The Greening

It is in the greening of new things. Soft down and the smell of hay. It is in the shaft of light that comes through that barn high window. The air tastes of warm earth, life. Every story begins this way. It was never truly about the 'dark and stormy night'. It was about the clear, blue morning and the poppies reaching toward a star miles and miles away. It was about newness. Something unquantifiable.

You can look into tear-filled eyes and not cry. You're proud of that? Me, I'd be ashamed. But I'm still pretty green.

12:53 AM

I'm so sick and tired of the same old thing. And yet I crave routine's complicity. I live in the dark, but it's a murky kind of dark...like wearing your sunglasses into a bar. Everything is smeared in Vaseline. Time drips from the ceiling like blood onto a clean linoleum floor. There's some citrus scent you can never quite place and the air moves weird. I wonder if I'll ever get over the feeling that my mom's just worried about me getting blood on the rug. I wonder why I cared then, and I wonder even more why I give a shit now. But I do.

Lost at sea...

The man sat on the rock, motionless. It was as if he was part of the rock, but every few minutes he would shift, resettle. The gulls around him would pretend at flying before settling. It gave a very distinct and disconcerting impression of anthropomorphism. My eyes blurred with tears and the rock just looked like a large animal, hunched over, breathing.

The man was staring out to sea. I was staring at him because I could not look inward. The gremlins. Usually, my mind was filled with frivolous notions and bits of prose. Not old voices. Not the smell of vanilla in a warm kitchen when I was so small the world seemed destined to eat me up. Or to go on forever. In those days of homemade bread and sanguine meanderings, well, I never saw the truth coming until it hit me right in the face.

The truth was that I was failing. Instead of one notable success, I had collection of soft, mauve, failures. Bland shortcomings. My mouth tasted of tooth decay. I tried to smile at women and frightened them. Or I spoke and couldn't even compose words. People talked to me and I said things like, "yurp erm." And they never looked surprised. They weren't listening.

The sky was a raincloud grey mass. Like the sky was falling slowly. Or the ocean was making an ascent into the heavens. Or like the world were one great bowl of porridge. No cream. No sugar. No raisins. Just a bowl of sludge that will, at most, keep you alive and wanting more. Even though it will always taste the same. A warm, cardboard dryness. A paste.

The man stood up and the gulls scattered and then returned, like they were pulled on elastic strings. He began to walk towards me. An old man, he was. Grey of hair and beard. He had a queer smile on his face. A smirk. It was not until he was almost on top of me, frozen in place, that I saw the resemblance. The same eyes. He smiled again, and I understood.

The Promise

"So, the guy's just fucking staring. You know? You know how their eyes get. All wide and scared and wet. Deer in the headlights or whatever the fuck. I don't know. I ain't never seen a real deer. He's not saying anything, just kind of whimperin' a little. Like a puppy. Then, I get this idea. I'm supposed to kill him, right? Not like I got a problem with it, but I just didn't feel like killing anyone that day. I don't know why. Anyway, I'm standing there watching this dude shake, and I take my gun out. Dude jerks back, but I slowly put the gun on the ground. 'Stand up,' I tell him. He does...maybe that was part of it. He wasn't beggin' or bitchin' or any of that usual shit. Kind of had a little respect for him, you know? I mean, it's not like we don't know the guy. Shit, he was in my class until I dropped out.

"So, he's standing up, and I tell him I'm giving him a chance. We fight. Fists only. If I win, he dies. Simple, right? Motherfucker weighs like a buck fifty. I'm smiling, and I start to take my jacket off and he fucking hits me. Hard. So, I drop the jacket and get ready to knock his head off, but he hits me again. I swing and he hits me again. Same place, every time. Right in the fucking mouth. I can taste the blood...and get this, he's smiling. Now, I know I fucked up. I don't know what kind of Jap shit that guy studied, but he moved so fast I couldn't even block a punch. He's just destroying me. And, you know me...I ain't no chump...dude was fast. And strong. So, I'm trying to just get him off me. He does some kind of turnaround kick thing. Next thing I know, I'm waking up on my back and he's holding the gun? I know! I couldn't fucking believe it. So, he's holding the gun, but he's not pointing it at me. He tells me that he's not gonna shoot me. Says it's all a big misunderstanding. I can't fucking believe it. He tells me he doesn't blame me. He understands. Blah, blah, blah. I'm just hoping he keeps talking, so I agree with him. Thank him. All that shit..."

"So, what the fuck happened?"

"What you mean, 'what happened?' I acted like I was tying my shoe and he's still doing one of those...the fuck they called those things in school...in the plays...solilisomething. He's pacing and talking all loud. I had the .38 in my ankle holster. I pull it, but I stay down low. He looks at me and he sees the gun and he stops...like freezes...and he starts giving me this line of shit about how he didn't shoot me and we had a deal. I can't shoot him...wouldn't be fair."

"Ha! Fair? That's hilarious."

"I know. He's all pissed that I didn't 'keep my word'. I'm all, 'Brother, killing people is my job, you really think we're gonna shake hands and go get a beer?"

"That's a good one. So, what happened."

"The fuck you mean? I shot him. Then I took my gun back."

A nice day...

She's right fucking there, man. What's wrong with you? Say something. She's not going to laugh at you. Nothing bad will happen. Shit, she just looked at you... didn't she? She probably knows what you're thinking. She's probably thinking, "great, this asshole is about to hit on me." And what's with that old lady? Why is she staring at you? What the hell kind of stare is that? Pity. That's what it is. Pity? Fuck you. I'm young and you're not. SHIT, that was a crappy thing to think. She's probably got dementia or some shit. Why do you always do this? Why does everyone have to be against you all the time? Who made you so goddamn important?

"Hi, can I help you?"

You need to to say something. Oh, Jesus. Hurry. It's just getting worse. Quit looking at the menu and look her in the fucking eyes. Just ask if she's having a good day. Or order something. DO IT!

"Um, yes. Hello."

Fucking brilliant move, playa. Jesus. Shit, you didn't really even say anything. It's hot. You're going to start sweating. You need to scratch the side of your nose. What's that smell? All the ambient chatter has become amplified. The people behind you are getting impatient. If they'd just shut the FUCK up for a second. You gotta do it.

"Sorry. I distracted. I mean, I was distracted. I'm sorry. I'd like a cup of tea."

She rolls her eyes.

"What kind of tea...?"

What the fuck? Is she fucking with you? How many different types of tea are there...

"We have English Breakfast, Irish Breakfast, Chamomile, Earl Grey, Jasmine, Green, Jasmine Green, Darjeeling..."

She's saying words. You're not listening. Listen to HER. She's about to ask you for your decision. 

"Uh...just regular old tea?"

You throw out a 'are you having a good day?', but her back is turned. The guy behind you is laughing.

Genius. You dumb bastard. Now, this asshole is laughing. Maybe she didn't hear you. Or she's ignoring you. It doesn't matter. This was a bad idea. Just turn around and walk out. You can't ever come back, but that's cool. There are a lot of cafes in town. 

She puts the tea on the counter and smiles.

"On the house, sir."

Fuck...sir? What the hell is that supposed to mean. She's almost as old as you. You catch your reflection in the glass behind the tea jars. You look like an asshole. You look mad. Why can't you just smile like a normal person? Have a normal goddamn conversation. You should have known this would happen. That you would make a fool of yourself. That's what you do. 

She's staring at you, and you fumble a dollar out of your pocket for the tip jar. She smiles.

"Is there anything else?"

You want to explain it. Tell her about that night when it was raining and you watched her close up the cafe and why it was important. Or just say it. 'I think you're pretty.' That's it. What? Is she going to be offended? Just fucking do it. You came here to do it, so stop over-thinking it. Yes, I hear you clearing your throat, asshole. Why can't anyone be quiet for a second. She's staring at you. It's now or never, ace. 

"Just...well, are you having a nice day?"

The Closet

It lived inside him, but he did not know its form. A vapor perhaps? He did not know whether it was big or small - or what part of his body was being occupied. He merely knew it was there. He heard the scraping sound on his spine. Sometimes it spoke. He did not understand the words, but he understood their intent.

He looked down at the knife in his hand. His vision focused and then blurred out. He blinked it back to clarity. The knife was long and thin. The sharpest he'd found in the kitchen. It dangled as he stared at his naked body in the mirror. He would find it.

God knows why the police showed up. Perhaps he had been yelling without realizing it. They found him, bleeding to death, surrounded by pieces of meat. The man was carved open, but he was smiling. A detective leaned in and the man slowly turned his head.

"Am I going to die?"

"Yes."

"Good. I couldn't find it, but it will die with me."

Matson watched as the man let himself die. He shook his head, swallowed the naseau that was rising within him. Then he heard it. Joe. He had never heard Joe sound scared. It turned his blood to ice. He was facing the open closet with his back to the dead man.

"Matson...Jesus...there's something here you need to see..."

Short Stop

It's that fucking tremor. Hereditary. You look at the gun in your hand, the shaking; you wish your hand was steady, but it doesn't fucking matter. All he sees is the black hole at the end of the barrel. He doesn't hear the words you are saying. He is past that. He has embraced the infancy of fear. A puddle collects, soaking his sneakers. He's trying to talk, but they aren't words. His snot-flecked gibberish doesn't matter. The same way the tremor doesn't matter. Nothing is going to matter in about thirty seconds.

You're not mad. Not in the least. The boss fingered the fuck; you're just doing your job. It is his fault. He knows it. You know it. It makes the dribbling spit all the more pathetic. This isn't fucking murder. This is business. Raul borrowed money and never repaid it. He had his three chances. He never came up with shit. You don't borrow twenty-five grand from the boss unless you're going to pay it back. Raul knew that. This is the penalty for defaulting on a loan.

It's hot as shit in the back room. Sweat pours off Raul's face, and you can feel it...a sheen covering your skin. The pistol grip is slick in your hand. But here, no one will hear shit. Here, you can torch the fucking building and you don't need to clean up any blood. No one will ever look into the fire. An old abandoned building. No one gives a shit.

You tell Raul to just shut the fuck up for a second and, somehow, he manages it. You sit down and light a cigarette. The first drag makes you cough. Fucking bronchitis. After the first drag, it's easier.

So, you're sitting on a crate, smoking. Raul is dissolving. The boss is waiting for your call. You smoke the cigarette slowly and grind it out with precision on the sawdust floor.

"You don't have to do it, Jimmy..."

"The fuck I don't."

"Jimmy...Jimmy, c'mon man. We came up together. We've known each other since we were six."

"Don't mean shit."

"Jimmy..."

"Alright, I'll humor you for a second. What did you think was gonna happen, buddy? What options do we have?"

"..."

"That's right. You knew exactly what was going to happen. You knew the risk. You took it. If you thought I was going to protect you because we used to play baseball, you're a fucking idiot."

You stand in front of him. He is still squirming, wet with sweat and fear. He opens and closes his mouth like a fish. His brain is scrambling. You point the gun and a sound escapes the sweaty lips. It is not a human sound. It is like metal on metal. You think about what you should say, but there's nothing to say.

The building is already engulfed in flames when you start the car. You pull out your cell and press one button. A gravel voice. You say three words before you hang up. The car fishtails and the sand and dust join the black smoke spiraling upward. You are not sad about Raul, but your mind wanders as you drive back into the city. He was a hell of a short stop in his day, you have to admit that.