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.

Hobgoblins

She said she didn't know anything about it, and you kind of had to believe her. Even if it was bullshit. You couldn't prove it, and it would give her a little boost to the supposed moral high ground if you did. You smiled a plastic smile and grunted. She kept on talking about the dog and the fence and the walls ached for a fist. Instead, you pushed it into a little ball and squashed it down, smiling. You wondered if that was how people get cancer. Would that little ball turn into a tumor? Just keep nodding and smiling.

There was no way you could ever know. She denied it and, maybe in her mind, it had never happened. Shit, she was getting older. It could have been innocent. But her 'faculties' always seemed...inconsistent. They served her purposes. You can't call someone on faking dementia. She would know that of course.

There was a boy you knew growing up. He never smiled and rarely spoke. He sat beside himself at lunch. He was a tiny drop of sadness in an ocean of fad-clothes and posturing. When he killed himself, everyone acted surprised. It was a misdirect. It was self-protection. It was when you realized the world was an ocean of lies supporting ships that sail aimlessly, pretending on a destination, sinkable.

Inert

Remember as much as you can; soon it will be lost. Inertia is a short con. Drag the tinsel from the ceiling fan, the holidays are over. Look at the sky and pretend you can fly. Fall into the couch, spiraling down until nothing means anything anymore. Or everything means everything. Soft-tongued sycophants guide the way. Deeper.

It is a golden sphere, and it hangs on the regret you feel. You want to hold it, but it is cold...too cold for your smooth hands. He said that everything would turn out great. He lied to you, and you are trying to figure out how you could have ever been so foolish. But the foolishness was innocence and, really, you just want it back.

Maybe you can manage it. Control it. Some people can't. Some people wake up with cigarette burns on their pale chests, caved in. They are chasing something different.

You lie to yourself and you hate yourself and, fuck, I think that's the way our forefathers wanted it. All this nonsense. 98% of the shit you are surrounded by is worthless. But that 98% is loud, brother. It's persistent. And the 2% of life that is beautiful just can't compete.

Run until you can't run for the gasping. Reach until your arms are numb from grasping. Clutch your hands around its throat and wait for the sparkle lights to illuminate the night. Run, motherfucker, run.

I don't know all that much about it. It's a sham. It's a greased pig. It's fucking huge. You can't understand it. You can't wrap your arms around it. You nod your head and run your smooth hands over your face, press your eyes until the fun starts...explosions.

It was a long time ago, but the aftertaste lingers. It is bitter, but you roll it on your tongue, waiting for some kind of payback. Some kind of payoff. You feel sorry for yourself when you shouldn't. In your mind, there is a cage full of budgerigars singing, paint splashes and primping.

Close your eyes and kill your brain if that's what you need. I understand, man. I really do. I'm waiting for the call. I have my black suit cleaned and pressed and ready to go. I am prepared to see her there, pointed eyes casting blame that we know is unwarranted. But let it be. She needs it. She needs to think it was our fault, not hers. So, let it be.

Your life has been a hair shirt. I get it. I can't say I'll forgive because I won't. But I'll understand, and that's more than you probably deserve. More than any of us do. Step into the darkness, tepid, dipping a toe into oblivion. Smile as you go...don't let it hurt. You're smart enough to make it painless, and there will be plenty of pain, regardless. Some sharks die if they stop moving. Maybe you've been dead for years. I'll tell your story; I have the ink in my skin. And it will fade like the memories, but it will always be there, like a kid in the back of the class scribbling for all he's worth.

The Accident

Time didn't matter any more. Blind and bedridden, Allen slept when he could and tried to ignore the blipping of machines when he couldn't. The blindness was still new and it astounded him. It was so powerful. It took so much and gave so much. He could hear conversations from fifty feet away. He could smell the rib joint at the end of the block. He had never imagined before that there was so much to see just inside his own head.

Nurses fluttered in and out. He could not see them of course, but it made him picture a soft summer afternoon, drifting in and out of a nap, watching the thin curtains billow and then retract. This is how he saw the nurses. Occasionally, he imagined them as old time nurses with white uniforms and the little hats. He would never have been able to connect the soft, caring hands with green scrubs and neck tattoos. The blindness was a blessing.

Pain. A lot of time to think about pain. Everyone experiences pain, but not everyone gets to experience real  pain. The accident had left Allen broken. His pelvis, shattered. Legs snapped. Spine a jumbled mess of jigsaw laziness. His pain was a vibrant, living thing. It made his breath catch. Sometimes, a muscle would spasm and his brain would erupt into a bright, ungodly red. Throbbing. He would grind his teeth and swallow it. Sometimes, the pain would turn him off. Blackness. Sometimes, the nurses would.

He liked the pain, though. That's what they didn't understand. They were always pushing morphine on him. And pills. The morphine was unavoidable. He always said no, sometimes they listened. The pills were easily disposed of. He liked to wake into the pain...to think, why God? Why me? And then to remember. To have the remembering wash over him like acid.

The doctors came by. They liked to look at him. Amaze each other with the details. A man that should, by all rights, be dead. And he would focus on the pain. He would dive into the bloody madness of it. And sometimes, the pain almost made it OK. His mistake. Their lives.

The web...

There is one leaf gently bopping on my tree. I'd say undulating, but I've never liked that word. It's overcast and I'm sitting here thinking about people. We're a pretty amazing lot. We come in all sizes and shapes. Different levels of pigmentation. Different beliefs. But in the heart, where it really matters, most people are pretty similar.

We worry. We laugh. We like to watch small children do the things that we used to do. We appreciate when someone makes us laugh on a rough day. We love surprises...at least the good kind. We are not as selfish as we seem, it just takes a good kick in the butt to remind us to be human sometimes.

One of the things I have always liked about apartments is that you can see your neighbors. When we lived in San Francisco, our apartment faced another complex across the street and we saw everything our neighbors did. And vice versa. Pretty much everything, I should say. We named them all. Sometimes we waved. Sometimes they hollered when I played guitar too loud. Mostly good hollers.

Sometimes I think about the web. That's how I see it in my mind. Each of our lives intersect with so many others. There is a liquor store across the street and I know the people that work there pretty well. They know I have a cat (we always forget to buy litter). They are nice to my girls. Then there are the people at Safeway, the deli, the bait shop...and, of course, there are neighbors.

You really realize this when you have a four year old. I spend a lot of time pretending to be people who would never imagine in a million years that a whole family is playing a game that involves them. "You be the guy from Target with the hat, Dadda!"

When bad things happen: death, illness, tragedy...our differences seem to vanish almost instantly. It no longer matters who thinks socialized medicine is a good idea or what sports team wins some silly game. Thrown into a cage together, many animals will fight to the death. Humans generally find their commonalities and cling to them. And we never know, except in brief moments of clarity, who is in our web.

The Present

Rolling on the memory of a distant disaster. Clear the taste from your mouth. You remember it, yeah? That look. The one that made your chest deflate. A little animosity and a lot of pity. You holding that little box like a stupid motherfucker. Ain't gonna change shit.

It seemed simple, didn't it? All kinds of ways to rationalize it until you have to look her in the eyes and your eyes are twitching like tweaker vertigo. And you huh? and well... and look here! and you're the fucking problem.

She's not gonna get over it, man. You need to own that. You need to climb inside it, a cave the light won't reach. You need to feel the pain. You bought it.

It all seemed easy. All that soft flesh and the smell...vanilla and flowers or something. Something that reminded you of childhood cookies and jerking off to Vogue. You were nervous. I understand that. That was part of it, huh? That searing tickle in your subconscious. The sweaty palms. You let her call the shots...why not, you were paying for it. Let her do her job. It all made sense until it was clean up time.

So, now everyone has lost respect for you. And you weasel and make excuses and no one fucking cares.

You killed it, slaughtered it. You're hanging in the closet with your dick in your hand. You're waiting for a second chance, but you're on your twentieth, brother. She was the one who saved you. She held your hand in the ER while you made promises you were already breaking in your mind. She stuck it out. There was only one thing that could have destroyed it, and you did it anyway.

Seven minutes. You get that don't you, dumbfuck? You traded decades for minutes. You're eating frozen dinners in a shit hole apartment. You invited yourself to this party of one. Now, you're drunk and you're telling me and I don't even know you, let alone give a shit about your pussy problems. I got problems of my own.

Keep buying drinks, and I'll keep nodding and silently judging you, swirling my black robes. I am the fucking acolyte. I will be your reflection for a moment. That's all I'll do. That's all you deserve.

It's getting hazy now. You're getting lazy now. You built yourself a victim to climb inside and you think that will get you through the years. Lie to yourself all you want. You're still gonna wake up sweating, thinking about her. You're still gonna see her new husband's face. See him playing with your kids. Wondering if they like him better than you. And guess what? They probably do. The only person who still likes you is you.

Friend? You throw it out like trash, that precious word. I'm not your friend. I'm the fucking ghost in the machine, and I will fuck your mind because you deserve it. And that's my trip, see? I am the solitary judge. I am incapable of human compassion or guile.

You're not gonna like it, but I don't give a shit. I don't even exist, and you're propped up on the toilet leaking from every part of your body. You want to kill yourself, but you can't find the nerve. You get skittish like a dust dawn foal. You're flitting away like summer bats.

You show up drunk at their house on Christmas Eve and you expect everything to be cool. You can't see through the film of liquor sweat that is covering your eyes, your body...it covers everything. You don't see the little faces looking out the window. You don't know that she's in the bathroom crying. You want to fight him, but he's bigger than you. And he's not even mad. You want to fight him, but he's helping you. Just go home and sober up, bud. Don't come here like this. It's not fair. He's right and you slink off into the night.

You open your mouth and the vomit pours down your chest. You open your mouth to scream and the demons force their way out. But you'll never get them all out. So, you might as well do it. You might as well. But you don't. You wake up to the sounds of children laughing, playing with their new toys.

You are alone. You earned it.

Surveillance

He watched from the shadows. I could see the smiling face...big, open features. Simplicity. Something missing. Smile with broken teeth. It made his skin slick. It opened up a fear in him. Why was the boy watching? What did he want to see? Was he controlling it?

The axe handle demolished the old man's skull. He had been sleeping, wrapped in old newspapers. The axe handle tapped against the concrete for several minutes before I saw him. Behind a dumpster, the pale face with a pleading smile. He felt strength as he looked at the dead man. Skull, split open...a burning in the throat. Sickness. I beat the dead body until it was mush. Under the newspapers there was a small kitten. Pure white. I looked at the face. The boy was laughing, tears streaming down his cheeks.

I didn't bother to look anymore. I could feel the boy's presence. He could sense the direction I was headed and knew it was the right one. Deeper into the mind. He did not want to be afraid, so he pushed himself. His killing became more sophisticated. Drawn out. We learned to use a knife. I took the ones that would not be missed and he carved them into bloodscape in my garage. The boy looked through the window with wide, blank eyes.

He was there. I'd swear to it.

Jimmy

Jimmy sat like a small Buddha. His hands were clasped tightly together. His shirt had a predominant green stripe that matched his green corduroy pants. His hair was brown and sprouted from an expanse of freckles. Jimmy was scared. Down in the very deepest part of himself, he was terrified - they wanted to take it away from him, he knew it.

The rest of the kids were fascinated. No one had ever said 'no' to Ms. Griffin. And none of them knew Jimmy. Like really knew the things that went on in his mind. The things that mattered too him. They did not know that he was quite funny. He was good with voices. He could draw.

There was almost complete silence as the kids stared and Ms. Griffin glared - the tick, tick, tick of metal on metal from the tetherball - they were stuck in the silence, the glint of the sun. Horror. Surely. This was something. This was different. The kids savored it slowly like a caramel, letting the flavor of it slither down inside them.

Principal Crow was like an old country preacher. He was famous for his slightly bemused demeanor. He was loved. His glasses made him look like an owl, but he was not wearing them now. He was frustrated. Angry. The kids unconsciously moved forward with the smug Ms. Griffin.

"Jimmy, I understand that you disobeyed your teacher."

Jimmy didn't answer. He tried to shut his eyes and to concentrate on the tether ball.

"Jimmy. Open your hands."

There was a hurricane in Jimmy's brain. He was suddenly on fire with a kind of irrational panic. He couldn't move. Couldn't think of what would come next. That anything possibly could come next. His eyes were shut but he opened them when he smelled sweat and aftershave. Principal Crow was very close to him. He smiled. Then he grabbed Jimmy's hands and began to twist them apart. Jimmy held on for a few seconds. The kids edged closer.

And then it was gone. They had taken it, and Jimmy was sitting in the sun, surrounded by his bewildered classmates.

They had taken it, after all. Jimmy did not cry. Not until many years later.

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.

Coffee Shop.

            John woke up groggy, with sandpaper eyes.  His thoughts were scattered and absurd.  He could not remember whether or not he needed to get up.  He was lost in the dream, its tendrils clinging to his arms like limp spider webs.  He was confused.  His confusion made him angry.  His anger made him apathetic.  His apathy made him pull his pillows over his head.  Pulling his pillows over his head made everything dark again and, in the darkness, he felt safe.  He felt as if nothing could harm him.  He also knew that the darkness would not last. 

            John’s thoughts were gaining momentum and it felt as if his chest was being crushed by invisible weight.  John thought with a shy smile that he might be having a heart attack.  In some ways he hoped that it was the case.  It would simplify certain things.  It would create complications for others, but John would be free.  Thinking about this made John feel incredibly selfish.  Feeling selfish made John feel indignant.  Feeling indignant made John thirsty, so he dragged himself out of bed and made a cup of tea to take into the shower. 

            The tea made John feel like maybe he would be able to survive the morning.  It was sweet and warm and everything that the world was not.  The world was cold and gray, literally and figuratively.  The world was filled with droning voices and boring people.  Ugly, belligerent people.  Stupid people.  John hated the world.  But he also didn't care.  He was conflicted, and the hot water pounding on his back only added rhythm to the confliction.  There were snatches and snips of songs in John's mind.  Lyrical turns.  Phrases.  John's mind was a jumble.  Propaganda.  Sitcoms.  Commercial jingles.  John's mind was junk food and chips.  Candy and pretzels.  John was halfway dressed when his self loathing began to ebb.  It was replaced with resignation.  Another day, another dollar.  Ed would say it...as soon as John walked into the coffee shop, he would say it.  And John would smile, but secretly he would want the coffee shop to explode.  Another day, another reason to drink too much.  Another day, another genocide somewhere in the world.  Another day, another emotional pinball machine explosion.

           

            “Another day, another dollar, eh Johnny?”

            Ed was a block of a man.  He was tall and solid right down to his brain.  He was not a bad person.  He was simple.  Many times, in fact, John thought it was he who was the bad person for loathing such a poor, ignorant bastard. 

            “Yeah, Ed.”

            The coffee shop was an institution in West Grove.  It had been there as long as anyone could remember.  It would probably be called a diner by a visitor (if anyone ever visited West Grove).  The name of the coffee shop was Coffee Shop.  Ed was the owner, his great grandfather had been the first oaf to man its cash register.  John was the cook.  Waitresses came and went, fluttering like fall leaves.  They rotated based upon school breaks and graduations.  They were impermanent.  Not so, Ed and John.

           

            John was 20 when he started working at the coffee shop.  That was ten years ago.  The world was a different place then, but the coffee shop was the same.  This is the main thing that John hated and loved about the coffee shop.  It was quiet for a few minutes as John got his area set.  Plate with a big slab of butter…meats organized.  Then John went out to sit at the counter where Ed was waiting with a cup of coffee. 

            “So, how you feelin’ today Johnny?”

            “”Good Ed.  I feel good.  How about you?”

            “Oh, you know.  The kids are home from school so there’s always something going on at the house.  Trevor is gonna be the death of us all, I swear it.  That boy has the hellfire in his eye.  Came home the other night drunker’n a skunk and puking everywhere.  All the time, just smilin’.”

            “Yeah, he’s at that tearing it up age, I guess.”

            “You weren’t like that Johnny.”

            “I was getting up at 5am and standing over a griddle all day.  I was too tired to tear anything up.”

            “Yeah, I reckon that’s right, ain’t it?  Sometimes I forget you never went to school, what with them books you’re always readin’.”

            Both men looked up as the bell above the door tinkled.  It was Henry.  He was always the first customer.  6am.  Right on the button.  The other regulars would be in soon.  John walked back into the kitchen and started on the two eggs and bacon Henry began every day with.  Henry never talked.  Years ago they had fallen into a pattern.  You order the same thing in the same place long enough and people start to catch on.  Henry never had been chatty; now he only spoke in grunts.  One for hello and one for goodbye.  He was a funny old man.  Eighty if he was a day.  Always dressed in a suit.  The pants never quite matched the jacket, but he was clean and dignified.  His face was a mass of wrinkles, haphazard lines cut by something harder than laughter.  John hit the bell and placed the steaming plate onto the counter.  Ed grabbed it on his way around the ketchup boxes and placed it in front of Henry who nodded and picked up a fork.

            You didn’t know Johnny when he was a kid, so let me fill you in a little.  Almost everyone in town knew Johnny.  They knew him for two reasons.  He always had the best grades in his class, and he could throw the holy heck out of a baseball.  But that was about all they knew.  He was quiet, polite, and got in just the right amount of trouble.  He was a tough boy to dislike.  Maybe that’s why certain things went unnoticed.  Like the fact that Johnny always had more bruises than the other kids.  Folks just figured he played every game with the heart he played baseball with.  But there were other things.  Forged notes.  Missed class trips.  His parents never saw a game.  And the town never saw them. Something about Johnny deflected questions. 

            Johnny was popular with girls his whole life.  He was dopey-eyed and handsome in a sloppy way.  He was gentle and kind.  In some ways, Johnny was the pride of West Grove.  No one doubted for a second that he would go to college, throw the heck out of some baseballs, meet a sorority girl, and get married.  Johnny graduated with the highest GPA in West Grove history.  His valedictorian speech was short.  Humble.  Everyone wanted their picture with Johnny afterwards, which was easy since his parents were not there to get in the way.  When Johnny didn’t go to college, the town was shocked.  He’d had plenty of offers.  Then Johnny disappeared.  Then a year later he was back, with a stoop in his shoulders and calling himself John.  He got the job at the coffee shop and a library card and that was that.  Johnny was dead.  Off the face of the earth.  Unless you went to the coffee shop, and even there he was lost in the sizzle of the grill.  Just a balding man named John.