainly no indication that they had friendly intentions toward him. He quickly tallied up, and estimated that roughly half the people on the planet who knew him by name would surely be interested in exacting something evil upon him for something he had done long ago, wrongs he had long forgotten.

But he never forgot a face. If he could just get close enough to make out some features, ethnicity, gender, ANYTHING. But it really did not matter. He was prone, in the middle of nowhere. If they wanted to hurt him, then their luck in catching him in such a vulnerable state was beyond fortuitous. It would be downright karmic, and certainly not in his favor.

A voice popped up from the bed, “it’s about time. Jesus, I need the rest.” It didn’t seem to be aimed at him directly, but it had been made clear enough for him, specifically, to hear. Jay could make out the fellow who said it, as the comment-maker had peeped into the highway floodlight to speak. He was frightfully gaunt, mid twenties, scraggly mop of greasy dark hair, was poorly shaven, and had unsightly bags under his reddened eyes. Not the kind of red one gets from a few merry tokes, but more like the semi-puffed look of one who just finished an extended sobbing session. He was, in a word, wretched. The other person in the bed stayed quiet, hidden by the shadow of the cab, but Jay could feel that person’s mysterious eyes inching all over him, estimating and calculating him, sizing him up. The driver chimed back in, impatient, “come on! Get in for Christ’s sake, we don’t have all night to throw this thing off right!” The fellow in the passenger seat leaned out of the window with his pale-skinned, black-haired right arm, thumbs up, and said “they picked me up a bit back too, guy! Safest journeymen you’ll find at this time of night!” He was all smiles, and appeared rather healthy and friendly (especially when compared to the wretch in the rear). “Dude, they’ll drop you off wherever you need to go, just hop on in,” the friendly, hairy armed fellow offered.

Jay approached the passenger door of the cab, and the hairy arm extended itself in greeting. The handshake was warm, but somewhat overzealous considering they were strangers. It felt like the kind of handshake one gets when a new employer announces that you “got the job buddy!” This made Jay a tad uncomfortable, but then again, these odd travelers were his only ticket back to The Splendid Donkey. He intended to respond favorably to any hospitality they displayed, and urgently to any hostilities. Brevity seemed the best method to ensure he could properly gauge their intent. “Heya, fellas, uh, I really just need to get back to The Donk. Is that alright? Just a quick, drop-off kind of thing. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.” The driver interrupted the handshake, reaching over Mr. Friendly and opening the passenger door. “Just get in bro. We got you covered. Shit to do. Places to go. Things to get done. Just get the fuck in already.”

This made for an uncomfortable situation. He did not know this Driver, and aside from the rather positive remark from the passenger, he was not feeling an honest, welcoming vibe from the group. However, the card needed to be retrieved from the bartenders of The Donk. Jay disliked the driver’s intensity, but he ascended into the back of the cab anyway, only to find there was someone already there. It was a limp, face-down, average sized male body, and it was still warm. The fact that this person was still alive provided both relief, and confusion to Jay.

“Uhhh, okay. There’s someone back here already, and he doesn’t look too good.”

The driver slammed it into drive, sending the passenger door into the small of Jay’s back, knocking him onto the sleeping body. “He’s fine. Tylenol PM or some shit, he always does that after a yay-bender” advised the driver as the truck quickly hit and surpassed the speed limit. “Damn, I was just there myself an hour ago. I think that might have caused me to pass out at the wheel. That’s how my car got like that.” Immediately after saying this, Jay was struck by a sense of shame – for telling perfect strangers that he was coked up earlier – paralleled with a sense of pointless repetition – because they acted as if they were already aware and were not in need of an explanation as to how he ended up in the middle of nowhere, in the weeds, next to a (now) burning, overturned automobile.

He was sitting on top of Mr. Tylenol, and really had no options but to continue doing so. The guy was taking up every inch of seat-friendly surface, filling the entire sliver of space behind the two front seats. Jay did his best to part the guy’s legs, and nestle down between them. He had been passed out like that too many times to pretend he had no sympathy for him.

After settling in, Jay turned to look out the rear window at the shrinking wreckage that was his first effort at being a good parent. Toyotas really are safe cars, he thought to himself. If his two boys had been with him in an accident like that, he felt sure that they would all have walked away, just as he had, without a scratch. He was a little disappointed that the airbags neglected to function though. Surely that wreck would have triggered their response. Moot point though. He walked away from it, and these guys would help him get his card back, and then he would catch a cab back home and claim the auto got stolen from the parking lot. Oh, and he had left his keys and phone and other effects in there too, as he was still straining to remember where the hell they had been lost during the evening. A convenient excuse to explain the whole mess. Wonderful! Maybe Amy would take pity on him for once. Maybe the car-jacking (oh yeah, even better than simple GTA!) would combine with what she already knew about Tim’s leap to infinity. Yes, she would certainly have to change her tune now. She would surely lay off him for the rest of the week, and stop nagging him about the bills, and the kids, and the goddamn job-thing, and the little bit (just a little bit for god’s sake) of venting over the past few months. He had to do something to release some steam. Besides, it really is not that big a deal. She needs to chill out about all that anyway. Blame it on midlife crisis or whatever. A little fun never hurt anyone. Ergo, a couple of years stacked with fun seemed like exactly what he needed. In fact, it continued to be very therapeutic. Raising two boys is a-lot of responsibility. Plus, his job was a disaster of misapplied career notions. She knows he is not cut out for all that fluorescent light and furry cubicle-wall-bullshit. She knows it is poisoning his soul. For the love of Pete, can’t she understand that he is seriously losing himself amongst all these overly-expectant pressures? Can’t she see that this is what death looks like to a man? His nights out are more than just a brief interlude between work (always leave office early) and dropping the boys off at school (whenever he wakes up at home, and early enough). It is where he reclaims his God-given right to manhood! His nights out provide him his only opportunity to reclaim himself as a man after all the shameful and numerous emasculating events of the day. How can she, with a clear conscious, plan and plot to barricade his only remaining path to who he was before all of these “responsibilities” were unfairly leveled upon him? Especially in light of Tim’s grim and unscheduled departure? She will be without the benefit of high ground this time. She will be forced to compromise this time. This time, goddamnit, will be his time.

As a grin of self-righteousness started to make its way across his lips, the mug of the Wretch from the truck bed appeared, inches from his, on the other side of the rear window. It startled Jay, and he must have showed this fear physically, because he could see the Mysterious guy nodding with laughter and then flick a cigarette off the skull of Mr. Wretch. The grim face remained staring at Jay, not even wincing as the sparks and ash fireworked off of the side of his forehead. His stare was impenetrable, and it made Jay extremely uncomfortable.

Within that stare, Jay felt very small and unimportant. What the hell is this guy’s problem? It is the same stare his father used to give him when he returned home with sub-par grades. The same look his coach gave him when he ran the wrong pattern for the fifth time in a row. It was the same look he had seen in Tim’s eyes, the last time they saw each other after Christmas. Those eyes made him feel so stupid for allowing himself to drink so much, for being too weak to avoid the cocaine, the K, X, A, E… for not being stronger for his boys. For being too stupid to think his way out of depression. For being too slow to see all the problems before they stampeded over him and his pointless existence. He started to feel anger toward his callous rejection of responsibility, for even considering lying to Amy, and for jeopardizing what little he had left to offer his sons, Fred and Eric. That stare was the same stare Fred would be giving him tomorrow morning while jiggling Jay’s shoulder, when Jay woke up on the couch, for the third time this week. That stare was the look of disappointment. It was the look that a child gives when it knows that what it is seeing is completely broken, but cannot be sure because it has never seen anything work properly. Jay is that broken thing to his boys. That is what those worthless eyes are saying. He is the reason they have never seen anything work properly. They are the product of a failure. A man with no discipline, no work ethic, and no direction…

These feelings moved him from anger to sadness. Those judging eyes. Those eyes could see the true image of him, and reflected that ugliness, and it really hurt to admit the truth of it all. Just like dad, just like Coach, just like Fred, just like he looked at Tim. The truth of failure, and of a life composed of ignored opportunities. A true waste of… or was it just the alcohol talking him down? He re-focused on the piercing stare, and could once again make out the face of that Wretch. That worthless, pathetic looking vagrant of a Wretch. HE is judging. HE is trying to push the situation. HE is the antagonist here.

They stared at each other for what seemed like a second eternity, until Jay had reached his limit and slammed a fist into the window, right between Wretch’s eyes. It cracked the glass, but did not penetrate. Wretch turned back to Mr. Mysterious and they both started laughing and prodding each other, in the same friendly-yet-threatening-and-taunting way that Jay would pal around with his football buddies in the locker room back in high school. They seemed to be laughing at Jay’s reaction, but it all seemed more manic than that. They could have been laughing at something hilarious that happened last month, when and where they had decided to reserve the camaraderie for a later occasion. Such as a time when perhaps some stranger might try to punch one of them, like a moron, through tempered glass. It was, just like the glass, a tempered thing. Their celebrating seemed forced, like the kind of celebrating that two bitter cellmates might be seen having after watching the winning run scored by a team that they both just-so-happened to be rooting for, while they both know they might be knifing each other ten minutes later. Their celebratory embrace and congratulatory prodding quickly dissipated. The Wretch moved back to his side of the bed and stared away from Jay, Mysterious lit up another smoke while staring and grinning at the Wretch, and Jay’s eyes began to focus, intently on the crack he invented in the glass. It was a substantial crack, and for reasons he had trouble reconciling, he really liked it.

Mr. Friendly turned around and with the kindest smile, tapped Jay’s shoulder and offered a lit joint. “Looks like you could use some comfort my friend. It’s really good stuff, BC bud. Got it up in Canada.” Jay considered the bud, then motioned to Mr. Tylenol, still motionless beneath him, “same thing that hit him?” Friendly chirped, “Damn straight! The best there is!” Jay felt the body underneath him stir slightly, and then looked in the rear view mirror to catch the yes-nodding eyes of the driver. Yes, it will do you good, the eyes were consoling him, coolly recommending the hit. He took it from Friendly’s fingertips, sat back, and took a deep toke. He was right. Damn good stuff. Almost instantaneously, it muddied up his thoughts, chasing away all the pointless guilt, putting a thick blanket over the beaming light of self-consciousness. Fuck it. After a second draw from the odorous weed, Jay heard himself say aloud, “let’s burn this mutherfucker down! Damn straight. DAMN STRAIGHT!” Friendly and the driver both began laughing and high-fived each other. Mr. Tylenol turned over, just enough to see Jay’s face, and yelled out “that’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Friendly reached down between his legs and produced a six-pack of Lonestar tallboys. He cracked the first open and shot-gunned it. The driver reached over, pawed one from the ring, shook it violently and pointed it over his right shoulder as he opened it. Beer sprayed all over a visibly excited Mr. Tylenol. The suds hit the rear window, and poured over the back of the chair. The wretch and Mr. Mysterious started to light and fire Roman Candles behind the truck while the driver pulled a dangerously tight u-turn over the esplanade. Lit blackcats were popping into the cab faster than Mr. Friendly could toss them back to the bed. The clapping of small explosives and the thick smell of sulfur in the cab did not hinder him from continuing to puff on the herb. Tylenol wriggled his feet from under Jay, and sat himself up. He leaned over, removed a paper bag from the pouch on the back of the passenger seat and extracted a handful of mismatched pills. “Turn that shit up!” He yelled while continuing to rummage through the sack of street pharmaceuticals. Jay could feel the two in the bed of the truck jumping up and down as they all sped back toward town. “Hey,” Mr. Tylenol pulled Jay’s attention from the popping joint. “This’ll make that bud better than hand grenade practice at the ice capades.” He extended a closed, cupped hand, fingers down, to Jay. “I hate the fucking ice capades,” answered Jay. “Well then, load the fuck up.” Four pills of different shape, color, and material were dropped into Jay’s expectant palm. “Damn straight,” he said, as he shoveled them into his smoking maw, washing them into his system with more National Beer of Texas than his mouth could hold. The overflow drizzled down the sides of his mouth and onto his shirt and lap, pooling around his zipper. A blackcat zoomed in through the passenger window, landed on his crotch, fizzled for a second in the small puddle of pooled beer, but then popped anyway. Jay did not even flinch at the burn it made on his right elbow, the singing of his cargo pants, or the foul smell of burned beer that wafted up from the vicinity of his testicals. He continued to study the smoking fatty between his fingers. This night was just beginning, and the insanity that flooded through his body was the most normal sense of being he had felt in the last hour.

These guys were his favorite brand of crazy. The wreckage of responsibility which he left on the highway shoulder was completely purged from his psyche. The moon felt full, and it was high time to let some hell out. Damn straight.

Sips.

The room beeped and compressed and pushed fluids and indicated things about the resident. Anecdotal bits of nothing, really. What it did of any measurable importance, was to prop the stage.

She would sneak sips from her Styrofoam cup, when she felt that no one could see her do it. They would never allow her to hold the cup on her own, since her ability to grip small objects had long been lost amongst what felt like a never-ending, dominoed loss of vitals. If she tried to bring the cup to her own mouth, it would undoubtedly be dropped into her lap. And then she would be cold. The ice would ensure that.

But when no one was looking, she was as swift as a spring swallow, diving onto her rolling tray and pulling that cup and straw up to her lips, then shooting it right back to the tray, like a yo-yo artist. Effortlessly smooth and fully capable. Her skills were undeniable. Undeniable to everyone but everyone who was in the room. Everyone on the planet. Every doctor with a license, frowning at the odd, ever-changing numbers on the screen above her bed.

No one believed anymore. They had all written it off as a chain of mal-formed events, summing up to an uncontrollable train wreck of the human body, incapable of continuing its journey, incapable of taking a sip of juice without aid. If she wasn’t stopped by her own body, then everyone else would step in and do the stopping instead. Her very physical form was making it difficult to drink, but it was everyone around her who made it impossible. And she would allow them to tell her as much, and she would willfully concur.

But I watched her sneak those sips. I watched her smile as she did it. She smiled a double smile, knowing she could still birth mischief, and knowing that it was all she wanted to have left. If she were to ever be in the situation she was in, she always wanted to still be able to pull it off. To break and bend her environment as she saw fit. Even if the only punk rock act available was to help herself to a drink after being told to stop. If that was all she had left, then that is all she would want to be left with. And so she continued to sneak drinks, and deny having done so whenever caught. Looking over at me, asking with a look of her best posed sincerity.

“I haven’t been trying to drink by myself, have I?”

Of course not. You’re still the rule-follower you’ve always been. Of course not.

The room continued its buzzes and beeps. The tubes moved liquids, and the machines got hostile whenever she readjusted herself or tried to untangle the multiple leads into various parts of her body. Like a paralyzed octopus, desperately trying to reconcile the dangling appendages which when not tangled up on something in the environment, would busy themselves by tangling together. It never felt right. It never made sense. She never belonged there, like that, to be in such a state.

Her person, her being, was never designed to function under such conditions. Such an impaired state of existence. Disgusted by her own limitations, she waited. She waited, and waited, and waited...

“I talked to the Pope this morning.”

“Oh really? What did he say?” I didn’t even think to ask her ‘which pope’ she was referring to.

“I don’t remember, really. He seemed like a nice man though.”

It was obvious that she believed, and disbelieved that her conversation with the highest of Catholic highs occurred. She admitted as much by saying that she was under one of her ‘spells’, which were the scattered moments she would experience after waking. She would wake, rather suddenly from one of her bi-hourly naps, with just enough lucidity to speak nonsense aloud. While my father was telling some story of OSHA regulations, she came-to and blurted out “a, a, a… NERVOUS WRECK,” as if answering a game-show question.

We all paused for a brief second, pulling laughter back down our throats. And then my father continued as if the breach in conversation protocol had never happened. She pretended it was a legitimate comment on the topic, and that was that.

Amidst the mid-afternoon sun, which blanketed everything in the room, pouring over all the clean surfaces like warm gravy, there happened into the room a most ironic creature.

She walked in, with the smile of newborn youth, the pure-soft skin of a puppy’s nose, and the smooth movements of a championship ice-skater. As if she were an angel of kidney repair. She posed a multitude of questions, dropped her left eyebrow whenever peering over at the beeping machines’ evil readouts, and then floated from the room. With the voice of comforting reason and sparkles of hope falling from the corners of her eyes and mouth, she pulled back the curtain and entered the hallway.

To tell the daughter that reason provided no grounds for hope anymore. That the end was drawing down. That all other options were mere phantoms for the unreasonable to desperately cling to. For the greedy to impose upon those who were deemed incapable of holding cups to their own faces to sip thickened liquids. For the self-centered to justify ‘just one more moment’ with the person whom reason had left no more room for. For the self-important who intended to deny the possibility that one’s last breath should be taken in the midst of familiarity, comfort, and dignity.

That it should occur with her favorite dog present. Her house plants. The ceiling she had painted with her own hands, years before. Amongst her own scents and surroundings. Where more than two friends were allowed to be with her at a time. Where she could have fresh flowers present without management complaining of potential microbial infestations. That it should occur at home. Her home. As she snatched the cup from atop the cart, pulled a long sip through her straw, peeked around the room to catch only my eyes, and then to practically throw the cup back atop the cart as the daughter returned from behind the curtain.

And then it happened. The most powerful conversation between two people which has ever occurred in my presence. A batting of so few words with the heaviest of weights as I have ever witnessed. It was a choreographed dance between two partners who had never before practiced with each other. Yet both knew their part with the precision of Swiss watch maker. The nimble words danced together, parted, promenaded and returned together for the most beautiful and horrific grand finale I have ever born witness too.

“Well, mom. There’s no options left.”

“No options left, eh?”

“No. No, mom. No options. Your kidneys have failed and you aren’t a candidate for dialysis, so…”

The daughter, while passing through such a treacherous canyon of unimaginable, explosive emotion, could easily have clipped a wing on any number of unforeseen outcroppings, lost her fuel pressure, and burnt to a crisp on impact with the wall of her own mental fortitude. But she faltered not, and kept the flight straight.

“So you have to choose now.”

“You said there were no more options.”

“Well, none for treatment. But you can still choose.”

“Okay. What are my new options then?”

The daughter shook just slightly, knowing the prescribed choreography for this dance was demanding a crescendo of performance. That the climax of their exchange was looming.

The climax of the exchange which began two minutes prior. But of much more importance, was the impending climax to the exchange which began fifty years prior. The collected experiences and intertwined histories of the these two agents in life, facing one another in an agreement to the looming final embrace. In an agreement to stay strong about such an emotionally dubious event. In an agreement to remain open to one-another, and to possibly open further if necessary. In an agreement that if they should meet again, they will both be pleased to do so. In mutual respect and understanding. After the setting of one of the most brilliant suns to have ever graced the wondrous dirts of the Earth.

And so it goes. The initial delicate sips always graduate to deeper ones. Then to careful swallows, and on to full-blown mouth-full gulps. But as sure as the tides must recede, as sure as the oak leaves’ stuttered descent after their glorious season, those gulps must return to sips. And the sips signify their intention by way of the soft-eyed request to “just be comfortable.” To just be comfortable again.

Family Dollar (pt. dos)

Two hours of the workday passed as they always did. Jaime pilfered some cash here and there. Brad peed in the mop bucket and mopped up a foamy detergent spill on aisle four.

“Yo Jaime, you ever tried any of this stuff?” Pointing at a bottle of Pert 2-in-1: shampoo and conditioner. “I mean, you have that girl hair and all.”

“No. My hair is too oily and thick for that. I only use GHD products. From Britain. I get them online. And they don’t come in a single bottle either.”

“Sounds gay.”

“Well, it probably is. But that’s what I use.”

Brad continued to stare at the bottle, pretending to read the scripture on the packaging, when he was actually mulling over Jaime’s potential homosexuality. Brad had never met anyone who was gay. Or Chinese. Or anyone with an advanced degree in Psychics. But he had somehow formed steadfast and unappealing opinions of them all. Another gift from his father.

He came from a wonderfully insulated place. A place where everything fit into neat and tidy compartments. Everything he encountered then, and since, could be easily crammed into one of two categories: acceptable, or unacceptable. His accomplices had other words for their categories. Such as holy, or unholy. Moral, or immoral. Right, or wrong. But the sentiment was always the same. It was a question of familiarity. Familiar = acceptable. Brad considered his upbringing to be right and just. He believed himself to be a shining example of whom and what a person should grow up to be. And he tended to project that feeling onto any and everyone he came across. This is how he understood and reconciled himself to his reality: a perfect fit.

“So, you do still like girls, don’t you Jaime?”

Jaime, his back to Brad, finishing up some mathematic adjustments to his register tape, stopped all motion. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Brad threw the question out as more of a mental slip. He was honestly curious as to the answer, but was aware that in such a small town, the implications of simply asking someone that question was tantamount to outright, debasing, scorn. But he had no quip to catch himself. So he continued to fumble through it.

“I mean, I remember when you dated that girl in middle school. Christie or something like that. But you haven’t really dated anyone since. So, I’m just wondering, that’s all.”

Jaime knew just how loaded this question was. He knew that even his demeanor while answering such a poorly disguised indictment would be used as evidence against him, especially if it countered his actual answer. Unfortunately, there was no clear-cut answer. It was more of a contextual thing for Jaime. And in the current context, his answer should have been a patent ‘no’. But he knew it would fail to roll off his tongue in any believable way. Especially since Jaime believed that in the back of Brad’s mind, if not the front, he really wished for an admission.

“What the fuck are you asking me that for?”

Brad’s answer was a fat-lipped shrug and stare. Still holding the hair cleaner. An awkward silence pushed itself into the space between them. As if they were squaring up for a schoolyard brawl.

Jaime, determined yet mentally stammering, did his best to prop up the most sincere expression of incredulity. But he could feel it slipping away, chipped off by Brad’s lazy-eyed stare.

“Fuck, Brad. I could sit here and explain myself to you all damn day. But you’re just too, too…”

In Jamie’s mind, at that exact moment, this conversation could only go two ways. He could either answer the question as affirmative or negative as he pleased, giving Brad (and whomever Brad told later) whatever necessary ammunition they needed to continue believing what they already did. Thereby setting himself up even further as an outsider. Or, he could defend his right not to be asked such personal questions, in hopes that Brad would accept this argument as a defense for the fundamental right of a man to his privacy. But in order to pull off option two, he would have to maintain a level head, without volleying back anything equally damning in retort. This was not a fire vs. fire discussion.

“too… small town. You know? You’re too damn small town. You don’t get it. All you know is this shit hole, and that’s all you ever will know. I don’t think you’re capable of anything bigger.”

So much for either initial options. The previously ignored ‘option three: reckless temper tantrum’ was on deck instead. Brad seemed to be taking the slap rather well. He slowly returned the bottle to its spot on a shelf, walked to the end of Jaime’s register counter, leaned on to it with folded arms, and let out a deep breath.

“Well, Jaime. You didn’t answer the question, did you?”

Brad was already knee-deep once the initial question got tossed out. No point in backing down now.

Jaime, mockingly, “well, Brad. You aren’t going to listen to my answer anyway, are you?”

“Sure I will. If you’re honest.”

“That’s what someone would say if they were expecting a particular answer. Which means you aren’t listening to my answer AS an answer. You’re listening to the sounds coming from my mouth, looking for a forensic match to the sounds you’re expecting to hear.”

For a brief moment, it appeared that Jaime’s words might be sinking in. That Brad might posses cognitive prowess beyond Jaime’s estimation. That Brad may actually understand what Jaime believed to be a logical flaw in the purpose of this interaction. That Brad may actually recognize the root of his error.

“If you’re honest, I can tell.”

But then… maybe not.

Honestly? Honestly.

Here’s what needs to happen:

I need to train a chimp to mow lawns. That way, I can go get my groove on while the simian kicks the lawn care. Then I can… wait. That idea is awful.

Where am I going to get a chimp? It’s not like they have a primate section at Petsmart. Plus, the whole idea of forced servitude gives me the willies. I’d probably fuck up as a manager at Arby’s, so how the hell could I pull off animal slavery? I mean, let’s be reasonable here.

Instead, here’s what needs to happen:

I need to find a desperate clutch of fine-ass ninja chicks, which are looking for quick work. I’ll convince them to mainline insecticide, and pull lines of Drano until they agree to knock over a series of Clinique counters. They can keep everything but the blush.

No. That won’t do either. I don’t even know where I would get the right insecticide for ninjas anyway. They’re so damn particular.

In reality, what I honestly need to happen:

Write-write-write. My computer is fixed. Motherboard, LCD, and video card: all replaced. The only thing left to croak on the fucker is the hard drive. Rather than wait for that to happen, I need to pull everything off it and wait for it to descend into doorstop hell. That’s what needs to happen. Must cover my ass. And then, then? THEN?...

Then, I shall continue to write my crap. I’ll start with some waxed-up poetry. Something sweet, like

Met with two “nine” salutes -
To settle such mad disputes,
He shimmies up the pipe,
To pick at what’s ripe.
But with mysteries all gone,
Along with all hopes to move on,
He’ll settle against the squad,
And still wonder about their god.

But I should really be working on the long-assed stories that were almost lost, that were eating away at my brain while the computer slept like the dead. Those stories, all in my head, but neatly down in type on the drive, are the valve for my brain’s main drain. I need those words to keep the shadows back. To read, and re-read. To consider, and re-consider. To wish upon and concurrently curse.

Now they’re back. In all honesty, that’s what I needed to happen.

Honestly.

I Will Buy You a Robot.

Am I teetering on the edge?
Have I grasped that last straw and dropped it?
Is this fumbling leading me to completely fold?
No, I cannot tell from here, but I know one thing.
It’s cool, because I’m going to buy you a robot.
Sure, I’m difficult, and I know that.
I can go off the map, and break like one glass of wine too many.
I know I make normal situations difficult.
And you get frustrated by my moves.
But It’s cool.
Because I am going to buy you a robot.
A robot that will step right in.
For those moments when I careen and slide.
The robot will be there to hold your hand.
To tell you that soon, very soon, all will return to smooth.
Without saying a word.
The robot will be whatever it is you need at that moment.
When my mind has strayed, and you will be comforted.
Because of its blinking lights and mechanized movements.
It will occupy those safe nooks I tend to abandon.
Whenever the wind blows that certain way.
So it’s cool.
Because I am going to buy you a robot.
A robot with bright colors and a perma-grin.
Metallic skin.
Predictable moods and minimal needs.
Self-sufficiency and standardized output.
For those events where my eyes widen just so.
And my driving ability is next to nothing.
When you’re on the brink of shut down.
And you don’t know what to do.
Worry no more.

It’s cool, because I’m going to buy you a robot.

Tubes and Cab Rides

You know what I wish? I wish I could tan. Why? So that after being outside for all of ten minutes, I could avoid a Novocaine purchase. Went to an outdoor restaurant this weekend. Had no umbrella in the beginning. My face is peeling, just slightly today.

It really is ridiculous. I have absolutely no melanin whatsoever. Like a grub.

It reminds me of all the things I find so wonderful about living in Austin. The waterholes. Barton Springs. The lakes. Tubing in San Marcos. Oh, tubing, how I love thee. How I love to kiss the waters and set off on thine tide. Held aloft your waves upon the innards of a trailer truck tire. And having a caboose tube with a cooler of watered-down yankee beer, such as Miller, Bud, or Coors, makes my trip so much more pleasant. The joys of having the sun come down upon us as we lazily make our way down stream, pretending we aren’t peeing all over ourselves and each other. The sammiches packed into zip-lock bags, which we pass around while all our tubes are locked together in united harmony. The herbage and smokage, brazenly puffed with reckless abandon.

But man, I could do without all that goddamn sunburn. My scalp gets fried on those trips. That’s right, my SCALP. Under the hair, on the top of my fucking head. Ever tried to wash a sunburned scalp? Whoa… it feels like you’re using a Garden Weasel to comb your hair. And then it gets all dried out, and flakes like Buffalo in January for a week or so. Insult to injury.

I love being outdoors and all. I love being on the lake, playing a pick-up game of mid-day basketball, or looking like a complete fool while trying to hackey-sack in the park, but that sunburn makes me second guess the whole Austin life.

And that gets me thinking about what I love about other cities. The little elements that I latch on to whenever I stay in another town. Sometimes I’m wrong. As in, I’ve picked up on some element that does not really exist in regularity, and I just happened upon it by sheer coincidence.

For example, I cannot honestly say that one of the elements I really love about San Francisco is how friendly their homeless population is. Sure, my experience with them was full of hilarity and good times, but there are an overwhelming number of stories to the contrary, and I have never been able to repeat that experience. So, no dice on that generalization.

But I can generalize about New York. The cab rides at 5am from Manhattan to Brooklyn during the summer of 2001. I will never forget how much I LOVED those cab rides. Especially in the cabs with air conditioners in the rear. Sweet jesus what a fantastic thing they were. Let me toss out a random recap, if I may.

It all starts at 3:30am

I am stumbling, horrifically, down the stairwell of some club, in some strange part of the Lower East Side, somewhere between Double Happiness and Cherry Tavern (I know, big span, but hey – I am really fucked up okay?). There is no a/c in the club, and I am pretty sure I am slipping on sweat that is dripping from my own legs. I’ve had way too much tequila, which will make any Caucasian sweat profusely, even under climate controlled conditions, but it’s an Africa steam bath in the place and I can barely see for the stinging in my sweat-drenched eyes.

We walked everywhere all night, between multiple establishments because we have no vehicle, and we all tend to get FAR too obliterated to operate anything more complicated than a zipper or disposable lighter. So it is probably fortunate that we never tried to drive. With all that walking, comes heartburn-inducing opportunities for food. Four slices of pizza have been consumed at various places, during the various stages of the evening. At one point, I was in a grocery store buying Brooklyn Lager, stumbling drunk, so I could cram the bottles into my pockets and enter the next venue without having to shell out $8 (+ fucking tip) for every Heineken I chose to drink. I could easily put away 8 of those between ten and midnight. The clubs stayed open ‘till four + I had no job + I would regularly divide a single serving of broccoli beef into four meals.

Simple math. No way in hell I was paying that kind of cheese for a single beer.

By closing time, we’re all stupid drunk, staggering around amongst the garbage blowing around in the street, arguing with each other about pop culture, politics, or Astroturf. It is the summer of ’01, so it is hopelessly hot, even at four in the a.m. I am sweating like a whore in church, wiping my face with my t-shirt sleeve and slicking back my overgrown hair with the moisture from my forehead. More pizza or pancakes, and it is time to try and find our way back to Brooklyn.

Since the bars have been closed for a bit, cabs are a hair easier to snag. Find a decent boulevard to loiter on, trying to come off as a four-to-five somewhat coherent twenty-somethings (in the case that there were five of us, there would be extra negotiation with the cab driver to allow it, as they max out at four passengers. I have no idea how we negotiated these things. I was usually unconscious by that time). When a cab pulls up, we all just get in. No sense in telling the cab driver that you want to go to Brooklyn first. Half the time, they won’t even answer that question as they speed away, denying you another air-conditioned coach-ride back to King’s County. Assholes.

So you get in, and THEN you tell them where they will be taking you. If they put up a fight, just ignore them. Start staring out the window, whistling, playing with your phone, beat-boxing, whatever. Ignore him until he starts driving. Then start giving him specific instructions. The hard part was always finding an empty one, and then getting him to pull the fuck over, to pick your drunk ass up.

I’m sure it helped that I was white. I’ve certainly been ignored by my share of cabbies, but I would attribute that to the fact that I was trying to hail them while leaning against a wall of restaurant garbage. Perhaps my pants were undone. Or they just saw me finish vomiting. Who knows. But when I had some semblance of normality, it would not surprise me to learn that my skin color gave them comfort. Even though a) they certainly weren’t white, and b) I was still going to punk them out by going to Brooklyn anyhow.

Back to my original point.

After a night of swilling Brooklyn Lager, dredged from the East River, and sweating two gallons from my pores in the horrendous Manhattan summer heat, my body would be in a state of emergency. My liver, having been denied a single glass of water for over seven hours, and in a most fierce feud with my lizard brain, would have long ceased all metabolic processes. My eyes would be swollen and crinkled like someone glued fortune cookies to my face. Pizza sauce drippings, spattered on the front of my ironic t-shirt, signified that my stomach was in twisted, marinara-tightened knots. And my sweat-soaked hair would usually make me look/smell like I just showered after a dive meet for chubby douche-balloons where the pool was filled with bovine sweat and Pabst Blue Ribbon.

But all the sweat was old. From hours prior, since my glands had long stopped any sweat production.

After standing/laying/sleeping on a street corner long enough to trick a cab into stopping, I was usually on the verge of pissing dust and sleeping in a doorway. We always had to wait a good thirty minutes before catching one. But once we got in… and the lovely voice of Chris Rock came over the speakers, berating me into putting on a seatbelt (a recommendation we typically ignored)… with the lovely sounds of Chicago pulsing through the open-windowed cab… the sounds of the Williamsburg Bridge after hitting Delancey, crossing over the East river… Magical. Truly magical.

Even more magical to me was when we would catch a cab with air conditioning controls IN the rear, with vents less than a foot from our faces. Oh, the fantasticalfullness of those rides! With the windows down anyway! Cold air, cooling my dehydrated and fevered face! With the rhythmic cu-cuck, cu-cuck, cu-cuck of the bridge beneath.

For all the wondrous things I did while living there, I will forever hold a special spot in my heart for the cabs with air-conditioners in the back seats. Over the Williamsburg Bridge. Just before sun-up.

Family Dollar (pt. uno)

The mid-day sun was bright and clear, punching down on the summered walkways of the small town, giving dramatic shadow to everything with dimension. A scraggly teen-aged boy wanders across the remarkably quiet town square, his slouching frame is covered by an over-sized t-shirt catching wind like a galleon’s sail. His mop of shiny, youthful blond hair covers his face like melted wax. His Vans are showing poor wear, and his big toe can be seen peeking through the top of his left sneaker as he dodges wayward pages from a newspaper as they cartwheel into his path. He crosses the empty square, jay-walks the boulevard, and enters a customer-dead Family Dollar store.

Two twenty-somethings guys are working the registers up front, ignoring everything around them. The brown, shaggy-haired scenester of the two is reading People magazine. He picks at a patch of chin acne, a remnant from his Dungeons and Dragons youth, while his blinkless eyes pour over the brightly colored articles. His apron is far too large for his mild frame and he leans against the counter in stressed blue jeans, with a faintly feminine pose, staring intensely into the glossy pages. The other guy, a couple of years older, with a thin sheen of hair on his pointy head, is bouncing a super ball off the floor with enough power to send it up into the ceiling tiles. “I’m gonna knock one of these fuckers out.” He repeats this, whether anyone is within earshot or not. He has a militia aura about him, and tends to wear fatigue-ish gear even when it is inappropriate to do so. Such as a funeral. Or the beach. He was never ROTC in high school, but tells everyone he was. He was denied entrance into the military, even though he tells everyone he was part of Desert Storm. He is an atrocious shot, but is a rabid carrier of the NRA virus, which he contracted through his imprisoned father. When he slams the ball to the asbestos tiled floor, he throws his entire body into it. Like a tribal dance move. Every slam earns a bespittled grunt.

The teenager strolls past them, nabs a box of strawberry pop-tarts from a shelf, and makes his way to the back of the store, beyond the sight of the two cashiers. Bon Jovi’s ‘Living on a Prayer’ hits the intercom. The scenester starts to nod his head to the beat, still combing through the articles.

Super Ball speaks up. “Hey, Jaime, do you bet me that I can get this ball stuck in the ceiling?”

Jaime, the scenester, still staring at his magazine, “no, Brad, I will not bet you. The last time we did that you swallowed a golf tee for two bucks. I had to do overtime that week to cover your shift. Plus the two bucks.”

“But this one doesn’t make me do stupid things. I got it this time. I bet you.”

“No Brad. Besides, I’d have to go up there and get it out if you won.”

Brad stops to seethe, just slightly, while staring at Jaime. This is standard practice between them. They grew up blocks from each other, but never really knew each other until they both started working at Family Dollar two years ago. Jaime always speaks of leaving their town for L.A., Seattle, or New York. Brad usually speaks of fast food, marijuana, and getting laid.

“Hey Jaime, I bet you I’ll fuck that girl from the hair salon next door. She was watching me lock up my bike today. She’s pretty hot.”

Jaime, unamused, and refusing to peel his eyes from the pages of celebrity tales, answers back with an almost parental tone. “Sure Brad. That’s Jennifer you’re talking about. The coach’s daughter. She’s fifteen.”

“So. She has no man around, except her dad, and he’s old. I’ll ask her out. To the drive-in.”

“You have no car.”

“I’ll borrow Joey’s.”

Jaime finally looked up to meet Brad’s stare. This was an almost daily exercise between the two of them. Brad would say something obscene, litigious, or outright insane, just to get Jaime to engage in conversation. Eventually Jaime would break down, and indulge the exercise for an hour or so.

“Don’t you think Joey might want to use his own car this weekend?”

“Not if I ask him today. It’s only Tuesday. I’ll ask him now before he makes plans.”

Jaime puts down the magazine and leans back against the counter, with his arms folded.

“She’s fifteen Brad. Fiff-fucking-teen. And you plan to fuck her this weekend. Did you forget to take your meds?”

“Shut the fuck up about my meds. And you don’t know if she’s fifteen anyway. You don’t even know if that old man is a coach. They just said that when they moved here.”

“Oh, sure. Why would they lie about being a coach and a fifteen year old if that isn’t what they are? That would be a lame-ass lie, wouldn’t it? Wouldn’t they choose ‘actress and retired firefighter’ or something more interesting?”

Brad, looking pensive, as if he were honestly processing what was just said. “Well, maybe they are here as protected witnesses for something mafia related.”

Jaime’s previous expression of wonderment melts into a mask of irritation. “He coached for my cousin’s football team. And she really is fifteen. She’s in my mom’s bible study class.”

They stared at one another for several seconds, Jaime nodding his head with a grin, and Brad shaking his down-tilted head with pursed lips. Finally, Brad relented.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. That’s right. So just drop it and don’t be such a perv.”

The teenage boy opens up a cooler in the back and takes out two cans of Red Bull. He pounds one down, puts the second in his pocket, and drops the empty Pop-Tart box to the floor. Just before he pushes his way through the rear fire exit he mumbles, just audibly, “man, this has to be the worst town yet.”

The launching of the fire alarm causes Brad to lose concentration on his task. The Super Ball hits a disheveled floor tile and pops directly into Jaime’s chin, forcing him to fall backward over the counter in an effort to make a dodge. He sustained the hit anyhow, right to the pimpled chin. But as he toppled over, he managed to yell, "Fucking Brad and your fucking balls!"