Music has never held me. Instead of instigating a feeling, I think it becomes a substitute for one. An emotional crutch we latch on to, and use to limp through new experiences with phantom limbs that aren’t missing. Injuries and cuts opened on a stereo or dance floor, lyrics hummed along because they are remembered, and what masochist doesn’t like a little salt in their wounds?
“Ohhhhhhh my God! Remember Justin!? This was Justin’s song,” She said, fumbling a Malibu between her fingers and awkward dance moves.
A lull goes over the eyes and her head hangs while the rest of her body doesn’t, a one way trip down misery lane to whoever this Justin is or was.
And I can’t relate. There can be a song playing in the bar or my car radio, but it doesn’t ever remind me of someone specifically. Instead, I’m flung back to that narrow stretch from when I first heard it, fully equipped with all the baggage of that era. Mr. Jones and me danced silence down to the morning, counting pigeons from my window sill and wondering what strange and amazing people my young heart had yet to meet. Swiped left on the wrong people and my twenties stumbled me into a Boulevard of Broken Dreams. Haunting delis and libraries for any beer or book that might be a means of escape. So brash and full of myself, but empty, like a silhouette. Trying to find who I was, not realizing I’d always been him.
“I hope he’s alright,” She said. “I haven’t seen in him since February.”
Then I met May in June, and my Springsteen started in July. Nothing but a Hungry Heart living out his Glory Days, champagne out of wine glasses and half-assed attempts at the adult version of being romantic on a college budget. Ten dollar bottles of wine and Save Tonight on repeat. Lost my virginity to Buddy Holly in Sara’s basement that one Summer, the same one You Give Love A Bad Name became an anthem and self explanatory. Learned about lust and the sweet pangs of loving someone from a distance, so the rest of that year I took a incredible joy in destroying myself with drugs and sex over and over again.
“You know he sang this to me at Crissy’s birthday party, right?”
So music doesn’t do it for me. It’s terrible, a conceited self reflection we’ve all decided to be alright with. Regrets made public with a chorus you can scream in a room full of strangers without appearing all too crazy. Much better than the alternative, having to face and put to words the way someone once made you feel. Skip the song, put away the salt and show your wounds and bruises. Explain just how you got them, even if they aren’t finished healing.
“Do you miss him?” I asked, opening the subject.
“Fuck that asshole,” She said flatly.
And kept dancing along to the music.
Heaven is hell-bent,
misshapen sanctuary of senile.
Men make sinners out of love,
sibyls from devils and saints out of
air. The clever pray for deliverance
in a cup, Gods nectar and wheat’s bounty;
bitter-sweet ambrosia by the barrel;
His holy bottled excellence.
A nightly Immortality.
Our hero marches, his voyage soft
to the song of chirping sirens.
Dear deacon of the deli, bringer of
my bread and sacrilege. Clandestine
clerk who offers passage to His hazy
river Styx, in brown paper bags and
long side glances that confess
disbelief a 2AM pilgrimage can wait
for the sacrament of home. Two coins
short and Charon grims, no ferry waits
for those when his toll has gone unpaid.
Our hero cautions his voice to balm,
cold and hooded ears who would deny them.
Forgive me Ahmed, for I am dimmed.
Sweet Gods of Hell and mercy,
grant me light and credit
that I may learn peace and pass
this dark and grim abyss,
to far and pleasant lands
where one dreams and is awake.
Our hero fallen, his journey lost
to the oarmen’s long and awful silence.
His cleric nods, Go-Then, take it, bid farewell,
but Heaven has no room for cleverness.
This world is a loan to be repaid,
and I will you see you once again
with a stone at your back
and Hell at your heels.
Our hero sombers on, his voyage back home safe,
with bags of ambrosia, pockets full of coins,
and the hidden smile
of Sisyphus son.
Her kisses are the perfect reason to stay in bed,
bar the door, close the windows and
drown out the world with our favorite shows on Netflix
and casual substance abuses.
She’s dangerous, holes in her pj’s and Medusa in her hair
while she’s changing a vapor and
complaining about her sister.
On weekdays I’m on a stay-cation,
babysitting beers and cursing at the idiots
Neck deep in her neck, finger ready
on the pulse of a curve I know is a trigger.
And in my heart of hearts, I think,
this is the perfect family.
(Until we actually had one.)
So many feelings come trumpeting
when I delude myself to
thinking what I do is best for everyone.
I am guilty of being terrible
at myself. What are the nouns?
Answers text messages,
Always Likes Your Selfies,
Answers text messages and
I run out of synonyms and chances
to make matters better because
I am a small time monster
the little chances I get
to prove otherwise.
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” She said. “I’m sorry for making you feel as if you did.”
I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling. I wonder how strangers do it, and wince at their ability to feign interest or sadness with a sort of quiet mix of pity and admiration. It takes talent to appear good without being so, damn what Plato said, and I wish I could pretend to care about the excessive acclaim people place on their trivial and self made problems.
“It’s been a hard week. A lot’s been going on,”
Be kind, I’ve heard it said, because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.
“I’ve been drinking too much and trying to figure this out. I didn’t want anybody to see me like this.”
But some fights weigh heavier than others. Try whining about your boss or cell phone coverage and see how much Atlas shrugs.
“He destroyed my whole apartment, Noel.”
The way she says my name is devastating, leaves me aching and reaching for her like that first cigarette after work. I’ve read that saying a persons name for emphasis is a social trick, how we’re conditioned to turn our heads and attention, listen closely to whoever utters it. Who must obviously know and acknowledge us, and by extension, deserves the same.
“I’m sorry, I haven’t even asked. How are you?”
I’ve never been a fan of emotional cons, and I know all about Pavlov’s dogs. Lucky for me, I’ve always been more of a cat person. You might say my name a hundred times but I won’t so much as look at you until I absolutely feel like it.
“My aunt died but I couldn’t make it to the funeral, and I can’t figure out if I should quit my job or not. Shrug life, I guess.” I said, because comedic deflection is kind of my specialty.
She pauses on the phone and makes an audible sigh, a sign that she’s internalizing what’s been presented. The next words out of her mouth I know are I’m-So-Sorry, but, I wonder, is she really? Staring at the door frame he’s torn down for the fourth time. Her mind racing to make excuses and justifications I won’t bother to pay much mind to.
“Its been hard for both of us,” Is all she said. “How are we going to get over it.”
And in the background I hear a click of a mousepad, and I imagine its probably for the number to the locksmith she always forgets.
I can never kind of. My heart is so often in a space of obsessive dedication or completely bankrupt of a feeling.
To be between her and a failing marriage is a place I’m all but unfamiliar to. My All-Or-Nothing is something of a gift and a curse that way. How many relationship hang ups have I profited of? How many times have I felt the thighs of disatisfied army wives only looking for a shoulder and bit of understanding? Enough for me to realize I am no Casanova or protagonist, but a short escape for those with nothing to lose, twisted hearts, and a bit of time on their hands.
“I guess we’ll figure it out, Kate.” I said.
Because who doesn’t love a game of cat and mouse.
“A little early for you to call…I’m scared to ask, are you drunk?” She said.
“First of all time is a human construct, secondly it’s got to be happy hour somewhere, and lastly no I’m not.”
I lack the grace to remain kind in cruel situations. When I was five there was a lizard collapsed on the walkway of our front porch. A tiny, wounded, almost lifeless thing with black spots across its back that didn’t dart or scatter away as the other lizards usually would. I knelt down to take a closer look and saw something wet was beginning to dry on the pavement right below it, the small, spotted sides expanding and contracting the closer my body came as I waved the flies away. Two large and helpless eyes staring back at me, desperate and panicked, a strange green liquid that seemed to leak from everywhere around it.
“I don’t believe you, but hi.”
“Hi! Thanks for not asking how my weekend was. Fucking annoying, when people ask questions that don’t really mean anything and it’s just filler when they can’t think of anything to say. You know what I mean?”
I felt sad watching it, and while I don’t think I understood exactly what was happening, I had an idea. As far as an idea can go. Pain is something we can identify, even at an early age, but can only ever understand within the context of ourselves. Through experience. How often do we disregard the warnings of our parents and predecessors because, well, fuck them, and what the hell do they know?-aside from more than us. And fire is hot, sure, but how well is that really known until you burn your finger and it stings for hours no matter how long you run cold water on it? There is empathy, I guess. Being sensitive to the aches and torment of someone other than yourself requires an incredible and noble kind of intelligence. But…just how far does empathy really go, or matter? I imagine it means little, that beautiful understanding, to the sheep and lambs put out to slaughter, bleeding to death or eaten alive.
“…you don’t, but that’s fine.” I said, after silence was my only answer. “Anyway how’s your father doing?” .
My mother called from the car, and thoughtlessly I stood and ran towards her. I sat in the backseat staring into the walkway where the flies grew brave and began to cover around a very specific spot. Two crows came down to the very place I was kneeling, and as the car drove off, all I could see was their violent pecking at the pavement with their long, black, terrible beaks. What I could have done for him, the only thing I think could have eased the pain and suffering of that lizard, still haunts me.
“He died last week,” She said.
People watching is my hobby, a fact I don’t like to admit from how badly it’s been bastardized. It’s quoted too often along any jaded tween with a blog and wannabe intellectuals trying desperately to seem…well, like intellectuals. It’s another one of those things in life that get ruined by other people, like Nickelback, having children, or long walks on the beach. Things are pretty okay but get beaten down to not meaning anything from every sonogram on Instagram and pure over-usage on the internet. And I’m a terrible critic, because even I’m guilty of what I hate to see in others. I know that. But being a hypocrite doesn’t stop something from being any less true.
Sometimes when I get bored enough to get on OkStupid I like to spot the try-hard, filtering through the hipsters in poetic poses that may as well be memes (those lattes and black and white filters aren’t fooling anyone buddy.) The type to trite and go on and on about conformity, then go quoting Charles Bukowski or Simone de Beauvoir on their profile. Idiots that have never taken a long and terrible look at themselves, but took that one poetry or writing class in college so say they love things like “eating the rich” and people watching.
But I do love it, secretly, which makes it all the better. When I’m roaming through The Barclays Center, watching over all those groups and cliques spilling out onto the peninsula of Atlantic and Flatbush Avenue. Huddled by the fives and twos in the aftermath of basketball games and Soulfrito Wednesdays, a thousand bodies and voices struggling against themselves. I’ll post up on a lamp-post pretending to look at my phone, ogling the sea of strangers as they meander on their way to bars, a friends house, cabs, or long train rides home. Some of them hang back, light cigarettes or huddle in tribal-like little circles, and their cell phone glares are the camp fire. And here, when they’re a few drinks in and the rowdiness of themselves, is where I see it.
Those moments of pure, unfiltered delight and satisfaction I can only catch glimpses of in strangers. As their lips part ways and a softness dawns on the creases of their eyes. A man in a Clippers jersey leans his head back against a pole hes leaning on and smiles at a girl like she’s the first one to make the Earth turn in years. It’s magic, and I’ve only ever witnessed it from a distance.
Perhaps I am too critical, but up close I can see the faults in smiles and so-called friends. The angles and lingering after-thoughts when they’re laughing at my jokes. There is a moment, some subtle hint and tell of where their hearts and expectations are going or have gone. But in a stranger there is no presupposition, no background, no history of abandonment and unanswered text messages when it was 5AM, and by God, I just really needed you to be there. There is only the parting of the lips, the sunlight in their eyes, and the mammoth thought stomping across my mind that maybe I have never truly experienced the soft intimacy of a friend.
Or maybe the grass is only greener because I haven’t had the chance to go to the other side and shit on it.
My favorite color is orange and I look terrible in it.
I like the brightly colored type ones, so when I walk in public I get mistaken for a convict or traffic cone. They laugh, with or at me, which to be honest is the same thing. There’s only a six degree difference between what I believe and what everyone else has thought of me. Mistaken daemons I try desperately to ghost and live up to.
Tis the season- summer makes me hunger for what I like to eat. Great Gatsby and summer novel novelties, a couple glasses of wine stained status updates and I’m suddenly a habit. Called between the off hours of 10 and 12, not quite late enough to be desperate, not nearly early enough to take serious.
I let my phone ring like the jingle of my car keys. Riding hot like that chick with red riding hood, only my basket is full of opiodes and hashtags and I haven’t spoken to my grandma since they shot Tupac. Not so hot of a topic. Don’t lie like that t-shirt doesn’t make a real thing like self sacrifice seem awesome when it’s pleated. Making an ass of martyr’s, but damn, it looks good.
Che Guevera would have hated us, but I like the way you look terrible in it.
You know there’s little to love. Just an open palm waiting to hold yours on those Tuesdays you might just tell your boss that speech you’ve been rehearsing for years. Chinese takeout sprawled on the coffee table, crowded boxes around cheap dollar bargain candles makes them tower like the buildings in midtown. Like your living room houses a whole world in a miniature city.
Her picture is there next to yours and the stark contrast is blatant. She is bright and always leaning, her still smile moving like the wane of a wax stick. Yours is reserved, meaning but trying not to. A little sadness dampened in the twilight of your eyes and crows feet.
“It’s too hot for movies about fish,” She whined at The Shape of Water.
Your apartment always had open windows because air conditioners are fucking expensive. And our generation may be complacent with all the opportunities available, never having to have had walk ten miles barefoot to get to school, but when the WiFi is down and the housing market crashes- we make do.
“Run a cold shower,” You said, always the pragmatist. Incapable to see any conversation as anything other than a back forth of searching for solutions. Ever the architect, building systems wherever there’s a hint of chaos or dissatiafaction.
She loves and hates that about you and does this thing when shes had enough- throws her arms in the air and lets the wind take her. Stage falls stage left to the sweaty elbow sofa, groans as of she’s been shot or generally tired of your shit.
“We could get an AC?” You said, softly kissing the hole in her basketball shorts that are actually yours. “Think of all the energy we’d waste and hard working children in China we’d be supporting.”
“Goddamn commies,” She chides, tracing a shape on the wooden floor her top half dangles from the sofa.
She is afraid of conflict but likes hunger games, to play the satire of being awful knowing you obviously mean otherwise. The third and final girl you’ll ever love, which is a good thing. The feeling wasn’t as stupidly hot blooded as the first, careless as the second, or hopelessly astray as the little ones whose name you pretend not to remember in between. That was the year you peaked, emotionally; your very own golden age and platinum summer.
She took you to the beaches in Guatemala and you learned how much you enjoy lazing away in the sun with a good book local hand-rolled cigarettes. You dragged her to Amsterdam, the south street seaport docks and all your other dark and lonely haunts. It was a confession of sorts, somebody else had to see all the terrible places you’d been, even if you only told her some of the stories behind the monuments of your misdeeds. She commented how they all had one commonality, one motif. They were somber places that made her reflective, made her think. And you felt better about your past because of her, because maybe that’s the why behind all those bar fights and 4 am wanderings. Instead of mischief and a terrible sense of not belonging anywhere.
“I want a picture of you,” she said. So you flipped the camera on your smartphone, crossed your eyes as best you could and hit send. She laughed.
“No, a real one. Something to write your name, the date, and how you make me feel on the back of it.”
Slowly slipping into the smooth routine of duality- two worlds, one small Manhattan apartment, a twin xl mattress and the kind of sex you will eventually only remember fondly and never masturbate to. You couldn’t, there were too many feelings mixed in those concoctions to derive solely pleasure from. Her picture no longer on the coffee table, but high on its pedestal above the refrigerator. The death of her father looming in the tresses of that bold and endless Summer. When you couldn’t bare the weight of her sadness while on the verge of reconciling yours. And so you retreated, as you always do. Not to the beaches but those dark, familiar, and terrible haunts. Because the ruin you know is safer than the one you don’t.
“What do I get out of it?” You asked.
“My satisfaction,” She replied.
And you were more the type to find another job than quit dramatically anyway.
“Sounds like communism.”
Cc: HR; Jack Stiller;
Bcc: YourMom; WhyHaventIQuitThisJob
Subject: RE: Security Staffing Issues Update
Good morning Margaret.
As per our discussion, I’ve reached out to the upper management of Secure Staffing Inc. I had a lengthy discussion with their senior manager Greg Philmoore, who voiced some concerns regarding our decision to relocate one security guard from our secondary school location. He divulged feelings that this was done out of spite, and referenced what I can only describe as a ‘vague friction’ between The Academy School and Secure Staffing Inc.
In addition, he said this was very much a bitch move, which went directly against an earlier conversation I was not a part of. In fact, I wasn’t a part of any of the conversations until now, as I stumble to pick up the pieces to a mess you’ve left behind to attend your daughters recital concert. While I smoked a cigarette and listened to Greg’s incessant whining our employee-client relation, a part of me kept wondering how the hell this was my problem. There was a circle tar of gum pasted onto the sidewalk, and for a moment I felt a terrible connection between myself and that black blotch on the floor. You see, that glued and trampled dot was once something pristine- sitting neatly in a wrapper, complete and minding it’s business on some shelf or deli counter in upper west side Manhattan. Perfectly made. Whole. Un-bothered by the world and all it’s problems. Just as I was, before this job. I used to go to the gym on Wednesdays and call my friends to see how they were doing. Occasionally I would even have sex. And now I’m melded into this 9 to 9 job, endlessly answering e-mails that keep popping up like weeds or your mistakes. Marooned in Microsoft Outlook, stranded in half assed meetings about meetings that amount to nothing. Sealed in necessity and welded to the sun.
I explained to Greg this was not the case, and that this decision was in no way done to go around his authority, but rather, was in collusion with our ideals of “School First.” Management came together to assess how we can best support our vision, and after careful deliberation, this was decided to be the best alternative.
Which is some cult shit, really. Why would I ever possibly put you strangers above myself? I’ve got a family, friends and growing nephews that need me, and I need them, much more than this false-family-narrative you’re trying to spin. Why does a job even have to be more than a paycheck? When did being good at a job not become enough? What kind of lunatic doesn’t work for his pay, but because he wants to be there? We aren’t artist, we’re talking deskjobs and dealing with other peoples gross children. It’s a brand of psychological slavery I can pretend to go along with, but laugh tragically over as I’m getting plastered in my condo Monday through Thursday. The stupid, arrogant naivety of it all. Trying to force a man to forsake himself for the sake of establishing a “job culture.” You’re tools, all of you, trying to make a wrench out of me. But I’ve been sharpening my resume along with every fake smile.
In conclusion, I believe a best practice would be to be more honest as to why we’re here; understand that what we’re asking for is unreasonable. The Academy School and Secure Staffing are not places we should aspire to, just names and LLC’s trying to make us think we owe them something. We should do our best to be better people, and a better person doesn’t succumb to cultural brainwashing. He or she should work hard because that’s what they’re paid to, and working hard doesn’t require the buy-in of pretending their job is a family. It only needs a decent pay, sincerity, and you handling your own damn problems so that I don’t have to.
Also, your daughters shit at the flute.
The Academy Schools
8042 Netherland Boulevard
New York, NY 10033
PS – I quit.
Even when I’m not a vagrant there are days I get the taste of gin and cinders on my tongue again. Waking up skeletal, bare as bone, with nothing but a name. Veins poking from a sleeve, revealing what I’m made of, like wires from old headphones you get ashamed to pull out in public. Some days leave me feeling ends-less, frigid and grey as the clouds I’m blowing smoke circles at from the balcony of my house. The air feels wet, the grass shimmers just a little greener, and as I take a breath I’m thrown to somewhere that isn’t here. Smell, they say, is most directly linked to memory, so there must been a scent of the early 2000’s perspiring in the grass of Trump’s America.
I was nostalgic, I guess. Remiss of the past, the way a particular type of weather reminds you of that time in third grade when it was raining, the day you saw Samantha scrape her knee in the PS 143 playground. A gash so long you couldn’t tell where it began or ended. You can’t even remember what it looked like, just the sensation of black tar and plasma. And while some kids ran for the nurse she just sat there, no crying, not shedding a damn tear, staring into that cut the way adults look at sunsets or somebody they used love. Almost hopeful, like waiting long enough might make something jump out of all that velvet. Make it more than just colors and blood.
I think that’s when it started for us, really. Fifth grade, Ms. Turmiski’s class. She made an impact on me that day, and no matter where she sat I had my eyes on her ever since. Even if she was in another room. Feelings I denied vehemently until sexuality amplified too high to be tucked away in an Ew-Girls. Samantha had came back from Summer damn near 5’5, towered above the rest of us with her home-cut bobbed hair and thick black rimmed glasses (before that fad came in, you hacks.) The only girl in class who had a binder when all the rest of us were early-primming into drawstring Nike bags and spiral notebooks. Come junior high she started keeping a deck of cards on the sleeves, and I’d make it a point to always sit across from her on the other team when we played spade or casino. Took the usual route of juvenile affections, found it easier to make her an enemy than admit her face made me want to do things with her I didn’t understand yet. Bluffed through boyfriends like Troy, Elijah, and Anthony like a champ. Fake-It-Til-You-Can’t-Take-It was the name of the game, and I was good.
Kept it cool until that one long walk home Sophmore year, hit a slump I couldn’t manage to flash a smile and hump over. Told her what I always felt, even mentioned that thing about her knee in fifth grade, and she said “I always knew, dummy.” Kissed me on the corner of Taylor Avenue, deli lights flashing above our stupid little heads. A world on the verge of conquering us at sixteen, and a universe of intimacy opening the floodgates. Going at it like jackrabbits and a lot of arguments over silly things. I wanted to make the world laugh, and she wanted me to study and make something out of me. She had kisses made of phosphene, I still remember the way her lips against mine would make my head melt. The only girl I ever suffered the dilemma – kiss her, and feel that bliss of touch and sexuality, but miss out on all the lovely things she could have said.
“i want to see your face. send me a photo.”
Her text read at four in the morning, and so I did.
“no. a real one. something I can hold and write your name.
scribble the date and the way you make me feel on.”
Her love was comforting, the way a light from another room is when you’re trying to fall asleep but afraid of the dark. Or yourself. When I couldn’t bare to go down a street because it looked so lonely, she’d remind me what I was scared of wasn’t outside. But in. And I loved her terribly, but only in retrospect. Spent more time dreary eyed with the boys on Amsterdam when I should have been watching Samantha color code her study binders. A realization I wasn’t able to see or understand until long after it happened, and honestly, only because it was gone. Like suddenly missing a limb or finger, or admitting you were an asshole to somebody that didn’t deserve it. There’s a learning curve to gratitude and I was on the verge of overcoming the anchor line. Which is no excuse, I guess. Hindsight is 20-20 and not having regrets just means having things you haven’t thought of enough yet.
“So just like that, you’d leave New York,” I said. Unable to admit by ‘New York’ I meant me.
“It’s a scholarship. Why wouldn’t I?” She said.
And I think we could have made it work, past the slammed doors and distance. Rebuilding trust from where there was none over jokes I shouldn’t be making. Six month breaks that break easy over the holidays, and all the blood we’ve tried to draw from one another wiped clean with something as simple as an I-Miss-You text. Enough distance that makes us wonder what we were so angry about anyway, two weekends into Lets-Just-Be-Friends that ends the moment we notice its 5 am and the bar is closing. Goodbyes and lonely train rides home that turn the world into a stranger, that make us pull the breaks and reverse into each other. Is it still falling if its the fifth time in love? Why are we so surprised to be veering off the side of the road because Why-The-Fuck-Does-Everything-Have-To-Be-A-Joke-With-You? A phone call slammed, and I don’t call back, because I’m tired and her birthday is right around the corner. I’ll take six months off before I start rolling the boulder of our love up over and over again, like Sisyphus. Glossing over our past in grey, summer weather. Sitting there not shedding a damn tear, staring at the sunrise like somebody I used to love. Hopeful, like waiting long enough might make something jump out of all that rosy velvet. Make it more than just the colors and blood we shed to each other.
That kind of chemistry can become exhausting, so her walking out for good was a victory, really.
Even if it doesn’t feel like it.
Not much to show for the boys who grew up the way I did. Juveniles only in it for the thrills, no arrest record, money piles or illegitimate children this side east of the Hudson. All we’ve got to show for broken windows and slammed doors are vague drug-laced memories and Instagram photos. (Profile private, because we did it for us, not the for the likes.)
Ivan’s doing pretty alright last I checked. Moved in with a thick thighed prize this past Spring. I could tell he was in love because the club pics started coming in less and less, replaced with vacation snaps with Lo-Fi filters and her big hair on that thin body waving like the palm trees behind them. I like to see my people doing well, even if it isn’t with me. The last time I tried to get Ive on a plane he called out broke, then bought the Pathfinder he’s been shining on ever since. Caught an attitude when me and the boys mentioned all the Island-Girls he missed. Said a bunch of guys going overseas is some…well, let’s just say he didn’t agree.
I think it takes a woman to make a man do all the things he’s afraid to. Peer pressure has never put someone they don’t want to be. We’re cowards, really. Crowded around a blunt, six pack, video game or sports bullshit. Children wrestling in verbal warfare with manhood and ourselves. Too silly to be serious. It takes a woman to make a man do things he isn’t prepared to. Crimes of passion are just another way of saying Her-Sex-Was-Good-Enough-To-Make-Him-Do-That.
Joe’s struggling with a baby and a mortgage, same man that swore any girl trying to tie him down better have some strong ass rope. I like his son, David, for weird reasons. Nothing special about the little herb, but he’s the first born of our generation. When I see him chasing fireworks I wonder if he’ll chase lows the way we did. Monkey room looming with too much hookah in our system. Fistfights and Miller Lights coursing through our blood. Dangerous as bulls, hungry, like wolves. Amsterdam avenue thugging, but not really. The college boys were afraid of us being the darkest thing besides the sofas or bouncers. We just needed somewhere to wander until the night or some girls bed could cool our blood.
Not much to show for the boys who grew up the way I did. Just pockets full of memories and the good kind of regret.