Daily Agenda for an Unpaid Intern

Originally published at Foliate Oak Literary Magazine

9:54 am: I arrive six minutes early. It's so I can take the stairs. The newspapers' office is on the fourth floor. It's my exercise for the day. Even after two and a half months my legs still feel like rubber when I get to the top. 

9:57 am: Maureen, the receptionist, says hello when I come in. I try to say good morning, but I'm out of breath from the stairs. I don't think she's ever heard me speak, but still greets me everyday. I hope Amy is reading this. 

9:58 am: I sit down at the interns' desk and unpack my laptop. I try to regain composure, but the deep inhales are noticeably distracting the real writers around me. I assume my body will eventually acclimate to the physical strain of the stairs. Amy said I needed to better myself—physically and mentally. It's the reason I applied for the internship, no matter the lack of pay. 

9:59 am: I notice Ethan isn't here. Point: me.

10:20 am: I successfully make it twenty minutes without checking Facebook. Instead, I alternate between a blank word document and the NPR website. I don't actually read anything. It's my personal routine for getting ready for the day. 

10:21 am: I check my Facebook. No new notifications. I leave a status update, “How about that weather?”

10:22 am: I refresh my Facebook page.

10:24 am: After I refresh the page a few times, the music editor comes out of her office. She asks if I saw Ethan's new blog post. I tell her no, even though I read it last night. Seven times. She says I should check it out because it's freaking hilarious. I silently agree, even though I wish I hated it. She goes back into his office without inquiring where Ethan is. He's half an hour late, I want to say. But no one likes a tattle-tale, according to Amy. Point: Ethan.

10:25 am: It's the first time during the new day that I think, I hate Ethan.

10:26 am: I wonder if anyone asks Ethan if he read my blog post from the day before. Probably not. I need to blog more. 

10:28 am: I go back to staring at the NPR home page.

10:41 am: Ethan walks in and sits next to me. He hands me a CD I was asking about earlier in the week. He's trying to grow a mustache. Doesn't he know he's not even old enough to drink? What a hipster. Thinking about how young he is reminds me that I'm old enough to be divorced.

10:46 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.

10:53 am: Ethan goes into the music editor's office without knocking. They're called manners, idiot, I think to myself. What an immature kid. I giggle. I try to do it quietly, but the news editor glares at me. 

10:54 am: I hate Ethan.

11:19 am: He's still in her office. They're laughing every few minutes. I can tell she's laughing to be polite. I've actually made her laugh. She just thinks he's a dumb little kid. I'm the one with a college degree. I realize I haven't changed my computer screen. It's been on the blank word document for twenty minutes. I type a quick sentence to fool any of the real writers around me, just in case they walk by. There may be more than horse meat in Britain's beef. That'll buy me some time. 

11:28 am: Ethan taps me on the shoulder and asks if I want to go to lunch. I tell him it's going to be a working lunch for me. I hear them say that on TV. He says, next time, and leaves. I can't believe he's already going to lunch. He's probably going to get mac 'n' cheese. Hipster.

11:30 am: I hate Ethan.

11:31 am: Everyone goes to lunch. Now I don't have to feel guilty about refreshing my Facebook page.

11:35 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.

11:37 am: I try to go to Amy's profile, but she blocked me.

11:38 am: I refresh my Facebook page. No new notifications.

11:39 am: I eat my granola bar. I have to force myself to eat less. Amy said overeating was a vice.

11:42 am: Refresh. No notifications.

11:43 am: Refresh. No notifications. 

11:45 am: Refresh. John Anderson likes my status. I leave my only comment of the day, “I know, right?”

12:07 pm: Luke, the Arts & Culture editor, asks if I can send over the movie review that is due today. I tell him, no problem, just give me a minute to format it.

12:11 pm: I watch the movie's trailer twice on Youtube, hoping to get enough sense to write a four hundred word review. It's for the new Francis Ford Coppola movie. I have no idea what it's about. Another attempt at lo-fi independence. I'll just segue into talking about Vincent Gallo.

12:15 pm: Ethan finally comes back. He sits down next to me and we both type for an hour. 

1:20 pm: Luke calls out from his office. He wants to know if I sent the review. Of course, I yell, I guess it didn't go through. I give the movie a four out of five and send it.

1:25 pm: Ethan packs his bag. He tells me to have a good day. I want to say, if you worked a full day, maybe I would. The music editor tells him she just got his email. Article looks great, she says. 

1:26 pm: I hate Ethan.

1:35 pm: I get an email back from Luke. Did you even watch the movie? I guess the phrase, “gotta love the smell of Gallo's charisma in the morning” didn't mask my ignorance very well. I look at the clock. 1:35 is a reasonable time for an intern to cut out early. Ethan does it all the time and everyone loves him. I put my laptop in my bag without turning it off. Any problems can be dealt with tomorrow. Interns usually just need to work four hours. How hard is that, Ethan?

1:37 am: I take the stairs one by one. I want to tone my leg muscles for Amy. She used to call me chicken legs. I don't really know what that means.

Benchman's Uprising

Originally published at The Squalor Review

“We will break those bastards down! We will break those bastards down!” The crowd chanted in unison. “We will break those bastards down!”

The faces blurred together into a massive sea of angry expressions. Indignant expressions. Hurt expressions. The mob gave an impression of being alive as a whole, the pulsing waves simmering as an ocean prepared for the uprising. The sound of their voices crashed against one another, waiting for their leader’s next prompt. Waiting for the next set of instructions to boom through the PA system. Each time his voice erupted through the speakers, it vibrated the walls and tickled everyone’s feet. Puddles from the rain that seeped through the cracks in the roof rippled with each occurrence of his voice.

“And who are the bastards?” Benchman throttled into the mic.

“Giovanni! Rupterbend! Fittshugh! Giovanni! Rupterbend! Fittshugh!” The synchronization was eerie. “Giovanni! Rupterbend! Fittshugh!” Benchman tried to visualize the three men’s faces, but failed to conjure suitable replicas. What kind of bosses would keep this level of anonymity, he thought.

“And what are we going to do?” Benchman stretched them like a rubber band.

“Break those bastards down! We will break those bastards down! We will break those bastards down!”

The heat from the bodies rose, but there was only so much space for it to fill. Sweat was collecting on the foreheads of low-level employees, lower management, middle management; the lows and the highs of the staff were crammed into the big gray room. Folding chairs pushed together to give everyone a seat. Some men wiped their faces with handkerchiefs, while others used the lower half of their shirts, revealing their stomachs while they pulled the cloth to their foreheads. Agitation rose with the temperature. Benchman saw the mass of men channeling this discomfort not at the present circumstance, but instead at the issues being discussed. This pleased him. Because of this they would be more susceptible to his words, to his urgings and his directions.

He was pleased with the solidarity this one entity was able to create. They were no longer employees, but instead a police force for justice. They were here to show the upper crest of the company who they were dealing with. These weren’t beaten men willing to roll over and let themselves be raped by the greed of men. They weren’t going to let their livelihood slip through their fingers. The dog-eat-dog situations were only going to get worse, with the piece of meat being pulled from both sides by the will power of men and by the money.

Benchman was pleased that he was able to gather enough willing men to fight the good fight. That he had followers who were willing to stand by him during trying times. Months prior it was just him and two other guys in his basement. He had invited them over for beers and discussions. Rumor was that benefits were getting cut and he did not agree with it. Why should he lose twenty percent of his medical coverage so Rupterbend could buy a new yacht? Why should he lose out on his annual cost-of-living wage increase due to the greed of Fittshugh and his mistress? Why couldn’t Giovanni take a cut in his travel expenses to allow the men to keep their sparse benefits? Weren’t they cheap enough for the company? Fair is fair, and Benchman wanted it.

“I don’t like being lied to,” Mike had said.

“Yeah, and these pieces of shit think that we’re just going to swallow whatever they feed us.” Ted added.

“And all they’re feeding us is their own dicks,” Mike laughed.

“This is why we need to band together,” Benchman said. “This is why we need to become a force and a voice. Not just drinking buddies griping about the problems. We need to start doing something about it.”

It started off like a pyramid scheme. Or a meth empire. Benchman sent his two peons out to connect. They sold the idea: Life wasn’t fair, so instead of living with it they were going to change it. Fuck the status quo. Mike and Ted brought more to the basement. More stories of outrage were shared. Benchman started to filter the frustration of many into his own words.

A man was reprimanded at work by his supervisor. He was allegedly failing to perform his job duties.

“You should have seen him yelling at me,” ‘screaming at him,’ was how Benchman changed it. “It was out of line. He was out of line. Didn’t even listen to the explanation. These guys, they just don’t get the circumstantial. Life isn’t black and white. Things come up, and why can’t they see that!”

“Did you report him?”

“What would have been the point?” The men nodded while they murmured in agreement. No HR bastard is going to help bring the bastards down because that threatens the status of the company. Bad performance means bad bonuses.

The supervisor sat amongst the circle the next week. No one said a thing about it.

Each week there would be more intelligence brought to light. Did they know Fittshugh was an adultress? The women he fucked would call the office daily. They always asked for Al, never Mr. Fittshugh.

“It’s true!” One man shouted. “I saw him at Applebee’s with a woman who did not look like his wife.”

“And a man willing to cheat on the woman he made a vow to God to stay faithful to, he wouldn’t have any qualms with fucking all of us! He’d do anything if he fucks whores!”

The moral ambiguity these men hid behind was sickening. Of course they would have their excuses. Not reasons, mind you, but filthy, under-tabled excuses that should rot in hell. The excuses themselves even deserved eternal damnation. They’d have one for every occasion. My wife cheated first. Be the bigger man. She doesn’t love me anymore, so I’m just trying to fill the void. So make her love you again, Benchman thought, fight for her. There is nothing that can’t be accomplished with perseverance and hard work. Keep at it. And if the excuses don’t do it, they’ll try to fog over the issues with “good deeds.” Look at the charities we help! Look at the good we’ve done! As if that justifies taking wages away from the working men. The ones with families.

When Benchman started having to add a third row to the circle he knew they would need to find a bigger meeting area. They would probably need to pay for it as well. They didn’t want the higher-ups to know what was happening. The men were starting to connect like a web, building a network to catch an insect, or three. Benchman was going to have to ask for donations. If every man threw in just five dollars they would have more than enough. Pool it all together into one sum and he could use that to secure an area.

They moved outside to his backyard while he searched the city for areas to accommodate them. Some middle management guys started showing up when the space become available. Spies, whispered no one. But these were the men who started giving some more girth to the Rupterland rumors. He’d been saving his own bonuses, they said. Last year when the men got a 2.1% Christmas bonus opposed to the 3.1% that was due, it was because of the greed of one man opposed to the loss of revenue as they were originally told. There was a loss of clients, yes, but instead of the equal .4% drop proposed, Rupterbend made it a full percentage point so he would be able to collect his full bonus. Being rich and powerful is hard, they could hear the bastard saying. Benchman snorted at the thought.

Then there was the cut to benefits: Less sick time, less vacation time, worse medical coverage. All so Giovanni could continue taking “business trips.” They were a ruse, the middle men stated.

“Mini-vacations, that’s what they really are. We all watch the news! We know about the million dollar island weekends as much as anyone! We know it when we see it!”

Giovanni bathed upon glorious white beaches in their minds while they had to fight for an extra hour on the clock. Diapers needed to be bought. Homes couldn’t go cold. The refrigerator needed to be restocked. The lack of hours were wearing the men down. They had started to lash out at one another in a search for more hours, trying to prepare for the cuts that were allegedly coming. They could not fail their loved ones. But they were, all while Giovanni—the bastard—took another sip off his piña colada.

They’d build their case silently, biding their time until Giovanni made his move. As soon as he announced their cuts he would unleash the mob. At this point they were still is a jejune state. They hadn’t matured to their full potential. He hoped they would be stronger when the cuts started happening, and he was confident that they would be.

It grew. Their movement continued to gather momentum with the weight of men. More men came every week. And Benchman sat proudly at the top. Giovanni can make his move, he thought. I fucking dare him. See the rage of riot that will erupt. Just see.

“What are we going to do?”

“Break those bastards down! Break those bastards down! Break those bastards down!”

The mob gnashed its teeth, ready for the battle. The morale here was lifted. He could see the passion in these men. He could see what they really wanted. And if they didn’t know themselves, all he had to do was tell them. Every story he had heard in the circle, every rumor he heard in the hallways, every whiff of information he accumulated was filed in his brain and then peppered into his sermons as fact. He had an army ready to fight for what he thought was fair. They were ready to fight for his view of the company.

“Do you want justice?”

“Yes we do! Yes we do! Yes we do!”

“And how are we going to get it?”

“We will take it! We will take it! We will take it!”

“Yes, we will. We will take it from those bastards!”

One More Drag Queen

Originally published at Zygote in My Coffee

One of the drag queens had a tattoo of the alien from the Alien franchise bursting out of the skin on his bicep. 

This is what really made me think that I might be able to partake in the ritual of drag night. That I might be able to find a dress that would make me more lady-like and dance like a pop star. They didn’t even sing, only lip-synced. I heard somewhere that if you mouthed “watermelon” it would match up with whatever lyrics you were trying fake-sing. But could straight guys include themselves in a night of drag?  

The wig was irritating my scalp. I knew I should have shaved my head, or used the gel the clerk suggested. He said that if I tried to put it on dry hair it wouldn’t be comfortable. If anything, buy a skullcap. Pantyhose even. Anything but dry hair to wig. But did I listen? I thought I would be able to tough it out. I was already going out dressed up like a woman and prancing around a bar full of strangers. 

My ex-girlfriend wouldn’t have approved. I came to drag night the first time as a spectator at a friend’s request. She was going to be performing and wanted some support. I was touched that she asked, only because I knew my ex had spread the word that I wasn’t “in to that kind of thing.” I was never for or against it. It was just another thing I grew up with. I’d never seen a Pride parade or the pain on the faces of lovers who couldn’t legally prove their commitment. I knew the political debates when it came to homosexual culture, but growing up I saw people who liked the opposite sex, and some who liked the same. It didn’t seem weird to me. 

I had met Tammy at work. She was the girl who talked to everyone and I was the guy who drove home alone as soon as my shift ended. It was when she followed me into the parking lot one evening that it even dawned on me that I had been noticed amongst the sea of employees. 

“Why don’t you ever go out with us?” 

“I’ve never been invited,” my mother would have been proud how polite I was. 

Tammy laughed. “You don’t need to be invited. Just come.” 

She helped build my confidence. I was more than just a two to ten grocery aisle stock boy. I was always the kid who did his duties without thinking too much. I went from showing up to school twenty minutes early and turning in all the assignments to arriving at work early and completing all my tasks. 

My parents weren’t known for their social lives, but they were dependable. I was following closely in their footsteps. Then she broke me out of my prison of oblivion. The routine shut down and a new order took hold. I began to live a different, fun, kind of life. 

Everything was going so well until I had her over for dinner. In one night my father managed to ask where he could get a Koran for “National Burn a Koran Day” and called Johnny Depp a “butt-fucking queer.” She started to liken me to him and would make small comments from that day on. It had only been a couple months, but I guess it wasn’t enough to prove myself. 

A skullcap would have been another purchase. I bought a dress, flesh colored underwear, women’s panties and high heels. I shaved my legs and my back. I knew I should’ve waited a bit to make sure I knew the window to avoid ingrown hairs. Or I should’ve just gone with a long sleeve dress, but I didn’t want to be just another drag queen. I wanted to be fucking hot. I wanted the boys in the crowd to need to remind themselves that it wasn’t a woman. Now that my back was covered in red bumps I didn’t think I’d have to worry about people thinking I was a woman. 

The first night I saw these men dressed like women, dancing to the loud beats of Lady Gaga and Alanis Morissette, I didn’t know what to think. It was appealing and exciting, but I didn’t know why. They had an in your face attitude and didn’t care what people thought. They made crude jokes over the PA about getting drunk and waking up in a strange man’s hotel room, trying to figure out where the claw marks on their back came from. They concealed their faces and bodies with the help of make-up and fake breasts. 

When I handed over the CD with the song I wanted the emcee shook his head and laughed. It wasn’t a congratulatory laugh, it was one of pity. Silly boy, it said, you think no has done this song. You think it’s so damn ironic, don’t you? it said. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself so I told him that I was joking, of course. Just a bit of friendly banter between two queens. I wondered if he knew I wasn’t gay. Could he detect that I was a fraud? 

Tammy used to say I was a fraud. Doesn't she know I'm so much more? 

After the incident at my parents’ there was a wedge between us. At first I was broken. I would send unanswered texts. My voice mail would remain empty whenever I checked it. Other co-workers started inviting me out when I stopped showing up with her. I don’t know if they actually enjoyed my company or just felt bad. 

My circle of friends started to expand on these nights. The contact list in my phone grew. I stopped calling it “my cell phone for emergencies,” but rather, “my phone.” 

We weren’t officially broken up and she used that fact to continue our relationship. She started coming over to our table while we laughed about the angry customers from work. The way a worm works its way through the earth was the same way she was able to come back into my embrace. I felt indebted to her for revealing my new lifestyle to me. 

Although, she would become jealous of any people I hung around with that weren’t her. She felt she needed to be a fixture in my life at all times. That I was incomplete when she wasn’t standing by my side. 

She told me that she lived alone, but wouldn’t show me her apartment. I was left to my imagination. I envisioned Misfits tapestries, not posters because with her rowdy tendencies posters were more apt to tear and be ruined, and framed pictures of drawings she had done for different local band shows. She would say a frame made her feel more accomplished. 

I ran to my car, but had trouble staying balanced. Another detail I should have practiced more. The cross-dressers walked and danced and conversed so easily in their high heels, made it look like nothing. I thought I would just need to make the straps tight enough and I’d be another one of the girls. Only I kept rolling on my ankle, throwing my hands out and grabbing anything for stability. I almost ripped a queen’s breasts off. He called me a faggot and told me to get lost. The group he was a part of laughed at my humiliation. 

I tore through my CD booklet. I thought Aerosmith would have been funny, but I remembered the laugh, of course a straight man would pick that song to perform to. The emcee didn’t know I was straight because of some sort of radar, but because I was trying too hard. 

She said I always tried too hard. That’s how she knew my true colors, she’d say. 

My thumb flipped each page, looking for a suitable song didn’t come as easily as I had hoped. My original pick came in the middle of a performance to Shania Twain’s “Man, I feel like a woman.” The strangers crowded around in a semi-circle loved the six-foot queen shimmying and spinning on the dancers poll. They would walk into the dance area and slip dollar bills into the bra that concealed the fabricated breasts. I wondered what they used. My skin had already started turning orange from the fruit I tapped to my chest. A bra was the other item I didn’t think I needed to spring for. 

I got to the end of the booklet and didn’t see anything. Nineties alternative and old jazz didn’t cut it for a fun drag song. I wished I was into the new indie music, filled with drums machines and synthesizers. I decided I was already joining a drag show, so I might as well roll the dice. I grabbed an unmarked burned CD and prayed fate would shine on me. 

Tammy said I didn’t have opinions of my own, meaning I couldn’t be my own person. I could only listen and consume. Just because I wasn’t vocal didn’t mean I didn’t have a voice. 

I ran back into the bar and found the emcee. He looked at the disc and then to me. 

“What song?” 

“Track five,” I remembered I normally liked track five on CDs. 

“But what song is it?” He asked, growing inpatient. 

“A good one,” I said. “Trust me.” 

He again laughed the laugh of pity and walked away without another word. The makeup I applied was too thick. The sweat made the foundation act like a layer of ice on the ocean. The faster the liquid moved underneath the more likely the ice would crack and shift. 

I felt the vibration of a beat coming through the wall. The night was about to begin. My red dress kept riding up to reveal my hairy upper thighs. I thought I would be able to cover the hair with the skirt of the dress, but I didn’t expect it to crawl a little with every step I took. God gave me feminine calves and arms, but my father’s thighs. They were thick and muscular. It was the most out of place characteristic I had. These were the only things he ever gave me. Why couldn’t she realize that? 

I walked to the back of the stage where the DJ sat. I would hide from the crowd, then unveil myself to be the hottest new queen this place has seen. If they loved me I would be able to do this every week. Make a little extra cash on the side. The emcee told me I would probably go earlier when I told him no one I invited had come. The truth was I didn’t invite anyone. I wanted to be a new person in front of new people who had never seen me. Wanted to prove that I could take a stand. Not just listen, but shout. 

The wedge Tammy had created grew larger. The more she distanced herself the more I felt I needed her. Or maybe just her approval. When she brought me into the circle of work friends it was as if I was branded with her logo. I was hers and she was my keeper. 

The advantage of the wedge wasn’t apparent until I saw her walk into a bar with the new guy, Reid. He seemed shy and uncomfortable at work too. Tammy was helping him out of his shell. She didn’t understand why I had gotten so mad. She didn’t know why I walked out. I had a feeling I know why she didn’t follow. I was on to her selfish ways. How she thought she knew me because I relied on her. How she loved the idea of being sought after and needed. 

Since I left she had started spreading the myth that is my father. Better, the perception she has of him after one night. She used the fact that I have a hint of him in my face to prove that I am like him. That I hate everything not white and everything against the status quo is just wrong. She was trying to hurt me. 

The first performer of the night was a man who looked much like Dr. Frank-N-Furter. The song she danced to was Ke$ha. I think, I wasn’t sure, though. I didn’t listen to the radio and all I knew of pop music was what the girls at work spoke of. They never directly talked to me about it, but I couldn’t help but eavesdrop when they called Katy Perry a slut or said Lady Gaga was actually a man. They said one of the girls we worked with looked like Ke$ha, and then called her a whore. I wasn’t sure if they were talking about our co-worker or the singer. 

The dance beats came to an end and the emcee walked out with his microphone. 

“Damn, doesn’t she have a nice ass? I would love to slather that in Haggen-Daaz and eat it right up. Skip the fucking spoon, that would just get in the way,” a smoker laugh boomed from the PA speakers. “Seriously though, I’ve got to watch what I say. I don’t know how many of you know that I’m forty-one, but I want you to know,” he paused, “my boyfriend happens to be twenty-one,” the crowd shouted words of praise. “I know, I know. So if I talk too much about wanting to eat other men’s asses he’ll do one of two things. Get jealous and make me eat his ass all night,” another laugh. “Or he’ll talk to my new aim and all three of us will fuck in a strange man’s hotel!” The crowd cheered. 

“Now, we have a new performer tonight,” the emcee continued on. “Are you ready for a new performer!” The crowd cheered again. “Please welcome,” he looked at his scrap of paper and shook his head a little. “Sally.” 

The music started and my heart sank as the Toadies guitar riff came through the speakers. It was a song about a man raping a girl. Some people would argue that it was consensual, but the son of a bitch convinces this girl to give up her virginity. If there is any sort of persuasion involved I wouldn’t go as far as call it consensual. 

“Next song,” I shouted. “I’m sorry, the next one.” 

The emcee stood in open-mouthed bafflement. He had to have known I was straight. I didn’t belong. I could feel my makeup had shifted in large pieces across my forehead. My scalp burned and the song continued to play. I made a circle with my hand and yelled next song again. The emcee shook his head and leaned down to hit the track button. 

A bass line popped through the speakers and my breathing mellowed. This could work. I could dance to this. I tried to move my hips back and forth when the singing broke in. 

“I got sunshine, on a cloudy day…” 

I started shifting my weight between my feet and remembered my ex-girlfriend shrill voice, I’m not trying to be mean, but you don’t have rhythm, you need that to dance! 

If she could see me now. 

“I guess you’d say, what can make me feel this way…My Girl…” 

My eyes were closed when I realized I wasn’t lip-syncing along with the song. My shoulders pulsed with the sound of the guitars. I tried to match the harmony parts, repeating my girl over and over. I hadn’t moved, just continued to shift my weight back and forth. This wasn’t the kind of song you needed to run in circles to impress, though. 

Silent wonderment. 

“I got a sweeter song, than the birds’ in the trees…” 

I opened my eyes, expecting to see the crowd grooving along with the song and me. 

No one moved. They all had the expression of watching someone slow-fall. It was a fall that you expected the person to continually recover from, so you never lend your help because you don’t think they need it. Then you feel like an asshole when person ends up on the ground. 

I still hadn’t moved from my original position. The chorus came back and I mouthed my girl a few more time and tried snapping my fingers. I glanced to each side of me and still no one dared to move along with me. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand and felt a sheet of foundation fall over my eye and onto my cheek. I tried to smile, but had trouble because I had resorted to mouthing watermelon over and over. The small heels on my shoes clicked with my weight. 

I couldn’t remember how long the song went, but time was also elongated while performing. I tried to scope the big room for any familiar faces. Could Tammy have just showed up for the fun of it? Wanted to go out and have a fun time at the drag show? She would see me and realize she had been wrong. She would know what kind of mistake she made. She’d dump Reid and let me back into her arms. We could go back to her place and lay into the night together. 

But I didn’t see her face in the crowd. 

From what I could tell no one had left the room, but no one felt the urge to join me in the fun.

Maybe the Next Game

Originally published at Rock & Sling.

“He’s the most intimidating pitcher in the history of baseball.”

“Because of the beard?”

“Well, that helps. Would you want to go against this guy?”

“I don’t know if I’d give a shit about him as much as a dude who puts people in the hospital or once exploded birds in mid-air.”

“Imagine that, but add a big, gnarly beard opposed to a sick mullet.”

“That ruins the whole argument. Sasquatch here doesn’t blow up birds. Dude doesn’t throw a consistent hundred-mile fast ball.”

“But if he did.”

“You already said he was the most intimidating. You’re backtracking.”

The buttons strained on Jefferson’s Ken Griffey, Jr. jersey. It was one of the originals, he would say, from the nineties. Not original like Griffey wore it, but original as in an MLB authentic fan jersey. This was before Griffey was a greedy prick who only played for money. Back when the Mariners were a team full of players who did it for the love of the game.

“I’m just saying I wouldn’t want to bat against him.”

“You wouldn’t bat against anyone in the majors. Probably not even in the minors,” Jefferson laughed a brittle few shots of air.

“Like you would,” Preston sank back against the plaid love seat. The fabric used to be tight and perky, but years of use had worn it down. Jefferson knew he needed to go and find a replacement, but couldn’t find the motivation. Preston’s extra weight pushed cat hair into the air, the floating particles catching the solitary source of light from the TV.

“Not only would I, but I could.”

“Bullshit.”

“Seriously. Stick me up against any of these guys and watch it happen,” he said. “Wham-O,” the O was hardly audible. He made the pantomime of swinging a bat. The way he held his hand showed Preston that his friend imagined a wood bat, just like the pros. Babe Ruth would have held a bat like the one Jefferson put into his hands. The fabric clung tight against his ever expanding stomach. He’d been eating worse in the last few months, having to go to the store every few weeks to upgrade his waist size. Even the ring on his left hand felt tight.

“Looks more like you striking out, you son-of-a-bitch.”

They turned their attention back to the game. 3-2, two out, bottom of the ninth. The pitch looked high and tight, but the ump called it. Game over.

“Well. Crap.”

“Maybe they’ll play better on Wednesday,” Preston stood up, shaking his head and patting the stray hairs off his jacket.

Jefferson stayed seated in his recliner, staring at the TV, twirling the golden band on his finger.

“Maybe,” he said.

“I’m off. See you then?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Jefferson sighed. “See you Wednesday.”

Brotherly Love

Originally published at Hippocampus Magazine.

My friend Dan texted me to ask if I remembered Sid.

I replied, “Of course I remembered Sid. Why?”

Sid and I were best friends for the first few years of elementary school. Our brothers were best buds too, so I had the privilege of seeing him a lot. It was easier for our parents to have both kids headed to the same destination. My brother Justin and Sid’s brother David would hunt small animals while Sid and I would throw dirt clods at one another. I loved going home at night and lying on my bed, rubbing my scalp to pull every piece of dirt and sand out of my hair. My mom wouldn’t understand why there was an arc of dirt on my pillow in the morning.

Guns would usually be involved when we hung out with our brothers. The BB gun wars would consist of the younger versus the older. I remember getting shot in the chest, seeing the copper ball bounce off my camouflage jacket into the grass. Sid’s brother had shot me, and I fired back. The bark flaked off the tree with each shot at David. I remember cocking the Red Rider and not taking my time with aiming. I would just raise the barrel and fire in his direction. I came so close to taking his eye out. I wonder what we would have said to our parents had he come home a Cyclops.

My brother had a more powerful gray pump-action pellet rifle. Whereas the Red Rider only pumped once, he could build up the pressure in his gun to give a stronger shot. I was hunkered down behind a bush hidden from everyone else. I could see my brother scoping out Sid’s hiding position. I knew what Sid was thinking, a change in trees would be beneficial because the one he was behind was smaller and paled in the brush quality to the thicket of trees 15 feet away. My brother pumped his gun multiple times while he studied Sid’s movements. Justin said he would only pump the gun once since everyone else’s weapons wouldn’t pack the same kind of punch.

Sid wasn’t out of shape, the same as most kids in the early ‘90s. The Internet was still years in the future and none of our parents could afford the newest videogame systems. We were tossed out of the house until sunset. Make your own fun, they would say, use your imagination. But as Sid tried to run the 15 feet to his new cover he moved so slowly. 

I willed him to move faster, but Justin had already lined him up.

The volume of Sid’s screams didn’t match that of the pfft from Justin’s gun. A momentary truce was called so we could all assess the damage from this skirmish. Sid was still rolling side to side when the three of use stood around him. He never would survive a bear attack, I thought. Tears made clean lines down the side of his face, revealing the young flesh underneath the filth. He clutched his arm to his chest, hoping the pressure to the wound would relieve him of the pain. I didn’t want to see how bad it was. I imagined a clear, scarlet liquid flowing down his arm in thick trickles.

Justin said sorry with a smile. David sat on Sid’s chest, preventing his continued rocking. There was a welt on his arm, but the pellet didn’t break the skin.

“Don’t be such a fucking pussy,” David slapped Sid upside the head.

That is what Sid and I got from them. If there wasn’t a mark on our bodies then they didn’t deserve to get in trouble. Our tears weren’t enough of a reason for them to be punished.

As we grew we began to model ourselves after our brothers. They were always laughing and having a good time. We wanted to have a life full of laughter too. I used to see my brother talking on the phone for hours. He would walk around his room, the cord from the yard sale phone dragging behind him, and tell jokes and learn about people’s lives. He was teaching himself how to talk to other human beings. I was never able to stay on the phone for more than five minutes. I would let the silence swell into awkwardness and have to hang up. I never had many girlfriends.

Then, as most teens do, the older brothers started smoking pot and drinking beer. My parents caught on and our home life deteriorated. My parents were vigilant about where he was going, whom he was with and what he was doing. He had to call and check in every hour. They were a police force. He had a rebellious spirit and never gave them an opportunity to trust him ever again. Justin was all they had on their minds and I was given free reign for most of my youth. At this point I regret not taking advantage of it. My mother smelled my breath once in my teenage years, and the funny part about it is it was the one time I drank beer in my high school days. She didn’t even notice, but smelled as a mere formality, assuming I was only getting candy on Halloween.

I never wanted to go home, but at the same time I was a homebody so I never wanted to leave. I was marooned in my room and that became my haven. I would read and draw comics in the company of no one. I went through a phase where I’d draw posters for fictional movies I’d made up. Brothers – ‘One’s a cop. The other’s a criminal. Family’s all that matters?’ The tagline was always my favorite part to make up, but I’ve never been very good at thinking of quipping lines.

I would be able to sit on the far end of the house in the living room and watch movies after nine in the evening. My parents both went to bed early and Justin was in his room planning an escape or talking on the phone. I was able to sit in solitary darkness and let the pictures of John Woo and Michael Bay wash over me.

One night I was watching Terminator 2: Judgment Day and Justin asked if he could join me. He would normally plop down and start complaining about what I was watching or he’d just grab the remote and change the channel. If I tried to tell on him he would punch me in the stomach. I’ve been punched in the stomach many times because of him, and I would prefer a face shot. When all the wind is knocked out of you with a diaphragm jab and your body tries regaining equilibrium, your lungs seem to be unable to retain any air. It feels like you’re going to suffocate, unable to move because you’re crippled on the floor.

So when he asked if he could join me for the movie I was surprised. I wondered if this was a new, hopefully permanent, side of Justin. We weren’t 20 minutes into the flick when our dad walked into the room holding a two-liter Coke bottle that was transformed into a bong. There was a small green cylinder duct taped to the side, giving access to whatever smoke was in the chamber.

Justin didn’t finish the movie. He left with our father and had a sit-down with both our parents. I finished the movie but wanted to go to bed the whole time. I just didn’t want to walk by my parents and Justin while going to my room at the opposite end of the house.

Things like this were constant; I was caught in the crossfire a few times. One night I woke up in a sweat from a nightmare; my family had been murdered and I could only see their lifeless bodies strewn across the floor, blood soaking into the carpet. I got out of bed and knocked on my parents’ bedroom door. I waited for a moment, my ear to the door in hopes that I would hear the floor creak with the weight of a newly awakened Mom or Dad. Instead, I heard the slider on the other end of the house shut.

I moved towards the kitchen. A shadowy form moved to the fridge and opened the door. The light shown from the box revealed that the figure was Justin.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“What are you doing up?”

I could smell cigarettes on his clothes and breath. The clock on the oven read 12 a.m. I figured he did this routine every night—sit at the bottom of the stairs in the basement waiting for all the televisions to be turned off and all the doors to be shut, then creep to the far end of the house to smoke a stolen or bummed cigarette. He wouldn’t have discriminated which kind; be it a light or a robust or a 100, Marlboro, Camel or American Spirit, he would have been grateful for the tobacco and nicotine.

“I had a bad dream.” That was when we heard the parental footfalls I was hoping for a moments ago. And then the click of a door opening. Justin grabbed me by my arm, rushed me to the sliding door, pushed me through and told me to run. I didn’t think twice. I ran. He was behind me, but it only took him a few seconds to catch up and run alongside me. We ran up the street away from what would have been yelling and disappointment, from looks of anger and sadness. Once we got a couple blocks away, Justin sat down on the curb and I followed his cue. He pulled out a half a cigarette and lit it. I pushed the gravel off the sole of my foot. My pajama pants were too long for my stubby legs, letting the backs of them get wet from the nighttime dew.

We didn’t say anything while we sat on the curb. He blew his smoke skyward and I looked at the stars. We lived far enough out that the city’s lights wouldn’t mush the sky into a dark gray. Instead we could see all the constellations the dome had to offer. After about five minutes Justin stood up, scrubbing the asphalt with his cigarette butt.

“I think that should be enough time,” he said.

As we walked back to our house I noticed how different our neighborhood looked at night. I wasn’t even out of elementary school, so I hadn’t had the benefit of late night explorations with friends yet. I was always a few years behind on what kids my age should have been doing anyway.

When we got home, we walked around to the back of the dark house. If our mom or dad knew what had happened, they surely would have locked the slider. That would mean Justin would have to ring the doorbell and he’d—we’d—be caught.

The slider slid open with a whiff.

Justin looked back at me and nodded his head in victory. He whispered to me to be quiet going to my room. He let me take the lead into the kitchen.

“Have a nice walk?” My mom was sitting on the counter, in the dark. Her legs were crossed at the ankles. Even in the darkness I could feel the stare of disappointment.

“We—” he started.

“I don’t want to hear it. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“I had a bad dream,” I said.

“I don’t care. Get to your room.” She was done with us.

I don’t blame her. From her perspective I was out with him. Living up the life of the rebel older brother. Moments like these, though, are the reasons I didn’t want to leave my room. I didn’t want to get caught in the cross hairs, whether I deserved it or not.

As David and Justin got older their drug use and drinking got harder. They were teenagers and set out to prove themselves, wanting to show everyone how “badass” they were, to do as much partying as a “normal” adult would. Sid followed in our brothers’ footsteps; he saw them rebel against the status quo and thought they were cool. He wanted to prove he was just as hard as they were by getting into hot water with his parents—and not giving a shit. I could only see the tears in my mother’s eyes and the voices of both parents as they fought at night about my friendship with Sid. My father’s deep voice would timber through the walls into my room. I could never make out the words, but his voice sounded angry and defensive.

Sid continued to push the envelope and I opted to become a wallflower; we lost touch through the years. I started to read more books and watch more movies and made friends who shared those interest. Sid and my old group of friends started scheming ways to get booze, meeting each weekend to lose all recollection of teenage life in a haze of weed and cigarettes and vodka. I saw Sid at school now and again as we got older, but once we graduated I never thought that I’d see him again.

Then in 2006 Justin died of an overdose.

As I read my letter to my older brother at his memorial service I saw Sid amongst 600 faces. Standing room only. I was amazed that a 22-year-old drug addict could fill a mega-church, more people than the pastor’s mother’s service a few months earlier. These people must have known something I didn’t.

I heard stories about how my brother was an amazing guy, incapable of judging people. It 

didn’t matter if you were a shitty person or a nice person, he would treat both of you the same. If you stole from him or if you gave him gifts, he would allow you into his house. Apparently, he loved to laugh and joke around with people. He got to know—and even hugged—people. I wanted to believe these stories, but I did not know this side of him. Makes me wonder what I would’ve thought of him had he treated me like a friend opposed to his younger, un-hip brother. I just can’t get away from the look in his eyes when he would judge me, when he would call me a faggot for not smoking weed with him. He was the only person who ever tried to peer pressure me, but I was able to withstand his advances—probably because of my hatred toward him. A benign, loving big brother is a wonderful thought, and I’m sure the several hundred faces at the memorial knew that side of him, but I failed to connect the two. Sid’s face showed me that he was able to connect the two.

So when Dan asked me if I remembered Sid my heart sank.

The grapevine had told me that Sid had served time in prison for armed robbery. That he became religious and read the Bible regularly. That when he got out of jail, he was hooked on oxycontin, and his parents were on the verge of kicking him out. That was a year ago.

It had been a few years since anyone I knew had died.

Justin was cremated. But I imagined Sid’s parents would put him in an open casket. They would have him wear a blue suit. Make the whole outfit monochromatic: a navy blue button up shirt with a dark blue tie that matched the jacket. He’d be clean-shaven with only a quarter inch of stubble on his head. I concluded that he probably wasn’t beaten to death; it must have been a prescription drug overdose, perhaps passing away in his sleep. I would probably see a lot of my old friends at the church for his service. We’d exchange funny memories of Sid. We’d say goodbye to the corpse and smoke cigarettes outside. I would feel like a fake because where have I been? I took an introspective lifestyle in my youth and it became more complex as I grew. They’d embrace me nevertheless. We’d be a group of friends again. Of course I would be sad about Sid, but it’s better than my parents or my wife.

My phone beeped again.

“He just wanted to say ‘Hi,’” Dan finally responded.