After Intermission

I woke up this morning and everything felt the same. The day, the bed, the news, these thoughts. Everything lay motionless except for my stomach which churned and growled and yelled at me. "Alright," I said. "I'll feed you."  But I knew it wasn't what he wanted. Demandingly, I treated him like a baby or a dog and shoved things inside its mouth when it acted up. I folded the pillows behind my back and sat upright. I've been sitting like this forever. I want a desk, I want a nice leather reclining char that swivels and has armrests, but even with that nothing would change. Life might be more comfortable, in this chair, but life would still be life and I haven't quite figured out what that means. I fooled myself though, I honestly thought that this time I had it. I was focused, determined, I put in the work and at the end instead of feeling satisfied, I only had more questions, more doubt, yes I was more metaphorical, but what’s a metaphor worth if it's only saying the same thing in a different way?

And this is the struggle. The same, in different ways. The same people, the same goals, the same thoughts, the same reactions to all of this and yet, I still feel different. But different is no longer the sought after feeling. Different isn't high school, sag my pants, spike my hair, listen to punk rock different, different is inept, it's misguided, it's the punishment for thinking you were ever different in the first place.

I'm not waking up today, I need to sleep this off. The pillows are unfolded, the coffee put down, the blankets pulled up and over my chest and I turn away from the sun. "Go away," I say, "You're worthless. You're a tease. You've warped my idea of beauty." For so long I'd been waiting for it to come back. Darkness had loomed forever and now on the brink of its return I'm restless. I'm selfish, I've enjoyed the dark, being alone, pretending to be single and free and now that you're coming back, well, I just need some time. It's a big change, for both of us. And there I go again, thinking I know what's best, and that's the same. I'm just not that into you. You make me feel dirty and incomplete and sure the time spent under you, basking in your warmth was nice, but I'm not ready to commit right now. There's too many question, too many answers for these questions, there's value to this darkness and this struggle and I know I've been here before, but I feel the outcome may be different this time.

Sleep has come again. The black calms me. Nothing is extraordinary and this I find to be amazing. Clones run through my dreams. The same struggles and fears and success stories, the everyday people and routine and beneath the sheets, hidden from the sun, I find this to be beautiful. I can't feel its weight as I do when I'm awake. I can't feel its pressure building up and shaking me, from here, with no commitment or responsibility to it, the sameness is glorious. It's like a machine I don't understand, a computer or a robot or anything that has to do with equations and fractions and while I've been disgusted by these things as we’ve stood face to face because I could see their hollowness and loath their ability to have answers in an answerless world, from a distance I love them. They are the magic that we seek, they are fantasy and fiction and as long as I don't have to understand them, and they don't have to understand me, we can remain in contact because they’re unilateral and one-dimensional and their depth poses no threat of trivial vastness. They are prideful and resilient and set on being the same and I appreciate this about them. It's this sunshine world, this world that bakes and smiles and hints at opportunity and insight and individuality that's so ugly to me.

As long as I stay asleep, and avoid facing the day, the wave of predictability, of repetition of apathy won't grow to destructive levels. It won’t rise from the middle of the sea and race towards land with the fury of a betrayed and starving foreign people. It won’t cause panic, anxiety, sinful escape attempts or monetary responses, the wave will never break. It will rise, but quell and smooth the jagged rocks that line the shores that separate where we are and where we think we should be, and this calm water, as unassuming as it may be, will keep us in the middle, sloshing us about, rolling us over and exposing our increasingly bloated blight, our sagging and soggy diapers, our misguided and senile assumptions that we could stay balanced without the free movement of our feet.

The earth pulls me down with every vacillation of its ever-changing body and I'm left here to gaze, to endure the change from dry to wet to itch as the salt clings to my shins and then my knees and then takes my breath away as is reaches my waist and forces me to commit to its movement no matter how sick it may make me. And it challenges me to find the beauty in this. It assures me it exists. I see the colors now, I hear and smell things and feel content in knowing that one day this earth will take us and break us down the same, but from our bones and souls and hearts will grow, the sights and sounds and colors that make the sun-shined stage worth stepping out on.

We’ve been thrown off our axis.

And we all did good things in our youth before we began despising those who stuck with it and seemed so full of themselves.

For us it's just a past time

Something to look back on and remember what it used to feel like to be progressive.

I made a difference one time.

Not just like, shaving my face but I made someone else feel something new.

And it brought a smile to their face and they told me,

"You are my escape."

And even as I bathed in those words and styled my hair with those words,

I couldn't stop what a bad man I was becoming.

Days went by

and years went by

and I put it on my resume and it hasn't moved since.

And now people ask, "So what do you do?"

And I haven't had an answer to that question for years.

Everything feels insincere or pointless or

too complicated to describe.

And I think back to when my mother'd come down on me for not being myself

"It's sad to see a boy who could change the world, allow the world to change him first."

But she never said stop.

It's all a lesson to be learned or taught

It's a way to move through life without so much commitment

and this type of behavior is encouraged amongst young men.

But now the clicker's stuck

and the slides keep turning

leaving nothing to think about except a stained glass

image

of what we thought we saw.

Clear Blue Skies

When Monkey told me she was pregnant, all I could think about was the time her and her friend, coked out their minds, wrapped me up in saran wrap and then rubbed chocolate syrup all over me with their tongues. I laughed out loud and as her lips trembled with anxiety I said, "It's all gravy, baby." I had plans for the night and I told her she could stay at my place, but I had to go. She understood. I told the mother of  my two other kids that I'd by around 9 to drop off some cash. We were married for a bit, well, still are, but we haven't worn rings since Mikey was born. We were sixteen when it happened. Cynthia told me we'd be having a child and I cried. I begged her to get rid of it but she couldn't. She ended up telling my dad, thinking I wouldn't man up, and he beat the shit out of me. Everyday after, I'd look at myself in the mirror, see my purple eyes, my fat lips and say to myself, "I'm a man now. Play time is over."

Gabriella was born on Cynthia's 17th birthday. I picked out the name and as I held her in my arms I wept in a way I hadn't known. "Gabriella!" I cried. "Gabriella, the most beautiful baby in the wolrd." I genuinely felt that way, not because of her eyes, or her little peanut shaped head, but because of the way she made me feel. We took her home to my parents house. My dad took me outside and told me I had 1 month to find a job and get a place of our own. He'd extend it to two if we got married. I proposed to Cynthia the next day. I snatched the ring from a pawn shop on Colfax. I didn't get down on one knee or lay out any rose pedals, I asked her as I walked out the door to interview at Sam's Mufflers. I got the job and I've been there ever since.

Mikey came along two years later, but life had settled and the beauty was lost. We were 19 now and hated each other. Well, I hated myself at least and in turn she hated me for what I did to escape. I got back in touch with my boys. A few of them had kids of their own but they still made it work. 3 AM bedtimes, 5 AM alarm clocks. Coke for breafast, xanax for lunch and an ambien washed down with a cup of codine for dinner. It went on this way until it got boring. Cynthia threatened to leave and I told her to go ahead. She stayed because it bothered me. Gabriella didn't understand things yet, so I felt no guilt. Mikey was just another body in the house. I bought him food and toys, but the novelty was gone. He was just another kid. I thought about suicide, but didn't have the time and when I mentioned this to Cynthia, she left with the kids to live with her mother.

I had two bedrooms to myself for a while. I worked, partied, lurked and worked some more in the empty apartment littered with baby toys and broken skateboard decks. Monkey came along during this time. I was 25 now, she was 16. I met her working the graveyard shift at the 24 hour Starbucks on Ventura Blvd. She was a cutter. Had little slits that zigzagged up her arms like the stripes of a disheveled cat. She wasn't ashamed. She wore tank-tops and would watch you watch them hand you your change and steam your milk. It turned me on. I invited her over and before names had been committed to memory we fucked. She hung from the bar in my closet, begging for contradictory and tangled affection and at first I was afflicted, but once my hand hit her flesh and pale turned to purple, I saw her commitment to not only me, but the darker side of life. The side of life I always wanted to explore, but under the pressure of my family, of Cynthia and now my kids, I felt ashamed to.

When I got home Monkey was watching The Late Show. She laughed and looked at me through pill-glazed eyes and said, "False alarm." I knew she was lying and it made me feel loved that she knew what I wanted to hear, and said it.

Sneeze Into Your Sleeve

The other day, I overheard some students talking about how sharp they felt. "Even if I don't sleep," one of them said, "I can still just look at the world and break down all the objects, the news events, the people, the places, into these minuscule parts. I suspend them in the air like particles of dust and magnify them with a glance." With his hands, "Up here - look - up here is like, the earthquakes, you know, Chile and Haiti. And I look at these earthquakes as a whole first and I see them start shaking. They shake, and Haiti breaks up and Chile breaks up and now, up here, there’s hundreds of millions of little particles floating around where the whole used to be. At first glance is just looks like nonsense, like dust, but if I focus, the elements enlarge. Like there - right there- There is the factory that used to process limestone and turn it into cement, some of the best in the world, and then there - there is the government, and if you look even closer that little spec of government is actually even smaller, microscopic specs that just float near each other. It's not a whole, it only looks like a whole from here, but when you get close you see how susceptible to change it really is. One piece of the government can just float away, or in this case, be blown away by a powerful gust. Ok - you still listening? - So Haiti, it's whole, but not, it's a whole cluster of dust pieces and one of those pieces is the government which in itself is a group of pieces and this wind comes, stronger than most pieces can withstand, and it blows them away. So now, you have Haiti, it’s still whole. I see the people and the beaches and the food - not much of it - and I see tradition and color and relationships between the individuals and the whole. But then you have this government, this body that illudes to being together, but truthfully is more fragmented than even the most crumbled of foundations, and it’s been dissolved and refocused because of this wind. So back to that cement factory - it's under the control of this new government now. And this new government doesn't quite know how to run a whole country – nothing is specialized anymore - so it does what it knows best, it focuses on self. Now, all these dust particles, they're still floating around, but in the turmoil they become lost, misguided, misruled, and by the time they come back together they realize the pieces that were able to stay planted - maybe the strong, maybe the rich, maybe the armed or educated - have made decisions in their absence that will keep them suspended for eternity. They have sold off the production of building materials and food to transnational dust particles, they have taken loans from implanted individuals who are more corrupt than they, they have completely redefined what it is to be a nation, to be whole, to be connected - and it's crazy, man - but I see this. It's all up there."

I kept my head down and pretended to be reading. I didn't want to spook or honor them. I needed to hear more. The kid was wise. He wasn't pretentious, he wasn't doing this for attention as so many students and professors do. There was nothing self-aggrandizing about this kid's words. They were simply truth and he was inspired. I needed to know where that left me. Where am I in that flurry of elements? Where is the section of workers? Are they individualized and relevant? The content of what he said, his examples, didn't so much matter to me, it was the concept that concerned me. The concept seemed familiar, something I may have thought of in an early morning burst of inspiration after a night spent studying, but it had left me. I envied him for finding it. I envied his ability to recognize the important pieces and put them together. I understood what he meant by sharp and it saddened me that I had become so dull. This is the workweek. This is the paycheck. This is a savings account. This is a credit card payment. This is boredom. This is hobby making. This is passion finding. This is yearning. This is the loss of hope. And I looked at my shoes, I looked at my pants, I looked at this shirt I've worn at least twice a week for the past year and I felt piece-less. It is something like empty, except heavy. It's difficult to carry, it's sloppy. It's -

"Well what happens to the pieces that get blown away? Do they just disappear?"

"No! And that's the amazing part about them - it's also terrifyingly sad - but amazing nonetheless. They form a group. They are blown astray, separated from what they once identified themselves as and out here," he spread his arms from side to side, "out here they come together and form a new whole, they find a new identity."

"Well what do they identify with?"

"Each other. Themselves. Their emotions. Their Job. This is why it is at once a beautiful and terrifying thing. They can identify with whatever they choose, but the sad and simple fact is that most choose to only identify with what is sad and simple. It's magnetic. It's gravitational. It pulls individuality, happiness, willingness to take a chance, creativity, understanding, open-mindedness, selflessness - it pulls it all into this new mass of pieces and sucks at it until the mass is void of any thought bubbles separating one piece from another and over time this sad and simple lump solidifies. There's only so long these abandoned and pushed away little particles can hover on the outskirts making up their minds as to what the next move will be, before the pull takes them in, and keeps them there until disaster or death."

My lunch break was coming to an end. I wanted to stay out but the threat of the unknown pulled me back. I closed my book and stretched before getting up. I tucked in my shirt and walked past the kid with my head down. As I approached, I threw a thin-lipped smile to the ground and in my head, thanked him.

"You don't have to go," he said. And I looked up. He repeated it. "You don't have to go." I looked around to see if he might have been addressing someone behind me. No one was there. "I know," I said.

"So then why?"

"Because I'm lost in space and I'm waiting to be reeled in, but no one's coming for me. I've been out here for a year now and the lack of oxygen is starting to get to me and it's reached a point that even if I wanted to make a choice I wouldn't be able to, I don't have the brain power. I'm just waiting, man. Trying to hold out, not get attached, trying to remain independent until my calling tracks me down."

In the end, we were pulled away from each other, blown in separate directions. I saw space, I passed particles, I noticed he'd already gathered others around him. It was lonely out here, and below me sat acceptance, but I wasn't ready yet.

Empty Decanters and Extra Starch

I came home from school to find my room in shambles. Clothes ripped from their place of rest, bed sheets wound up into knots and balls, all my papers and tops and songs I hid under books inside my desk were strewn about and lay exposed for everyone to gawk at. And then I walked over to the closet and the one spot I had wished to be cluttered and hidden under mounds of clothes and trash, was clean. The carpet had been ripped up in the back corner. It laid lumpy now, the padding bunched up underneath it and the nails from the floorboards could be seen shining against the white molding. I pulled it all up, the carpet the padding the little piece of wood I used to cover the hiding spot I had dug out back here last summer, only to reveal an empty hole. The cigar box was gone, snatched up by a poor man that only provided us with drunken fits and the consistency of a body in the house my father could not.

It must have been printing day. Bill had been working on a new script. He hit it big once on a fluke and since then had been trying to find that next great idea. He'd talk with me in depth most nights and instead of telling me stories he'd ask the most acute and to-the-detail questions about boyhood, school life, weekend activities, everything. He made it so obvious. He wasn't inspired, he was only a copy-write and a broke bloke who I loved dearly but madly wanted to beat on. What a selfish man. Taking from mom, taking from the younger one, taking from me. The coward would never take from Jeff, but then again Jeff would never stand up to him if he did. Both cowards.

I ran out into the living room. Mom was ironing one his shirts. Extra starch on the sleeves and neck. I could smell it burning like a blackened pie crust. "He did it again mom. The bastard took my money. I was saving for new shoes. God mom, now what am I supposed to do? I look homeless, the kids already stare. MOM!" She went on ironing, content with the idea of him just being around. It didn't matter how much he drank or how many times she asked him not to smoke in the house, or how much food and money he'd take from us and not return, she just loved knowing he'd be in bed with her, he'd be there when she woke up in the morning, she could call him at the office (when he had an office) and he'd answer and ask what was for dinner and even though this isn't what mom saw for herself while singing in Argentina and Chile and Russia, it's what she had now, it's more than what Dad gave her or us and so even though I hate Bill for taking my money, I love him for his love of us. Whether material or genuine, he loves us and I'd eventually forgive him, but Bill. God Bill! How could you do this to me? "MOM! Are you listening? Fifteen dollars. Fifteen friggin dollars mom. How am I gunna get that back? It took me months of mowing to save that up, and now the mower needs new spark plugs and an air filter. Oh god, there's so much to do, and I can't do anything now." She continued ironing with a wry smile. "Ah god mom. That drunk. That lazy, fat, belligerent drunk. He's probably pissing your son's money away at the bar. Ah god mom, don't you care?" I knew he wasn’t at the bar. I could see the full decanter of whiskey sitting atop the record player. "Aw mom, probably out with another woman, probably planning on leaving us with that money."

"Joely, you stop that talk. Bill is a good man, a fine man that is here for us. He loves you, Joely. He loves all of us." "But mom, what about my money?" "Oh hush! You know he's on the brink of finishing that script. He probably used it to print some more drafts. Now if he sells that, you'll be able to get all the shoes you want. We'll get out of this house and into a nicer one. Bill will trade that jalopy in for a Cadillac. It'll be a wonderful life Joely. Don't loose hope. It'll be a wonderful life to live, full of glitz and glamour and flights around the world." Mom was gone again. Off in her dreams. Steam rose from the iron and put a wall between her and I.

I went back into my room, kicking pillows and jeans and schoolbooks into the corners of this brooding landscape. With an unconcerned swoop I batted half-full water glasses, comic books and a desk lamp onto the floor and then sat there. I rested my chin on my fists and looked out the window waiting for him to come home. We're gunna have it out, right in front of mom and she'll have to choose, him or me. I scratched my name into the desk as I waited by the window and then rolled the wood shavings around under the tips of my fingers. They became black and dust covered and so did my anger. I got up, calmly pushed the chair back under the ledge and began to straighten up my room. I hunkered down in the closet, resealed my hiding spot and put everything back into place. I washed the windows, dusted the bookshelf, made my bed and even tucked in the corners. Finally I vacuumed, starting at the window and then moving back towards the door, lines of clean carpet slightly overlapping lines of clean carpet, and when all was done I shut the door and went over to Tom's.

Exposed (two of two)

Sam spoke with sex on her breath. Every sentence ended in such a punctual and poignant releases of " aahhs" and "umphs" and a little smile you could picture sneaking out from behind fallen layers of her black hair as she straddled her prey to let them know who was in control. She certainly was. All of us, Sergio especially, were sprung, hanging off the tip of her words, fantasizing of her doing the same for us. And Cherry, she didn't have to try so hard. She played the sweet role, cuddling up next to me and acting like we were good ol' friends, friends who had fooled around a couple times but still kept it cool.

"So what's in the bag?" I asked. Cherry pulled it up from off the floor. A big square, black bag that looked like a beach cooler. "Oh it's just our demo CD's," she said like it was no big deal. "Demo CD's?" Sergio asked. "No shit? So you two are in a band. That's kinda hot..."

"It's not that big of a deal," Sam said. "We're just starting out. We just got our webpage up and booked a couple shows. We're actually performing tonight." She looked at Cherry and smiled. "Oh yeah," Cherry said, "right down the street at some club named 'Exposed'."

The name sounded familiar but none of us could say from where. "Does it cost anything to get in?" Ian asked. "Umm. Maybe a small cover charge, but it comes with a free drink ticket." Cherry Said. "But please you guys! Come. We're so nervous. We'll pay you back if you hate it." There was no way any of us were turning this down, so we settled up and told the girls we'd see them there.

We drove from the lower valley into the mid-valley, through the shopping malls and high schools with seedy reputations, to the industrial area of Canoga Park. We went over a train bridge I remembered from my youth. I explored it with a friend one day only to find 3 drunken paisas jacking off to a soggy issue of Buttman. I thought about how I used to skateboard through these parts and hoped to God not to falter in my stride. It was CPA turf and a rumor had been floating around the valley about a white kid, minding his own business, who was decapitated and then dumped out on Topanga Canyon. Clutter with a bit of fear, I made a list in my head of things I knew in this area: T-Mart, Arby's, Vallarta Market, used car dealerships, Planned Parenthood and The Cobalt. But nothing named 'Exposed' rang a bell.

Around the 1800 block of Canoga Blvd. we slowed down and took a left into rows of beige unmarked buildings. Ian's power steering whined as we swerved around speed bumps and then parked under a pink neon light that blinked Live Nude Girls. Maybe it was closed for the night? Maybe it doubled as a venue? The maybes ran wild, throughout the car and continued onwards past the $25 cover charge and the mandatory 1 drink minimum. And so here we were, with our flat cokes and empty wallets sitting front row center inside a strip club occupied by rejected Hell's Angels and day laborers. Cocktail waitresses swarmed us and punked us with their pockmarked faces to either buy a drink or get out. We each had two flat cokes now. Eight in total, and still we were fighting off the circling waitresses.

Cherry popped her head out from behind the curtain, scanned the room and then waved at us. I saw her kneecap and bare arm and nudged Ian in the gut to make sure he saw too. Even at this point though, all of us were still clueless as to what was about to happen. And then the announcer came out, "Welcome to club Exposed, the hottest dance club in the entire West Valley. Home to Los Angeles's classiest, and most beautiful exotic dancers. But tonight, like every Sunday night, we bring you the raw, the rare, the young and untapped talent that is... AMATUER'S NIGHT. Winners walk away with $600 in cold hard cash. Winners will be judged by the crowd's applause. So if you see something you like, make sure we know about it! Now of course guys, tips are welcomed and encouraged so get those singles separated and start making it rain!"

Laser lights blinded me and smoke filled the room. Bumping music vibrated my insides and the red curtains separated and gave birth to the first dancer. A small, round, Filipino girl wearing silver sequence and teal heels. She gyrated awkwardly and offbeat around the sticky pole, gagged on her finger, slid around on the stage like a tiger with MS and bared her stretch-marked breasts atop an unkempt crotch. Amateur. And then a blond girl came out. She didn't try to dress it up. She stripped off her jeans down to a simple, but sexy pair of bright pink panties and crawled around on the stage for the duration of Cinderella's "Don't Know What You Got ('Til It's Gone)".  A few more girls came out, kind of pathetic and smelly and it started to set in that perhaps a practical joke had been played on us. Of course it was too good to be true. Meeting two insanely beautiful girls, only to follow them to an amateur night and watch them grind a pole (and possibly each other?). We started to get up and walk away. Ian had his cell phone out to look at the time. Jason was putting his flat cokes back on the bar and Sergio was still watching, but walking backwards out the door. "Guys," he said. "Guys. Haha look!" Sure enough, coming out to only piano music and a spotlight was Sam. Bold, brave, unrestricted by clothing or jewelry, just bare. Her flat stomach, her protruding collarbone, her perfectly hung breasts. She walked casually to the pole, and in a move that both repulsed and excited me, drew a wet-nap from her hand and wiped the pole up and down. A classy broad. She jumped on it, climbed it like it was part of her basic training regimen, and just let go. Hung there from her legs and twirled with her arms dangling above her head exposing two roses on the insides of her biceps. Money started flying. I felt embarrassed for having none to throw out. I tired to make eye contact with her like I loved her and she loved me, but she only stared at the money. Ones and tens flying onto the stage along with bearded men who'd been lurking in the shadows. She danced and strutted her stuff and spread herself at unexpected, but welcomed times, and it was exhilarating. We clapped, I clapped so loud my palms bruised and we watched the applause-o-meter crank around into the red. What a show. I couldn't believe it.

The club went dark again. You heard ice being chewed and zippers unzipping and then one by one, tiny red lights illuminated above the audience and progressed towards the stage until a red line in the sky was formed leading straight to the pole. 3 beats of a drum and then silence. Men and boys clearing their throats, and then silence. Heartbeats and then EXPLOSION! Red light rained down everywhere while the curtains ripped open and Guns n Roses "Welcome To The Jungle" began screaming through the club, and in the eye, the catalyst of this chaos, sweet little Cherry. Red hair burning her shoulders, red booty shorts singeing her backside and red heels leaving melted footprints across the stage. To the pole. She approached it. Gave it a kiss and proceeded to make every guy in there fall in love. Everyone went apeshit. It was the loudest applause I had ever heard. Louder than a Dodger's game, louder than the end of Titanic, louder than any concert or play I had ever been to. The applause-o-meter did a full rotation and a half and after her curtsey, she innocently trotted back behind the curtain.

The announcer came back out, talking to us like we were children. "Wowie-zowie! Now if that didn't get you excited, you better call a doctor. Our judges, DJ Murjy Poo and Exposed's lovely bar tender, Marlene, are tallying the results as we speak. Don't hesitate to buy another drink. We've got soda, water and coffee or you could always visit The Wet Spot next door at no extra charge. Any time now we should have our results. Why don't we give it up one more time for the lovely ladies."

He went through their names, one by one, and we made sure to clap for only Sam and Cherry. The announcer brought all the girls back onto the stage, framed their faces like a box with his hands and encouraged them to flash and bend over for extra points. They obliged, but after two run throughs the crowd was getting restless and it was apparent to everyone there that Sam and Cherry deserved the money.

"Results are in. DJ Murjy Poo, drum roll please... The winner of the Exposed Amateur Night isssssss... Gayle Ramirez!"

The short, round Filipino girl adorned in silver sequence wobbled up onto stage and was flocked with the contract dancers and employees. Obviously a set up. All the other girls hung their heads shamefully as the realization they had just stripped for free set in. We all booed. The drunks, the paisas, the Persians and the first timers, all screamed for a recount, but nothing could be done. The announcer, along with his employees and the winner, escaped behind the curtain for the rest of the evening. The lights were turned on in the club and it emptied out quick. The boys and I hung around to let Sam and Cherry know how impressed we were. Surely they'd at least want to have a laugh about tricking us into coming here. We didn't care though. It was worth the money and the flat soda.

They came out together holding hands. Sam had the CD's slung over her shoulder and Cherry was carrying two duffle bags under her arm. I waved at them, but they didn't wave back. Well maybe they didn't see us. "Let’s go wait outside for them," Jason said. And we spilt out into the winter night, wiping the snot from our noses and passing glances back and forth. After 20 minutes they finally came out. "It's fucking bullshit," Sam said. "How bout we grab a drink. On us. Right boys?" Sergio said. But they just walked right past. Didn't say a word, didn't look back, just got in their Camero and left.

I went home and sat on their Myspace page for the next few hours listening to their empty and robotic music, feeling empty and robotic myself.

Exposed (one of two)

There were four of us. All kind of going through the same shit. Unemployed, community college, first love break up, figuring out who we wanted to be. Just guys experimenting with hairstyles and jeans and lines with girls who were doing the same. It was a mess. A time full of unreturned phone calls, stomach ulcers and too many trips to Tommy's Burger. We were getting each other through it the best we knew how, which wasn't very good, but we made it work. Frequent trips to Hollywood, late night pool table sessions, beer, more beer and time apart to be passionate about passionless pastimes. For me it was writing my name on things, for Jason it was cars and clubs, Sergio found it in idolizing revolutionaries and Ian just stayed in the ocean. Seriously, he never came out. I got into it once or twice with him and saw the appeal, but it was too consuming. I didn't want to dip below the surface of life that much and so I had to use the ocean sparingly. Everyday though, without fault, he'd be up and out the door before sunrise and on his way to escape. And he seemed to be getting better, happier. At face value, Sergio was always the one smiling, but it was Ian who first started to seem complete. Like there wasn't a gaping void that separated his body from his desire, it all seemed to be in tact. It was a beautiful thing to see, an inspiring thing that lead me back out into the water, but only in vain, to mooch his stoke. I couldn't pretend though, the sunburns burnt too bad, and my fragile and fleeting hair couldn't fight the salt. it wasn't for me. Thinking back, I had always known I wanted to write, but I didn't know how. I wasn't illiterate, I just hadn't grasped writing as reflection. I was always looking for some epic story, something that would blow people's minds (I lived life this way too, which lead to so many wasted days) but the stories never ended how I wished and the sad truth is that my desire to control everything in life, destroyed the life that I wanted to live. And for some reason this angst inside of me aroused the curiosity of girls looking for a second chance. Second chance in the sense that they had already shown the rest of the world, or their dads, what they were, but somehow they knew I hadn't been paying attention. And that's how I met Cherry and Sam.

"Matty boy! Stop staring so much fool. Play it cool..." Sergio said while slapping my  back and wrangling my neck with his apelike hands. He was always goofing around like that and it got old, but I dealt with it anyways because I knew he didn't mean any harm. He'd greet me with giant bear hugs, and squeeze me until I deflated like an air-mattress and lay limp in a mass of foldaway skin and bones.

"Please! They ain't looking at him anyway," Jason said, "Those girls are way outta his league." He was right, but I couldn't help feel like I was the one they were looking at. I tried to ignore it and bury my face in the free chips and happy hour margaritas, but every time I checked back, there they were again, focused on me, or at least our table, sipping away at their drinks, ordering shots for the two of them, laughing, twirling their hair, chewing gum, sitting side to side in a booth big enough for six and that was hot.

"Go say, whussup hynaz?!" Ian was so stoops. For such a serious guy, he had the most ridiculous sense of humor. He laughed to himself under his constantly pulled-low cap. "They're pretty hot man, why don't you just ask them to join us?"

"Yeah Matty boy! Go tell the fine one with the red hair that she can come have this seat right here," Sergio said pointing to his crotch.

"Maaaan. Ya'll so stupid," Jason said. "Watch me! Watch me go be about it, instead of sitting here like a chump just talking about it." We all tried to look without looking as Jason strolled over with a little limp in his stride. They crinkled their noses as he came near and right before the booth he made a quick right and headed for the bathrooms. Pussy. We laughed and so did the girls and I could swear they were focusing on me. Granted, I always felt this way. I always feel that people are looking at me, or talking about me or smelling me. It started in elementary school when some jerk made a comment about my crooked nose and then was solidified at the end of high-school when the ex turned half the valley against me and in my despair I went ahead and pissed off the rest. I couldn't go anywhere without feeling guilty or scared. It never depressed me though, it was an ego builder. They're talking about me, they're jealous, I'm such a righteous person. And in these times, with these lines I'd feel a bit deserving, so why wouldn't these perfect 10's be eying me? Why wouldn't their v-neck-exposed, supple chests be calling out for me to nuzzle in? And sometime I just get brave and order shots for everyone involved.

The shots came and so did the girls. "Welll, we can't be rude and drink these without you," the red-head said. "My name is Cherry and," putting her arm around her friends small, tight waist, "this here, is Sam." They were both flawless. Even up close and magnified, when most girls would be crumbling under layers of foundation, these two were like porcelain. And their noses! Their noses rolled perfectly from their brows to their lips and ended in symmetrical little clefts. Cheeks and chins and the bottom of their ears all perfectly balanced. And they stood there, shot glasses raised, skin tight jeans low-riding and their shrunken t-shirts exposing smooth, flat stomachs. It was too good to be true. What was the catch? No one knew. So we raised our glasses and threw them back.