by Garret Ford
We take the train back to my place. We stop on the way and get a bottle of mescal and slush to mix it in. We arrive. My roommates are having a house party. The rooms are packed, vibrating with activity. He sits at my feet. Each conversation vibrates, attracting or repulsing participants. People move through the party; oxygen providing life to a body. The world spins around me. I sit down, he sits at my feet. I start rubbing his back. He is slim, curly hair, firm shoulders, smells good too.
“You are good at back rubs.” He grunted appreciatively.
Closing time, people go home. I get up to go to my room, but I can hear someone is fucking inside. I’m too drunk to care so I go to the basement, three people are watching some Japanese robot show, I get sleeping bags out of storage and go back to the living room.
I pull off the cushions of the chesterfield and make pair of “beds” for us next to each other on the floor. We lay there, drunk.
“The concert was great.” He said.
“I liked their Sultans of Swing cover…” I said.
“This was fun. We should do this again.” He said.
“Thanks for coming. Sorry the party was so loud.” I said.
“Life is wandering, and wandering with you was perfect tonight- and…” He said.
A moment lasts forever. Stamped somewhere in time and space, and yet it is no longer happening to this me. A memory now.
“And?” I said.
“Life is fucking good sometimes… Like tonight.” He said.
“You’re right. It’s been fucking fun!” I said, smiling.
Silence.
“It must be nice being single.” He said.
“Most of time; other times I get lonely.” I said, yawning.
“All things in balance.” He said.
“I don’t think the universe is even balanced though. Think of all the infinite space, but somewhere out there, another us is laying there talking, but it is a different us, talking about cats.” I said.
“You’re drunk.” He said.
“Clever girl.” I laugh.
“Can I have another back rub?” He asked.
“Sure” I oblige and climb onto his back and take his shirt off. He has a well-toned body. He smells like the air before it rains. He moans slightly as I work out the knots in his back.
“You need to relax” I said, drunkenly
“Too bad I have a girlfriend, or...” He said.
“O?” I said.
“No. I mean if I didn’t. Things.” He said.
“Things?” I played coy.
“You know.” He said.
Silence. The week before he, his girlfriend and I had all gone to the movies together. I put the guilty thoughts out of my mind.
“I do?” I said. I go down inside of his sleeping bag.
“We probably shouldn’t. But-” He said.
“Butt?” I said grabbing his butt.
“I will.” He said smiling softly in the gloom.
“We have to be quiet.” I gently chastise him.
He breathes heavily, obviously enjoying every moment. Warm. Ready. He pulls back the sleeping bag. Filled with carnal lust he pulls me on top of him. He caresses my face. He kisses me. Gently at first. His lips firm. His stubble tickles my upper lip. He reaches down and unbuttons my pants. Then stops.
“…?” I ask.
“…” He said.
I grabbed a condom. He lays back and I put it on him. I see how lucky his girlfriend is. The street light streams through the window; I wonder if the neighbors are watching us in our depraved debauchery. I’m on top and then he takes me from behind. I muffle my cries of pleasure into the pillow. He is fucking good, I cum quickly. He bucks his hips and climaxes right afterward. He collapses, and we lay there, gazing in the dim gloom. Entanglement.
“I need a cigarette.” I smiled as I dressed.
He smiles, exhausted and nude, he pulls up his sleeping bag, rolls over and falls asleep. I open the door. I sit on the front step. A cold screen door keeps me from slouching. I pull out my pack of Morley’s. Flame in the dark, light my way. The cigarette ember glows brightly and darkens, the rhythm of life. I inhale slowly savoring the flavor. I blow a perfect smoke ring and watch the smoke wisp away into the cool night air. I have goosebumps. The street is deserted, though the city does not sleep, noises and echoes abound. The street lights illuminate small patches of ground. Islands of light in a realm of darkness. The empty night skies. A pair of blinking tail lights from an airplane. I wondered if another-self was sitting in another corner of the universe thinking about this-self. Merry thoughts have drunken spirits.
Pain tore me from my pathetic philosophical panhandling as my cigarette had burnt down to my fingers. I grimace in pain and drop the ember on my shirt burning a hole. I didn’t know it, but this shirt would end up in a dumpster in less than a year.
“Damn, this was my favorite one.” I said to myself.
I go back inside, and I crawl into my sleeping bag. He is laying a scant few feet from me; I reach out and touch his face. Smiling knowingly to myself. I drift into the arms of Morpheus.
Sirens in the distance. I am hiding in the alley behind my house. Curled in a ball. Breathing shallow. The red and blue lights flash. I have my toy bunny on my lap; my bunny can’t hurt anything, that is why I love it unconditionally; unlike mommies and daddies. I can hear police dogs barking, my parents screaming.
“These are my parents. This is what they do.” I mumble.
My childhood home is exactly as I left it. A babbling creek in the backyard arched over by trees. My orange cat happy and fat as ever. We climbed onto the roof of garage with a joint and we get high.
“We moved here after the divorce. It was crappy at first, we had to rent until my mom got this place. It’s been good.” I said.
“You grew up here?” She said.
“When I was little way out that way, like an hour. But then stuff fell apart and yeah. Then I lived here.” I said.
“It’s nice.” She said.
“Yeah, want to see my room?” I said.
“Not yet, let’s finish smoking.” She said.
“I meant after.” I said.
“Oh.” She said.
Finally, the summer heat drove us inside into my room in the basement. My room was nice, it was green with wood paneling, an old tube television set, a double tape deck stereo. I closed the blinds and sat down on my blue folding futon bed beside her.
“My mom won’t be home for a while.” I whispered.
I swing the bat and lean in to kiss her.
…
There is no vindication in my aggression, I feel only the recoil of my gun. I am denied my promised catharsis; but a mission is a mission. I thought this sort of thing would be more exciting.
“I am wrath!” I yell to the fleeing students.
The main target, the professor is a bloody mess on the floor, writing on the wall with their own blood. Pathetic. I pulled out my list and cross his name off. Three more to go- two business, one personal.
I walk through the halls, and a chorus of screams herald my approach. I shoot random staff, students, or the security- get the body count up, for kicks. It was nothing personal for them, wrong place, wrong time. After all, I’m another insane shooter, so they would think. Random act of violence, dozens of dead- then the usual mourning, flowers, TV talk shows and lackadaisical posturing by politicians, the gun lobby, etc. They’d never believe this was assassination, another random freak going postal. I wonder if they will blame video games, rap music, or something new this time. The public is so stupid, they believe anything that glass teat sprays at them. I wonder if I will get a cool nickname- will they try to take me alive? Cyanide capsule for that.
My room always smells like weed; I collapse onto my foam mattress on the floor. Home was a rented room in a little yellow sided bungalow in a formerly thriving suburbia turned slum. I grind up my weed and roll a joint.
“Ever feel like you are the only one in the w
orld who is alone?” I said to myself.
“Everyone else has dates, lives, and love.” I answered.
“Stop talking to yourself, it is what crazy people do.” I said.
“I am crazy.” I said. “Did you forget?”
Occasional pity fucks and masturbation sustain my sex life. The desperation I wear is a filthy cologne. The drugs and reclusiveness don’t help sex appeal. I always felt a tinge of jealousy for sex addicts, they get to get laid enough that it is a problem.
I put on my hoodie and go outside. The snow is melting and revealed the brown grass and dogshit underneath the pure shroud of white. The leafless trees cast short shadows in the warm breezy air beneath the chinook arch in the sky. Sun is shining, birds are singing, if I was anyone else, this would be a good day, but schizophrenia doesn’t take holidays, even on nice days. My neighbor’s wife is noisily singing off key in their garage. I hate this place.
“You know pumpkin, you say friend a lot.” The voice speaks.
“I suppose.” I reply.
“Pumpkin, your friendship quality is dubious-” It said.
“Self and other are illusions; we are shards of Aleph.” I droned.
“Clever as ever, pumpkin.” It said.
“I’m not a pumpkin, I have a name.” I cried out in the abyss.
“Ever the narcissist; pumpkin.” It said.
“Narcissists never use pseudonyms.” I snarled.
“Exceptions prove the rule, pumpkin.” It said.
The anxiety and self-loathing returns; I climb down the stairs of the patio and light up a joint under the deck. I take a deep toke, I feel the sunshine on my face through the floor boards above. I read an old moldering newspaper that is sitting in a stack underneath, hiding from view with me. Rotten. There is a comic that is barely legible. Weathered with rain and sun-bleached by the sun’s rays.
In the comic strip a cartoon cat wakes up to an empty house, with his owner nowhere to be found. Abandoned. Everyone is gone now, the cat is left to starve alone and forgotten.
Why the fuck is this even in the funnies?
Puzzled contempt.
I don't get it. Christmas Cake-Trash bomb.
I never get it. Unwanted.Retard.
It is never me.Lame duck.Fuck-n-chuck
The trials and tribulations without judge.
God is in his heaven, all is right with the world.
Blessed Elysium without a gardener.
Cursed Hades without Cerberus.
Empty Tartarus, alas for Olympus.
Fiery Purgatory without a warden.
Hell, without the adversary.
Earth without humanity.
Soul of my Song, Sing, Siren, Sing.
Foreign film without subtitles.
In another timeline we fell in love and never parted;
Alas, those painful iterations of reality.
What is, what if?Why?
Fuck, how do I deal with it?
Ascension.
Chapter 5.
“Toilets are the true clocks of humanity.”
Tobias H. Charles
“I’m gonna need to see ID.” The bouncer asked.
I gave the bouncer my ID card. He looked at it and smirked.
“Enter.” He said, opening the door.
“I’ve never been inside one of these places.” I said.
“A virgin?” The bouncer laughed and stamped my hand.
“N-no!” I stammered, embarrassed.
“Midday is the best time. It is empty!” My buddy interrupted.
The door to the abyss yawns, striding through the gate way, I quash the part of me that tells me to turn and leave. I don't belong here, but lately, I feel like I don’t belong anywhere. I am in the voodoo lounge now.
“Relax and enjoy the show.” I said.
“Next, Lovely Lila.” A booming voice announces.
The room is large and domed, blue and red mood lights cast shadows. It is nearly empty. Buzzing pop songs crackles on the speakers. The mirrors on the walls reflect my empty face. The booths are empty. The stage is set. A chrome cylinder in the center reaches to the sky. A silver cord stretching to the heavens. No angels dance on its head though. The smells assault my nostrils. I take them in. Stale cigarette smoke. Sweat. Sex. The curtains are a red velvet. A glowing red Exit sign reminds me- I can still turn back.
“Liar, you’ve been here before.” My buddy said.
“Never, honestly…” I said.
The same reason I never had hung out in dark alleyways. But here I was. The red lights casting infernal shadows on the walls. The throbbing music drowning out any attempts at conversation. Which was probably for the better.
“Not even curious?” He asked.
“Not even a little.” I said.
“I go to support the arts.” He said.
“Arts?” I asked.
“They are dancers, philistine!” He laughed.
“Where are we going to sit?” I asked, moving towards a booth.
“Stage side, we get the best show.” He said.
“But nobody else is up there.” I said.
“Exactly.” He said.
“But people will see me!” I said.
“That’s generally the idea.” He said.
I look around awkwardly. Everyone's eyes were focused on the stage, not me. Mine followed.
“Relax. Think of it as performance art!” He said.
The musty smell of spilt liquor. I am here but I am beyond now. The lights go down. I cannot do anything but watch. There I am. I look down at the faded burgundy chair.
“Tip big! We get free stuff.” My friend adjusted his collar.
“I am a patron of the arts.” I said.
“Is it art?” He asked.
“Statues, theatre, prose, and paintings are art.” I said.
“Then this is like pornography- smut.” He said.
“Precisely.” I said, dignified.
“Abandon all hope ye who enter here.” He laughs.
Curtain parts, an angel descends. She walks in beauty. She ascends the silver cord and spins. Her skin glimmers in the red lights. A shining ruby in the gloom. The club is a sinking submarine. I nervously nursed my beer; my coworker finished his third. Contrast. Sacred. Profane. The human figure is beautiful. Every muscle working in unison. Constant dieting, training, exercise, to stave off the inevitable razors of time. The flesh puppet squirms seductively, a lewd fandango. The show ends. I clapped out of forced habit and my coworker attempted to stifle my applause.
“You don’t clap here” He explained, she bowed toward me.
“See, I do belong here.” I stuck my tongue out at him.
The dancer came out in a blue velvet dressing gown.
“This is art…” I explained.
I look away, almost embarrassed of how sheltered I am.
“Thanks for clapping.” She laughs softly.
“I was skeptical, but this is art!” I said, excited.
“That makes me Hieronymus Bosch with tits and a cunt.” She winked at me and squeezed my shoulder.
“Who?” He asked.
She leans over and puts her soft warm hand on my shoulder.
“I’m happy, I was your first.” She murmurs softly.
She gives me a poster. She ran her fake purple painted nails up and down my back. My skin felt electric under her touch. The transition into daytime is stunning. We walked over to my beat-up old car and I drove him home. A good dude, he talked about his kids, girlfriend, ex-wife, and life in general. It was strange when I got home, it felt, unfamiliar as if I had returned from a long trip. My house seems small and different. In my dingy bathroom I look at myself in the mirror.
I crinkle my forehead a few times and trace the lines with my finger. Dying is merciful compared to the ravages of time. Parents die, divorce or death, your friends die or leave, rising tally of failures, lost jobs, and disappointment. Worst of all the Suicide parade. I dodged a bullet. I got old. One short sl
eep past then we wake eternally- perhaps oblivion. This existential dread how does humanity endure.
I stand outside the sold-out theatre on the last night. Rotten luck. A familiar face smiles at me; she is a foreigner, and her accent could melt steel.
“They sold out.” I said, frowning.
“What did you expect, it is the last night.” She said.
“At least you get to usher.” I said, shaking my head.
“Come with me for a moment.” She whispered.
“Why?” I asked, crestfallen.
“I can sneak you in.” She whispered, adjusting her bowtie.
She takes me by the hand and leads me onward. I sit down quietly. I am a ghostly interloper. The jazz show begins- something Blue. The music is alive. Heart pounds. Hands sweat. I have never been here before. Is this the end? Darkness cloaks us in the back of the theatre, she is there beside me, in the darkness. Though I cannot see her. The mighty music plays, I sway in alone in the dark. This perfect moment- what joy. I think of reaching out, for her hand in the dark, but I don’t. What more could I have wanted from this perfect evening. Perhaps everything; which was the point. A lesson of the apple orchard- the bitterest of all.
“Thanks, this was perfect.” I said.
“You are welcome.” She smiled back. “Anytime.”
Life is awakening. A subtle as it begins, it swiftly ends. We sit together in the back, as the lights come up- we are the last to leave. The empty stage appalls the masses. Together we sat silently, watching the driven cattle in suits and dresses flee from an abattoir.
Deja Vu.
Our strings are pulled Thus, We Dance.
We are all marionettes and puppet masters that dance.
We love. We kill. We weep. We laugh.
You are with me. We are all together.
“I am with you in Rockland.”
There is no other instant.
I crystallize the memory.
