Haiku on Insomnia

February 20, 2009

The insomniac

Dreams only in fantasies

While the whole world sleeps

Dmitri The Sheep

February 4, 2009

Dmitri stands
four inches tall
sending me
good thoughts
from my bedside table
His thoughts
are brief
introspective
and to the
point
“Leave”
his eyes say
like the desperate
repeating eyes
on an abandoned
roll of
photo booth snapshots
“Leave”
says the toy sheep
never having left
my table
“Leave”
says the tiny muse
of wander lust
He is the phone call
I will not make
telling friends
and family
I’m leaving
He is the train ticket
I will not look at
but go
wherever
it takes me
He is the reason
I can hate work
I can hate my life
I can hate my friends
“Leave”
he says
with his frozen mouth
sending shivers
through me
like the death rattle
of a sinking ship
“Leave”
he says
like
tortured notes
of a silent
raging
orchestra
“Leave”
he says
“and never come back”

© 2007-2009, Nick Rester All rights reserved.

Snapshot

October 26, 2008

“I’m not ready for this to end, I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“I don’t want to wake up.”

I watch her above me in that dark bus, the passing street lamps lighting her face, broken in time like flashes in a photo booth. Fey takes my hand in hers and starts to write something, biting her lip as she digs the pen into my hand. She pulls out her hand from a glove with the fingers cut off and puts it on my hand, “never look at what I drew.”

The bus stops, she can’t stop crying. Her green eyes search mine, looking for something I can tell her to make her feel like this isn’t just a dream.

“I’ll see you again” I tell her with uncertainty and hold the back of her neck. Her lips meet mine and I feel myself realizing that this is the last time I’ll feel love. The lights in the bus turn on, people start getting their things. Fey’s friend grabs her sleeve and pulls on it, “come on we have to go.”

“Wait” Fey says and grabs her purse. She pulls out a Polaroid camera and takes my picture. She kisses me one last time and she’s gone.

I watch her on the sidewalk, her brown hair a mess in the wind. She’s holding herself. I know she feels loneliness for the first time just like I do. She mouths the words, “I love” and the bus drives away.

I’m sitting in the freezer section of White’s Grocery, staring at the pears which are also sweating. An old guy with the name tag “Shane” pushes a mop by. I keep telling myself that I’m here in Aliceville, Kansas for a funeral. An open casket funeral and I’ve never seen a dead person before. But what I’m focusing on more is that I haven’t seen my older sister Sarah in forever. And now not only do I have to see a dead person, but also her for the first time in six years.

I buy a Sprite and stand outside on the curb watching for my taxi. I count the shopping carts that wheel by aimlessly, without an owner, wandering the empty parking lot like ships on an asphalt sea.

I picture what Sarah would say right now. She’d laugh and ask me if I remembered staying up past midnight watching cartoons and talking about everything and nothing at the same time. The playground downtown that no one ever went to except for us. Graduations. After school, all the nights we stayed up late talking on the phone about our problems long distance. At the time we seemed to be the only ones either of us needed. She was the only one I ever told about Fey. The only one that seemed to understand. She’d tell me that she died too young. She’d ask me if I remembered her at all. I don’t.

The taxi pulls up and I get in. Looking at the crumpled receipt with the address of the funeral home on the back I tell the driver where it is. He tells me that it’s in the middle of nowhere. The drive is long and hot on faux leather seats. I spend most of the time staring out the window at the plain country of nowhere. We get there in the afternoon. The funeral home is a small white building, the paint old and crumpling. I can tell that it used to be someone’s house, they had converted it. Broken steps lead up to the door, Christmas decorations from whenever hang for eternity on the frame. The door is wide open and the sound of fans can be heard from inside. The floor is sun stained linoleum, cracked in the middle, the cracks spreading to the carpet. People stand around a table of food, some walk up and down the aisle in the living room to the coffin. I don’t even look in that direction.

People I don’t know. People I’ve never met. I shouldn’t even be here. My sister had six years to start her life over and she probably didn’t think of me once. I take a seat in the living room, I don’t look at the coffin. A man in a collared shirt walks up to the podium and starts giving the eulogy. I can’t listen to this shit.

Upstairs is more quiet than the mess of strangers downstairs. I wash my face and stare at the bottles of Burma shave.

“So I guess I ask now if you’re not one for funerals.”

I turn, a girl in her late 20’s, short black hair with her hands in her pockets stares me down in the doorway.

“Yeah” I say “I don’t really know anyone down there.”

“How did you know Sarah?”

I pause, “Just a friend.”

She looks at me cockeyed, “you don’t sound like you’re from around here, you must have come quite a ways just for a friend.”

“You don’t sound like you’re very Kansas yourself. How did you know her?”

“Just a friend.” she says, and smiles, “do you work?”

“No, just got out of college really.”

“Girlfriend?”

“I’m married” I smirk.

“Kids?”

“Lots.” I say

She taps her black stiletto heeled shoes, “so do you mind?”

“What?”

She motions with her little finger towards the bathroom.

“Oh, yeah. Well, I should get downstairs” I say

She smiles, nods and closes the door behind me.

Most of the people have already left when I go down. Since mom and dad died two years ago, no one felt the need to stay and comfort anyone. I make my way to the kitchen and steal a bottle of Chianti someone had brought as a gift. I drink from the bottle and make my way into the living room. It’s silent except for the unbearable hum of 50’s fans.

Somewhere in my mind I still think this is a joke. No way can my sister, whose old photos decorate our parent’s house be lying in this dilapidated funeral parlor. She hasn’t sat still one moment of her life. I tell myself that I’ll walk down this aisle and see that it isn’t her it’s the wrong person, I’m at someone else’s funeral. I tell myself I’ll apologize and leave. I tell myself that my sister is alive and rebelling against something somewhere. Sarah is starting her career as a journalist in some foreign country. She is engaged to be married right now and she’s calling me to tell me. She’s going to tell me that everything is okay and we need to get together soon to catch up on all the time lost. Life is everything she’d expect it would be and she didn’t waste her life in school. She didn’t waste her life writing. We’ll laugh about this some day, I tell myself.

I stare at her small body in that violet dress, eyes closed. Six years older and dead. All I can do is stare. I feel like apologizing, I feel like saying sorry to someone, anyone. I am so fucking sorry. These people were here for you and I feel like a total stranger. Maybe I never knew you Sarah.

Then I see it, something written on her arm. I reach, softly pulling her sleeve up. Right there, in the empty living room, in front of her coffin I begin to cry. A tattoo of my name.

I leave the bottle and walk outside. I sit on the broken steps and stare out at the emptiness of Kansas. The girl from the bathroom sits down next to me, waving her face with a playbill.

“You drove?” she asks.

I look up, tears in my eyes. “Taxi” I say.

She rummages in her breast pocket and pulls out a pack of Marlboro, she offers me one.

I motion no.

“Where are you headed after this?” she asks

“I don’t know” I say, looking at my shoes “I was going to take a train to New York.”

“When?”

“I don’t know” I say

“I hate indecisive people. You have an idea, do you not?”

I stand up and start walking down the road.

“Sure you don’t want a cigarette?”

I whip around, “I’m really not in the mood to explain myself, or better yet tell you why my personality lacks decisiveness. It was great meeting you. And no I don’t want a god damn cigarette.”

“How about a drink then?”

I ignore her and keep walking.

Her voice is soft now in the wind, “not even for Fey?”

I stop walking. The girl walks over to me, playbill under her arm. “I’m Rebecca.” she says, and reaches out to shake my hand.

“How did you know Fey?” I say, not shaking her hand.

“I was your sister’s room mate for four years, she told me all about her. How she was the only girl you felt that you ever loved. You met her while you were a transfer student in Quebec, the last time you saw her was in New York. Going to New York by train? That’s very cute.” she says, and puts out her cigarette.

I can feel my face go cold, “it’s terribly cute.”

“And by the way, Sarah wouldn’t be very happy right now if she knew you didn’t tell me you were her brother on the day of her funeral.” she says.

“I’m a horrible person.”

Rebecca sighs, “we tracked her down” she says

“What?”

“We found Fey. It took us two years of searching the New York phone books, placing search ads, calling everyone of your high school friends” she laughs.

“Why did you do this?”

“It became our little obsession. It pretty much consumed our lives for a couple of years.”

“You cared that much about this girl?”

“Not about her, dammit. I know you don’t know how much you meant to your sister.” she says.

Rebecca digs through her purse, “also, she left you some things you have to remind me to give you.”

“What did she say? I mean, when you found her?”

“We met her in Phili, I mean, that was pretty much a halfway between our college and hers. Anyway, we had coffee. She’s beautiful and funny and I can completely see why you wasted your life longing for her.”

“I didn’t.”

She crosses her arms and stares at me like I’m her kid.

“Did she say anything about me? Does she have a boyfriend? Did she move on?” I say all at once.

Rebecca laughs, “She did have a boyfriend at the time. She did remember you, she made it very clear to not tell you anything about her, but give you this.”

She pulls something out. Something old and wrinkled and worn by the sun. Something that looks so familiar yet I wouldn’t have thought I’d ever see it again.

“Do you know how long I’ve had this in my purse?” She hands me this folded thing, and I open it. A Polaroid picture. Me, staring back at myself from years ago, tears on my neck, a hand holding mine. The only relic to a past that I can’t let go of. My eyes large and wet, smiling like that moment would never end. I turn the picture over and read in blotted green ink “you.”

I’m silent most of the way to Rebecca’s house. I wonder why she’s living out here in the middle of nowhere but I don’t ask. Dolly Parton plays quietly on the radio, I wonder to myself if it can be played any other way. She stops and we get out. She lives in a small farm house, I can tell that the nearest neighbor is probably two miles in any direction.

“This is Jacky” she says as a little girl runs out the front door “and if I can find him, Harold is the boy.”

I sit down on the couch, from her in the kitchen slamming drawers, “how do you feel about instant Folgers?”

“Sure” I say, looking out the window, “what did my sister say about me, exactly?”

“A lot. Throughout college and grad school your life story was my constant audiobook. She left you some money and a letter. She was going to give it to you… but then the accident happened. She wanted to help you find Fey.”

She hands me the drink, “I added a little something extra to lighten our moods”

I take a drink, it bites my throat and warms my insides. This is my first drink in months. I lean back in the chair, feeling the memories coming back like opening a photo album after a house fire.

“Tell me more about Fey, how did you two first meet?”

“My parents sent me to a transfer high school in Canada” I say and take another drink.

“I was standing in a train station when I met her. It was our first break during winter, my friends were talking to the conductor, asking him where this city was that my friend Alex thought he had heard of once. There’s about a thousand places that Alex thought he had heard of once in his life. We never did find any of them. I went and bought coffee and sat down on a bench, watching the trains stop and the people get out. This girl sat down next to me.”

I take another drink sinking farther into the chair. As I talk more, the less I’m here in Rebecca’s living room. Farther back, lost in thought, back in that Canadian train station years ago. It’s colder than I remembered.

I drink my coffee and cringe, I always forget the cream. The girl sitting next to me reaches over, palm open, wearing gloves with the fingers cut out. I look and see a handful of Half and Half’s.

“Here” she says, “don’t look so sad.”

“Do you always take more creamers just in case some poor bastard forgets them?”

“No, I just like the way they taste. And they’re free.”

I smile, “I’ve never thought about drinking them straight.”

She drinks her half and half, “glad I turned you onto it.”

Another train stops. A skinny man wearing a top hat stumbles off the train obviously drunk. He walks over to the conductor and begins screaming at him in a language the conductor clearly doesn’t understand. We both laugh.

“I don’t know how to repay you for saving my morning.”

She looks me in the eye, “then you’ll forever be in my debt” she says and stands up “you owe me one coffee creamer, you better have it next time I see you.”

“Next time?”

She smiles and gets on the train.

Rebecca sits on the coffee table, staring at the old picture of me.

“What do you think is going to happen?”

“I just want to see her” I say “I don’t expect anything from her.”

“What do you want to say to her?”

I stare at her. She sighs and disappears into the back room. She comes out with a thickly stuffed envelope. The top has been ripped open and the address on the front has been crossed out so many times that it’s impossible to read.

Rebecca takes my glass, “here’s the money your sister left you. It took us four years of penny pinching to save up this much. Because of you I’ll never eat Ramen again.”

She puts it in my hand and give me a forgiving look, “take this and get a plane ticket home. She’s just a girl. You won’t live happily ever after.”

Rebecca walks me to the door and hugs me again, “I don’t want you to do this. I never thought it was a good idea, but this was your sister’s wish. And this is what she thought you needed.” she hands me a business card.

“On the back is the address to her apartment. Don’t go to it” she turns the porch light on and shuts the door.

5:43

Indecisiveness. Seven Deadly Sin number eight.

There’s this old wino in front of me in the bakery this morning. It’s around five and I’m tapping my foot to the Journey song they’re playing. He can’t decide between a maple donut or a fresh croissant. I am so fucking late for work.

I sip my coffee on the subway and wonder why the bar I work at would need to be opened so early! Oh fuck me that’s right it’s Christmas! I’m not going to be decorating a beautiful tree with spray canned snow or wrapping presents. I’m going to play therapist and mix drinks that have silly names so that people feel better about their lonely holiday when I announce, “who ordered the screaming orgasm?”

I’m twenty minutes late already and instead of calling my boss to let him know why, I’m writing in my journal.

~Fey

7:24

Oddly enough I like my job. I like being the last one in the bar at closing time. I’ve always loved “night life”. It’s the loneliness in public places that inspires me. I guess it inspires me to try to find loneliness everywhere.

Tonight I mixed this guy a scarlet martini and he took my hand when I put it down. He asked me why I have a black cat tattoo on my right hand. I must have stayed silent for a minute or two not knowing what to say. I told him I got it while I was drunk and have no clue what it means. I smile, that stupid fake smile. That holiday Thanksgiving dinner smile when your grandpa makes a dumb joke and you die a little inside.

I need a drink.

~Fey

8:05

Dinner.

Dinner with Jeff at Pete’s China house.

Sitting silently with someone you have nothing to say to.

Jeff, older than I am and loved by my father. A jock in high school, a stock broker now. My father practically swoons over Jeff, I think he’s seriously considering ending his forty year marriage with my mom to have an affair with him. If you notice a ripped out page in this journal it used to be a sketch I drew of the two of them. And a goat.

I don’t know how I feel about him, especially sitting across from someone you call your “better half” as he tells an anecdote he heard today in the office.

He laughs and laughs, slurping his soup. I cringe.

Denial. Seven Deadly Sin number nine.

~Fey

3:20a.m.

Dear my ominous all knowing diary,

All I have to say is that it’s 3am and I’m at home.

Dear diary, I need change.
~Fey

It smells like fermented bottles of whiskey and cheap cigars in here. The liquor store owner is older and skinnier than I am. The ring of his spurs on the back of his mock cowboy boots jingle as he reaches for a bottle high up on the shelf.

The guy puts a bottle of Skyy orange vodka next to my Jack Daniels, “37.50! You havin’ a party tonight?” the guy asks, nudging me a little too hard.

“No” I say putting down two twenties, “I’m just an alcoholic.”

He laughs and gives me my change.

I take a cab to the airport and spend $475 from the envelope on a one way, non-stop flight to New York. Seats go to their locked and upright positions, the cabin pressure is stabilized and I drink myself to sleep aboard flight 284.

The movie is long and boring and some old guy is smoking, smoking, smoking in the front row. Big white clouds cover the screen, Fey and I go out the emergency exit. The alley outside is cold, empty, lined with bricks and lit by the moon. I see her breath under her gray and black striped scarf, I can see in her eyes that she’s smiling.

Fey pushes me against the wall hard, “you know” she says, “you still owe me.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Thought I’d forgotten?”

“Maybe” I say stepping closer to her, I feel her breath on my face.

She pushes me against the wall again, “pay up cat.”

“Cat?”

“That’s what you are now, you belong to me.”

I reach into my pockets and pull out lint, I hold my offering out pathetically.

She stares at the lint then slaps it out of my hand. She moves the scarf down from her mouth. Her lips are thin and cold, turned white by the frozen alley, “you still owe me.”

Rain begins to fall, we run under an awning. I shake off the rain trying to hide my shivering, Fey pulls her arm out of her jacket and unzips it, she puts it around me and holds me. I feel her heart beating and nothing else. The rain is loud, but farther away than it’s every been.

I’m half asleep and getting over a hangover when the plane banks in what should be New York. A New York without skyscrapers and an all too small airport. The pilot’s voice booms through the cabin, “I apologize on behalf of American Airways, but due to weather in New York we will have to be landing tonight in Pennsylvania.”

Everyone sighs at the same time, I reach under my seat and take out the whiskey. The guy sitting next to me watches me pour Jack Daniels into my tiny airplane coffee sippy cup. I look over at him, he’s wearing a navy blue suit with the jacket elbows worn white. His tie looks like piano keys and his shoes are Converse.

“Did you have somewhere to get to tonight?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say “somewhere very very important. I have lots of people waiting for me.”

He pulls open a Moon Pie and it falls on his lap. “I’m Jack” he says.

I shake his chocolate covered hand.

“Where do you live?” I ask.

“Here, in Pennsylvania.”

“Well, that’s convenient.”

He wipes his hands on a beverage coaster. “Not if you’re headed to New York.”

The seatbelt sign flicks off with a beep and everyone leaves the plane.

The airport is hotter than it should be for that time of night. The people all look pissed and half asleep. On the PA a woman’s voice says, “I’m sorry to inform the passengers from flight 284 that there will be no connecting flight to New York City tonight. Please talk to customer service if you have a question. Thank you for choosing Pennsylvania Harrisburg International.” I didn’t choose Harrisburg International.

I should be pissed. I should be standing with the other flight 284 refugees, staring at other deporting passengers giving them dirty looks. I should be on the phone with a hotel manager debating room prices for that night. I should be outside on the curb hailing a taxi, but I’m not.

Jack from the plane puts his hand on my shoulder, “looks like we’re fucked for the night.”

“Looks like it” I say.

“In my own state and still 200 miles from home. That’s called irony” he says, and picks up his suitcase with a jolt, “want to share a cab?”

“Yeah.”

“Want to hit up a bar?”

“Yeah.”

The Green Flamingo, a local bar that’s open all night. Drunk couples stand outside smoking, talking way too loudly. The music inside is loud as hell. I order a White Russian, Jack orders a Bud Light. We get our drinks and go to a table near the back of the bar.

“What do you do for a living?” he asks.

I take a sip, too much liqueur.

“I don’t do anything for a living. I just finished college really.”

He laughs, “shit man, you’ve got to have something you want to do with your life.”

“You sound like my father, Jack.” I say

He stops laughing.

“I never went to college,” Jack says, and drinks his light beer.

“Why not?”

Jack hesitates, “My father was a salesman. He focused more on money than he did anything else.”

“Sounds familiar”

“So when I get out of high school I show up at his house in Georgia. I throw down my diploma and say ‘thanks for being there’. He broke my collar bone.” Jack looks at the ground.

“What?”

“My father showed his ‘love’ in a funny way, he’d bring me out to the garage and fight me.”

“That’s cute, I wish my dad had beaten the crap out of me once in a while” I laugh.

“What isn’t cute about it is that he started doing it all the time, he would pull me out of bed and drag me to the garage. He didn’t just use his fists, he used his work tools. I’ve had so much brain damage cause of that fucker. I can never hold a steady job.”

My eyes widen, I take another drink.

“My mother left before she even knew my name. I guess that’s why I’ve always been trying to make my dad proud of me even after all he did.”

I can’t say anything, half in shock, half digesting my drink.

“That’s why I didn’t go to college” Jack says, and drinks more “I left that house when I was 16 and finished high school living with my grandparents. I show up two and a half years later with a diploma in my hand and he breaks my collar bone.”

Jack is yelling now, “But fuck him, right?!”

“Calm down, I know what you’re saying man” I say looking around the bar.

He calms down and takes another drink.

“My wife divorced me because I can’t give her children.”

The rum in me wants to know more, “why is that?”

“Why the fuck do you think? I shoot blanks.”

I half nod half shake my head not really knowing what to say.

“Let’s get out of here, I’m getting a bad vibe” he says.

It’s three in the morning and Jack and I are sitting on the curb in front of the bar, me with my White Russian, Jack with his light beer.

“I’m sorry for that” he says, wiping his eyes, “I’m just waiting for something better.”

“What are you waiting for?” I ask.

“I need a savior…” Jack says and looks at me, “I don’t have anything.”

“A savior?”

“I don’t know… I’m drunk, I’m sorry” he says.

A savior…

I stumble up and walk to a pay phone outside the bar. I flip through the water logged phone book and find “Stan’s Palace on Calle Las Trancas St.” The cab ride there, Jack is silent. I realize that I’m still drinking out of the same glass from the bar. We finally get to the hotel… what a shit hole. The owner sits on a red plastic 99c store chair, his throat gurgles when he puffs on his oak pipe. He smiles, seeing easy money from two drunks.

“Sorry for the steep price,” his thick Cajun accent smothering the words, “but it’s gonna be aroun’ eighty dollars for the night, gentleman.”

Jack hands his credit card to the man, he looks at me and nods, “thanks for the beer.”

The room has one bed, a rusted vibrat-o-matic machine that takes “quarters only” an empty wall socket where the TV should be, and a bathroom. We nod our silent good nights. I go into the bathroom, lock the door, and fall asleep in the empty bathtub.

There’s an annoying knocking that stirs me out of my dream the next morning. The knocking accompanies a crappy radio blasting Mariachi music from outside the door. I leave the bathroom in a haze, tasting the awful backwash of hard alcohol and fermented milk. The carpet is soft and wet under my feet, I look up and see Jack, face down in a corner. His face is pressed hard against the wall. There are two bottles of vodka lying next to him, both empty. Vomit and blood decorate the carpet. He must have gone back out that night.

I yell through the door for room service to go away and the Mariachi music disappears down the hall. I slowly walk over to Jack and pull him out of the corner. He falls with a thud on his back and I can see he’s dead.

“Fuck!” I say, stepping back into the wall.

I cover my mouth, “fuck”.

I don’t know what to do. I feel regretful and sick at the same time. That’s the second dead body I’ve seen in the past two days. The silence in the room is deafening. Not being able to scream or cry or tell anyone. It’s like the first major car accident you get into. You walk away but not the same as you were before. Perfectly okay physically, but you’ve taken a bullet mentally.

I get a towel from the bathroom and drape it over his face. The sickness in my stomach rises and I grab the ice bucket. I didn’t need this, not right now in my life. I didn’t need this fucking realization that I came here to die. I should have been found dead this morning after drinking myself to death, at least Jack wasn’t on his way to ruin some girl’s life. At least Jack was trying to forget his past. I feel so responsible for this man I didn’t know. I want to tell him that I wish I could have done more. I pile my bottles around Jack leaving an alcoholic shrine for whoever finds him. I leave two hundred dollars on the dresser and walk out.

Food

Okay, so.. I ate cat food. We had nothing else in the fridge and it was just right there, how could it be any different than tuna?

It could have used some salt but I’m not complaining.

I felt kinda bad seeing Felix watch me eat his food. So I painted him a picture.

I did my own version of Van Gogh’s Cafe at Night except with Felix sitting at a table finishing a cup of coffee.

He thought I should have used oil instead of acrylic.

~Fey

What ever happened to the Spin Doctors?

It’s Saturday so I couldn’t stay in my apartment. I took my notebook and my Precise V5 pen and went to the fair.

Sitting on a bench, watching the slurry of people go by, writing in my notebook. You’d be surprised what you can learn about people just by observing them.

First of all, there’s this fat guy with his three kids. He’s eating a corn dog which looks to be too hot because he has to guzzle his bladder buster every time he takes a bite. One of his kids are crying because his ice cream fell off the cone a few steps back and no one noticed. I did.

This guy with slicked back brown hair and a two thousand dollar suit walks by with his future Miss America trophy wife on his arm. What a badass, I’m jealous.

A priest walks by, a group of boy scouts walk by, true love is inevitable.

A group of pigeons wander the fair ground, Mad Max style, post-apocalyptic to them, wandering this giant land of gagging clowns and rich tourists. The occasional artery clogging confectionery is dropped and they fight their own brethren to the death for a taste of popcorn or cheesy pretzel.

It’s cold now and I feel the need to ride the ferris wheel.

~Fey

8:23

Dinner at.. Pete’s China house… again.

My boyfriend slurps his soup and I excuse myself because I need to tell someone that this is the last time I’ll ever be eating here. The last time I ever have to hear that man slurp his soup. The last time for a lot of shit I put up with. How the hell could I be with someone for six and a half months and just hate everything about them?

I’m going to pack my stuff, take my cat and leave him… In a few days.

I’m in the bathroom now. I don’t know why I cry anymore. It seems to happen a lot nowadays.

~Fey

It’s past noon and I’m walking along the no-path no man’s land of a super highway. Cars honk at me, people lean out the window and scream at me. It’s not my fault they don’t have any sidewalks in Pennsylvania. I could have taken a cab, but when you don’t want to think about anything, you walk. At least you can think about people screaming obscenities at you. Not thinking about Jack face down in a puddle of vomit, not thinking about your sister decomposing in the morgue waiting to be incinerated, not thinking of a girl who might not even exist anymore.

I find myself on an empty path now, I can’t even hear cars anymore. The path leads to steps that look abandoned. Broken stairs that crumble when you step on the wrong ones. Taller than the trees and fogged by the clouds that cover the top. At the top is a monstrous chapel. The stained glass windows looking over the entire city below. It has huge wooden doors scattered with rusted metal that cling to it. Opened for a short time to save a handful of souls and then closed forever. I pull on the handle and everything gets a shade darker. I look at the ground moving beneath my feet. The blood rises up from my stomach, seeping and filling the cracks in my lips like warm juice. Vibrating world, vibrating chapel, darker, darker, gone.

Heaven is a hospital in Pennsylvania, they have a staff of angels who work 12 hour days. The angels are impatient in their work, they jab needles in your arms. They suck out your blood and run odd tests with it. They stand in herds by your room door talking quietly about you. Every once in a while one of them will look back and shake their head disapprovingly. That means you didn’t lead your life well. God is a British man in a white coat who stands over you with a clipboard, nodding like you just asked a question.

“You’re a lucky man” the doctor says.

“I can’t feel myself” I say.

“That would be the pain killers” he says, “you collapsed and had a seizure.”

“Why am I a lucky man?” I ask.

“Getting to that” he says, “A homeless man found you and called the police. “

“I see”.

“Bad news is, looks like he robbed you. Luckily he didn’t touch your credit cards or drivers license. If he had you might be dead right now” he says.

“How’s that?”

“We looked up your medical records, you have quite a heart condition. How long has that been going on?” he asks.

“A year” I say

“We also found a full bottle of your heart meds. And a high percentage of alcohol in your blood.”

“How odd” I say.

“I’m not going to sugar coat this because I don’t have the time. You were told that this condition could be critical if you did not take this, correct?” he says, and holds up my bottle of pills.

“Yes.”

“You were also told to not drink as your liver may fail, correct?”

“Yes.”

“If you continue to live like this, you’ll be dead within a month.” the doctor says and puts my bottle down on a metal tray.

“I want to keep you here a couple days, just to check you out. Have you been drinking regularly?”

“Yes.”

“We need to check your liver and your heart status” he says, “we don’t want to come to any sudden conclusions, but this will be our first step.”

“Did my insurance pay for everything you’ve done so far?” I ask.

“Yes, the Red Cross took care of that.”

“Am I free to leave?”

“Well, no” he says, “like I said we need to do some routine tests.”

“I mean, if I wanted to leave, would you have police hold me or something?”

“No” he says, “of course not.”

“Do you have any Disneyland type holding cell?”

“No.”

I stand up, my back hurts. My kidneys feel sore. My head is pounding. I know I shouldn’t be leaving this hospital as I put my clothes on, I really should be back in that bed, worried about myself, trying to get better, taking my meds like they were m & m’s. But I’m thinking about a small black cat looking at the moon, the ink still drying. How to get back to that.

The doctor stares at me a moment, “I can’t help those who don’t want to be helped. All I can tell you is to take your pills and stop drinking.”

I don’t say anything, the doctor hands me the bottle and walks out of the room. I phone a shuttle and make sure they take a credit card. Waiting outside of the hospital for my shuttle to the train station, I fish in my back pocket and pull out the orange bottle of pills, I throw them away. I know at this point there won’t be a happy ending. We won’t live happily ever after. I expect a savior in someone who used to love me, who I owe everything to, who I’ll see in another life, as a cat. Someone who might not even remember me. She can’t save me.

I board the first train to New York around midnight. The train slows, stops again. I drift asleep but keep waking up to the sound of the conductor walking up and down the cabins. An old woman with an embroidered yellow hat is looking through a small leather book. I see it’s a diary, she’s looking at a picture of a little boy with blond hair, I assume is her grandchild. She smiles and turns the page. I look away, the realization that I will never have that.

“Tickets out, please.”

I watch as the country turns to thick city. The farther we go, the darker it seems. The harder it is to keep my eyes open. The baggage rattles and the lights in the cabin flicker. The train slows and finally stops. All of the lights turn on, the train settles on the track.

“This is our final stop for the evening. Everyone and all still aboard must get off. Have a good night and pleasant dreams.”

Gone

I wrote Jeff a letter. When he gets back from work tonight he’ll find it on the fridge, under the picture of us at Disney World. It said everything I didn’t have the guts to say to his face. I’m done caring whether or not I hurt him.

And now I can start over. My only regret, as someone cliched a long time ago, is that I didn’t do this sooner.

~Fey

It’s raining and the steam from the sewer rises from the street into the clouded sky. The city is loud and bright in the distance. I am so nervous that I feel sick. I hug my jacket close to me, feeling the cold in my lungs. It’s times like this I wonder if I can ever get warm again.

The moon is huge and yellow. I watch it through the smudged taxicab window. The driver asks me where I’m going. I take the business card out of my pocket. Every piece of me says no. Every remaining rationale is telling me to turn around, find a way home. Forget this suicide. It’s not worth it. I don’t have to do this. I unfold the card and tell the driver the address.

Starting over

You have no idea. You never will. In ten thousand years when you dig up my diary on an archaeological dig trying to understand people from this era, look for someone else’s diary. Look for someone a little more generic, yeah?

How long had I prolonged this? At least it’s done. No looking forward to sitting in my parents living room smiling, sipping expensive champagne, holding tight to Jeff’s American Eagle polo’d arm after announcing our engagement. Where am I going to go…

All of my stuff is packed in just a few boxes. I’m on my fourth trip to the car now, I just need to get my cat then I’m gone. Done with this shit. Done with this relationship. Replaced with a piece of paper scribbled with black ink. I am such a coward.

~Fey

The cab pulls up. I stare at the small apartment building. How many times I’d envisioned doing this. How many times I’d told myself I never would. I’d never have the reason to. How about a failing heart? Life’s funny.

I swipe my credit card and get out, standing on the sidewalk, broke, sick, vulnerable and shameless. The moon lighting the building. My stomach feels like it’s still in the taxi. I can’t do this.

She won’t even be there.

So close

8th box, my car is full. With cat in hand, I jam the last box in there and slam the trunk. Felix and I both take one last look at the apartment and I sigh.

The moon reflects in the lobby windows. At least that makes me smile. As long as we have that…

I set Felix down for one second and he runs off somewhere, great.

~Fey

Something brushes my leg. A black cat with long ears and a thin tail. I look at his name tag and recognize the name, “Felix?”

I look up and see a girl leaving an apartment building holding a journal and licking the tip of a pen. Her brown hair is a mess in the wind. She turns and smiles seeing her cat then looks up at me. I freeze, not knowing what to do, realizing the craziness of what I’d done. I don’t know what to say to her. I don’t know why I’m here. I came here on a whim not thinking I’d actually see her. But there she stands, not in a dream, not in a memory I can’t screw up now. I turn and run down the opposite street. I hear her running behind me, yelling for me to stop, yelling that she thinks she knows me. I look back and see her standing still staring in disbelief. I pray to god she didn’t recognize me. By the time I get to the end of the next block I look back again and she’s gone.

Ghosts

I saw a ghost from my past. He was beautiful and sad. I followed, but lost him, it was probably some poor guy I just chased down the street. I haven’t slept in days. I’m living too much in the past… Who I’m thinking of wouldn’t come back to me. He forgot about me a long time ago. I was just a fling to him way back when, and I’m a stupid girl for clinging to past memories. I’m chasing ghosts.

-Fey

I gasp for air clutching the curb of the sidewalk. I never was a runner. I feel my world shaking again and the blood stains my teeth.

Untitled

I’m in the car, getting away. There has to be something better in this life.

-Fey

Fey… I’m sorry… I couldn’t save you. I’m on my back now staring up at the night sky, the stars are dim, getting darker and darker. The seizure takes hold of my body and it doesn’t hurt anymore. Somewhere in the distance I can feel my body choking, shaking, shutting down. I feel my mind losing grasp on reality. All of my regrets fade away and I’m left with a memory. Faint and distant like a fading photograph. A boy on a bus. A boy that once felt love but now was lonely. He takes off his red glove with the fingers cut off and reads what Fey wrote, three words smudged by her tears, “don’t wake up”.

Serenade

Whenever an ambulance passes I say a prayer for the person they’re going to or the person who has lost someone. I’m not religious by any means, but I still think it helps sending good thoughts. I stayed pulled over to the side of the road for a while after the ambulance passed. I don’t know how I feel right now, like something has been taken from me. Immediately after the ambulance passed by I started crying uncontrollably and I haven’t been able to stop. I’m leaving tears all over the journal now. I don’t know who I’m crying for but it feels like a part of me died. I need someone to save me from this life.

-Fey

© 2007-2009, Nick Rester All rights reserved.

“You never let me hold you, you’re always pushing me away like I’m made of ice!”

The chair glared across the room, folding its arms.

“Tell me once, just once when you were there for me. Hmm? What about when I was arrested?”

The chair sighed loudly letting a cacophony of springs be heard.

“That’s right, you can’t think of a time. You’re just like my mother.”

Not wanting to get into this subject, the chair reclined in its corner and drifted off to sleep.

“Me neither. Let’s not even start the journey down shit creek. I can write novels on abandonment. I can write plays and fill journals. I could cover walls and…”

The light bulb in the room shorted out.

“Oh Christ!”

The chair sprung up, worrying for his friend. It lit a match and saw the man was now cowering under an end table. The chair gave a sigh of relief then immediately burst into flames.

“No!” Screamed the man trying to douse the flames with his member’s only jacket, “I’m sorry for what I said, you’ll be okay man!”

They cried together in the empty apartment, holding each other until the fire went out.

By the time the firemen broke down the door what they didn’t see were two loyal friends sticking it out to the end. What they did see was an incinerated drug addict fused to a blackened La-Z boy.

Dairy Clerk

October 20, 2008

$4.17, no I don’t have change. I am ready to accept my abundance of change. Here’s a ten.

Mocha frap, the Barista is overweight with a hiked up A-shirt. Her arms have a thick layer of thin hairs the same way a naked mole rat is considered “hairless”. Whipped cream, yes, chocolate syrup, yes. Since I’ve been to college I put on weight. I remember the summer before, my brother, tall and toned, short blond hair, poking my chest and grabbing at fat, pulling away with handfuls of air.

“You are going to get so fucking fat dude. Freshman 15.”

The fifteen pounds the school board has decided most freshman will gain because of new eating habits, change of atmosphere and new freedoms. But what the 15 really compensates for is depression, fear, adaptation, stress. It’s comfort food. Why do you think school cafeterias can never keep anything in their freezers? Bon-bons, Hershey’s ice cream bars with peanuts, Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey, Phish Food, Tollhouse chocolate chip cookie ice cream sandwiches. Comfort food. I didn’t get depressed, but I did gain thirty pounds.

All night grocery stores stock at around 12-2a.m. The few employees that stay around for the midnight shift, stand in blue parkas, zipped to the neck with their hoods up. They stand waiting in the middle of the night for massive trucks that bring heavy things to throw their backs out with. Faceless brown boxes that give vague instructions like the image of a penguin and an arrow pointing up. They slump around with little push carts, they stock hair dye, they sweep the aisles. Their little worlds, cooled by recycled air and dairy freezers, controlled by demanding old ladies pointing shaking fingers at high shelfed items and college students trying to crack the plastic security tips off bottles of Jack Daniels with Oldsmobile keys. Their life soundtrack, “Hits of the 80’s” playing quietly all night long over the ceiling speakers. A midnight grocery store symphony.

I check expiration dates, stock the high shelves and clean up any break, spill or otherwise dropped product in the store. On my paycheck it says my job title is “Dairy Clerk” but amongst the employees it’s “Cum Monkey”. “Cum” because half the milk I check the expiration date on is already congealed, “Monkey” because I climb the shelves to stock them.

You wouldn’t believe how little the expiration date on your milk carton means. “Fresh” organic milk with the smiling cow and rising sun, believe it or not, is not straight from the cow’s tit when you buy it. No, it’s not warm because we just shipped it here from the farm. It’s warm because Jessica left the dairy freezer door open so she could hear Rick’s radio from inside while she had a smoke break. The expiration date is an expression, like an anecdote that makes you feel better about yourself. It’s been sitting in that carton, somewhere for longer than you’d like to know. And between that somewhere and to your fridge it’s about as fresh as the powdered milk in your pantry, you know, that box that’s still waiting for the Apocalypse. When the world really is reduced to Twinkies and cockroaches I know I for one, will crave some powdered milk.

“Soy milk please”.

The Barista nods her curly head and gives me my change.

We all have expiration dates. From ages 0-10 years old we’re milked, 11-20 we’re shipped, 21-40 we’re on the shelf, we rot, we die.

“Dairy clerk, clean up on aisle 14.”

I take my frappuccino and make my way back to the impending mess that some asshole has left for me. This is my time to shine.

Sure enough it’s a large woman in an electric wheelchair. Her grabber still in the air, frozen in time at the exact moment the Ragu dropped. Her eyes are locked in that of disbelief and awe by what just happened. She sees me and her look switches to anger.

“You stock boys shouldn’t put the sauce so close to the edge. It could have killed me!”

I awkwardly smile and do my job, sweeping the broken glass into the dustpan. I don’t think she should be afraid of sauce killing her, I think she should be afraid of diabetes.

“It’s carelessness… and a clear lack of care for the customers…” she rambles on.

I bite my tongue and nod along. If she only knew how much I cared. As I scrape up the rest of the sauce revealing the off-white checkered tiles I wonder what her shelf life is.

The tips of her fingers run across the piano keys, barely touching, making no noise. The smoke of the club clings to the walls and floor. The stage lights are still on, the house lights have been off all night.

2, 3… 2, 3…

“You know” she tells me, “you can’t really tame a cat.”

“Hmm?”

2, 3… the metronome clicks back and forth in the empty night club.

“They don’t earn your respect, they’re there, living, being themselves. You earn their respect.”

“How so?” I ask, stirring the olive back and forth in my martini.

“You buy a cat or maybe you find one in the ally next to your apartment. You bring her home and bathe her and feed her you give her a name and you care for her. But she’s not appreciative she takes your charity for granted. You spend that night with her and that’s it. As far as you know she’ll be gone the next morning and you’ll never see her again.”

“But she needs my food.”

“Everybody’s got food.”

“Maybe I’ve got everything she needs, she just might be very comfortable in my black and white apartment.”

“She doesn’t like to stay in one place, she’s a drifter.”

“A gipsy?”

“No, she never begs.”

“A freeloader.”

“She doesn’t need what people give her. They just try to get her love.”

“Who needs a cat’s love?”

She looks up from the keys eyeing me through her black hair, her green eyes glow in the darkness.

“You.”

I smile and drink the dry gin and vermouth, letting the olive rest on my tongue.

“It’s not so easy though” she says, “being a drifter.”

“She gets to travel the world getting tastes of every city, lavished in love, wanted by the world, why wouldn’t it be easy?” I say.

“She can’t ever just settle on one taste… she doesn’t ever feel complete. To be irresistable and unatainable makes her voracious. She’s always hungry.”

She stands from the piano stool, her black dress revealing her back and legs. The front holds her perfect breasts. Staring at her makes my insides hurt. It makes me feel disgusting and unworthy. I can barely even make eye contact with this angel.

She holds her hand to me and I take it.

The olive is bitter once I taste her skin. She’s sweet and smooth, I run my teeth along her slender neck and her thin hairs stand straight up.

“But who wears the collar?” I whisper.

“Depends on the owner.”

2, 3… 2, 3…

She is lissome and light. Grace De Monoco fills the air with a sweet scent. I stir inside of her, holding lightly to her curved back. Those green eyes never leave mine. Her teeth bite her lower lip so tight I see dark blood starting to trickle down her lipstick.

“Beg for this” she says.

“Please.”

“No. Beg, beg for all of me.”

I beg, “I need you, I can’t let this go. Don’t ever leave.”

She smiles and I see that blood run down her sharp chin.

I beg, “God, I need you, I crave you, I adore you.”

“Just once” she says quietly, “just once maybe I’ll stay.”

That sweet release brings me clinging to her. I let everything go. My life, my dreams, my fears and paranoias. I let it all go. She’s still smiling a cheshire smile. Dripping blood onto my chest she’s biting so hard. She shakes and holds onto me. For that moment we’re closer to each other than we have ever been to anyone else. Neither of us realize what’s happening. Not at that moment. Not tonight. This is just another night and people don’t make connections.

She releases her jaw and wipes the blood away with the back of her wrist, “perfecto.”

Out on the balcony she smokes in my silk Komono, the robe wide open blowing in the night wind. I join her, staring out into the dark city.

It’s always the same. Nothing new, just release.

We stay silent, listening to the crackle of her cigarette and the calming night air.

Reminiscing back, the more it turns into a faded memory. Just something in the past that if you were to recal it to someone else it would seem insignificant. Just another pointless moment in the night. But as much as I reminisce and she begins to fade I’ll never be able to forget what she said to me on that balcony that made me uneasy for the first time in my life. It made me unsure about Lucid Dream. A dream I couldn’t wake up from.

She turned to me, her big green eyes looking into mine and held out her hand, “when I fall for you” she said, “I’ll kill myself.”

2, 3… 2, 3…

“Set sail to the furthest horizon! You shall not know the smell of the sea until you’ve sailed as I have and I will not rest a weary eye until you have done just that!” the captain yells, his thick neck rumbling with his words like a washing machine. His pants are worn thin around the knees and bottom, his shoes are black spray painted Nike’s. On his knit white captain’s shirt there’s a name tag that reads, “Duckston’s Amusement Park- Hi! My name is Captain Ahab“.

A group of tourists in different colored duck hats look around confused as what to do.

The captain lifts his great peg leg on top of a box of “stolen booty” and looks up to the sky, shading his good eye, “Grab the oars men! Row!! Row like your life depended on it! You think it doesn’t? Who told you it didn’t?!”

The tourists do just that, they each take an oar and row like their lives depended on it.

A voice comes over an intercom that’s been disguised to look like a skull encrusted with jewels, “Please keep your arms and legs inside the moving ship at all times.”

The captain lets out a barreling laugh, “The gods are pleased!”

The boat shakes and begins moving on its underwater track.

“Yes!” he cried, “We move like the wind on the back of a great stampede of whales! By this rate we’ll be in Albania by nightfall, but wait!”

He shades his eye once again and his hairy grimace drops to a most forsaken frown, “Pirates!”

Another ship adjacent to theirs scattered with animatronic pirates shake their fiberglass swords and yell angry jests recorded thirty years ago. Their cannons begin firing bursts of air, flashing yellow and red.

The captain draws his mighty sword, “Men! Do not abandon hope! It is my oath to my loyal crew that these damn pirates will not board this ship! Send them home with broken peg legs and ripped eye patches! Hoorah!”

One of the tourists whispers to his friend, “You know I think that sword is real.”

And with that, the overweight captain swings screaming, clutching tightly to a knotted prop rope to the other ship. Swing after swing he fights with the pirates. Doing most of the moves himself, he ends up sweaty, swinging wildly, knocking off heads and voice boxes over the edge of the ship and into the shallow water. The tourists look on in awe. Every once in a while they hear him gasp for air, saying something along the lines of “Nothing personal! Not everyone can be a hero!”

All of the sudden the clouds cover the sky, a dark mist flows over the shallow water and fog drags in thicker than blood. The animatronics stop, the ships slow and finally rest to a complete drift in the water. The sounds of the amusement park fade and only the captain and the tourists are left in complete silence. Captain Ahab wipes his sword clean of battery acid and places it back into its sheath. His hands sweat, his cape blows settles and clings to his back. Silence, waiting, he’s nearly holding his breath. Through the fog he sees a figure, monstrous and dark. As it approaches the first thing Ahab notices is the shape of his hat, curved and tall, a long peacock feather sticking off the left side. The closer he steps the more he recognizes. From legend. Tales of pirates passed down from ride operator to ride operator. His boots genuine leather, a black vest and sea worn jacket. Chains and chains of gold, silver, and bronze hang from his wrists. Cubic Zarconia rings on his fingers. And a name tag that just confirmed Ahab’s fears, The Dreaded Pirate Craig.

“So, it is you. Captain Ahab” he says with a thick Scottish accent.

The captain smiles wide and half bows over his gut.

“In the boots.”

“Or” the dreaded pirate Craig says with a smirk, “should I call you Eric.”

The captain immediately draws his sword, “no one calls me by that name that values their life! Prepare to die a most rueful demise in the wench that is the sea.”

The dreaded pirate Craig draws his sword as well, “then so be it, this is where it ends.”

Lightning crashes as the two figures clash and jump, duck and stab. Blood and horror in the sky above the tourists. Their faces locked in a stun, not knowing what to think of the situation. The rain pours down and the fighting men. Their eyes never lose contact, their steps perfect, lunges to cue, their sword fighting is an unprecedented art to the modern world. A battle that had waited lifetimes, finally the fight between good and evil commencing in our times, the pirate apocalypse and only one would walk away. Leaving a bloodstained trail for all that would follow. Nothing would survive this battle. There would be no purpose to wars, governments, or laws. This was the struggle to end all other struggles. Many tourists cried, some couldn’t watch. The dreaded pirate Craig never loses concentration, the great Captain Ahab never backs down.

The rain fills Ahab’s lungs, he fights on with the fury of a thousand men. The dreaded pirate Craig follows in the footsteps of all the world’s most evil men. But just as pride sets over Craig gets too cocky. The dreaded pirate half steps instead of quarter steps putting him off balance, sending him spiraling into the dark waters below. Lightning crashes and his screams fade into the deep.

Captain Ahab stands, big and robust, his sword already rusting. The clouds part, the sky becomes sunny and the smell of cotton candy fills the air.

The jewel encrusted skull breaks the silence, “Thank you for joining us aboard Pirate Tours, please wait until the ship has come to a total and complete stop before exiting. Have a nice day.”

I was first introduced to Palahniuk’s writing, as I’m sure most are, by the movie Fight Club. I was immediately induced to read his works because of his witty writing, great story telling and well researched characters. Since then I’ve read six of his books, Choke, Survivor, Fight Club, Haunted, Lullaby, and now Snuff.

snuff

Snuff focuses on a retiring porn legend named Cassie Wright. Some of her most famous porn movies include, To Drill a Mockingbird, The Wizard of Ass, The Italian Hand Job, and of course Chitty Chitty Gang Bang, maybe you’ve heard of them. Acting on a lark to end her career with a bang and break the world record for most sex acts on camera, Cassie plans to suck, drill, stroke, and bang six hundred guys on camera.

The story focuses on four people:

Mr. 72, a confused nineteen year old kid who is obsessed with Cassie to the point that he has worked summers and winters, day in and day out, just to spend his hard earned cash on vagina replicas, plastic boobs, and a used surrogate all designed after Ms. Wright’s body.

Mr. 137 is a washed out used-to-be hit television star that always carries a greasy autograph hound everywhere he goes. His big success was playing a cheesy detective on daytime television, only to have his career ended because of questionable things he did in his past for money.

Sheila is Cassie’s go-to girl, simply referred to as “the talent wrangler”, she works her ass off to satisfy her needy boss and spends her time trudging through naked hairy men and their excrement of barbecue chip powder and bronzing lotion.

Mr. 600 is another famous porn star who goes by the name “Branch Bacardi”, he’s old and saggy, but he’s still got a perfect body and an all over tan. Thing is, he might be the illegitimate father of someone stuck in that porn studio basement.

The book starts off describing the disgusting men that will be keeping you company for the rest of the book, don’t think for an instant you’ll be escaping the detailed description of ranch dressing and boners. The dialog is some of the best I’ve read in his books, he is really on top of it this time and it shows. Something I’ve noticed about Palahniuk is that he loves getting into the heads of his characters. I couldn’t tell you how many times Mr. 600 said “dude” or how many times Sheila said “true fact”, but I also found that the dialog is so believable with these characters that it turns out sounding genuine. I really felt like Chuck knew this washed out porn star. Which makes this whole book, which is very much a character study of four different people, something unique.

There are many techniques that Palahniuk used for Snuff that I had never seen done before. Each chapter was narrated by a different character and instead of having a chapter title it simply said the name of the character we would be hearing from in first person. Rather than having the common feel of a novel, it felt more like a conversation which added to the reality and believability of these absurd situations.

Snuff was nothing less than a fun and disgusting read. Palahniuk is really on his game with this book and it shouldn’t pass unnoticed. From start to finish, this book is absolutely licentious, crude, and hilarious. It’s not something for your reverend godfather, but if you’re into that sort of thing check it out.

“Now bark.”
The collar on the boy’s neck tightens, he lets out a pitiful squeak.
“I paid good money for you boy, BARK!”
The boy barks loudly, then again.
A smile comes across the fat man’s face.
The TV flicks off.

The owner of Peter’s Sexemporium looks over at Alex.
He places his ‘World’s Best Dad’ coffee mug on the counter and undoes his suspenders.
Pushing the beads out of the way, he motions for Alex to follow him.
His thick Russian accent smothering the words. “It’s in the back, here.”
Alex doesn’t make eye contact with the man, he just stares at his shoes.
Quietly he says, “My.. friend, he wanted me to pick this up for him.”
The Russian laughs loudly and unlocks a black spray painted door.
Inside, it’s colder than Alex thought, he hugs his arms close to his body.
“I will need to see some ID” the Russian says, shuffling through some boxes.
“Of.. of course.” Alex says as he digs in his trench coat.
The Russian stands up and wipes the sweat from his brow.
In his arms he holds a white styrofoam cooler.
“I hear from Smenton you are good guy. I will give this to you cheap. $1200 American.”
Alex pauses, then nods.

The faded brown door to Alex’s 3b underground complex closes hard behind him.
Rain drips in black globs off of Alex’s over coat.
Pictures of ‘friends’ people he’s never met or was related to hang on his walls.
He clicks the light switch on under a picture of Barry Manilow.
Setting his mail down on the counter, he balances the styrofoam container with one arm and pulls a frozen dinner out of the freezer with the other..
Washing his hands, he glances over at the box and smiles.

The rest of his house is empty, no furniture, no designer art.
Just a TV in the middle of what would be his living room.
With steaming microwavable Hungry Man dinner in hand, he switches on the TV with his foot.
The Price Is Right fills the dark room with light.
But Alex ignores the TV and walks into the bathroom.

He places the dinner on the edge of the sink and sits on the toilet facing the bathtub.
“Meatloaf tonight hun.”
His bathtub is filled to the brim with dirty brown water.
A pale saturated hand hangs awkwardly over the edge of the tub, the tips black, the fingers unnaturally skinny.
He raises the fork with the steaming dried out meat towards a black gaping mouth.
“No fuss tonight, I’m not in the mood.”

He clicks his teeth and smiles, running out of the bathroom.
He comes back in with the styrofoam box.
“I got it.”
Alex stares into the tub, then looks away sadly.
“You said.. you said if I got it you’d let me go.”

A smile comes across his face.
The tiles underneath his feet part, forming a dark hole in his bathroom floor.
“Thank you.”

Alex steps through the hole, holding the box tightly.
He lands on his feet in a hotel lobby.
The floors carpeted red, the ceiling a gigantic mirror.
People in tuxedos dance in the ballroom across the lobby.
Alex smiles and stares forward at an endless wall of elevators.

The elevator in front of him dings and the golden doors open.
He steps inside.
The doorman, a small humble man with a stepping stool as a seat takes a long drag from his hookah.
“Where to?”
Alex ponders for a moment.
“I’m not sure.. Where should I go?”
“That depends completely on where you want to go.” says the doorman indicatively.

Alex looks down at the box in his hands.
“I have to give this to a friend.”
The doorman looks up at him, his eyes deep and shiny.
“To the sanitarium.”
He mashes a button into the wall and the elevator moves with a jolt.
The doorman leans back and takes another drag, listening to the repetitious elevator music.

Alex stares at the ceiling of the elevator, a painting of a cat on a windowsill.
He smiles, remembering an old tabby he used to own in childhood.
“Elmo.”
“What?” asks the doorman.
“His name was Elmo.”
The doorman smiles.
The painting on the ceiling fades and turns to black.
Alex frowns and puts the box on the ground.
The doorman starts coughing, quietly at first, then loudly.
He holds a handkerchief over his mouth to stay polite,
The coughing turns to hacking, then vomiting blood all over the elevator floor.
Alex picks up his box and takes a step back.
The doorman hits himself on the chest then grabs and squeezes his throat, but to no avail.
The blood does not stop coming, soon Alex is up to his ankles in blood and phlegm.
The doorman falls with a plop face first, his clip-on tie floats away.

Alex stares in shock across the elevator.
The floor creaks then breaks open, sending Alex, the doorman, and everything else screaming down the elevator shaft.
Screams, shattering glass, then darkness.

Channel 5, morning cartoons.
Sitting in front of the 70’s TV, a small boy in cartoon astronaut foot pajamas and a bowl of Captain Crunch cereal.
Every Saturday morning the Channel 5 plays this cheesy little melody. “It’s a new day!”
This is the song Alex wakes up to.

Gasping for air, he quickly looks around the room.
A generic hotel. Nothing unique.
Nothing unique, except Alex is wearing cartoon astronaut foot pajamas..

He steps into the bathroom, looks himself in the mirror.
He turns on the faucet to wash his face, but no water comes out.
Looking around the bathroom he notices there’s no toilet, no shower, just black and white tiled floor.
He walks to the closet and pulls hard on the wooden doors. They don’t open.

Alex pulls hard on the window curtains expecting there to be no window. But there is.
And outside it’s dark. Only lit by multi-colored neon lights in every window of every shop, apartment, even neon streetlights. He takes his styrofoam box and leaves the room.

The hotel lobby is small with black and white tiled floors. One front desk by the door.
No one stands at the desk.
Alex rings the service bell.
“Hello??”
No answer.
The black phone on the desk rings.
Alex hesitates then picks up.
“Hello?”
The voice on the other side is staticy and distant, sounding like a 50’s radio, “Welcome to the Midnight Hotel, did you sleep well?”
“Yes.. where am I? And.. what time is it? There’s no clocks.”
There is a long silence on the other end.
“Well, this is Nowhere, sir, and it’s the middle of the night. Feel free to come back any time you like, we always have vacancy.” the phone clicks.

The street is wet and empty. No people, no cars.
As Alex walks he looks into the windows of the stores and department buildings, completely empty.
“How odd, an abandoned town lit up like this for no one.”

Rain begins to fall, he takes refuge under the awning of a coffee shop.
The door next to him opens, startling him.
A guy around 20, wearing a black and white sweatshirt with a collar going up the length of his ear walks out holding a cup of coffee.
“You, are late.”

Alex puts his hand over his heart.
“Who are you?”

“Let’s walk.” the guy says.
Alex pauses a moment and looks into the coffee shop which is dark and empty.
He follows him.

The guy sips from the coffee cup, he makes a face of disgust and throws the cup into an alley.
“I’m Cat, the muse of dreams. Here to help.”

Alex stares at his sharp k-9 teeth as he talks.
“I don’t understand.”
Cat puts his hands in his front pockets.
“What’s in the box?”
Alex had almost forgot that he was carrying it.
“I’m bringing this to a friend.”

Cat stretches his arms.
“Okay, well I’m suppose to help you find that friend. I know this place pretty well.”
He chuckles.
“Before I can help you find him, I need to make a quick stop.”

Alex nods.
“Thank you.”
“No, Thank you.”
Cat reaches into his pocket and pulls out a cookie, he hands it to Alex.
“Hungry?”
Alex takes the cookie and smiles.

They make their way to a large circular building with the numbers “1-27-32” on the front.
Cat opens the large metal door and lets it swing open.
“Come on.”

Alex is amazed at the size of the inside. He could swear that it was much larger than the outside of the building.
The ground is wooden and shiny, the walls draped with black and white paintings.
As the two walk all that can be heard is clicking of their shoes. Everything else is dead silent.
In the middle of the room sit two old men on an old gray couch playing chess.
Cat stops walking, he leans over to Alex.
“Careful of what you might think of in here.”
“Why?”
Cat keeps walking.

They make their way to the middle of the giant room, Cat leans against the chess table.
“Alex, may I introduce you to the Muse of Art and the Muse of Literature.”
The men don’t look up.
The Muse of Art moves a pawn and mutters, “Who is this?”
Cat puts his hands in his pockets. “A friend.”
“You don’t have any friends, you don’t even exist.” the Muse of Art said angrily.
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew who he was.”
The Muse of Literature looks up with dark blue eyes and studies Alex through his glasses.
“Yup.” Cat said cockily.
The Muse of Literature smiles a very jagged smile, “The very creator of this place.”
Alex looks very confused at this.
“I.. don’t understand.”
Cat takes Alex aside and tells him to wait for him by the back door of the building.
“I just need to ask these guys for help getting to the Sanitarium.”

Alex makes his way across the room again.
Towards the back of the room, the light fades out and all that can be seen is an “Exit” sign.
In the darkness it’s cold, he flips his collar up and hugs his chest.
Beneath the Exit sign, he feels for a door but there is none.
He feels a small hand touch his back in the darkness.
With a jolt, he steps backward and puts his back to the wall.

“Do you remember me?”says a little girl’s voice.
The coldness overtakes Alex and his knees buckle, he sits down on the floor.
The brightness of the room fades and he’s left in complete darkness, only lit slightly by the Exit sign.
A small figure sits on his lap, he can feel it breathing.
“Do you remember me?”
He closes his eyes and looks away.
“Yes.”
She touches the lid of the styrofoam box.
“It wasn’t your fault I died. I never should have questioned you like that.”
He doesn’t open his eyes.
“I’m sorry I made you so angry. I should have let you keep me in the basement.”
She stands up and takes a step back.
A hand grabs him by the shirt and picks him up, pulling him out a newly formed door.
“Thank you for remembering me.” the small voice says in the distance.

Alex sits in the waiting room of a sanitarium.
The flickering florescent lights reveal a dirty linoleum floor and a nurse sitting at the front desk.
He wipes the tears from his eyes.
Cat stands in front of him, holding the styrofoam box.
“I’m sorry, I should have told you to stay out of the darkness.”

Alex stands up.
“Room 3B, Alex.”
He remains silent while walking down the corridor of the old hospital.
Cat’s boots click loudly.
The elevator at the end of the hall opens up, Alex hesitates.
“Can we take the stairs..”

Alex opens the blue door to the stairwell.
Cat takes a step back.
“This is where I leave you, Alex.”
Alex stares at the ground. “What will happen?”
Cat hands the styrofoam box to Alex.
“I don’t know. The denouement is just for you.”
Cat holds the door open for Alex.
“Ciao.”

And once again, Alex is alone.
The stairs are not like any stairwell he’d seen before.
Instead of spiraling around each other, they ascend straight up, vertically, like a ladder.
Alex makes his way up the staircase, styrofoam box in hand, waiting to see a light at the top.
What seems like minutes turns to hours, his legs tired, but he keeps going.
Finally he reaches a faded brown door at the top of the stairs with the marking 3B on it.

He opens it slowly.
Pictures of ‘friends’ people he’d never met before or was related to hung on the walls.
In the empty living room where the TV used to be sits a hospital bed with a woman in it.
The loud solid tone of the heart monitor fills the silence of the room.
Alex slowly walks to the bed and places his hand on that of a long and skinny hand with blackened fingertips, unnaturally skinny fingers.

He sets the styrofoam box on top of the bed, he removes the lid.
Dry ice oozes from inside the box, Alex reaches into ice and pulled out a bloody bag.
He stares at the lump of flesh, a human heart.
Pulling back the blue blanket, he uncovers a gaping chest, a hole where the heart should be.
The skin around the opened wound is singed black, smaller holes scattered amongst the chest.
He carefully pulls the heart out from the bag and places it where the old heart was.

The machine beeps slowly, then faster.
Alex smiled.
He wipes the sweat from his forehead and stands, staring at the woman in the bed.
Her eyes open and she stairs up at him.

Her skin regains color, the wounds on her chest disappear.
Alex stands, holding her hand in the darkness of his apartment.
“I’m sorry.” he says quietly, “I’m sorry for everything.”
She says nothing, but smiles.

He reaches into the bathtub and pulls the drain.

Diner Folk

April 24, 2008

His stool squeaks and shakes as his leg jumps up and down. Both of his feet are resting on the metal bar beneath the diner. His shirt is bright yellow. Three creamers lay on either side of his untouched cup of coffee. He’s got to be in his late 40’s, early 50’s. His hair is thinning with patches of white scattered amongst his salt and pepper scalp.

I start taking bets with myself as to what he’s going to order. The strawberry muffin? Maybe the Greek olive omelet with tiny chives catering to his vegetarianism. Perhaps something more filling, the Lumberjack Special with a side salad, no tomatoes, fat free sugar free dressing for his diabetes? The waiter stops and all the guy asks for is the check. Just coffee. He puts down a crumpled five and leaves.

I sip from my giant bedrock coffee mug which looks chiseled from white granite and appropriate for Fred Flinstone to drink out of. It’s handle is elongated and connects the top of the mug to the bottom, perfect for shaky old men with Alzheimer’s and loud smoking women who laugh hard, squeezing their yellow stained hands on thick mugs that won’t break.

At the end of the diner counter I spot a fellow writer. He looks Pakistani. His glasses rest at the end of his Santa Claus nose, bright red from thinking so hard. Deep in thought, I can see his pen hovering over the paper. The writer concentrates trying so hard to think of the word. His hand hasn’t moved an inch in minutes. Meticulous and precise, so into his craft, only to write the perfect word for his masterpiece. His eyes strain in his head. I can tell he is channeling the muse of diner inspiration. The waiter walks to the end of the counter and asks if he can refill his coffee. The writer raises a thick finger as if to say wait, not now, come back after my first publishing.

Behind me sit a table of old men talking all too loudly because of hearing aids that have gone out. Hearing aids that ring pitifully begging for a battery. I can hear one of them telling a story about a girl from way back when. A girl with red hair a red dress, blue eyes. A girl that took the jazz club’s breath away. So he says, the music stopped, people stopped talking. No one could even approach this beauty. He calls her a “bombshell” and his voice starts to shake.

He had just gotten back from the war and visited this club with some buddies.

“You could imagine the state I was in. It had been eighteen months since I’d even seen a woman! To me, this girl was the most beautiful girl in the world and I had to have her.”

I can tell the rest of the table has heard this story about a million times because of their groaning, but I want to hear it.

“You know what I did to win her over?” he says, nudging an old guy in a white hat next to him.

“That wasn’t you, you old bastard. That was Rodger and he’s been dead for fifteen years!” the guy in the white hat says.

The man thinks for a moment, sipping his coffee. “Oh, well you’re right about that one aren’t you?”

“C- San Lucas Me-co” and a Gecko draped in a towel with sunglasses struggle to breathe. Wedged between fat folds on the back of a large white haired man who clutches the plastic booth opposite me to keep balance as he clunks past like an old Jalopy. As the Jalopy walks he mumbles loudly to himself about “finding that damn receipt for the trash compactor in the Sears’ catalog”. He finds his way to the waiting seats and sinks into them reminiscent of a sinking ship into a great white plastic sea.

The radio comes on through the ceiling, the music tunes out the old mumbling Jalopy, the crashing of dishes in the kitchen, the sounds of old men telling stories about things that never happened to them. The Pakistani writer stops writing, the waiter stops walking, everyone quiets down like it’s a Sunday mass.

“If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true…”

My pen stops. All around me everyone just listens. I see a smile come over the red face of the writer. The old Jalopy taps his foot. The waiter hums along. I think about my girl. Everyone is far away lost in memories, including me. We all remember when we first heard the song. Who it reminds us of. Old men remember girls from their pasts, lovers, fiancées. Widows wipe away tears before they hit their thick mascara. The writer finds his word and attacks the page with ink.

With that the waiter takes my check and I leave with a smile.

It’s moments like these that make me glad I’m a writer. I’ve found my word.