Poet

by A. M. Johnson

  Never again.

  My fingers trembled as I opened the bathroom door, and my heart lodged itself inside my throat. This was too much for eleven o’clock in the morning, and too much was treacherous. Too much broke the foundations of phrases like never again, and not this time. Jordan turned in his chair and studied me as I lingered in the doorway. The sun poured in from the restaurant windows, illuminating those clear blue eyes, and my foundations hardened, stood strong. I’d won the battle, at least for today.

  “Drink from the well of yourself, and begin again.”

  Charles Bukowski~

  The lead of my pencil held its sharp point. No words had dulled the tip as I sat at my desk staring at the piece of paper. The air was thick as I focused, trying to think past the block behind my eyes. All the words were contained into tiny little compartments inside my head, begging to be spilled across the paper. I had nothing. Some days I had fountains and, others, I was as dried up as a well in an Arizona desert. Did they even have wells in Arizona?

  “Shit,” I whispered to myself and looked around my apartment completely distracted.

  New light beige couches offset the dark flooring. The walls were bare except for a few of my brother Declan’s paintings, and the open, loft-like space felt cold despite the worn, warm colored exposed brick. The kitchen, with its stainless steel and black granite, felt too industrial. I’d moved in this spring after my mother passed away unexpectedly of a stroke. It’s funny how the world worked. You had everything one day, and then the next it was washed away in one giant tsunami of shit. I used to think God could fix everything. I thought He had all the answers. I’d prayed that He would show me the right way. But I was still misled, just like everyone else.

  I was the youngest of three boys. Liam and Declan were older than me, two years separating each of us. Liam, the leader, owned the tattoo shop, Avenues Ink, where we all worked. They were the real artists, though. I just ran the desk and helped with the finances. Not that I knew what the hell I was doing with that either. My degree was in theology.

  I’d once thought that I wanted to be a priest. My obsession with the church started when I was eleven. It was the year I received my first holy communion and the same year my brother, Declan, had tried to kill himself. I’d come inside from playing in the backyard, like any other day, and found him. He suffered from schizophrenia and depression, but we hadn’t known it yet. My parents hadn’t believed him when he’d said that he’d been haunted by voices. Declan was only thirteen years old when he tried to silence the voices no one else could hear. Since that day, after he’d attempted to hang himself in the closet, that image… it pushed me, it had fueled everything inside of me. I’d wanted to help him, others like him, help anyone I could, and I’d thought God would be the one with all the answers.

  God had to have the answers.

  God was the one who’d created us.

  God was the one who could help.

  My brother suffered from his illness, and I had to know why. Why some people had it good and others didn’t? Why we’d been forced to watch as my dad succumbed to his alcohol addiction? Why my oldest brother, Liam, had to give every bit of who he was to support our family while my mother lost hope and withered away? Liam had worked so hard to keep us afloat, and after our dad died of cirrhosis, he bought the tattoo shop. Liam had single-handedly brought our little family back to life. But not even that was sacrifice-free. Liam and his girlfriend had split up for a while when he’d chosen to stay here to help our family while she’d moved to California, and I’d put becoming a priest on the back burner to help take care of Mom.

  My fingers gripped the wood of the pencil, and I lowered my head.

  I hated these selfish thoughts. I’d usually purge them onto paper. My little secrets. My brothers had no idea that I liked to write. When we were kids, we used to make comic books. Declan and Liam would draw the pictures, and I’d fill in the dialogue. But it was just for fun. My journals, my poetry. That was just for me.

  When my mom died, it was the first time in my life I’d blamed God. I’d always come to Him for answers, but never imparted blame. And since then, my relationship with religion, it had changed, shifted, and I had no idea what to do. The words I’d once loved to write faded more and more every day along with my faith. I loved the church. I loved the ritual of Mass, of the rosary. I lived for the smell of the cathedral, the colors that cast from the stained-glass windows, the dark stories of faith, and the knowledge that we were not alone. But the minute I blamed God, that weak moment, I felt the hollow begin to grow inside my heart and it became more vacant each day. I went to church. I went through the motions. I smiled and made sure everyone knew I was okay. But I missed it. I missed the peace of knowing, one hundred percent, there was more to this life than sacrifice. I missed the ease of syllables and rhyme. I missed sentences that meant something and metaphors worth smiling about.

  My pencil dropped from my hand as my phone vibrated against the desk, pulling me from my thoughts. I lifted it and unlocked the screen.

  Kemper: Where you at, bro? Tana’s sister isn’t going to wait all night.

  I exhaled an annoyed breath and ignored his text. I worked at Avenues with Kemper and, for some reason, he and his girlfriend were constantly trying to hook me up with women. I guess I was like their version of charity. No one likes a virgin, let alone a twenty-seven-year-old virgin. I’d had a girlfriend in high school for a little while but, after a very awkward blow job, the guilt I’d felt pulled me away from dating completely. I’d gone to confession that next day, and I’d recited enough Hail Marys and Our Fathers to make my throat hurt. It was safe to say that, back then, celibacy had become my new favorite thing. I’d given myself to God, and I’d cringed at all the drama my friends had gone through in high school because of sex. My brothers’ lives had almost been ruined because they’d chosen to be in relationships. I’d been the one who had it right… or so I’d thought.

  Liam likes to blame himself for everything. So much so, after Mom passed, he gave me his apartment and moved in with his girl, Kelly, before they got married. This place was basically a bachelor pad, but I knew Liam, and I think he could’ve convinced Kelly to move in here if he’d tried. The apartment sat above Avenues. This was Liam’s empire, his everything, and I feared that maybe the guilt he’d felt for making me miss out on seminary helped his decision to move out. I’d lived in our family home my whole life, but we’d all made the choice to sell Mom’s house after she died. After all, it made sense for Liam to move in with Kelly and for me to move in here, and if I’d been honest with Liam, like I should have, he would have never had an ounce of guilt. Hell, I hadn’t even been honest with myself for all those years.

  I wasn’t ever really cut out for the priesthood.

  Faith had always been my security blanket, and now that I was doubting it, doubting myself, I saw my past for what it was. A hiding place. I was the baby brother. The one who didn’t get into trouble, one less burden for Liam, one less worry for my mother, and a solid fixture for Declan to lean on. I was the thin steel spine, as fragile as it was, of the ship Liam had built. I believed in God, and I believed in the church, and even though doubt had planted its seed, I still believed. It’s what I was made of. But that seed had sprouted fresh, green leaves, and the harder I tried to remember the feeling, that calm hand of faith, the colder I’d become.

  Again, my phone vibrated, this time in my hand and, I knew when I opened the lock screen, it would be a text from Kemper. He was relentless.

  Kemper: Get your ass down here.

  Kemper: Right now!

  Kemper: Hot. Easy. Chicks.

  I coughed out a laugh and stood from my chair. My legs ached from sitting for too long and, as I looked down at the blank piece of paper, I came to the realization that maybe faith and inspiration went hand in hand.

  My fingers tapped out a short reply.

  Me: I’m headed to Bellows, give me fifteen.

  Kemper: Really? H
ot, easy, chicks worked? Holy shit, wait till I tell Liam.

  I didn’t even bother answering his taunt. I was used to being the brunt of everyone’s joke. Baby of the family, rule number one of survival, grow thick skin.

  I headed into my room to throw on a shirt. I’d taken a shower when I came home from work earlier, and then got sidetracked when I decided to try and lay down some words. I grabbed a blue, long-sleeved Henley from my closet and pulled it on. It fit a little more snug than last fall, but when all you do is work and spend time at the gym, you fill out. Liam and Declan may be older, but I had at least twenty pounds on both of them, not to mention, I was about three inches taller.

  It didn’t take me long to get ready, and I wasn’t driving since Bellows was within walking distance so I slipped my keys into my pocket and grabbed my wallet and phone from the desk. My eyes fell to the stark white paper and then shifted to the pencil. The silence of the room set my teeth on edge as I picked up the pencil and pressed the tip down onto the paper.

  I wet my lips as my eyes lingered over the letters and the pencil fell to the desktop.

  One word. It was all I had for tonight.

  Empty.

  “I swear to God, if you hadn’t shown up, I was going to call Liam and make him drag you out.” Kemper’s eyes lit with mischief as he sipped from his bottle of beer.

  The condensation from my own bottle saturated my fingertips as I stood at the bar. I’d only been inside Bellows for about five minutes and Kemper was already ragging on me.

  “You promised hot, easy chicks, Kemp, not your whining.” I tipped the bottle to my lips with a smartass smirk before I let the bitter lager spill down my throat.

  Bellows was our favorite local bar. It was dark enough no one saw your flaws, and loud enough you never had to have a real conversation. I loved how every night the music was different, ranging from punk, to rap, to screamo, and it was cool to run into old school friends from time to time. Picking up women, though, I was an amateur, and I could never seem to follow through on anything.

  I’d get numbers, offers, but something about picking up a girl at a bar… tipsy lips, and glazed eyes, did they want me, or were they drowning themselves in something for the night? Liam would say, “Who gives a shit?” or “You have to start somewhere.” I’d held off for too long to just throw it away on some drunk chick. I’ve had a few dates this past year, and I was happy to find that blow jobs were not as sloppy or as guilt inducing as when I was with my high school girlfriend; however, I still wasn’t into losing my virginity with a one-night-stand, or even a three-month-get-to-know-you-then-leave-you type relationship. I might have doubts about my faith, but I still believed in God, in something bigger than me, than this small universe, and the part of me that still held tight to all those beliefs was telling me to wait. Wait for the one who mattered.

  I wanted to love like my brothers did. I probably sounded sappy as hell, and maybe I’d lose my man card way before my virginity, if I hadn’t already, but that kind of love, it was worth the wait. I was jealous of Declan and his girlfriend, Paige. They’d just had twins this past May, and Liam and Kelly had recently been married in September. I was the last one, and I felt like a kid who didn’t even know how to tie his damn shoes. Regardless, I wouldn’t rush it. I would fight for it like they had, even fight myself if I had to. Someone worth keeping wouldn’t sully their shine in one night, they’d keep your eyes trained on their silver lining. Reel you in, until you never wanted anything more, never wanted to let go.

  “Hey,” Kemper said as he punched my shoulder. “Here they come, don’t fuck this up or Tana will have my ass.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m not making any promises.”

  “The line to the bathroom is ridiculous in this place. What’re those bitches doing in there for so long?” Tana’s mouth curled at the corners as she spoke. Her eyes meeting mine briefly and then her sister’s.

  Tana had been a regular at Avenues for a long time. She was covered in ink, her sister, on the other hand, not a drop. Well, none that I could see. Her sister was cute with long, light brown hair that fell over her shoulders in straight, shiny strands. Where Tana’s features were sharp, her sister’s were round. Round eyes, round cheeks, full lips and hips, and… my eyes involuntarily slid down to her tits. Yup. Round.

  “This is my sister, Trista.”

  “Most people call me, Tris.” Her voice was high-pitched, staged, and I was already bored.

  “Nice to meet you,” I offered with a practiced smile, hoping to feel something. Her alabaster cheeks filled with a nice shade of pink as I took her small hand in mine, but still… nada. “You guys look nothing alike,” I openly observed as I dropped her hand and slid my own into my pocket.

  Tris bit her bottom lip and my eyes drifted to her mouth. Would I try to kiss her later? Maybe in the hallway to the bathroom. Maybe outside, after I asked her for her number, which I may or may not call in three days, per the protocol Liam and Kemp had always suggested.

  “Tana’s the wild one.” Tris laughed as she grabbed a glass filled with clear liquid and a lime dangling off the rim from the bar. She toyed with the black straw between her long fingers as she said, “Thanks, Kemp.”

  “You get my sister a drink and not me?” Tana cocked her brow and I smirked. She was such a hard ass. It’s probably why Liam kept her around before he got back together with Kelly.

  Kemper had swooped in and scooped her up as soon as Liam broke it off. “Calm your tits,” Kemper teased and handed Tana one of the two beers he had bought while she was in the restroom.

  “Thanks.” She leaned in and kissed him on the mouth.

  I averted my eyes back to Tris who was still toying with that skinny straw. She grasped it between her plump lips and took a slow sip. She’d caught my attention, and her smile spread across her face and into her hazel eyes. Score one for Tris. I wasn’t dead. I had a pulse, and right now, regardless of whether or not this chick was worth my time, my body had other ideas. It was a battle I’d been warring against for years. Do I or don’t I? She wasn’t the treasure, of that I was sure. Would I kiss her? Most likely. Ask her up to my place? If she didn’t stop fucking with that straw, no doubt. Messing around wasn’t sex and it couldn’t hurt… well, at least that’s what Declan had advised. I’d laughed and told him, he, of all people, wasn’t allowed to offer me dating advice. He’d only ever been with Paige and, while they were broken up, for nine damn years, he’d turned down every single chick.

  We O’Connell boys were loyal, if nothing else. Liam was loyal to his love for Kelly, and Declan to his love for Paige. I was loyal to my ideals, and I was afraid I’d never find anyone who would live up to what I’d created in my head. What was left for me if not even God held all of my heart anymore?

  You would’ve thought, over the years, the smell of this place wouldn’t bother me anymore. The overly sweet scent of coconuts and candy blended together with the deep, booming bass, and it was enough to send me hightailing it out of here the minute my shift ended. The Western Lounge was just like every other strip club in Utah that sold alcohol. Pasties and G-strings. The one perk… the girls kept their snatch under wraps. The music, the smell, all triggers that brought me back to where I’d once been every time I punched in. The place was dead today, and I was grateful. Working two jobs had begun to wear on me. Only a few guys lingered by the stage, the pink lights bounced off the black tables and gave me a headache as I washed the last few glasses from the lunch rush. It amazed me, to this day, that guys came to joints like this for lunch. Beer and tits. A mid-day delicacy, I supposed.

  I shouldn’t talk shit about this place, if it hadn’t been for the owner, Jaime, who would’ve known where the hell I’d be at this point in my life. Jaime was in his late fifties, sleazy as they come. Salt and pepper hair, pot belly, seventies mutton chop sideburns, and the asshole wore sunglasses whether or not he was indoors or outdoors. Cliché on two legs. But, he’d cleaned my ass up, given me a steady job, and
let me sleep in the back room until I got on my feet. When I’d overdosed a little over five years ago, if he hadn’t found me, I would’ve been six-fucking-feet under.

  My fingertips were pruned by the time I set the last glass onto the drying rack. Starlee was coming in at two to relieve me. I was supposed to meet up with my friend Kelly at three. She’d recently started up her own women’s shelter and asked me if I wanted to apply for a job. I’d met her at Lifeline while volunteering there, and she was the first female I’d been able to really connect with in a long time. She’d never pushed me for information, and I appreciated that. There was a difference between fighting and surviving. She was a fighter. She took what she wanted. She and her man had once had issues and she’d grabbed the bull by the horns and made shit right. She was married now and I envied that. Not the marriage, but the fight.

  Fighters were epic, they were heroes of their own destinies, but me—I was just a survivor. My life, for so long, was a sequence of near deaths and tragic endings. I bounced through each roadblock, floated through, numbing myself with pills and, if I couldn’t afford pills, then heroin had been my answer. I’d survived the streets only because I’d been good at pretending I had no other choice. I’d left home at sixteen, not because I was escaping abusive parents, or a broken home, but because I’d gotten caught stealing money for drugs from the register at my family’s restaurant. A fighter would’ve told her boyfriend no way. A fighter would’ve never fallen into drugs to impress some asshole—a fighter would’ve stopped using drugs the minute she’d found out she was pregnant, pulled her life together, and been a fucking mom.

  Sometimes I wished I was able to repress all the shit I’d done into some recess of my mind. Act like everything I’d done was because of my shitty childhood. But I came from a great home and loving parents, attended catholic school, for Christ’s sake. Five years ago, when I’d taken enough heroin for two people, and Jaime had found me unresponsive in the back room, my family had walked into that hospital room like I’d never done a damn thing. Like I was still their little girl and not the plague that had destroyed their hearts. They took me back, broken, and overused, and told me it was water under the bridge as long as I never took another drug again. In my overdosed, drug-hazed mind, I’d known this was my last chance at survival, so I chose right. For once, I chose the path to something better. Things weren’t easy, but the fighter I’d always wanted to be had tried to surface. Every damn day, since I’d left rehab, that strong girl had been fighting to show herself.