Lost

He didn't come back that night, and Sam sat in total concentration while he worked on the poster. Working on the poster was keeping him from going crazy. Going crazy was the only option that sounded appealing if Hank didn't come back.

Hank was a mutt of dubious lineage. Seemed people always saw their favorite breed in him, and Sam never really got the mind to correct them. His folks called Hank a chameleon, which is a lizard that changes colors. Sam had seen one at the county fair.

Hank had gotten out before, but he'd always make a few charges at the squirrels that lived up in the big pines and then tire out. Then he'd come home and get scolded. Then he'd get a treat. Sam never got mad at Hank, and that was because there was nothing about the dog that he didn't love.

They'd been together since before either or them remembered it. The dog followed Sam everywhere. When he was inside, his eyes followed Sam's every movement. The boy belonged to him. You could see that. Folks said it was strange, but it was the truth. Sam didn't own that dog. That dog owned Sam.

Sam was brushing his teeth when he heard a long, low whine from outside. He knew the sound. He'd only heard it once before when Hank had surprised a porcupine. Now, his heart stopped.

Hank was sitting at the backdoor and, if you didn't know him, you might just think he was hungry. Tired. He was hungry and tired, but that wasn't the problem. The problem was the crushed hind legs that had carved a smooth swath through the fall leaves. Sam fell to his knees and hugged the dog, whose tongue wiped away the thick tears. Sam knew his dad was behind him, and his head sank. He could smell gun oil and, turning, he saw the face of a man whose heart was broken.

"No, Dad...we can take him...to town..."

Sam's Dad swallowed hard and wondered how you explain to a young boy that his best friend isn't going to be around anymore.

"Son, you know I hate to do anything to hurt you. This is going to break your heart and don't think I don't know it. Hell, I loved that dog, too. Not like you, but he was a good goddamn dog. Excuse my French...son, we can't let him suffer like this..."

Sam stared at the ground until he could slow down the tears.

"Dad..."

"Yes, Son."

"I don't want to shoot him, Dad."

"Son, you don't have to."

"He's my damn dog."

Sam took the revolver from his father's hand. He pressed his forehead against Hanks strong brow and hoped that dogs could read minds. Hank had always seemed like a mind-reader. Buddy, I know you understand. And I know you know I hate to do this more than anything. But the doc can't fix your legs, and we both know it. I love you. I won't ever forget you. I promise.

Slowly, he stood and led the dog by its collar, hind legs limp dragging. When they reached the trash pile at the edge of the ridge, Sam stopped.

From the back steps, the old man could see it all. Silhouettes in the moonlight. A broken dog, thumping his tail and whimpering each time it hit the hard-pack dirt. The boy got on his knees and pulled the dog to his chest. He was crying so hard it looked like he was vibrating, and the old man let the tears come.

The dog sat still. He faced the boy and nosed the barrel of the gun. He licked the boy's hand and then there was an explosion in the night. The dog crumpled and Sam dropped the gun. He was still for a good minute, chin on his chest. He looked up into the sky and the old man was glad he couldn't see his face. He walked away from the house into the dense, green woods.

The last story.

Tick.

Teeth on barrel. He laughed, spine cringing at the soft metal noise. No need to bite the damn thing, but his teeth didn't matter anymore and the steel chill faded quickly. He was tired. Tired of biting the bullet. Bullet, barrel...fuck it. He knew he wouldn't flinch and, even if he did...

He grabbed another piece of printer paper, took a swig from the bottle, and tried again. A few sentences and then it was just the same old bullshit. It was going to hurt, regardless. There would be questions, no matter what he wrote.

He pictured her in his mind and his muscles went rigid with hate. Part of him wanted to kill her, but he knew this would hurt her more. And she fucking deserved it. So what? So much talk. Fuck her. She had the nerve to pervert something he loved, churning out the words like styrofoam peanuts. There was no spice to the writing and people shoveled it in like fast food. And she bragged her little mottled smile...made fun of his friends who weren't "producing". Blind to the fact that when they did, it mattered...not like the shit she pawned off...soiled paper.

His parents would be destroyed. Fuck it. Fuck them. There had been so many paths diverging in all manner of colored woods, but they had picked the wrong one consistently. They built the foundation and he didn't feel much about it. Finishing it, that is.

Michael would be fucking destroyed, but Jesus Christ...how much had he fed that man? How many times had he been the life preserver. He knew he should return the favor...give him a chance to pay it back. Fuck it. He could pay him back with forgiveness.

He couldn't think what to say. Sorry? When you think of me, think good things? Know that I will be happier in whatever void awaits than I am here, on earth, you simple endoskeletal...

His right. It was his. The whole fucking thing. He owned it. He'd put down the tent pegs. He'd closed his eyes when quivering, damp lips led to hands, cold, in places he couldn't speak of. He'd fucking sucked that shit up, so they could take this. Team effort.

The layoffs and the fucking debt and all the goddamn bullshit financial crap that he didn't understand. Judged arbitrarily for things he could not control...ratty hair, old clothes, stench of poverty. Let them feast on it. Let it rise in their throats, acid burning the pink skin, sizzling burnt meat smell. It was all burnt meat. Feast, motherfuckers, feast.

He wasn't happy. That's what it came down to. The past, the girls who had left, the money that had evaporated seemingly overnight. The anger and the sadness. The memories that tried to surface no matter how hard he squashed them down. It was like a summertime child pushing a rubber ball under the limp surface of a blue, backyard pool. You can't keep that shit down. It rises up. Sometimes it explodes. Fuck it.

'I'm not happy'. He stared at the block printing on the sheet and knew it wasn't enough. But it would never be enough. His last act of generosity would be the gift of hatred. He would hate himself until the very last second. Until his finger closed on the cold metal. He would not try to make it OK. And that penance would have to serve. And their hatred would outweigh the loss.

He took another drink from the bottle. Upended it. Held it above his slack tongue while the last few drips fell. He looked at the paper and the gun on the table. Under the three words in the center of the page he wrote, 'It's not your fault'. He moaned a quiet plea and picked the gun back up. It was time to bite the barrel.

7-11

Kyle was friends with the raver dipshit. Actually, he was a pretty nice guy, but he hung out with some real annoying K-hole A-holes. He sold K and acid and he'd give us the thin strips off the acid sheets he cut. Can't sell em, but they still work. We'd get him into shows and put him on our guest lists and shit. We were probably a nice break from the sacks of stupidity he was forced to deal with. We like to talk about books and music and...well, we like to talk.

So, we're at dude's house and all the rave-kids are looking at us funny. We pretty much associate with them because they have the best drugs. Sad, but true. In my rock and roll angst, they stand for pretty much everything I am against. I want to play my guitar loud and talk about important shit. They want to wear plush animal backpacks and use pacifiers. But they get good drugs.

So, Kyle, Jim, Mario and I are chewing strips like there is no tomorrow because, quite frankly, that is a very real possibility on any given day and the shit is FREE. Kyle disappears and we're trying to calculate how many strips equals one hit and we're overly conservative in our estimations which makes the calculations really fucking hard because we're tripping face. We figure Mario and Kyle and I are at about 7 or 8. Jim was hesitant then. Before coke and heroin and speed blew any hesitation he had out of the water.

We're talking about some shit and feeling out of place. We're in the backyard smoking, but the ravers are all inside watching The Shining now. Like that's what I want to see on acid. Weird kids. The ketamine kids are the weirdest. I want to be aware I am fucked up. They want to fall backwards into a velvet nothingness where the world can be safely viewed through a tiny hole of distortion. Whatever.

Finally, Kyle shows back up and we're fucked and we just want to leave. Kyle looks weird, and he is always pulling shady shit, so I take him aside. He just did some GHB. That's all. Smiles at me. Goofy. Fuck. GHB has been killing kids all over the county. See, it works by blocking your body's drug defenses so your 'natural' drugs can fuck you up. But if you take it with speed or a downer...well, you can't fight back and the heart doesn't like that. None of us have ever done it before. We've pretty much crossed everything else off the list, though.

But man. We're fucked up. Everything is bright and cartoony and I can't keep a thought in my head for more than three seconds. I keep lighting cigarettes.

"Alright, fuck, Kyle...we need to get some food in you. When's the last time you ate?"

We were a scrawny lot that lived on chemicals and alcohol, so it had probably been a few days.

Jim, of course, is freaking out. True colors.

"Man, fuck you guys. I'm leaving. Fuck this."

His pupils are like fucking planets and I momentarily consider breaking his face...he's pulled this shit before. Too often. Selfish fucker.

"Bullshit dude...you have the car...you are taking us to get food so Kyle doesn't fucking die, asshole!"

Kyle stops smiling.

"I'm not gonna die..."

"No, you're not gonna die, but you need to eat."

The car ride is a fucking nightmare.


I would have done just about anything rather than walk into that 7-11, but it had to be done. God, it was menacing. Everyone knew. I could feel all the eyes on us. And inside, I knew it would be a dayglo nightmare. But, fuck it. We pound in through the double doors.

We head over to the pre-made shit we can afford. I've known one  person who can even look at food on acid. It's not Kyle. I grab this big slab of week old turkey sandwich.

"I'm not eating that, dude."

"Fuck, Kyle, just eat some of it. Why did you take the GHB anyway?"

Dumb question. Kyle takes whatever is handed to him. Mario is quietly concerned. Jim is stalking around pissed off that he's inconvenienced. No one's surprised. So, it's me and Kyle. He's this charismatic dark-skinned kid and strong looking. He's never scared. That's part of his thing. But I can tell he's a little close to the edge.

"Dude, I'm not going to die."

"No. No way. Think about it, man. GHB kills you if it amplifies the effects of something else on your heart. Acid doesn't do shit to your heart. You might trip extra hard, but you're not dying."

"Cool, then put the fucking sandwich back."

I realize I'm holding the sandwich like it's a dead raccoon covered in shit.

"Kyle, please man. I know you don't want to do it and I don't think you're gonna die, but you haven't eaten in a while. It can't hurt, right?"

I really, really want Kyle to eat the sandwich.

"I'm not gonna die."

He's convincing himself. Trying to.

"I 100% agree with you. You will not die, dude. People don't die from acid and GHB. They just don't."

We look at each other and try to pretend we both believe what we're saying while the snack cakes throb and the walls breathe and the lights are so fucking bright. It's at this point that I pzaaaaaaaap snap back out of our world and back into the real one. Just for a second. Just long enough to realize that there are seven other people in the store, we're talking really loud and really fast, and Jim is stalking around with a cigarette like a crazed tweaker hornet. And it's a small store. Kyle sees me looking and then he sees it, too. You can tell he's calculating how many illegal things he has on him just like I am.

"Shit."

So, it's your standard 7-11 crowd, they're all the same. Paramedics and construction workers and I'm hoping to god no cops and that the guy behind the counter doesn't aspire to hero-dom. They are all literally backed against the walls, staring at us in complete horror. I look in the circular mirror thing and I see us. Punk rock and dirty. Two scrawny white kids, a quiet, soft eyed mexican kid, and this scared looking Samoan kid who looks like he could fucking do anything at any moment. And he could. For some reason I'm always the fucking PR guy. And what I say next makes perfect sense to me in the moment, while the cigarette packs are turning into doves.

"Alright folks. Sorry about that. We're gonna leave. Everything is cool. We were just fucking around. My friend's not gonna die. Sorry. Have a good day."

And we do leave. With a quickness.

I drop the sandwich on the counter and we leave. Jim bails. Mario and I stick with Kyle and give him cigarettes, and we spend the next six hours talking about how he's not going to die. He doesn't die. So we eat some of the strips he pocketed and run into Jim later. He's pissed we didn't share. The stars are tiny daggers of flame.

Dead

A stale fog hung on the edges of evening. Joe slipped the pint out of his pocket and took a deep drink. It burned. He was not a drinking man. He did not consider standing because he was not sure he could. The building would hold him up until he was feeling better. Through the grime of tears, Joe stared numbly ahead, watching the parade of commuter thighs.

            It still lived in him too strongly. It was too bright and too strong for him. Drinking stopped it. He tried to remember the last time he had felt right – the last time that he had looked into his home. The blood and lingering smell of gunpowder had gagged him. He would never forget the smell. He was speechless. Then it was pure shock. And that was the last time he had been home.

            It had been weeks. Months? Shit, he had no idea. He could still hear the police…someone to call?  Someplace he could go? But there was no place. There was no one to turn to, no place to go, just the streets. On the streets, he could almost convince himself that he was on his way home, ready to see what Jen and the kids had made for dinner.

            He wasn’t even angry. That amazed him. There was nothing to be angry at. A force. A disaster. Like being angry at an earthquake. The anger had left quickly, replaced by a deep hole that he could not fill with anything resembling decency. His faith, the little he had possessed, was now gone entirely.

            For days he had read the paper, read about the murders, and he had not been able to understand that they were talking about his family. He knew it – knew it in the way that you know you have offended someone – it was a glancing acceptance. But a larger part of him did not believe it was true.

            An image sliced through his brain and he winced, reached for the bottle. He would always see it. The small, innocent faces he had cupped in his hands. The woman he loved.

            Don’t think. Just don’t think about it. Don’t ask the questions. Don’t start the goddamn questions. Why? Why not just rob the house? Why this? Stop it. The police. They were looking. Sure, they were. He could still hear the young cop ask, “sir, is there anything missing?” He could feel the gape-mouthed incomprehension on his face. Then the older cop pulling the younger one aside. Anything missing? Don’t fucking think about it.

            He took another drink and tipped the bottle high. He was forgetting. He was becoming wooden. His mind was skittering slowly over something, like a scratched record, pebbles in a stream. A whisp of dream. He was no longer there. With the liquor in him, he was there – death – the real home he had chosen. The body could give up any time it wanted. As long as there were buildings to hold him and liquor to drink, he would just be dead. And if he kept being dead long enough, the questions would stop.