Orientation Chapter 10

I showed up to school with a dozen roses. Got there 30 minutes early too, to slide little love notes into her locker. I needed to cover all my bases to ensure I'd come out on top. The way she left things was wrong. Sure I was unhappy, sure I was an asshole, sure I wasn't ready to be in a relationship, but that didn't mean she had the right to dump me. That was my job. I'm the man. I make the calls. My hands were shaking as I slid the folded scraps of notebook paper in through the vents. No one was around except for the kids who got bussed in, but they were all huddled near the cafeteria eating their French toast sticks. I was alone in the hallway with nothing but the smell of stale sandwiches and floor wax. I felt like I was doing something wrong, like at any moment the principal would walk around the corner and call me into his office, but for what? I didn't know. I ignored the anxiety and kept pressing the notes into the locker. I'm sorry. Smiley Face. Meet me for lunch. Sad Face. I'm a fool... In love with you. Exclamation point.

The trap was set. The notes were in place, all that was left was to meet her outside her first period to hand over the roses. Their stems were still wet and left drip stains on my jeans. It made me self conscious. I hope nobody thinks I peed myself. Girls watched me as I walked through the lunch area with the exaggerated bouquet. "Oh are those for me?" they'd sarcastically ask. They could be if you play your cards right. I never said that though. I just smiled that white boy smile. Closed lips and squinted eyes. Her class was in the E building, mine was across campus in the R. I walked around the bike racks and past the gym and went around the back way. During school hours this little path is filled with white kids smoking and Mexican kids tagging and black kids touching each other. Before school it was empty though. Damp and empty and a short cut from the PE fields to E building. I held the flowers in front of my face. I smelled them and felt nothing. I stepped over the curb and into the dirt that ran along the back side of F building. Through the chain-link I saw her walking up the sidewalk, coming into the campus through the back. I slowed and let her enter in front of me; I'd meet her near the classroom. She walked in and as soon as her ass was out my sight I began the pursuit. I’ll surprise her. I sneak up on her and surprise her like she surprised me. I played spy. I crept along the building, hugging the wall, hearing people in the distance making comments about my progress, but I ignored them. I was on a mission and couldn’t be slowed or stopped by the eyes of the uneducated and insane. Her scent was still lingering near the school's entrance. Cucumber melon stuck to the walls. I closed my eyes and took it in and got excited. I had that twisting feeling that sits right below your rib cage. It's a mix of passion and pity, embarrassment and the prophecy of success.

I held the bouquet in my left hand, the wall with my right. Balancing myself, I stood on one foot and leaned around the corner of the building to peer down the hallway. 4 classes in, E-130, was hers. Before she broke up with me she'd wait outside for her morning kiss. I was banking on routine overcoming reality. The hallways were cluttered with dreary faces and backpacks. I couldn't see through them. Their displacement from themselves was too thick. As traffic passed, I waited for the opportune moment to spring in and hop down the hallway without being run over or seen. Behind a backpack. Behind a kid that smelled like cheese and chips. Behind a pair of sweatpants that had Booty written across them. I stayed here for a while. The wall of shoulders and wet hair was still too thick to see through. I kept my eyes to the ground. Hoping that between strides and skips I'd be able to spot her shoes. She wore Nikes with little springs in the back. Every day a new color, paired with black or grey leggings. A classroom up, I spotted them.

Her ankles were exposed and I could see the little scars she had from shaving around the bone. I crept towards her with my head hung to the left, the bouquet dangled over my right shoulder. Those were her shoes, I saw the springs, but they weren't on the ground. She was standing on her toes. Probably looking for me. I'll surprise her good. I stayed tucked behind the Booty pants and counted the lockers. 3 more. 2 more. I wonder if she's seen the notes yet? 1 more. I held the roses low and in a move I'd quickly regret, jumped out from behind my shield and presented her with the bouquet, only to be greeted with her lips retreating from their connection with Collin's.

She was surprised but I was the one who felt it. "Oh hey, uh, um, you know Collin? Right?" Sure I knew the scum bag. Sure I knew all of his other girlfriends who tried to warm me about you. Sure I knew the smell of his cologne weaved into your hair. "Yeah. Hey." I put the roses under my arm and slapped hands with him. I went in for the pound, but his hand was already back in his pocket. Keeping his eyes to the ground he kissed her cheek and touched the top of her ass before lifting his chin to me and strolling off. Casual bastard. She put her arm around my waist like a possessive man and said, "Hey buddy!" She wasn't afraid to admit I was the fool, anymore. Whatever guilt she felt has dispersed with a night of sleep or something else. It was too late to turn back. I looked at her like an intimidated kid and pitifully said, "Here, these are for you."

The whole delivery was wrong. It didn't happen like it was supposed to. What was wrong with me? She'd find the notes and probably laugh at them. She was already gone. More gone than I had been. She was a leg up in this race for closure and I was focusing too much on the pain in Bonktown.

Orientation Chapter 9

"Have a day," he said. And I asked him what that meant. Have a good day, a bad day, have a day. It didn't make sense to me. He didn't clarify, he just smiled, nodded his head and repeated, "Have a day." She walked around the hood with a shoebox in her hand. I looked at her face and she smiled. What was going on? I've always hated surprises on the surface, but secretly loved them. Have a day. Have a great day. I hope it's something good. Don't really need new shoes, but any gift is a good gift. I went to put my arm around her and she ducked under it, putting her hand on my hip to restrain me from trying again. I laughed and she smiled and didn't say a word. I kept my eyes on the shoebox and her jeans. They fit her nice, but her brother was right behind us so I couldn't stare too hard. I looked back at him and he looked at me. Nodded and sucked the hair that grew beneath his bottom lip. Have a day.

I was living in the garage. I got fed up with the house and devoted the summer to cleaning out the garage and making it habitable. Under layers of urine soaked cardboard boxes, rat droppings and cobwebs lay the foundation. I hung drywall and painted it matte green. I stacked my mattress on top of cinderblocks and covered it with a blue sleeping bag unzipped. The flannel on the underside was perfect for the winter and the cool nylon kept me sane in the endless summer school nights. The concrete floor was cracked and jutted up in places. I covered it with a gray rug. It was important you knew where to step, especially if barefooted. It felt good to be out here. There wasn't a bathroom, and I'd often piss in the bushes outside my door, but the separation from the family was good. No other way to describe it.

Have a day. It excited me. We stepped into my garage-room and I was ready to have a day. I shut the blinds and expected to hear her brother's truck rumble off but it didn't. She was sitting on the couch. It was odd. She usually sat on the bed straight away. The couch smelled like cat piss and carpet soap. She held the shoebox on her lap. I sat down adjacent to her. Our knees barely touched. She moved hers. "Here," she said. And she handed me the shoebox. "Don't open it yet. I don't want you to open it while I'm here." And she smiled. Have a day. Confusing. "This is really hard, because I love you so much, but I know you don't love me." She smiled again. How did she know I didn't love her? "You're just really mean to me. Everything you say or do to me is just so negative. You aren't like that with other people. You aren't condescending and passive aggressive you're a genuinely nice person, except when you're with me." I had no idea it was so obvious. I started to figure out where this was leading. The shoebox felt heavy in my arms. Have a day. "I know you don't trust me and you probably wont believe this, but I never cheated on you." Cheated on me? I never though you cheated on me. Fuck, she cheated on me. I started to burn. "I don't think you're ready to be in a relationship." You don't know what I'm ready for. "I still want us to be friends. I mean it." I started to open the shoebox and she walked out of the room.

I followed her down the driveway, her brother's eyes locked onto my every step. She hurried towards the car but I wanted answers. How did she know I hated her? I thought I hid it so well. It wasn't supposed to happen like this. She was the bad one, not me. I wanted to vomit. This wasn't fair. It had nothing to do with heartbreak. Rejection. What is this feeling? Why do I want to scream? Have a day. Her brother was still sucking on his lip as she got in the car. He touched his eyebrow as if he was tipping his hat to me, but he wasn't wearing one. I saw her in the passenger seat, she wasn't sad. The dummy wasn't sad. She was probably on her way to Collin's house. Fucking jock. Fucking dumb jock. Have a day.

The truck drove away and I stood in the street to watch it. The sun-baked blacktop stung my sand calloused toes and I blamed it on her. I couldn't take it anymore. I was stuck out there. In too much pain to run for the grass. I trotted in place and in a move fueled by desperation threw down the shoebox and stood on top of it. It crumbled and folded in on itself, providing relief from the scolding ground but it wasn't soothing. Underneath my toes lay pictures of her and me. But when I looked at myself, it wasn’t like looking in a mirror. I was different around her and it made me happy that this was captured in a picture. She scribbled little notes onto the backs. Why would she give these to me? I should give them back. That's what I'll do. I'll give them back, and apologize, and tell her that I love her and to have a day. I stood on the pictures a minute longer before running to the grass. I sat there and watched a few get blown away and a few get run over by passing cars, but for the most part they just laid dead in the crumbled box. I scooped them up when the sun dipped behind the mountains and the valley sat in the shade. I put them in a new shoebox and tied a ribbon around it. I wrote a note and ignored her two phone calls. Tomorrow I'd have a day.

That Doesn’t Mean My Eyes Will Soon Be Turning Red

White flowers bloomed in the misleading winter sun and covered the dry limbs in a flurry of soft petals. Each day they expanded and covered the brown of the tree to the extent where only the trunk could be distinguished as being not white. Homeward bound, I'd walk under these out-of-season blossoms and feel grateful for their initiative. If only I could be this brave.

Through the week the white flowers grew heavy and tended to fall, one by one, onto the sidewalk, sometimes onto my shoulders. They didn't take up residency here, it wasn't their place and with only a minor push they were gone and once again the sidewalks and shoulders were clean. The heavy white flowers sat in the tree and stayed there through the night.

I woke up one morning to the rain. It was pelting sideways against my window and I couldn't quite see it because of the condensation that had built up through the night, but the mumbling roof and the car tires tearing paper in the streets confirmed its presence. I was slow to rise, the blankets were heavier than usual and even when upright, movement was restrained. Coffee didn't help. I let it sit in the pot too long and after being mixed with a bit of cream it was too cold to cheer me up. It should burn, not enough to scold your tongue, but enough to make you stop and think about each sip you take. The motivation to start the day just didn't exist. I got back in bed and pulled the sheets over my face and stared deeply into their fibers. I saw the cross stitch and where the thread had snapped and been retied and I blinked as the sheet pushed my eyelashes into my eye. It was then I saw them. White flowers, weathering the rain, knowing that the sun would be back for them and refund whatever integrity had been lost in the storm.

From a distance I could tell their color had changed. More gray than white now. I looked down at my shirt. Raindrops had left a gray pattern on it and this made me feel better. For I knew, that even though the water had turned the shirt grey, once dried it'd be white again. Likewise with the flowers, I felt they might have only been wet, colored gray for the time being. As I got closer though, I noticed it wasn't the water that had changed the color. The flowers were no longer on the branches. Sharp, erect branches trying to run away from one another were restrained by their ankles and caused a commotion atop the tree's trunk. I looked at them in shame and wondered why they couldn't just get along. It was a crime only understood by the ones involved and in recognition of this I drew my eyes to the ground and walked on by.

Mere casualties were the flowers. Trampled and disfigured. They lay on the sidewalk lifeless and beautiful. Pretty as blood in the sun, pretty as the buzz before sleep, pretty as the lustful rendezvous between ex-lovers. They let me down. I was brave for them. Convinced that if they could do it, then so could I. Beneath my feet was only slime. Some of it white, some of it with texture and with each step I dug my heel into its skin and twisted as if I were killing an insect. I was up and out and the white flowers and any sense of spring they had brought with them, was behind me now.

Crossing the street I was nearly stuck by a car. I jumped out of the way to avoid it and dropped my book in a puddle of rainwater that had been left behind. I picked it up, walked to the curb, wiped it off and read the cover. As I Lay Dying. Before obliviously walking into the rest of my day, I paused to laugh at the image of my lifeless white body, stained gray from the street and rain, turning into a slime as the lonely and overworked trampled and disfigured me.

Orientation Chapter 8

"Can I see your ID?"

"Yeah right."

"No, seriously. Can I see your ID?"

"I'm 30 fucking years old, kid. Why do you need my ID?"

"My boss says I'm supposed to check ID's for anyone who looks under 18."

"You think I look like a teenager?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Ha. No wonder you work at the theater. Couldn't get a job anywhere else huh?"

"I work here because it's the only place in town that'd hire a 16 year old."

"Don't get smart with me young man."

"Can I just see your ID?"

"NO. You know what. Yeah. Um Hmm. Get me your supervisor."

I left my post at the entrance of the theater and told Oliver to check ID's. Oliver was autistic and somehow knew the dates any given day would fall on a hundred years into the future. I'd get bored and quiz him.

"May first, two thousand and seventy-seven... No wait, seventy-nine."

He'd continue to tear tickets and suck on his bottom lip. A minute or so would go by and I'd begin to wonder if he was broken. Maybe he didn't hear me?

"Oliver?"

He'd shake his head as if I were bothering him. He'd return to tearing tickets. "Theater 5 will be up the escalator and to your left. Please enjoy your movie. We have refreshments and candy available for purchase on the second floor. Please enjoy your movie."

When the moviegoer had retrieved their stub and headed off in the proper direction, Oliver would look to his feet and answer. "Monday. May first, two thousand and seventy-nine will be a Monday."

I'd start on another question but before I could finish he'd be rattling off birthdays.

"Monday May first, two thousand and seventy-nine will be Jake Fratken's birthday and Ronald Sizemore's birthday and Alicia Gould's birthday and Kimberly Weisenberg's birthday and it will also be a solar eclipse."

I'd laugh and tell him to give me a high five and treat him like he was nine even though he was thirty-four.

"When's my birthday Oliver?"

"January 14, 1984. That's too easy. Don't you have any harder questions?" He'd smile and look at his shoes and scratch the back of his neck. We'd go back to working in silence save for the occasional pop quiz and directions to the restroom.

Oliver took my post, checking ID's, and as I walked away I could hear him repeating people's birthdays to them and I knew he'd remember them all. I had to go to the third floor to get Christy, my supervisor. Nothing was up there except for offices and storage. The hallways were eggshell with a navy blue line painted in gloss acrylic down the center. Black scuffmarks rested below the line and above were pinned corporate slogans, minimum wage laws, workers compensation information and pamphlets about sexual harassment. As I walked down the hallway towards Christy's office my slacks kept rubbing just below my belt buckle. It made me think about my girlfriend. And so I walked a little faster and it felt pretty good. By the time I reached the office I had excited myself quite a bit and had to untuck my shirt to cover it up. I walked in and found Christy bent over the desk standing on her tiptoes. Her thin black pants stretched over her wide ass and her panty lines protruded down the side of her cheeks, outlining her buttocks like a bubble letter. She was looking into the security cameras, spying on the cashiers. I heard Darnell from behind the propped open door say, "Remember when we were cashiers? Man, we pocketed so much cash. Didn’t have no cameras like now. Shiet, I think I was making more back then, than I do now as a supervisor."

"Shiet," Christy said. "I'm still gettin mine."

It made me feel awkward when she spoke that way. Something about her transition lenses and elastic-less socks. I cleared my throat.

"Mmm mmm. Hey, uh, Christy?"

I heard Darnell shuffle around behind the door. I heard a zipper, and the sound of a can dropping, and the lid to the trashcan get kicked open and then plop close. Without looking back, Christy lowered herself onto her heels and like a dancer twisted towards the door with a smile.

"Yes... Matt, right?"

"Yeah. Matt. Um, some lady down stairs asked to see my supervisor. Would that be you?"

She smirked, then looked at Darnell and smiled and then looked at her shoes like Oliver and said, "Well first off, we don't call our guests, Some Lady." She made quotation mark gestures with her fingers above her head and wiggled her hips when she said this. "Now do we?"

"No. Sorry. One of our guests asked to see my supervisor. Is that you?"

"Who else would it be? And why is your shirt untucked?"

"Well I know you, Darnell, and Sergio are supervisors, I just wasn't sure who was in charge of what section tonight."

"I, am ALWAYS your supervisor. Got that?"

"Ok."

"Now what's the problem?"

"I asked to see this ladies ID."

" You mean, you asked to see our guests ID, right?"

"Yeah. I asked to see her ID and she wouldn't show me. I explained to her I had to check anyone's ID who looked under 18. She told me she was 30. I asked again. And then she asked to speak with you."

"Matt, how old do you think I look?"

I guessed cautiously and said, "Thirty-five."

"Ooooooh boy. No he didn't," Darnell said.

Christy bit the inside of her lip, the varicose veins in her cheeks were pronounced and purple, and through puckered lips grunted, "Uh uh. Now I can see why he have a problem. This boy right here acting like a 24 year old be lookin like his granny." It was at this very moment I began fearing age. If you looked like that at 24, then I didn't even want to see 17.

"Well let's go assist our guest and straighten this whole thing out. Do me a favor Matt, just stay quiet."

I didn't answer, but just walked silently behind her. Darnell came out behind me and I could feel him dreaming about beating me. We walked down the cement stairs and our work shoes echoed squeaks through the stairwell. Christy pushed open the door that lead into the second floor kitchen and walked us through boxes of popcorn kernels, soda syrup and candy. They were neatly segregated into silver wire shelving units. See-through hoses wound underneath them and connected to large C02 canisters, which then connected to more see-through hoses that penetrated the wall into the concession stand. I followed them with my eyes and as Christy pushed open the door that lead from the kitchen into the second floor lobby, I caught a glimpse of the hoses connected with plastic star nuts to the Icee machine and soda fountain. I looked beyond Christy and across the lobby saw Oliver checking the ID's of group of late comers. They were making a fuss, distracting Oliver, and from the rear of the group 3 young kids, maybe 12, ran into the theater unnoticed. Standing off to the side with a bag of popcorn in one hand and a perspiring drink in the other was the 30 year old who looked 15.

"Well Matt, where is she?"

I pointed at her and as I did she looked directly at us. I felt awkward pointing her out, like I was identifying a criminal from the back of a cop car. "There she is. In the pink shirt and jean shorts." Christy, still walking towards her, turned her head and shot a glance over me and to Darnell. I knew she thought it was funny. This lady really did look 15.

"Hi miss." Christy stuck out her hand to shake the lady's. The lady clamped down onto the bag of popcorn with the underside of her chin and held it against her breast in order to free up a hand. I couldn't believe the importance that was being put on corporate formalities. They shook hands and the lady rearranged her overpriced purchases and began to make her case while looking over Christy's shoulder, directly at me.

"Your employee called me a liar."

"No I didn't."

Christy turned around to look at me and said, "Excuse me. Excuse me..." She turned back around and faced the lady.

"After he called me a liar, he tried to grab my wallet from me. I'm guessing to check my ID for himself, but who knows? Could have been after something else."

Christy turned and looked at me again. Didn't say anything, just looked at me through her semi-purple lenses. My face was burning and I could tell it was red. A crowd of employees had gather around the corner and they were watching it all unfold. Oliver was still at the door tearing tickets and reciting birthdays.

"Ma'am, I am so sorry. His behavior was unacceptable and I can assure you he will be disciplined. Ma'am, for your troubles, please enjoy this movie complementary of AMC Promenade 16. Just bring your ticket stub to the customer service desk on the first floor on your way out. Once again I am sorry and I hope you enjoy the film."

Without asking for her ID, or even my side of the story, Christy held the theater door open for the lady and waved her through. The door swung close, the staff scattered back to their positions and Christy said, "Come with me."

She said it sternly enough to conjure up images of kindergarten and Ms. Pam and how I had sworn to fight back if I were to ever come across a situation like that again. We rewound our path through the concession stand, through the kitchen, up the stairs and down the hallway littered with corporate bullshit. We went back into her office and she shut the door behind us. I thought it was about to go down. I thought she was going to push me and berate me and call me a liar. I was ready to fight her. I didn't care if she was a girl, she was ugly enough to be a man.

She sat down in her swivel chair and it made a fart sound. With force she pulled open her desk's top drawer and removed a booklet of white paper, backed with pink carbon paper, backed with yellow paper. Bold letters across the top read: DISCIPLINARY WRITE-UP. She violently filled in the blanks, X’s here, initials there, checking twice to make sure the letters were being copied onto the colored pages below. After a minute of eternal silence she handed me the booklet and said, "Sign at the bottom."

"What is this?"

"I'm writing you up for being Insubordinate."

"What does insubordinate mean?"

"It means you don't listen."

"Don't listen to what?"

"See, you're back-talking me. Insubordination."

I signed the paper, confused and frustrated, crumbled it up and stuffed it in my pocket.

"You can return to your post now."

I walked out and as I opened the door saw Darnell standing there. He shook his head at me and pushed spit through the spaces in his teeth. The light shined off the grease in his curled hair and made it look plastic. I hated him. I hated Christy and I hated this damn job. I took my car key out of my pocket and ran it along the wall as I walked down the hallway. I was hoping for blood but got drywall dust instead.

Five O’clock Shadow

I was almost there

Body weight resting on the palms of my hands.

Propped up and ready to flee.

The clock moved like molasses down moss covered bark

and I don't know why I was anxious,

this happens every day.

I was fed up.

Filled with Indian cuisine that had settled and expanded.

Never quite got over that cold that's been hanging around for more than a month now.

I should charge it rent.

The work piled up because I let it.

And then I did some and regretted it.

I'm getting nowhere, these people are assholes, this shirt collar itches my neck and I hate wearing socks.

At least they don't say anything about the hair on my face. They look at it, and sneer and hint that it might be smart to shave it off, but honestly

it's the only thing keeping me sane.

Each new follicle that opens wide and pours out brown hair, that's red in the sun, liberates me from the constraints of this place.

My mustache says, "fuck you", my cheeks say, "fuck you", my chin says, "fuck you"

and my neck just says, "I quit."

The work just kept on piling up and I don't know why I care.

Why do I feel guilty about not attending to this meaningless mass of pleadings in which one rich person

sues another rich person

over some dead rich person's money.

Nothing wrong with being rich, congratulations.

You made it.  

There's something wrong with being a snake.

In the garden or under the house or down some perverts pants,

The snake is always evil.

I can feel scales starting to consume me and I'm trying to shed them, but it's just not the right time of year.

And so I'll sit here,

Constricted. 

It was another bad day. Suffocating.

I wanted to quit.

I spend too much time feeling this way.

I went home and watched pixilated punk rock videos on the computer.

Hard Soled Shoes Are Only For The Resilient

It was closing time at Webbers. I had fallen asleep as usual inside the third booth from the pool table. I made myself a pillow with a sweatshirt that was black around the wrists and smelled like a playground. I kept warm with the blanket Webby kept in his office. The commotion and intoxication mixed together in a lullaby that I had become so dependent on, it was difficult for me to fall asleep on a silent night. I counted the squeaks in the turning bar stools, the crack of the balls, the number of times Webby had to regretfully say, "That'll be all for the night buddy," and the loaded responses these words would elicit. "You can't tell me what to do Webby!" "Don't call me buddy, buddy." "Just one more?" Dad would be in the background. No matter how dense the forest of voices was I could always pinpoint his. Raspy and winding as if the wind had just been knocked out of him. "Hey Hawk!" they'd say. "Hey Hawk! Better keep an eye on this wife of yours. A man like me knows what she needs and one day I might just give it to her!" "Ah you can have her," he'd say. "She's used up anyways." And he'd put his eyes down into the bottom of his glass, shake the ice in circle and then take a sip with a slight smile on his face. Mom would come by and rub my ankles and adjust my socks and untie shoes before placing them under the table. I couldn't fully fall asleep until they were off. They were too hard and heavy, we couldn't afford to keep buying the soft ones, and they'd dig into my skin as I'd lay cross-legged and formed to the concave of the booth.

The closing bell rang at 1:45. I knew I had 15 more minutes of sleep before I'd have to wake up and walk to the car. "Thhaaaat's it folks!" Webby would yell. "Come on, come on. I'll see ya tamorrow." And with the crowd we'd shuffle out. I'd rub my eyes while mom and dad finished up a cigarette and passed the keys back and forth. "I drove last time, it's your turn god damnit." They'd get cranky and share a cigarette before flipping a coin and loading up. There wasn't a coin tonight though. Dad spent the last one on a game of pool and mom never had money of her own. No coin, no solution. "Can we go now?" I asked. "Yeah, as soon as your drunk of a mother starts the truck." "Screw you Tom,” she said. "I drove home the last time and you know it, bastard." "See, Susie? See why I'm so miserable all the time? See how this woman treats me? Remember this Susie, never treat your man this way. Respect him like the king he is!" "Oh get out of here with that bullshit," she said. "Just get the freak outta here and walk home. Maybe the fresh air will sober you up a bit, cuz right now you're livin' in fantasy land honey." "Maybe I will walk home. Probably pick up a lady or two on the way. Don't wait up baby, it's gunna be a loooong night. Goodnight Susie Q," he kissed my head. "Goodnight, bitch," and he slammed the door shut and walked towards Vanowen. "A donkey is what your father is, nothing but a stubborn, stupid ass." Mom revved up the truck and peeled out of Webber's, making sure Dad heard his only ride rolling away.

I kept my head above the dash and watched the red and green lights rotate down the empty boulevard. I saw water welling up in Mom's eyes and I couldn't tell if she had just yawned or was crying. Either way it made me yawn and yearn for my own bed. "Scoot closer to me, honey. I don't trust that door. Rusted piece of junk. A real provider would have bought his wife a nice, luxurious car, not some farmers hand-me-down." I put my head in her lap and closed my eyes each time she shifted. "That father of yours Susie- I just don't know what to do with him." "I'm sure he's sorry mom." I said. "He just get this way sometimes." She just shook her head. Said it was wrong and to chose my words wisely. "Us women have to stick together Susie. Don't let your two-bit father poison your mind with all his talk about king this and master that. We're equals Susie, remember that." She wiped the tears from her eyes, which were undeniably the tears of sadness and not sleep. "I'm sorry mom." "It's ok baby." She ran her fingers through my hair. "Do mommy a favor and grab her a cigarette." I sat up and reached down under the dash for her purse. "I don't feel them, mom." "They're there. Keep lookin'. I usually stick em in the OH SHIT." The truck jerked and I felt the back tires begin to slide in the opposite direction of the front. I was still holding the purse in my hands and mom was ripping at the steering with one hand and grabbing for me with the other. We started to spin. One spin. I saw mom's face. "Hold on," she grunted. Two spins. White lights made me squint. And then I was flying. I heard the click as my back slammed into the metal door. I felt mom's fingernails dig deep into my stomach, but she still couldn't stop me. The Force was too great. The door unlatched and my body flew outside of the car as it spun once more before hitting a pole and going to sleep.

I lay there breathing, crying, waiting to hear my mother’s footsteps come running towards me and they did, but I felt no better. My left leg lay crocked on the sidewalk like a rubber snake that had melted under the hot summer sun. I felt warmth pouring out from under my dress and heard my mom shriek as she swabbed it and raised her blood soaked hand into the street light above. She touched my ankles and adjusted my socks and pulled off my hard soled shoes one, by one. She laid them in the gutter and I didn’t recognize them. One looked vaguely familiar; black, white, shiny on the heel and scuffed on the toe, but the other was foreign. It didn't look like my shoe. The platform had been torn in half. The white patches were colored red, translucent chunks of flesh hung from the pointed toe and in this nightmare I fell asleep.

Restless Beasts In Burbank

The first time Sherry came over the front door had been busted open and hung limply from the hinges. The splintered wood frame split and separated around the deadbolt and left shards of glass and painted blue wood littered amongst the entryway and welcome mat. "Oh my god. Did someone break in?" she asked. I wiped the dust and water spots from the front window. Behind the lace curtain I saw empty bottles of gin floating through the sea of shag carpet. "No." I said, as if I were disappointed. "Must have just been a bad day at the track." I pushed open the door with my heel and shoulder, having to lift it up over the bottom hinge to get it to move. Our feet crunched the plates of glass that hadn't completely shattered and the little shards that already lay alone stuck to the bottom of our sandals and joined us into the next room. The air in the house was heavy and humid except it hadn't been moist outside, it must have come from in here. Sweat, stress, mid-day sober-up showers making bodies and led paint drip with dirty water. All of it lay thick through the living room like a foggy summer morning. I could hear the phone crying rhythmically off the hook. I wondered how long it had been that way. John's van wasn't out front. I wondered if he had seen them today.

I kicked an empty bottle of gin and it hurt my toe. Sherry did the same and laughed about it. It made me burn inside. It made me feel like a best friend was acting out of line with a family member and left you unsure of who to reprimand. Because of an awful case of pride it was usually the family member that received the tongue lashing even though it was the friend who deserved it. I laughed when Sherry laughed, but it only made me feel angry. I could see the new pool table in the adjacent room. The lights were off in there and Budweiser cans were haphazardly crushed and tossed onto the felt. I looked in the kitchen and it was clean.  It was always clean but not because we respected it, it had more to do with the lack of food. "This is creepy." Sherry said. "Are you sure you weren't robbed." Embarrassed, I assured her we hadn't been. "You'd have to be one dumb crook to come in here. My mom and dad have already pawned off everything worth anything and all that's left is used up or temporary." Sherry smiled like she didn't understand, but I knew about her family life too, I knew exactly how well she understood and that's why I wasn't afraid to bring her here. It was also why she was my best friend. We didn't have to hide anything from each other. We didn't have to pretend to come from amazing families and houses. We helped each other accept our situations and worked together to rise above them.

The TV was on low in the den. The antenna must have been crooked because all I could decipher was static hiss and the theme music from Happy Days. It was always Happy Days. We tiptoed in and strewn before us like wild animals locked in a zoo, were two naked bodies, depressed and helpless, draped across armrests and shaggy carpet. Dad had pissed himself and it had dampened the hair on his legs and formed a puddle near his hips. Sherry shrieked in disgust and then pointed out how he was still wearing his cowboy hat. "Yee haw!" she whispered. I didn't smile. On the couch was mom. Her face that looked like mine was hung backwards over the cushion’s edge. One leg was locked and straight and the other was thrown up and over the pillows like a piece of dirty laundry. Her hair was elegantly curled and her pale red lipstick was perfectly applied. I took Sherry's hand and lead her past the carnage into my bedroom. I locked the door behind us and put on the Shirelles. The nausea began to subside.

It wasn't the first time I had seen them this way. I stopped counting a few years ago when I was 11, the age they thought was appropriate to reveal their inner demons to their children. I wasn’t ready yet and even though I've grown used to it, I'm still not ready now to see my parents in that light, but they insist. They are adamant about drinking and chain smoking themselves into oblivion, the only place where their sorrows and woes are able to materialize and rekindle the flame they found within one another on the fringes of the Great Depression. Tom and Tommy, man and wife bound together by children and drunken love, but even inebriation couldn't hide their incompatibility forever.