A Shower Scene

Hypnotized by the rhythmic pitter-patter of the spitting drops of water as they hit the tiles stained with mildew and God knows what else, Dylan forgot that his body existed. With his petrified hands clamped tightly to his mouth, he stared in silence and absorbed the scene that lay sprawled on the floor of the stall. For three whole minutes of eternity, he was motionless; he could neither breathe nor blink. Even the pounding of his heart had slowed, and the heavy reverb of its kick drum sound drowned out by the screeching shower head above. The steam in the air soaked his skin like a morning dew. He never even noticed the churning in his gut, or the small acidic butterflies that burned inside his throat.
Asphyxiation. His starving lungs gasped desperately for oxygen, letting out the pig squeal of a shallow breathe. When at last he inhaled, he felt the air sift through the cracks between his fingers and softly tickle his skin, just enough to tear him from his daze and alert him to the truth before his eyes.

(To Be Continued)

A Letter to Tom DeLonge

Dear Tom DeLonge,

First let me begin by saying that I have always defended you whenever some self-righteous hipster asshole knocks on Blink182; truth be told, if you're between the ages of 18 and 25 and you DON'T own a copy of either "Enema of the State," or "Take Off Your Pants and Jacket," then you probably never, ever had friends growing up. Yes, I realize that now it's uncool, and most self-respecting 18-to-25-year-olds have outgrown it, but still: it was a significant part of most of our adolescent lives.

I had the misfortune of seeing your new band, Angels and Airwaves, this past week and feel like the few happy memories I have of adolescence have been brutally raped and slaughtered. No longer will I be able to look back on those days spent in Andrew's attic bedroom, rocking out to "Dammit" and playing Dreamcast after school. No, Tom DeLonge, your latest attempt at "Blin182-does-'Disintegration'" is an abomination. Did you really need all of the ridiculous strobe lights trained on the audience, flashing wildly to cover up your mistakes? And why the fuck were you prancing around the stage twirling glow sticks during one of the few moments of darkness when my eyes finally had a break? I'm all about performance art when done with a purpose, but extending your arms and hanging them in crucifixion position, or mounting green laser light goggles for 8 bars and looking frantically around the auditorium for the lone sorry sap that actually gives a shit about what you're doing, is hardly art; it's masturbation.

To be honest, I kind of miss the days when you were all about masturbation, and were damn proud of it. Now I suffer from horrible visuals of your beer-bellied, pushing-40, black-nail-painted self running around naked like in the video for "What's My Age Again?" in my head, and every time I think about it I throw up in my mouth. At least you accepted the fact that you can't even play guitar, but to make up for it you spent most of the set frolicking across the stage and posing like that creepy old guy that goes to the same karaoke bar every goddamn week and sings shitty 80s ballads way too over-dramatically, hoping desperately that someone will "discover" him (or like me when I'm singing Meat Loaf...which is intentionally meant to be ironic...really...)

When Blink182 broke up 4 years ago (why do I remember that?), it was as if they had died for the collective sins of everyone who had been a teenager in the early '00s. Do us all a favor and lose the fucking martyr complex; I'd like to salvage at least one happy memory of ignorant, innocent, adolescent bliss.

Sincerely,

"Dude Ranch" was better

PS Robert Smith called. He wants his shtick back.

PPS My pupils still aren't dilating properly and I'm sending you the optometry bill, asshole.

The Sound of Silence

Carey always had a sharp ear--her mother was an opera singer-turned-voice instructor who raised her girl to always stay in tune with the sounds of places and words and the world around her. As she grew older, she found comfort in the lingering baritone reverb of a man's voice, and the sultry sounds of thoughts sneaking past pursed lips and hanging softly in the air, leaving a trail of audible bread crumbs behind. Even her own mezzo-alto echo could glide with the weight of a hummingbird's song.

It was the complete absence of an echo, however, that made Ben's adverse reaction to her news so shocking. The cavernous boom of his refusal was hardly a tickle in Carey's mind compared to the sight of him catching her words in mid-air and crushing them in his hand, letting the syllables sift lie sand through his clenched fingers. There was nothing more haunting to her than the absence of sound; nothing more isolating than the feeling of still, silent air on her skin. Carey felt asthmatic; without the vibrations of soundwaves and frequencies, the air tasted thin and dead. She looked down and saw every plosive and sibilant shattered like glass fall and sprinkle the ground. That was when she knew that she never taste the resonant tones of Ben's sweet voice again.

Spirit Weak

Mrs. Bartleby was never one for mystical events, and when rumors spread of the spiritual wildfire that had consumed the other parishes in the region, her skepticism held fast and strong. That's not to say that she never had faith--she had plenty to go around--but she simply found those wild spiritual gifts and fits of holy enlightenment to be somewhat absurd and exaggerated.

Imagine the look of surprise on the parishioners' faces on that Sunday morning  when Mrs. Bartleby stood up after writhing like a dying snake on the floor of the pew. She nonchalantly patted off the gathered dust from her best blue dress, trying hard not to acknowledge that mere moments earlier, her heart had become a fault line, casting wild tremors through her body. Mrs. Bartleby simply wiped the spilled silva from her chin, pulled her dress back down, and neatened her hair. 

When she finally surveyed the scene, hoping no one noticed her, she was greeted by a sea of wide, frozen, lemur eyes, all aimed unflinchingly towards her. She stammered for a moment before turning back to face the altar and lifting her face up ever so slightly. Sensing the collective eyes  still trained her, she waited a moment before announcing, "I had a bad cough this week. That must have been the last of it."

Satisfied with her response, the parishioners looked away, and Father Bailey continued on with the mass as if nothing had happened.

"At this time--especially in such a sensitive and tumultuous climate," he boomed through the house PA, "it is important to ask yourselves: who would Jesus vote for, if he were able? Now, I cannot answer this query for you, but I should not have to remind you all that the Lord is with us everyday, and we need only to open our hearts and listen and we will find the answers and the guidance that we need to make such difficult decisions in even more difficult times..."

When the congregation rose shortly thereafter, Mrs. Bartleby excused herself, hiding in the shuffle, and slipped away to the bathroom to fix her hair.

The Beginning of the Fall

Anna brought the telescope down from her eye, observing the tumbling autumn landscape outside through the thin glass veil of bedroom window instead. One hand grasped nervously for the sill at the bottom, while the other reached for the lock above and deliberated; she unlocked the window with her top hand, but couldn’t bring herself to lift it up. Anna recoiled in fear and fell amongst the junkyard of books that filled her bedroom: thesauruses, dictionaries, and collections of all the classics, like Shakespeare, Milton, Marlowe, Hawthorne, Dickens. A pile of pages like feathers, torn from volumes of Dickinson and Plath, cushioned her fall as she grabbed for her telescope and brought again to her eye, spying on the world outside of her room.
Anna hated the fall.
She felt that its name was indicative of its disposition—death, decay, and collapse, the end of the things. As Rome had fallen, so does Mother Nature and the world outside that Anna loves so well. She found comfort in the cyclical quality of life, knowing that, after being covered in a white quilt of serenity for months, the vibrant colors that she loved so much would return to her life, new and fresh and good. She refused to leave her room during these months, for fear that she, too, would wilt and crumble in that chilling autumn breeze that tears each leaf from its stem and sounds it crashing to the hard, cold ground below. Gone was the sensual, seductive show of skin, replaced instead with chapped fingers and lips and necks hidden under scarves. Purples and pinks and blues and greens become shades of grey and all the squirrels and birds run far, far away.
She threw away the telescope once more and bounded for her bed, fumbling to fit her glasses on her nose, as she pulled out her diary and tried to capture all the colorful words that she could before the day was done and the summer gone for good. She knew that she should be outside, enjoying these last hours of summer as they transitioned into fall, but she was afraid of being caught in the change herself, so she opted instead to capture all the thoughts and images she could and horde them in her notebook.
And then the doorbell rang.
Like a squirrel hearing giant footsteps approaching, breaking twigs as they march, Anna perked her head up, extending her neck longer than she thought she could, and looked around. The doorbell sounded again. Cautiously, she put her notebook down and placed her pen in the fold of the spine between the pages and went to the door. She looked first through the small peephole, which reminded her of the telescope from which she watched the world whither, but she saw no one. She turned the deadbolt and opened the door as far as the chain would allow and saw a sliver of a child in a brown dress. But Anna looked beyond this and saw the pigments of fire—oranges, reds, yellows—sprinkled sparsely throughout the sea of green that surrounded her home. For a moment, Anna felt warmed and comforted by this sight, but almost immediately thereafter found herself overcome once again by the fear of that fire spreading, killing each bract and blade and signaling the End.
“Would you like to support Troop 621 and buy some cookies, ma’am?” asked the girl outside, with the sweet, curious naivety that only a child can provide. With a gentle smile of relief, Anna undid the chain lock and welcomed the young girl’s sale as she realized that perhaps the gentle wind that shook her hair would quell the fire, which in turn might give her solace in the coming chill.

Gimme Shelter

It was rare enough that John ever left his small, private ranch. It was rarer still that he would interact with anyone at all when he did. But after three days of seeing the same Woman stand in front of his house with Her umbrella opened, motionless, he was more than willing to break his unspoken vow of social celibacy.
In a previous life, John would have been considered charming. Charismatic. Witty. He probably would have been able to think of a more tactful way to approach the solemn Woman he’d been watching. Still, “What the hell are you doin’ on my property? It ain’t even rainin’,” seemed most appropriate to him at the time.
Understandably, She didn’t respond.
“Excuse me, ma’am. Bein’ that it hasn’t rained in…I don’t know, a long time, I’d like to know what you’re doin’ with that umbrella out here. This is private property.”
“Waiting for the rain,” she said, without turning around. “Sometimes, you just want the rain to come. Sometimes you want Heaven to explode and pour down all around you.”
“Well…do you mind waitin’ somewhere else? You’re on my land,” he answered dryly.
The Woman began to sing softly to Herself as She twirled Her umbrella, spraying water in every direction and showering John. He stood there for a moment, silent and dripping, as he thought of new ways to approach the situation until he was able to make out what She was whisper-singing: “This land is your land. This land is my land…”
This pulled John from his drip-induced daze. Betty used to love Guthrie, he thought. “Ma’am? Can you hear me? Hello?” he tried again.
“Yes, and I responded to your question,” She said emphatically.
“But you’re still on my property.”
“What I’m standing on is a sad, sad strip of parched earth that happens to stretch in front of a place that I assume is your home—unless you would be a liar—and all I happen to be doing is patiently waiting for the rain to come,” She asserted.
John rolled his eyes and walked towards the Woman. “Alright, Lady. You been here three whole days and there ain’t been a sign of rain. There ain’t been a rain cloud for weeks. Have you ever been to Arizona before?”
“Lived My whole life here. And then some,” She responded—then She started to turn around, slowly and carefully so as not to reveal Her face. She lifted her arm and pointed next to the house. “I planted a tree right over there on our wedding day.”
“Well, musta been somewheres else, ‘cause there ain’t no tree there, Lady.” He reached his hand out to her shoulder. “Now come on, get goin’. There’s no trees, and no rain, and—Jeezus!”
Just as he was about to touch her shoulder, the sky—which, moments earlier, had been perfectly clear—suddenly burst into a tremendous downpour, as if all the rain that had hid for the summer decided to come down all at once. He looked up at the Woman, who remained standing in the same position. Much like the ground below Her feet, She was completely protected by the umbrella, staying just as deathly dry as the cracking earth.
“If you don’t get off the property, I’m’a have to call the cops,” John shouted as he ran for the porch.
“You don’t have a telephone,” the Woman responded calmly.
“How do you know what I do or don’t got?”
“I don't see any telephone poles. Not for miles.”
Standing on his front steps, John hesitated as he tried to out-rationalize Her or think of an appropriate response, but the only one he had was to slam the door and leave Her out in the rain.
For the rest of the evening, John watched Her from his window. At first, he was fidgety and anxious, but as the night waned on, John found himself entranced by Her statue-like state, and soon, he, too, was confined still and silent to his seat by the window. He stayed that way for hours until finally, he fell asleep. But the Woman had not moved.
The next morning, he awoke in his chair with a cramp in his neck. His first response was to stretch and massage it, tasks which kept him distracted from the sight outside his window. After a few minutes, John finally took notice—of nothing. The Woman, it seemed, had left after the rain. There were no footsteps but his in the dirt, and the ground was just as dry and cracked as it had ever been. He went outside, curious and incredulous and blinded by the sun, but he could not find a trace of the Woman or the rain. He played the scene back through his head, fast-forwarding and rewinding through his memories of the evening, to no avail. As he turned to head back inside, he noticed something out of the corner of his eye—a small sapling, forcing its way out of the hard earth. It was the same spot where he had buried his wife all those years ago.

Flamingo Pink

It always starts out with an excuse, a justification, something to alleviate the guilt and awkwardness. “Are you sure you’re okay?” or, “I’ve never done this before,” or “Does that feel good?” A voice that spills in hushed whispers, wearing a sexy disguise of low decibel tones and airy breath that tickles the other’s ear. Subtle, revealing secrets that manage somehow to advance the foreplay to another step when choreographed and dubbed to the nervous grope of fingertips that dance across her skin.
“You like that, baby? Yeah?” fumbled Andy from his lips as he worked his hand down her thigh. He stood above her, looking down at her with slotted eyes as he bit his lip and pulled the skin of his cheeks tight against his teeth. Her thighs were thick like watermelons, with the texture to boot—skin like vinyl, recessed beneath incongruous ridges of razor burn and rashes trying desperately to clear.
He kneaded her flesh with a hard sensuality until his first finger reached the ridge; his hand stopped at the cliff, like a bungee jumper paralyzed with a sudden fear of heights. His trembling fingers tried to recover and sneak back up her leg, but she grabbed his hand with hers and placed it back on her raw, severed flesh.
“Wassamatah, baby,” she squeaked too loudly. “Ya neva bin wit’ a amputee befoah?
He fumbled for a suitable response—“What? Sure, I…”
“Or ya neva bin wit’ a prah’sitoot?” she growled, less like a cat and more like a lion devouring it’s prey. “Why’nt’chu c’mere n’ put yer cahk in it, baby?”
Andy quickly pulled his hand from the stump of her leg and held the armrests of her wheelchair with a kung-fu grip. He clenched his muscles tightly as pushed up on the armrests and lifted himself onto her. “Uh, yeah. Are you-are you ready for my cock now, b-baby?”
“Mm, yeah.” As she slid down in her seat to give him better access, Andy’s fragile left arm buckled at the elbow, unable to support his weight. He flailed backwards, his nervous leg kicking frantically, fumbling for grounding but finding instead the brake release of her wheelchair. With one wheel still stabilized, the chair began to pivot until the other wheel spun off the edge of the stairwell landing. Gravity pulled her viciously down the stairs like an angry beast grasping for his meal but still confined to his pit. Sprawled out on his back, Andy couldn’t see her topple down the stairs—but the war drum rhythm was unmistakable and deafening as it echoed throughout the stairwell.
After a moment of shock and gathering senses, Andy leaped to his feet and bounded pantless down the stairs. He could hear the warbled torque of her bent and twisted wheel—still spinning in an oblong route—cutting through the air the whole down. As he got closer, he could make out another soft, liquid sound that kept a steady beat beneath it.
“Baby? You okay?” he asked with a waver in his voice as his eyes scanned the wreckage with the excitement of a driver going past a motor vehicle accident on the interstate. But he didn’t lost his erection until he saw blood from her head dripping off the ledge of the bottom stair and pooling on the landing below.

Double Bogie

No man should have to bury his son.
That’s one of two things my father ever taught me, the other being that a son should always surpass his own father in greatness. He said that every boy follows in his father’s footsteps, but at some point, to become a man, the son must overcome the father’s shadow and become something more, something greater, making each successive generation better than the last.
So here I am, casting a shadow over the grave of my youngest son, Matthew. In my hand, I hold a piece of paper given to me by my other son, David, who is three years Matt’s elder. It was in turn given to him by his doctor, Sam Winston. Winston’s a twelve handicap, but he usually plays like a seven. We’re all pretty sure that he’s not submitting his scorecards, but no one calls him on it.
The piece of paper in my hand is David’s chemotherapy schedule. He needs me to drive him because his license was suspended for DWI. Matthew was in the car when it happened. They had just won the member-member. They got their names added to the plaque on the wall. I’d have been proud if I had known—my name’s up there twice.
Ever since my wife brought him home from the hospital, David always looked after Matt. Protected him, like an older brother should. The car hit one of those orange water bumper barrels on the highway, which, obviously, the water doesn’t really do much except make a big bloody puddle. David got out of the car; Matthew didn’t.
My own father died ten years ago, natural causes. He never told me that he loved me, not once. It’s stuck with me, haunted me well into my adult life. Me, I never miss an opportunity to say it to the people who matter most. Not after that.
I never thought I’d run out of opportunities.

The Future, On Fire

Speakers from all of the leading universities and think tanks will be there. They’ll be talking about wormholes and quarks and divergent time streams and parallel universes and paradox theories and Star Trek and everyone will cheer and they’ll call it a success and they’ll celebrate, just like this. Beautiful women will parade around in silver vinyl suits, flashing Vulcan signs and flesh but never nipple (they’re not paid that well) and saying things like “Klaatu Barada Nikto” and giggling while they upturn their voluptuous lips and cock their heads a bit to appease the other cocks in the room. Everyone will be home smiling, or reminiscing, or go out drinking and celebrating. Adam Ng will be on his fifth pint of the night, except he’ll be drowning his sorrows, hunched over on a barstool, tapping the glass with his finger whenever he wants a refill. His friends will be paying for most of his drinks and doing tequila shots in honor of the “First Annual Time Travelers’ Convention,” that they had been working for months to put together. The whole thing will have gone off without a hitch.
Or a time traveler.
Right on cue, there will be a bright flash outside—there it is—and I see myself walk into the room about 7 hours earlier, and a lot more sober. I take a drink to keep my mouth shut (and maybe hide my face) and I watch myself look frantically around the room and try to make sense of the situation.
“Fuck,” I hear me whisper to myself, and I laugh because this really is exactly how I remember it. I struggle to keep the beer from coming out my nose and everyone else in the bar turns to look at the guy in the funny metallic costume with racing stripes down the side. I ask the bartender for another drink and watch myself do exactly what I’m going to do.
“I’m late, huh?” I say—the other me says—after a pause. I drink to my own lack of wit.
“Sorry, man. Convention was hours ago,” Jae says again. I don’t actually know his name yet. “Are you looking for someone in particular, or…?”
“Fuck, man! This fuckin’ thing never works!” the other me cries, smacking the device on our wrist as hard as he can. It starts beeping and blinking frantically, and this time I understand why, even if he doesn’t.
“What is that?” asks Jae.
“Tachyon Compression Gauge. It’s, ah—it’s supposed to read and monitor stringent and derivative particles in divergent timelines . Or something like that, I don’t now. You guys are supposed to figure it out. But either way, this thing is going nuts right now, and I have no idea why.”
At this, Adam will lift his head and turn his curious ear towards the conversation.
(He does)
No one will realize that my Tachyon Compression Gauge is picking up on my own presence in the room. Except the bartender, that is. He looks at me when I chortle in my throat, then looks back at our foolishly costumed new guest—me, again—and does a double take back towards me. Fortunately for the structure of timespace, he just shakes his head, confused, and gets back to making drinks.
I then plop down on a stool across from myself at the bar. I turn around quickly, so I don’t notice me because the results would be disaster—two of the same object can never occupy the same space at the same time—and I start to wonder about my decision. Obviously, I turned around, just like this, when I was in his position. Could I have stayed, and just hid my face? Could I have done something else, or nothing? Or was I compelled to do exactly what I did the last time, simply because I had done it already?
How much of my actions or thought processes were pre-determined by the structure of time?
I can’t turn around and face him again, either because I’m too afraid of what might happen, or because I’m simply not allowed to because I didn’t do it last time. It’s funny—I knew everything that would happen to me before, but not now. Not me now, even though I was already here and already went through this same scene.
Of course, while I’m busy having a mild panic attack over the nature of pre-destination paradoxes, the other me will try to convince Jae and Adam and the guys the he is, in fact, a time traveler—just one that apparently can’t time travel on time. They’ll be laughing at the irony as he tries to convince them of the truth. Adam will have a fleeting moment of pride and accomplishment before he submits to the belief that the whole thing is a scam and turn back to his drink. Feeling guilty, I’ll continue to berate him with arbitrary truths about the future that he’ll be convinced I’m just making up as I go along.
And then I’ll tune in again, just in time to watch myself go out the door and try again. Except I trip down the stairs on my way out and twist my ankle. Clumsy fuck. I limp outside, and everyone in the bar sees that bright flash of light again and I’m gone. Adam orders another shot of tequila, absolutely certain that I was just some asshole pulling his chain and rubbing in the fact that his Time Travel convention was an absolute failure.
Only it wasn’t.
I get up from my barstool and limp over to Adam. I pat him on the back and say, “Congratulations” as I hand him my Tachyon Compression Gauge and Distorter. "This is for you. It's what you need, the last piece of the puzzle. Pick it apart. Figure it out. You were going to anyway."
“What the hell is this…” he starts to ask as he looks up at me. He spins his eyes around their sockets as he tries to rationalize my presence. “Didn’t you just go that way…weren’t you not wearing that…how did you…?”
I smile and say, “I told you. I’m from the future.”

Doll

“I’ve felt prettier,” she said as she curled her synthetic eyelashes—horsehair? vinyl? what was it? the texture was alien, even through her curler—and looked back into the mirror.
“This is what you requested…”
“No, I know, it’s just—I don’t know. It looks right, but I’ve felt prettier, you know?”
“I see.” With that, the surgeon turned his back and walked towards the door. “Well, I’ll leave you alone with it for a bit. Maybe you’ll get used to each other.”
She would have seen the door slam in the mirror if she hadn’t been so focused on the new plastic gloss of her cherub cheeks. The fingertips of her left hand rolled slowly, softly over the faux-porcelain curves of flesh and wiped across the rosy red blush, and when her gaze finally averted from the mirror, it took to her hand where not a trace of make-up could be seen. Looking back in the mirror, there wasn’t the slightest sign of smudging or fading on her second, painted face.
But she couldn’t see her first face, beneath the latex rubber plastic silicone polysomething artificial new one she’d paid quite handsomely for, in permanence, and she never would again.

(at least she knew she’d always be a doll)

Self-Titled Redux

“thom dunn: rock star. super hero. poet.”-Inscription on a stack of 500 business cards purchased for $5 online after consuming entirely too much whiskey.

I am a Sagittarius that interrupted dinner on Thanksgiving, like my cousin a year earlier.
I am the product of both Irish and English blood that hasn’t waged war upon itself.
I am a child whose heart was born incomplete. And while the metaphor seems striking, I was, in fact, incubated for two days to fill the hole before the doctors let me go.

I am the son of the firsts in their families to attend a college and get a degree.
I am the son of a registered Republican, whose vote in ’04 went to Nader instead.
I am the son of an overly sensitive inner-city schoolteacher whose extreme emotional reactions often cloud her logic, practicality, and grace. She means too well.

I am the brother of a teacher.tennis-player.princess.period. Just kidding. No, I’m serious.
I am the brother of an overachiever whose resume reads like dense instruction manuals.
I am the brother of the roommate of a New York City cop. In their borough, children don’t believe her when she tells them that she’s White, not Puerto Rican.
White people aren’t nice, they say.

I grew up looking over the head of a Sleeping Giant, in the shadow of the Civil War.
I grew up in a microcosm of American diversity, where borders still exist.
I am a resident of Boston, a refuge of the black hole of apathy and complacency that fills the void between the New and old Metropolis of the North. Also known as the Nutmeg State.

I am a survivor of Irish Catholic guilt; reluctantly, my parents both allowed me to escape.
I am the survivor of three broken limbs all collected in the year when I was two.
I am the survivor of more than one car accident by the fault of Asian female drivers; the irony is not lost on me. Neither is the back pain from which I still suffer.

I am likely the most Irish student to have ever been accepted to NYU’s Gallatin School because

I’m Black.

I am going to let that vague anecdote sit for a moment. Good? Okay.
I am immortalized on page 3 of the January 14, 2008 edition of the Boston Metro and I am very clearly not wearing pants. None of my friends were surprised at all.

I am the ex-boyfriend to a fascinating, captivating girl of questionable sanity.
I am the ex-boyfriend of a fascinating, captivating girl of questionable sanity. Again.
I am the ex-boyfriend of a beautiful, ambitious woman that I dismissed arbitrarily as boring, lacking in passion, simply because her stability was confounding to me.

(I am a hypocrite)

I am the proud owner of every issue of “X-Men” since July 2001; I store them in plastic.
I am paid quite handsomely to don a spandex suit and play Spider-Man for promotions.
I am a rabid believer that, while Peter Parker may be a modern-day tragic hero with an emotional complexity akin to Hamlet, Superman is a dreadfully uninteresting archetype lacking in all dramatic value as a character, unless deconstructed.

I’m little more than a little boy in a grown-up body with a Super Hero complex

I am an advocate for a more of a postmodern approach to the establishment of identity; a constant commentary and progressive re-evaluation of the concept, structure, and function of identity in a post-urban setting.
(I am completely kidding about the aforementioned statement; it reared its delightfully pretentious head in conservation fairly recently, and I simply could not resist the urge to include here, for your entertainment as well as my own. Enjoy!)

I am the Sergeant-at-Arms of a National, Professional Fraternity whose membership boasts more women than men; half of those men are bi- or homosexual.
I am the Assistant House Manager and Office Assistant at a multifunctional theater complex run by a reputable regional theatre company; it could pay better, though.
I am a First-Class Boy Scout; it’s really nothing to brag about it, it took me about a year to get there and then I got bored with the militant nature of my Troop but still remained a member with the sole purpose of attending summer camp. I collected all the Waterfront and Arts and Crafts Merit Badges. And Plumbing. Plumbing.

I am the boy with calloused leather fingertips and ringing in my ear. (“It goes to eleven!”)
I am a musician, learned from the Ramones and now playing Gershwin and Lennon.
I am a sell out, tearing punk rock stickers from the body of my beat-up black Stratocaster and rebuilding it from scratch as airbrushed rock art. I am the world’s forgotten boy

The one that searches and destroys.

I am a snob, asserting the authority of superior taste over arbitrary, unimportant forms.
I am typical a fan of malt-heavy beers, slightly caramel, with just a dash of aromatic hops
I am infatuated with New Haven style pizza and I will remind you frequently and with pride that the city is the birthplace of American pizza; I prefer bacon and onion as a topping, but I also recommend the white clam pie. You will then assert that New York City (as a whole) has the best pizza, or you will recall that I previously expressed a distinct distaste for my home state; this is an exception to the rule.

“I am still the optimist, though it is hard when all you want to be is in a dream.”

I am a real boy, struggling with ADHD that evaded diagnosis for twenty years.
I am asthmatic and flatfooted, with allergies to all forms of tree pollens and dust.
I am a fool that ignores the signs his body sends and tends to disregard his symptoms in hope that they will get bored and go away. This approach to self-medication has proven itself to be consistently ineffective, but I’m not giving up just yet.

rock star. super hero. poet.

I think that about covers it.

Woman

One of these days, I'm going to call her on it, and she's going to say, "I didn't mean to harm you," or some similar bullshit. And that's when I'll realize that she hardly ever knew me at all. If she knew me, she'd know that I don't want her pity. I just want her.

Oct. '06

Sorry About That

She asks me how I’m doing, and she says that I should have another drink. She hands me her half-full solo cup—I never stop to ask her what it’s made of—and she tells me I should drink it up. And then, of course, I do. It hits me fast and hard, so I don’t realize when I look back in the cup that it’s half empty now (I think my judgement’s just a little gone). When the room is empty, she looks at me as always when she waits for me to match her half way, but I stop and ask her first if she’s okay with this and like every time, she says it’s fine (although I don’t believe her) and she says that I ask far too many questions. So, ashamed, I shut up and we slip into my room.

Nov. '07

Maddening Genius

The sidewalk seems to shudder as she trudges towards the latest victim in her sight—quite a feat for a woman so frail. She hardly moves slowly by any means, but her whole left side is dragged behind her body, as if overcoming paralysis. Her right hand hangs limp at shoulder level, with her elbow dropped by her side, both somehow staying steady as she goes. The average passerby might fear the wind would carry her away or snap her brittle bones, but her burnt sienna skin has nearly turned to leather over these past fifteen years. On her right cheek sits a scar in the shape of the letter ‘N’ which has long been the topic of debate. She has heard it all from passers-by: “I heard she got mugged,” or “She was working at an AIDs clinic in Africa when some Hutu guy beat her with a shovel or something,” to, “It’s just a really unfortunate birthmark,” and, “Well, when you’ve used up all the tracks on your arms and feet, you gotta find a new place to stick the needles…”
None of this really bothered her, of course, for rumors, of any kind, at least meant that people were talking, and if people were talking, she knew that people were still interested in her, and as long as there was interest, there was hope. Hope that she would never be forced to sink to the level of those people, crowding the corners and the stoops downtown, and shaking their cups like tag sale maracas, broken and obnoxious in both sound and décor. Hope that she could still be a star. As long as she had her appeal, she still had integrity, and at the end of the day, that’s all that separates her from the dime-a-dozen beggars and their Listerine drunks.
Not that there was a real problem with Listerine drunks: sometimes, you’ve got to take what you can get, and after all these years, she’d accepted the fact that forty ounces never found her any form of freedom for more than a half an hour. But how many of these bums could say they had an MFA in Writing from one of the most prestigious schools in the country? “Bulldog, bulldog, Bow Wow Wow!” she would cry to the new students as they arrived each year. Most of them just called her a “crazy homeless woman.” The upper classmen would tell them, “That’s just Kathy. She’s almost like our unofficial second tier mascot, except she’s really just an annoying bum.”
At this point, she would usually reprimand them for disrespecting their elders, and remind them that she was not homeless per se: she had an apartment in The Jungle, and was probably the only person who would ever admit to living in that isolated concrete hole of gunshots, rats, and heroin, but she was damn proud to have a place to call her home. “I am not homeless, and I am not even a beggar,” she would tell them through her slurs and spit. “I am a artist and a performer, and this is my job.” She would then solicit them for money by offering to recite three ee cummings poems of their choice, complete with verbal punctuation. Unfortunately, her speech was often quite difficult to decipher, as her words would stutter and slur together as she mumbled them through her scattered teeth; furthermore, she was never quite pleased with the payments rendered for her services. “You would pay this twice to see Alec Baldwin!” she would yell, perhaps referencing another absurd celebrity in his place. “I am a artist, just like Alec Baldwin! Ain’t you got no respect for a artist?” She would carry on as such until she lost her audience, or was yet again arrested by the cops; whichever came first.
Kathy’s short temper was, just like her scar, the source of many rumors. Schizophrenia. Abused as a child. Commercial failure in her artistic endeavors. Just plain crazy. The most popular theory was that she had originally auditioned for the role of Mrs. Huxtable on “The Cosby Show,” but lost out on the role to Phylicia Rashad, and that the rejection sent her over the edge; no one bothered to point out that that “The Cosby Show” was a predominantly African-American sitcom on which Kathy would have been clearly out of place. She would often claim that her “N”-shaped scar and apparent brain damage were related, the tragic result of a gangbang and mugging to which she fell victim in the early 1990s; whether or not this is true is still up for debate.
All that is known for certain is that approximately fifteen years ago, she stormed the streets of New Haven, searching for anyone who would hear her poetry recitals and offer her food or cash. Although her repertoire has hardly changed in fifteen years, she has staked a claim on the intersection of Elm and Chapel Streets, often accosting any other beggars that would invade her territory. People often wondered how much money she made through her performance art, as she had become a local celebrity and tourist trap of sorts, albeit one that was more often avoided for comfort’s sake. As her notoriety has grown, however, so has her pushiness: she tries, with great adamancy, to “charge” even more for her artistic endeavors, and only finds herself growing increasingly frustrated and disappointed. And of course, the rumors surrounding her situation have only grow more wild and rampant over time, and as her mental health slips further and further away, the lines between fact and fiction become increasingly more difficult to distinguish.

Sep. '06

car

The blue-tipped fire raged, clawing in every direction as it engulfed I-95 in its entirety, and stalked across the surrounding landscape. The flames leaped towards West Virginia, almost immediately consuming it and Ohio, with no remorse. David just stared, emotionless and speechless, choked up on tears and apathy. The light from the highbeams of his ’93 Toyota Camry flooded the parking lot, almost as if beckoning the arrival of angels to this desolate place. David knew he wouldn’t that lucky. Not on a day like this. The rustle and crunch of leaves to his left abruptly diverted his attention from the burning US Highway map in his hands. He knew what was to come, as a woman in a white dress approached him.
“Great,” she said. “Not only do you refuse to ask for directions, and you just burned our fucking map. Sweetheart, sometimes your penchant for dramatics really pisses me off, do you know that? This is a great fucking honeymoon…”
***
Dave blinked twice and sighed as his grande vanilla latte spilled over his hand and burned his crotch and stomach. He couldn’t even bring himself to move, let alone flinch. He was too concerned about his car to notice the brunette with those cute horn-rimmed glasses tapping incessantly at his window. Once her legs barraged his driver side door through those stiletto boots, however, he decided it might be time to act. Of course, as soon as he got out of the car, her heels caught him in the shin.
“What the hell, lady?” he whimpered in pain, doubled over and massaging his shin.
“Maybe you should have pulled your car all the way into the fucking space! Other people use this parking lot, pal, and we need room to drive! Asshole…you should be glad, I did this piece of shit Camry a favor by tearing off that ugly bumper.”
Dave stood up and sighed again. He looked to the rear of the car, deciding not to point out that he was completely in the spot, with three feet to spare. “Actually, I think that’s your bumper on the ground right there…” he said, pointing.
The woman turned and looked to the fallen bumper on the ground. She kicked David one more time in the shin, and walked back to her car.

April '06

The Last Hour of the Last Day

“You don’t have to do this, Val.” Henry had tried everything. For two weeks, he had bribed, negotiated, guilt-tripped, and begged, but it was all for naught. He had spent more time plotting and scheming through all the ways of convincing her to stay than he had actually working.
He found her at her desk around 4:30. It was a Friday, and most people left the office at 4:00 on Fridays anyway; Val always stuck around until 5:00. She had this strangely noble sense of self-righteous when it came to her work ethic, even on the weekends. Granted, Val spent much of that last hour talking with Henry, and didn’t actually get anything done, but that was beside the point. What was he going to do now, when she was gone? Who else would google co-workers with him? Who else could he talk to about the latest episode of Lost? Who else would listen to him complain about his wife’s cooking? All of the other forty-somethings in the office lacked personality, but not Val. As those two weeks waned on, Henry realized more and more that Val was an anchor of sanity for him: without her, he’d probably have gone postal by now.
“This is my dream, Hen…I’m never going to get a chance to do this again in my life. Even Corporate offered their support. Who knows, maybe I’ll make enough money to retire before I’m fifty…which I guess isn’t that big of accomplishment at this point…but see, that’s why I have to do it. I’ve never had an opportunity like this, and I probably never will again.”
“Maybe I can convince the boss to give you a raise, or something, and you can make just as much money here…”
Val laughed. Her laugh was warm and charismatic, its sound more than enough to remedy even the worst of days. And this would be the last time he’d ever hear it.
“Somehow I don’t quite think you have the clout for that, Mister. For God’s sake, no one’s going to listen to you when you’re wearing white socks.”
Henry smiled at the floor, and without lifting his head, offered Val a stack of self-addressed stamped envelopes, each containing two sheets of expensive stationery. “I figured…you could write to me. We could be like, pen pals. Only…older.”
Val smiled as she tried counting the envelopes. “You’ve got envelopes here for a year and then some, Hen!” She laughed again. Henry just blushed, and finally looked up at her with his half smile. “I might as well get a head start, then. I’m going to write you a letter right now.”
Val sat down at her desk and got to work. She still had fifteen minutes until 5:00.

April '06

Beginning Bleu

“I never got bleu cheese; I mean, I got it, on my salads and stuff, but I never quite understand the appeal of using mold to enhance the flavor of anything.”

March '06

Number Nine

Click. Armed. Or was it his arm? He could have sworn he felt the impact. Somehow, he knew just how it felt to be the hammer, with one chance to pound the metal casing and send a bullet to wherever bullets go. Sighing, as if he had exerted his own muscle power, the gun became an extension of his arm. Fire-arm. It was a part of him. They made a blood oath when he shot himself through the toe about an hour ago; he and his pistol, they were in this together, to the end. The cold steel texture of what was once a handle went numb, warmed and smoothed by the flesh and blood of his hand. The blood pumping through his veins now flowed through the grip, and finally into the chamber, fueling each bullet and preparing it for the long, perilous journey ahead. His heart was pumping faster and faster by the second to accommodate for the excess blood that he needed, although he was well aware that it might spill before it went to good use. The thought didn't bother him, however; soon enough, he'd be pumping lead faster than, well, a speed bullet. Fuck. It's hard to keep the Superman analogies coming when you know that you very well might die.
Ideas are bulletproof, he reminded himself. A single bullet starts a revolution. One hundred bullets start one hundred revolutions. Turntables usually run at forty-five revolutions per minute. That's almost half of one hundred. What am I doing? He counted the bullets in the chamber. Five shots. One went through my toe. They weren't kidding about this being a six-shooter, huh? A single bead of sweat fell from where his hand became the gun, landing right on the toe that he had shot an hour earlier. Leave it to me to salt my own goddamn wounds.
He breathed in deep, and checked his watch. 9:43am. Good time for an uprising.

Feb. '06

An Interaction

An Interaction

Hours may have passed since the whiskey started pouring down their throats; of course, it may have only been about ten minutes at this point for all he could remember. Everyone's had those kinds of nights. At present, he found himself walking through a strange, sterile hallway with a red-haired girl who had, at some point, wrapped her right arm around his waist. Her fingers crept under his shirt to touch the skin of his hips, which she massaged ever so softly. He groped for the walls, feeling his way along the freshly painted brick surface as he tried to straighten out his steps. Something by his upper thigh began to pulsate and vibrate in bursts, causing him to stutter step until he heard the familiar staccato beats of The Cars' "Just What I Needed," He fumbled through his pocket to find his phone, and stumbled away from the red-haired girl as he answered it; "It's my girlfriend," he said. "Hold on one second..."
And she did. She stood about a foot away from him, with a translucent glaze of lust and alcohol drowning her eyes. She smiled softly, showing just enough teeth to bite the left corner of her lips, and, keeping her hand below her hips, tugged his wrist to get him moving again. He started walking as the phone conversation ended, and she took his hand in hers to guide him along. Although he could hardly feel his nose or upper lip, he could feel each of her fingers sliding between each of his, until their hands interlocked, and the walk continued.
As they approached the elevator lobby, she took his hand in both of hers and dropped her neck into her shoulders. He fumbled for a moment before finding his footing on the wall beside the elevator door, and after several seconds could finally focus on her eyes. "So..." she began, allowing the 'o' to hang, "...do you want to take my number." He blinked his bloodshot eyes, paused, and removed his phone from his pocket once again. "Sure, sure," he slurred, searching through his phone to find the "New Entry" option. He swallowed hard, and asked, "What'd you say your name was, again?" Instantly, she dropped his hand, allowing it to slap loudly against his thigh as she straightened out her posture. The left corner of her lip that she had bitten only moments before was now curled upward. "Rachel." she muttered, as she reached behind her and pressed the "Call" button on the wall.

Oct. '06

Bad Scene, Everyone's Fault

With every passing chord and tone, David sinks more and more into the corner of the puke yellow floral couch beneath him. He swears his grandmother used to own the same couch; she may have actually owned this exact one at some point. It wouldn't surprise him at all. The couch smells of cigarettes and mildew, like a pair of rain-soaked jeans that were never properly hung up to dry. David presses himself more and more into the back and bottom cushions, knowing full well that the stench will stay on his clothes, though he tries to feign ignorance. Cathy sits beside him, although she is nearly a foot away at this point, and gradually moving farther as David keeps sinking. Her feet are planted firmly and squarely on the ground, and her body leans forward attentively. Her elbows rest on her knees and her hands support her heavy head, suddenly full of fantasies and dreams and alcohol. David looks towards her, hoping to catch her eye, but he cannot find it in the dim mood lighting of the room. The lone ceiling light is obscured from view by a store brought "Indian" tapestry that hangs like an inverted parachute below it, dulling the glow and tinting it with the colors of the cloth. The shards of light that escape are refracted through the smoke of cigarettes, and this somehow illuminates the room better than the ceiling light does itself. David can't help but notice the smell again.
The guy on the stool in the front of the room sweeps his hand across the face of his acoustic guitar, making sure to pick out each individual string; the guitar is a wooden blond color, with a few brownish and blackish scars, and a torn-out hole at the top of the body still fresh with splinters. He ends his song on a cruel minor chord and takes another drag from a cigarette. A quiet but passionate applause abruptly fills the room. Cathy looks over at David, and even though the lighting in the room is still mostly absent, he can see her face glowing. "That was incredible!" she whispers to him with a smile that shimmers subtly in the light of the cigarette smoke. "Don't you think?" Dave snaps out of his grumpy trance and sits up on the couch, mumbling some kind of affirmation to her. He opens his mouth to ask if her if she wants to leave the party, but he is interrupted by the howl of another sad, insincere song.
"And tonight," he sings with a whisper, "When I stop my car and look up at the sky..."-he holds the 'y' for far too long, poorly riffing on it-"...all that I see is your eyes." David starts to sink again, but holds himself steady as he watches Cathy's chest expand. She sighs heavily and allows her own posture to sink this time, rolling her shoulders. She moves her right hand from her chin to the cushion of the couch where David's hand sat before, and shifts the weight of her head to her left hand. Her fingers stroke cushions and her hand fumbles and fidgets like a boy on a bad date.
When David finally notices her hand, it is spread out like an embroidered, off-white flower on the otherwise grotesque 1970s upholstery. He wants to reach out and touch it, but not here. He watches as she taps her fingers in triplets with the music, and thinks about how much better it would make this song to have Cathy playing finger cymbals. The thought of this makes him laugh out loud, and the whole room, full of otherwise silent and attentive patrons, shoot bullet stares in his direction. He tries to dodge them, but he can't escape his corner of the couch in time.
During the applause for the latest song, David sits up, and Cathy finally turns her attention to him. He places his right hand on her right knee, and says, "I'm gonna go grab another beer, you want one?" In his head, he acknowledges his terrible decision, but hopes it doesn't show in his face.
"I'll be okay, I'm just gonna watch this guy play for a little longer," she responds. David nods twice, pats her knee, and gets up and walks to the kitchen. He takes a can of beer out of the fridge, and drinks it alone. The kitchen is just as crowded as the living room was, but David just leans against the stove and keeps to himself. No one gives him a passing thought, until the smell of gas begins to fill the room. One by one, every head turns in his direction, and David, oblivious, keeps drinking his beer. A minute passes by, and then two, and the odor finally breaks through the congestion in his nose. He jumps up when the realization hits, and when he looks down at the stove, notices that he had turned the gas on. He finishes his beer, and turns the dial off again. As he faces back to the crowd, all he can do is wave and yelp, "Sorry! Sorry about that!" on his way out of the kitchen.
As David re-enters the living room, he notices Cathy conversing with the guy who had just been playing guitar; he has usurped David's couch corner throne, but he does not slouch or sink like David did. He crushes the can of beer in his hand and lets hit the floor as he heads back to the kitchen for another. Cathy sees him turn away, and jumps up from the couch to see what is wrong. She takes two steps and stops herself. He's just getting another beer, she thinks to herself as she sits back down on the couch. This party's really great after all!

Nov. '06