The bottom stitching was fraying.
Stained strands sprouted from my apron
by my thighs. I tucked it
behind so Boss wouldn’t see
disapprovingly. My mom said,
with venom, I suck out
the hours in her day. Gone.
Spent trying to mend, wash, perfect
that fabric shell I worked behind.
With a pen, I tore the cover apart,
penetrated the gaps and ripped.
The weight of the grease stuck to
the apron fell off my shoulders.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
Something
She looked at me again with her doll eyes and with her dull mouth said, “I just don’t see why we need…” I wanted someone with a defined jaw bone. The skin under her mouth fell to her collarbone, creating a sluggish chin.
Some would call her beautiful, I just called her Michelle. Her resemblance to the actress Michelle Williams afforded me the luxury of forgetting her Christian name. As she talked, I noticed the ridge between her upper lip and the crest of her nose vanished when she dramatically pursed her lips to make an “ooh” sound, forming a flat flap of flesh, exposing her gums and whitish teeth. The pink on her lips reminded me of raw chicken.
“—agree, right?” I didn’t answer and the car remained silent until she parked and the brakes squealed. “Listen, can’t you just tell her…” A sickly color vein pulsed as her neck skin was dragged by her smacking lips, like the gills of a fish on a hook shuttering open and close.
I wanted to tell her that I didn’t care, that she was talking to a wall. A wall that didn’t care about Michelles. For the sake of conversation, I kept my mouth shut. Brow furrowed slightly, her eyes began to search for contact with mine. When they met, I only noticed her mind swimming, searching for a memory to help conjure up fake tears. Her pupils dilated when she floundered upon some past dead pet, or perhaps the inevitable death of her current ones. Unlike sincere tears, her chin didn’t quiver, but, I thought, that could be because she has no chin to quiver. She leaned forward and pulled back twice, like a novelty drinking bird toy, obviously waiting for a response. “Well?”
“Remember that gift you gave me for our one week? That hippie shell that was suppose to absorb my agony if I had it in my pocket?”
“I gave you a stone, not a shell.” As quickly as her frustration dissipated with the mention of something sentimental, it flooded back in return at this mistake.
“That explains it. Well, that’s certainly something,” pulling out an abalone shell from my pants pocket. And there I was thinking that karma, aura, magic wasn’t real. When we first met, she had told me that all objects were designed to hold energies that either repelled, attracted, expelled or absorbed. In the car, as she buried her eyes in her hands, smudging mascara on the base of her thumbs, I wondered what energy the car had. Or if, as she said, all objects had energies, did the manufacturers of the car take this into account when gathering materials to build? Did the carburetor repel anger and the steering wheel attract it? What if the pistons expelled lust and the wheels absorbed sexuality? Michelle’s shoes were made of black leather, but the leather car seats were gray. Did colors matter? The disarray of energies cycling through the car like the stale air conditioning made me dizzy until I remembered I didn’t subscribe to “‘new’ age” thinking.
“What do tears even mean?” through blackened fingertips. I asked if I could drive us home, unconsciously doubtful of what grabbing the steering wheel might exorcise. The brakes squealed, but I was unsure if it wasn’t just Michelle trying to get attention.
* * *
The night before, she had confessed the first thing she noticed was the abundance of hair covering my arms and legs. Body hair showed vulnerability and openness, she had said. Were my eyebrows vulnerable? The strands of hair on my big toe did often seem susceptible, I wanted to say. That next night in the car I wondered if it wasn’t true, noticing the blonde strands stemming from her arms, only visible by reflecting the fluorescent street light. They occurred to me as something crystalline, fragile. I didn’t want to lean over and comfort her for fear of breaking them off.
Emily, or Emma, or was it Rachel? …The girl I was with the night before had shaved her legs. My caress had been met with biting stubble, like my tongue licking below my lips after dinner. She tasted just as salty. When Michelle forced her lips upon mine in the car, to appeal to my male understanding, I recognized the saltiness from her tears and was stirred. Emily, or Emma, or was it Michelle? …Girl, last night, had tasted like artificial, cherry-flavored lip gloss. Michelle was sweet and salty, like a potato chip, I thought. How many calories were in a kiss? Girl’s lips had sat stagnant against mine, waiting for me to grab hold of the back of her neck and push myself against her. As I remembered my inability to act with Girl, Michelle had grabbed a handful of my hair tight enough that I could feel the roots being tugged, like plucking weeds, while still pushing my head against her chest. It was something of a hug, I supposed.
The girl before Michelle, her name was Michelle, a raven-haired, small-framed, beauty when her mouth was closed, would never have done this to me. Not that I didn’t want to do it to her, but tears and grasps had meant something to me once. When she cried, I felt as if all events in my life had lead up to that single instance of disappointment I had brought upon her. When we tugged at each others bodies, it was like the tugging of souls, I would tell her. Both Michelles had found it pathetic. I wanted to be their savior, Michelle from her goth-like woes and Michelle from her counterfeit, feigned beliefs and cries for attention. I thought they should save me too and Michelle had wanted to. I was never sure which Michelle.
One night, later, in a different car, Michelle had let me go from an identical embrace. “I don’t think we should see what…” She had already unlocked the car door and I was opening it. As I walked to my front door, I heard a squeak and wished it was a squeal. Next to my Hide-a-Key rock, I noticed a rounded, luminescent green stone. Recognizing it as that energy absorbing gift, I picked it up and rolled in around in my fist. I aimed for the windshield, went inside, ate chips.
Some would call her beautiful, I just called her Michelle. Her resemblance to the actress Michelle Williams afforded me the luxury of forgetting her Christian name. As she talked, I noticed the ridge between her upper lip and the crest of her nose vanished when she dramatically pursed her lips to make an “ooh” sound, forming a flat flap of flesh, exposing her gums and whitish teeth. The pink on her lips reminded me of raw chicken.
“—agree, right?” I didn’t answer and the car remained silent until she parked and the brakes squealed. “Listen, can’t you just tell her…” A sickly color vein pulsed as her neck skin was dragged by her smacking lips, like the gills of a fish on a hook shuttering open and close.
I wanted to tell her that I didn’t care, that she was talking to a wall. A wall that didn’t care about Michelles. For the sake of conversation, I kept my mouth shut. Brow furrowed slightly, her eyes began to search for contact with mine. When they met, I only noticed her mind swimming, searching for a memory to help conjure up fake tears. Her pupils dilated when she floundered upon some past dead pet, or perhaps the inevitable death of her current ones. Unlike sincere tears, her chin didn’t quiver, but, I thought, that could be because she has no chin to quiver. She leaned forward and pulled back twice, like a novelty drinking bird toy, obviously waiting for a response. “Well?”
“Remember that gift you gave me for our one week? That hippie shell that was suppose to absorb my agony if I had it in my pocket?”
“I gave you a stone, not a shell.” As quickly as her frustration dissipated with the mention of something sentimental, it flooded back in return at this mistake.
“That explains it. Well, that’s certainly something,” pulling out an abalone shell from my pants pocket. And there I was thinking that karma, aura, magic wasn’t real. When we first met, she had told me that all objects were designed to hold energies that either repelled, attracted, expelled or absorbed. In the car, as she buried her eyes in her hands, smudging mascara on the base of her thumbs, I wondered what energy the car had. Or if, as she said, all objects had energies, did the manufacturers of the car take this into account when gathering materials to build? Did the carburetor repel anger and the steering wheel attract it? What if the pistons expelled lust and the wheels absorbed sexuality? Michelle’s shoes were made of black leather, but the leather car seats were gray. Did colors matter? The disarray of energies cycling through the car like the stale air conditioning made me dizzy until I remembered I didn’t subscribe to “‘new’ age” thinking.
“What do tears even mean?” through blackened fingertips. I asked if I could drive us home, unconsciously doubtful of what grabbing the steering wheel might exorcise. The brakes squealed, but I was unsure if it wasn’t just Michelle trying to get attention.
* * *
The night before, she had confessed the first thing she noticed was the abundance of hair covering my arms and legs. Body hair showed vulnerability and openness, she had said. Were my eyebrows vulnerable? The strands of hair on my big toe did often seem susceptible, I wanted to say. That next night in the car I wondered if it wasn’t true, noticing the blonde strands stemming from her arms, only visible by reflecting the fluorescent street light. They occurred to me as something crystalline, fragile. I didn’t want to lean over and comfort her for fear of breaking them off.
Emily, or Emma, or was it Rachel? …The girl I was with the night before had shaved her legs. My caress had been met with biting stubble, like my tongue licking below my lips after dinner. She tasted just as salty. When Michelle forced her lips upon mine in the car, to appeal to my male understanding, I recognized the saltiness from her tears and was stirred. Emily, or Emma, or was it Michelle? …Girl, last night, had tasted like artificial, cherry-flavored lip gloss. Michelle was sweet and salty, like a potato chip, I thought. How many calories were in a kiss? Girl’s lips had sat stagnant against mine, waiting for me to grab hold of the back of her neck and push myself against her. As I remembered my inability to act with Girl, Michelle had grabbed a handful of my hair tight enough that I could feel the roots being tugged, like plucking weeds, while still pushing my head against her chest. It was something of a hug, I supposed.
The girl before Michelle, her name was Michelle, a raven-haired, small-framed, beauty when her mouth was closed, would never have done this to me. Not that I didn’t want to do it to her, but tears and grasps had meant something to me once. When she cried, I felt as if all events in my life had lead up to that single instance of disappointment I had brought upon her. When we tugged at each others bodies, it was like the tugging of souls, I would tell her. Both Michelles had found it pathetic. I wanted to be their savior, Michelle from her goth-like woes and Michelle from her counterfeit, feigned beliefs and cries for attention. I thought they should save me too and Michelle had wanted to. I was never sure which Michelle.
One night, later, in a different car, Michelle had let me go from an identical embrace. “I don’t think we should see what…” She had already unlocked the car door and I was opening it. As I walked to my front door, I heard a squeak and wished it was a squeal. Next to my Hide-a-Key rock, I noticed a rounded, luminescent green stone. Recognizing it as that energy absorbing gift, I picked it up and rolled in around in my fist. I aimed for the windshield, went inside, ate chips.
Monday, April 23, 2012
Man
Man
She fans herself
with paper to keep her
face coo- "She's so hot.
She'll talk to you too. She's not
arrogant. That outfit is...you know."
"Yeah, b-"
"But I'm too popular."
"She's cut-"
"I want to put my hands in
her hair. Look at her
legs, dude."
"Yeah, bu-"
"She's fucking
cute too." "Yeah,
I'd say cute not sex-"
"Sexy smile. Damn."
Damn.
She fans herself
with paper to keep her
face coo- "She's so hot.
She'll talk to you too. She's not
arrogant. That outfit is...you know."
"Yeah, b-"
"But I'm too popular."
"She's cut-"
"I want to put my hands in
her hair. Look at her
legs, dude."
"Yeah, bu-"
"She's fucking
cute too." "Yeah,
I'd say cute not sex-"
"Sexy smile. Damn."
Damn.
Saturday, April 21, 2012
Stone Age
Stone Age
all he had
was a little banana
nut bread. and a root
beer
float. and a portobello mushroom
pizza topped with a pazookie.
"on a scale of 1
to 1000, how do i
look? like a caveman?"
as compared to what?
"a regular
drunk person...
get this fucking pizza
away from me. i'm trying
to be serious right now."
like a caveman. take control
of the night. "okay, i'm taking
control of the night.
10:45, we're doing
it." i'm trying to be serious.
pazookie, pizza, root beer float.
"i want red velvet, but
you have to order for
me." why? "i can't
interact with people."
1 to 1000. "all i had
was root beer
pizza and pazookie,
don't let them...that's all i am
paying for." his head
perched on the edge
of the table, he lurched
back and took
a deep breath. "that's all
i'm paying for." the night
lingered, hung on.
"Okay. Who wants to take
him to the bathroom?"
already drying vomit
dripped onto his bare
leg and arm. "tell my mom
i'm sorry. i can't move.
walk me in." they knocked
on her unsuspecting door.
"come in.
come in.
come in.
come in."
all he had
was a little banana
nut bread. and a root
beer
float. and a portobello mushroom
pizza topped with a pazookie.
"on a scale of 1
to 1000, how do i
look? like a caveman?"
as compared to what?
"a regular
drunk person...
get this fucking pizza
away from me. i'm trying
to be serious right now."
like a caveman. take control
of the night. "okay, i'm taking
control of the night.
10:45, we're doing
it." i'm trying to be serious.
pazookie, pizza, root beer float.
"i want red velvet, but
you have to order for
me." why? "i can't
interact with people."
1 to 1000. "all i had
was root beer
pizza and pazookie,
don't let them...that's all i am
paying for." his head
perched on the edge
of the table, he lurched
back and took
a deep breath. "that's all
i'm paying for." the night
lingered, hung on.
"Okay. Who wants to take
him to the bathroom?"
already drying vomit
dripped onto his bare
leg and arm. "tell my mom
i'm sorry. i can't move.
walk me in." they knocked
on her unsuspecting door.
"come in.
come in.
come in.
come in."
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Disney's Waters
Disney's Waters
Immediately after the sun sets, when the artificial lamps become glimmering sources of light, while the glow from the sun beyond the horizon diminishes from a salmon-meat pink into a midnight blue, the fervor in the park reaches a blinding fog. Perhaps the childlike, uninhibited anxiousness of the nightly firework performance is the culprit, but for those who have experienced Disneyland at night, what explodes in the sky pales in comparison to what happens at eye level. The honeyed, golden light that radiates throughout Disneyland when darkness falls is nothing if not romantic. Fireworks over Utah are the same as fireworks over Anaheim, but the perfectly subdued luminosity, the very essence of Disneyland at night, imagines a clandestine feeling of awe overlooked by the thousands that visit daily. The true nightly performance is not over heads, but takes place aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat on the Rivers of America.
Most older people adore Disneyland because it serves as a transportation from their nine-to-five cubicle and unfulfilled sex lives to places where the struggles of life are put on the back-burner, unimportant, if only for a day. The aura of the wild west is only twenty feet from jazz city central, New Orleans Square, is only twenty feet from romanticized jungle, Adventureland. However, it's all in the modern day. For me, the draw of Disneyland, the reason for my intense gravitation towards the park, isn't for transportation, but for a sense of time travel. With the DeLorean, it's only 88 mph that allows the flux capacitor to work, but with Disneyland, it's only the Mark Twain, only at night and only in specific seats that the feeling is fully evoked.
Last year was the first time the Mark Twain steamrolled over me with an absolute force. Having always been a fan of the attraction, my friends and I had discovered the best, most overlooked place to be on the boat. On the second of three stories next to the stairs, there was a stage, once home to upbeat jazz bands, now a soulless storage space for unused life jackets. Sitting on top of this locked compartment, next to the decorative "This is not a flotation device" flotation device, we found ourselves in the very heart of the boat. From there, we watched those too tired to stand play music-less chairs on the front of the boat where about twenty uncomfortably white chairs rested.
I believe William Wordsworth, who coined that poetry is "emotion recollected in tranquility," would have produced his best work aboard the perfectly serene Mark Twain. Sitting in our choice seats, the buzz, the roar of the obnoxious guests subdued into a humming, soothing white noise, like the unnoticed scheduled train whistles back home, miles away. The Mark Twain, the only place in Disneyland to escape Disneyland. As the ship drifted along, away from the brightly-lit eggshell dock and the purples and blues dancing off the water by New Orleans Square, as it turned around the bend leaving the lights behind it, the lamps, decorated in late 19th century historical fashion, flickered darkening yellow, the only light remaining. And while the sensory details of the Mark Twain and Disneyland are still vivid, a feeling crept out from within my bones, reaching my muscles and nerves and caused a shiver to run down my spine. There was a hard to describe dreamlike quality of the honeydew light. The intensity of it was just dim enough that it refused my eyes to adjust or completely focus on any color or detail farther than ten feet away. Because of this, the scene was full of details without any definite detail, which left me with memories without any definite memory, like waking up from a vivid dream only to remember vagueness.
The Mark Twain roamed farther away from the rides and the bustle and deeper into darkness as a bodiless voice, simply called "The Captain," narrated our journey. Looking out past the railing, I could only make out black waving shadows. I knew these fluttering figments were trees because logic told me, but all sensory perceptions were useless to prove what anything was beyond the tangible barrier of the boat.
While reading Conrad's Heart of Darkness after such Mark Twain rides, I couldn't help but compare Marlow's descriptions of the immense and intimidating unknown mysteries of the African jungle with what I felt on the Riverboat in the middle of a theme park. The droning, homely southern voice of "The Captain," my friends surrounding me, the other passengers, the kids, the floors, the ceilings, the lights, the safe feeling of knowing the river was only a few feet deep, the life-jackets below me, the comfortableness of the wood against my straightened back, the warm, airy draft, the steps of feet on the stairs on both sides of me, all of it fell into the black abyss that circled around, surrounded me. It was looking into my impression of Disney's own heart of darkness, on a steamboat designed in the 1950s, that I sensed a feeling, a feeling dancing on the edge of my consciousness but never fully realized, of forgetfulness that I was in the 21st century, but could possibly be in the 1890s having just woken from a vivid dream, only remembering vagueness.
Of course, being a sane and rational person, the feeling lasted less than a second, but the impact was felt for the rest of the night and even up to writing this now. I can only fittingly compare the moment of timelessness to a kid losing a balloon. As the balloon drifts up, the guilty child reaches, but the balloon only floats progressively farther away, more and more unreachable.
That night on the Rivers of America, I was unsure what had happened and even eerily unaware if anything had, but as the Mark Twain slowed to a reminding halt back in its port between Frontierland and New Orleans Square, as "The Captain" told us of our ended journey and wished us a good night, I found myself, underneath the dim fluorescent bulbs, alone, the last one remaining on the boat.
Immediately after the sun sets, when the artificial lamps become glimmering sources of light, while the glow from the sun beyond the horizon diminishes from a salmon-meat pink into a midnight blue, the fervor in the park reaches a blinding fog. Perhaps the childlike, uninhibited anxiousness of the nightly firework performance is the culprit, but for those who have experienced Disneyland at night, what explodes in the sky pales in comparison to what happens at eye level. The honeyed, golden light that radiates throughout Disneyland when darkness falls is nothing if not romantic. Fireworks over Utah are the same as fireworks over Anaheim, but the perfectly subdued luminosity, the very essence of Disneyland at night, imagines a clandestine feeling of awe overlooked by the thousands that visit daily. The true nightly performance is not over heads, but takes place aboard the Mark Twain Riverboat on the Rivers of America.
Most older people adore Disneyland because it serves as a transportation from their nine-to-five cubicle and unfulfilled sex lives to places where the struggles of life are put on the back-burner, unimportant, if only for a day. The aura of the wild west is only twenty feet from jazz city central, New Orleans Square, is only twenty feet from romanticized jungle, Adventureland. However, it's all in the modern day. For me, the draw of Disneyland, the reason for my intense gravitation towards the park, isn't for transportation, but for a sense of time travel. With the DeLorean, it's only 88 mph that allows the flux capacitor to work, but with Disneyland, it's only the Mark Twain, only at night and only in specific seats that the feeling is fully evoked.
Last year was the first time the Mark Twain steamrolled over me with an absolute force. Having always been a fan of the attraction, my friends and I had discovered the best, most overlooked place to be on the boat. On the second of three stories next to the stairs, there was a stage, once home to upbeat jazz bands, now a soulless storage space for unused life jackets. Sitting on top of this locked compartment, next to the decorative "This is not a flotation device" flotation device, we found ourselves in the very heart of the boat. From there, we watched those too tired to stand play music-less chairs on the front of the boat where about twenty uncomfortably white chairs rested.
I believe William Wordsworth, who coined that poetry is "emotion recollected in tranquility," would have produced his best work aboard the perfectly serene Mark Twain. Sitting in our choice seats, the buzz, the roar of the obnoxious guests subdued into a humming, soothing white noise, like the unnoticed scheduled train whistles back home, miles away. The Mark Twain, the only place in Disneyland to escape Disneyland. As the ship drifted along, away from the brightly-lit eggshell dock and the purples and blues dancing off the water by New Orleans Square, as it turned around the bend leaving the lights behind it, the lamps, decorated in late 19th century historical fashion, flickered darkening yellow, the only light remaining. And while the sensory details of the Mark Twain and Disneyland are still vivid, a feeling crept out from within my bones, reaching my muscles and nerves and caused a shiver to run down my spine. There was a hard to describe dreamlike quality of the honeydew light. The intensity of it was just dim enough that it refused my eyes to adjust or completely focus on any color or detail farther than ten feet away. Because of this, the scene was full of details without any definite detail, which left me with memories without any definite memory, like waking up from a vivid dream only to remember vagueness.
The Mark Twain roamed farther away from the rides and the bustle and deeper into darkness as a bodiless voice, simply called "The Captain," narrated our journey. Looking out past the railing, I could only make out black waving shadows. I knew these fluttering figments were trees because logic told me, but all sensory perceptions were useless to prove what anything was beyond the tangible barrier of the boat.
While reading Conrad's Heart of Darkness after such Mark Twain rides, I couldn't help but compare Marlow's descriptions of the immense and intimidating unknown mysteries of the African jungle with what I felt on the Riverboat in the middle of a theme park. The droning, homely southern voice of "The Captain," my friends surrounding me, the other passengers, the kids, the floors, the ceilings, the lights, the safe feeling of knowing the river was only a few feet deep, the life-jackets below me, the comfortableness of the wood against my straightened back, the warm, airy draft, the steps of feet on the stairs on both sides of me, all of it fell into the black abyss that circled around, surrounded me. It was looking into my impression of Disney's own heart of darkness, on a steamboat designed in the 1950s, that I sensed a feeling, a feeling dancing on the edge of my consciousness but never fully realized, of forgetfulness that I was in the 21st century, but could possibly be in the 1890s having just woken from a vivid dream, only remembering vagueness.
Of course, being a sane and rational person, the feeling lasted less than a second, but the impact was felt for the rest of the night and even up to writing this now. I can only fittingly compare the moment of timelessness to a kid losing a balloon. As the balloon drifts up, the guilty child reaches, but the balloon only floats progressively farther away, more and more unreachable.
That night on the Rivers of America, I was unsure what had happened and even eerily unaware if anything had, but as the Mark Twain slowed to a reminding halt back in its port between Frontierland and New Orleans Square, as "The Captain" told us of our ended journey and wished us a good night, I found myself, underneath the dim fluorescent bulbs, alone, the last one remaining on the boat.
Happy Hour
Happy Hour
It’s a damn cold night. The kinda night you want to end before it begins. The kinda night that’s got me wonderin’ why I’m not home. One of those nights that seems to be just for a chump like me. Tonight, I don’t know where I’m goin’. Or why. Whatever the answer is, it isn’t linin’ these streets.
“Hey, big boy. Ya lost? I gottsa pretty ample compass if ya need one. Thing is, I needs a needle for it, whaddya say?” Her nose sags below her upper lip and her lower lip sticks out. And here I was thinking’ they stopped makeup tests on animals. My eyes can’t hold contact with this broad’s face, so I answer to the droopy water balloons under her ten cent dress: “I gotta special compass. See, this compass here tells me where others should go. Right now it’s telling me you’re going downtown.” Before I even finger my badge outta my inner pocket, this gal’s runnin’. I wasn’t planning on chasing skirts so I keep walkin’.
The green neon “r” flickers at “F igo’s.” I could sure go for a drink. A man bumps into me. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead, looks like he bathed in cheap booze. Smells like it to. “Shelly’ll be rights behind me,” he slurs. Under the grime covering his face and clothes this dope almost looks like that “Take Me Home Tonight” guy. This city’s rank stank ain’t one I’m lookin’ to get use to. Frigo’s as good a place as any to go numb.
The door seems to push back as I open. Hell, even the doors put up a fight. Maybe I’m just losing my strength. The man mopping behind the bar has his head down. “You open?”
“What?” I seem to have startled the little guy. “Open? For a guy like you, why not?” His face’s friendly enough. Lopsided smile, not crooked. It ain’t until I sit at the bar that I sight his eyes. Dark eyes. That kind, that if ya look hard enough, ya expect to see some creature swimming’ from the murky, saturated depths. My bones become ice. I gots this feelin’, that one that feels like I’ve been here before. Like this has already happened. What’s it called? Some French word. I forget the sensation when the little guy extends his hand.
“Welcome to the city.” His hand’s half the size of mine. His fingers thin, but his grip firm.
“Never said I was new to the city,” I say.
“Well, pal, seeing as I know everyone in this city, and I ain’t ever seen nor heard of you…Name’s Frigo ”
“Been here two years. Never heard of you.” The little man showed no shock, but I hear it. His voice gives it away.
“Never hearda…never…Never heard of Frigo! Ha!” Faster than a fly on a vagrant’s fresh shit, the little guy hurls a dart past me. It misses the board behind me and hits a signed picture of Vera Miles hangin’ on the wall. “I’m Frigo, kapeesh? Two years? Last lout to insult me like that, well, he ended up…I’ll show you how he ended up.” Never saw this coming. Some nights, I’ll tell ya.
“You’re going to want sober up if you’re aiming to finish that threat,” I warn.
His voice goes calm, like he’s never yelled before in his life. “Threat? No, see, I’m going to show you how the last guy to insult me ended up. Just, wait…wait right here, pal.”
I ain’t feeling threatened by this Frigo character. Ain’t never felt threatened by no one. He disappears behind a door in the back. A portrait of Rita Hayworth hangs on the door. Crude tits are drawn on her chest. It’s lit up by the green and red vomiting from the juke box to the left of the door. I ain’t never been here, but I recognize it. What’s that French word? I ain’t sure why I’m not leaving.
It’s a damn cold night. The kinda night you want to end before it begins. The kinda night that’s got me wonderin’ why I’m not home. One of those nights that seems to be just for a chump like me. Tonight, I don’t know where I’m goin’. Or why. Whatever the answer is, it isn’t linin’ these streets.
“Hey, big boy. Ya lost? I gottsa pretty ample compass if ya need one. Thing is, I needs a needle for it, whaddya say?” Her nose sags below her upper lip and her lower lip sticks out. And here I was thinking’ they stopped makeup tests on animals. My eyes can’t hold contact with this broad’s face, so I answer to the droopy water balloons under her ten cent dress: “I gotta special compass. See, this compass here tells me where others should go. Right now it’s telling me you’re going downtown.” Before I even finger my badge outta my inner pocket, this gal’s runnin’. I wasn’t planning on chasing skirts so I keep walkin’.
The green neon “r” flickers at “F igo’s.” I could sure go for a drink. A man bumps into me. His hair clings to his sweaty forehead, looks like he bathed in cheap booze. Smells like it to. “Shelly’ll be rights behind me,” he slurs. Under the grime covering his face and clothes this dope almost looks like that “Take Me Home Tonight” guy. This city’s rank stank ain’t one I’m lookin’ to get use to. Frigo’s as good a place as any to go numb.
The door seems to push back as I open. Hell, even the doors put up a fight. Maybe I’m just losing my strength. The man mopping behind the bar has his head down. “You open?”
“What?” I seem to have startled the little guy. “Open? For a guy like you, why not?” His face’s friendly enough. Lopsided smile, not crooked. It ain’t until I sit at the bar that I sight his eyes. Dark eyes. That kind, that if ya look hard enough, ya expect to see some creature swimming’ from the murky, saturated depths. My bones become ice. I gots this feelin’, that one that feels like I’ve been here before. Like this has already happened. What’s it called? Some French word. I forget the sensation when the little guy extends his hand.
“Welcome to the city.” His hand’s half the size of mine. His fingers thin, but his grip firm.
“Never said I was new to the city,” I say.
“Well, pal, seeing as I know everyone in this city, and I ain’t ever seen nor heard of you…Name’s Frigo ”
“Been here two years. Never heard of you.” The little man showed no shock, but I hear it. His voice gives it away.
“Never hearda…never…Never heard of Frigo! Ha!” Faster than a fly on a vagrant’s fresh shit, the little guy hurls a dart past me. It misses the board behind me and hits a signed picture of Vera Miles hangin’ on the wall. “I’m Frigo, kapeesh? Two years? Last lout to insult me like that, well, he ended up…I’ll show you how he ended up.” Never saw this coming. Some nights, I’ll tell ya.
“You’re going to want sober up if you’re aiming to finish that threat,” I warn.
His voice goes calm, like he’s never yelled before in his life. “Threat? No, see, I’m going to show you how the last guy to insult me ended up. Just, wait…wait right here, pal.”
I ain’t feeling threatened by this Frigo character. Ain’t never felt threatened by no one. He disappears behind a door in the back. A portrait of Rita Hayworth hangs on the door. Crude tits are drawn on her chest. It’s lit up by the green and red vomiting from the juke box to the left of the door. I ain’t never been here, but I recognize it. What’s that French word? I ain’t sure why I’m not leaving.
Thursday, April 12, 2012
All Hallow's
All Hallow's
I was told I couldn't go
trick r' treating. With my brother
grounded and locked in
his room like me, Halloween
candy wasn't very sweet. Mom made us
clean our rooms, bathrooms,
kitchen. My dad watched
a scary movie upstairs. We
snuck in under his bed
to watch the screaming, the stabbing.
We cried. Mom and Dad
caught us and forced us
outside, into the dark.
With the phantoms and ghouls
lingering in the bushes, we walked
away towards the night, dressed up
as Hansel and Gretel. We followed
our bread crumbs of tears.
I was told I couldn't go
trick r' treating. With my brother
grounded and locked in
his room like me, Halloween
candy wasn't very sweet. Mom made us
clean our rooms, bathrooms,
kitchen. My dad watched
a scary movie upstairs. We
snuck in under his bed
to watch the screaming, the stabbing.
We cried. Mom and Dad
caught us and forced us
outside, into the dark.
With the phantoms and ghouls
lingering in the bushes, we walked
away towards the night, dressed up
as Hansel and Gretel. We followed
our bread crumbs of tears.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Water War
Water War
I hear screaming from the water spigot.
Sounds like planes when they roar from a distance.
And as I fill up this water balloon,
I anticipate the big splash kaboom.
I hear screaming from the water spigot.
Sounds like planes when they roar from a distance.
And as I fill up this water balloon,
I anticipate the big splash kaboom.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
Class Reunion
Class Reunion
I picked up my "Peter
Epifant" name tag and pinned it
on my chest. The class of 2000
milled about, looking lost.
Amy Gossiper slipped
her tongue across
her butter cream
teeth. Ian, the husband,
now owns 99¢
Stores. Condoms in his wallet,
Henry Pecker hit up
Kathy, the widow. At 18,
Eva Prudeski got pregnant.
Hers was the only name tag
not picked up. Cindy Trampton
did coke in the parking lot
with Bobby Mathasin. Engulfed
by forced laughter, Jeff Bookerson
cleaned his glasses and looked
at the blurs he recognized
from school. Two corporate clowns
had a bragging match over who lived
the American dream. The rest of us
took bets on whose head was higher
up asses. DJ Laygerd came out
of the bathroom followed by my ex.
Matt Gassur said the gym
smelled like those nonathletic few
not adept enough but for regular
P.E. remembered it. Except the noise
had changed. The quiet
hung over the gymnasium
like the pendulum we all were
forced to read about but didn't.
I picked up my "Peter
Epifant" name tag and pinned it
on my chest. The class of 2000
milled about, looking lost.
Amy Gossiper slipped
her tongue across
her butter cream
teeth. Ian, the husband,
now owns 99¢
Stores. Condoms in his wallet,
Henry Pecker hit up
Kathy, the widow. At 18,
Eva Prudeski got pregnant.
Hers was the only name tag
not picked up. Cindy Trampton
did coke in the parking lot
with Bobby Mathasin. Engulfed
by forced laughter, Jeff Bookerson
cleaned his glasses and looked
at the blurs he recognized
from school. Two corporate clowns
had a bragging match over who lived
the American dream. The rest of us
took bets on whose head was higher
up asses. DJ Laygerd came out
of the bathroom followed by my ex.
Matt Gassur said the gym
smelled like those nonathletic few
not adept enough but for regular
P.E. remembered it. Except the noise
had changed. The quiet
hung over the gymnasium
like the pendulum we all were
forced to read about but didn't.
