Something Something Laundry

You come through the door slowly, awkwardly pushing it with your shoulder. It's true, you're a little more drunk than you thought when you were sitting down. Your stomach feels a little upset, stomach or intestines, something like that, but it isn't from the booze...you wish you were used to it by now. It's true, you've been dealing with it for over three years, you remember how Holden Caulfield would hold his gut when drunk, pretending he was shot. You wonder how Holden died, or maybe he just lost his memory and started living with some gorgeous blonde European girl and her family, they hid him from the Nazi's, but since he couldn't remember anything, he just stayed on and they fell in love. But Vincent would never know that, that's kind of sad. Your friends, two brothers are now hanging out in your minds eye, sitting around arguing about money owed for a motorcycle, you say a silent prayer for the elder. You catch yourself halfway through realizing that an old habit like that is hard to kick, you know there's no god but you find yourself accidentally speaking little wishes and hopes to no one in particular, they used to be directed at god, now no one, and that's the same thing.

The room is pitch black, but the light switch is easy to find and brightens it right up. It's pretty clean for a college bathroom, really clean, that's refreshing. You lift the toilet seat with only a little internal apprehension. Your pee is clear. In basic training, your friend told you, there's a chart above the urinal that helps you determine how hydrated you are. You are well hydrated. You wonder what the darkest color is...brown? Wincing a little you flush the toilet. As it swirls you imagine ashes filling the bowl flowing like that water, you don't know where that came from. You run your left hand under the cold water of the faucet, and look at yourself in the mirror. Davey Jones Locker. You just lost the game. You fix your hair a little and do another keybump. Checking your nose. It feels good in your nose. You think of your ex-girlfriend as a sixteen year old doing lines in a well decorated, clean house, drinking wine coolers and snorting coke, your head shakes involuntarily.

The music hits you on exiting the bathroom, it's too loud, trying too hard to reach it's way from those shitty speakers to the deck. There are a few people in the kitchen sitting at the table playing Pente, you decide to come back to get a round in after a cigarette. You wonder if you'll be better all coked up. You wonder how they can stand the loud music, and decide to wait two cigarettes. Exiting the back door, you hear laughter and a little smoke and smell hits your nose. You call your nose your olfactory gland, but don't know if that's exactly right, it's probably close though. You're hungry and the burgers smell good, but you don't want to eat them, and veggie burgers are too processed. You light up a cigarette to suppress your appetite. It tastes good, but your gag reflex seems angry at you, you realize your teeth are clenched and relax your jaw. You look for the root beer and the corona you left. They're by the chair you were sitting in. There's a couple guys you don't really know in and around that chair. You look around for a second, you can see the circle and some hospital or another, you'll never bother to find out which. Also a lot of houses and back yards, someone is watching There Will Be Blood on a projector a ways down the hill. You wish it was No Country For Old Men, 'Always is to the party concerned.' 

You walk through and bend down to pick up the bottles, and the bag with the Red Stripe in it, excusing yourself quietly. You unclench your jaw again. When you were young you couldn't handle the dentist, you gag too easily. You got over it, but haven't been to the dentist in a year, you tongue your chipped molar. You need some root beer. It's warmer than you'd like, but you know it wouldn't be good even if it was on lots of ice. It helps though. You go sit in an open seat, on the what could possibly be called a couch, next to Patrick. He leans over, really close,

"OK, OK, here is the Lil Wayne line of the moment: I smoke a blunt while I'm getting brain. I put my finger in her butt while I'm getting brain. What? I'm lil Wayne." You laugh a little, it's a pretty awesome line, at least the last part. It just sounds so cool. He bums a smoke. You light it up for him. And tongue your loose filling. You drink more Corona, your stomach or whatever is feeling a little better after peeing. You don't want to feel like shit all night, a little wave of anxiety rushes over you. You press the GABA pressure point in the skin between your thumb and pointer finger, you think it works, but maybe you're on coke. You want to talk but know you have nothing interesting to say. You keep your mouth shut. It's false, you have a lot of interesting things to say, but you don't want to annoy or freak these people out. You're a little upset, and sigh a little and drink a little more Corona, it's getting warm.

"I don't know what the point of Corona without lime is," you say to Patrick.

"Word. What the fuck, you know?"

"Oh, I know."

"Yeaaaaa," he says opening his eyes wide at you, smiling. You laugh a little, and so does he. He takes a pipe being passed around and hits it. He moves it past you to the person on your left, you appreciate this gesture. It's thoughtful, he knows you don't smoke, and so doesn't offer. That's real fucking decent of him. He's a standup guy, you'll miss him. You, atop a wave of admiration, look around the deck. It comes to mind how much you like decks, they are just all around awesome. Your friends and strangers are standing around smoking, drinking, cooking and eating burgers, laughing loud, cracking jokes; it's almost too bad you never got to endure the suffering and pain of war with some of these guys, they feel like brothers, or maybe better. You imagine having a brother is not as good as having good friends, too much fighting and territory and property issues, seems a bit obnoxious. Good friends are better. Patrick says he wants a strawberry milkshake, his second favorite thing that's pink. And you laugh a little harder than most because you came up with that, and feel good and clever. Everything is pretty good, and pretty clever. It's a little colder than you'd like, but warmer than the past few weeks, and that makes you happy. You're wondering when you'll start heading out to the party. You drink a little more Corona and stand up to talk to Everybody's Uncle.

"Yo, buddy, how's the burgs?"

"Smell that?"

"Smells pretty good."

"Pretty damn good."

"Pretty damn good, indeed." The phrase 'get your dick wet comes to mind'. "You part of operation: kiss pretty girls tonight?"

"You know it. I'm going to jump up into that gorgeous blonde girl I saw last week at the bar."

"Oh? You're going to trip over your own boner and fall off the deck." He laughs.

"You almost ready to roll?"

"Red Leader, standing by." You laugh, and walk inside patting him on the shoulder, finishing the last of the Corona. Pente is still occupied of course. You walk up to Jack and put your hand on his shoulder, you wish you'd brought your rootbeer, you unclench your teeth. He looks up and tells you he's in trouble's garden. You look at the board. He isn't. He is one move from winning. Your jaw tightens, but you don't say anything. It's a gentleman's game, you will tell them afterward. He doesn't make the right play. The game goes on. You point at the board and counting on it not making or breaking the game you, speak a random line in your head. Unclenching your jaw, you wish you had your root beer. You wonder how many people know why you have it.

"Only men brave enough to wear that duster is Cheyenne's men." The players look up at you with skeptical half smirks, you put you finger on the spot where Jack should have played and smile. You decide to take a piss and unclench your jaw. 

You come through the door slowly, awkwardly pushing it with your shoulder. It's pitch black inside. You find the light switch easily. You watch the ash swirl around the bowl down into the pipes. You look at your face in the mirror, fixing your hair a little. You take the sharpie from your pocket and draw a broken line across your cheekbones and the bridge of your nose, under the eyes to the ears first, then from each side to the center. You feel anxiety pushing through you, kidneys up and back down. You sit down on the side of the tub. She is thousands of miles away, looking very pretty, with big gorgeous eyes, choking down the cum flowing into the back of her throat. She's probably making little noises as he curls his toes and grabs the sheet. Or she's screaming loud as he pounds into her, hand on her tit, his mouth open. She's being loud and making a stupid face. Your gag reflex is very upset, and you're worried you might throw up. You unclench your jaw, but there's still a knot in the back of your throat. You're worried you'll throw up, and wish you had your root beer. Your eyes are wet, ready to drop. But you inhale through your nose and push things away. You put your sleeve to your eyes, dabbing away wetness as you close them. Your other hand is pulling out the small bag from your jacket pocket. You chop up two big lines on your ID with your useless library card and blow them off the edges of the card. You stand up and dab your eyes once again. You open the door, and heading for the big Red Stripe in the bag, you dab your eyes again.

DEATH STAR did this to me

You, prettiest girl in that bar, this is for you.

Hello, darling

You are gorgeous, so gorgeous, blonde hair, eyes, that in the dark are, only radiant, no color can be found for me...simply so beautiful. I hope that the double x's on your hands have led you here, in memories unclouded by that caustic poison, to me, where I write so late, so clouded, for you.

Find me and show me, who you really are, so insecure over beauty, so much ado about nothing. Shakespeare is a bitch. And you Brutus?

I care not for him, I look for you though...

I look for you.

Snow Butterflies

In small semi-isolated pockets around the world lives a species of small and beautiful white-winged butterflies. When these butterflies reach maturity their wings change color from white to red. These butterflies only reach maturity after drinking from pools, in soil, of the blood of men.

New York 1919

Pending.

Because Of A Broken Highball Glass

She, with dirty blonde hair, painted a bloody swath across all of the Kingdom of Spain; a trail of broken hearts from Barcelona to Madrid into the Portuguese Republic and back. Bands of American girls with long, tight, shirts for dresses and striped leggings come through and dance and drink every year, but she was different. She was the kind of girl about whom people say, 'she's the kind of girl who knows exactly what she wants' and gets it. That kind of girl. The kind of girl people love and hate that they love her. Even the people who say aloud they hate her, they love her, she's that kind of girl. And this particular girl was named, Elle Finney. And, of course, she was hated, and thus loved. Spain hadn't been rocked like this since Republicanos and Nacionales spilled each other's blood. 
Elle Finney was around 5'6" with a medium frame, voluptuous to a point, endowed but not overdone. Her hair was long and straight, usually parted on one side, that hair pulled across her brow.The green eyes of a doe outlined in black. A straight, just so slightly upturned, nose gave off approachability and royal elegance. She had one tooth that was just the tiniest bit crooked proving that she was perfect. If any human was to be human and still be perfect, one of their teeth would have to be just the tiniest bit crooked.
Elle's family had found it’s way into money only a few years earlier; her parents decided, that with a fair portion of their new wealth, they would educate and culture their daughter. They had each grown up wealthy and had both rejected their families after similar education and culturing, they decided for their daughter to do the same. 
So she was here now, dancing with Spaniards, had been for almost six months. Her time was running out. She had certainly made her mark, but was getting frantic in the final hours. Before Spain she'd gone to school on the West coast for a year, then back to the East coast for a semester and now here. As for after this, she didn't know.
Her time being short, she did what any decent American girl would do in a foreign country: She snorted a lot more blow. She went down on a boy or two or three in nightclub bathrooms. She had a few girls down on her in her room, her host family steps away. She started fights with the rich Franco-Fascist bitches at her school, and, lastly, fell in love. That love lasted her final month in Spain. It tempered her, calmed her. This is not a love story though. She went back to the states. She never talked to her Spanish lover again.


The boy she'd been somewhat seeing at Northeastern, before she went abroad, sent her a message the day after she got back. He was tall and classically handsome, he studied music and was always interesting; she had been head over heels for him, she cried for three days straight when the Kingdom of Spain first welcomed her. Elle told herself she'd call him when her jet lag was a little better. But this is not a love story. Elle never got around to calling.
Still, Elle would probably marry a musician with thick glasses one day, the hip and dorky kind, not the other kind of musician with the other kind of glasses. She was the kind that wore big headphones and sometimes wondered if she was trying too hard to look too cool, then she’d look in the mirror and realize: too cool is only just cool enough. Maybe that's why she'd marry a musician, if she really loved him, to listen to his music in big headphones. Elle Finney in a white dress, waiting to kiss at the altar. Elle Finney enraptured. Wait. This is not a love story though, that must be repeated; in fact, this is actually a story about rape and poison. It's a murder mystery. Something like that. Elle has nothing to do with this story. It probably goes something like:


Someone was walking, maybe down an empty street or through a forest at dusk, and she heard something behind her so she tried to turn around, but it was (of course) too late, and she was repeatedly penetrated, then stabbed; long story short: I did it. All because of a broken highball glass. How's that for irony?

roads

Kyle ashed his cigarette out the crack in the window and brought it back to his lips, but the wind had put it out. He slid it out the crack, disappointed.
"Pass me that when you're done," he said. Mark sniffed hard and passed the bag to him. He put his knee against the wheel and keeping an eye on the road used the corner of a Eugene Public Library card to scoop some up, he brought it to his nose, putting the other hand back on the wheel, looking out at the road now. He inhaled steadily. His nose felt like it was clogged, he could taste it a little in the back of his throat. He put the card back in and brought it to his other nostril, inhaling. It was good. He replaced the card and handed the bag back. He tried to clear his throat but knew there was nothing to clear. He fished in the dash pocket under the CD player for the bottle, and finding it, unscrewed and sipped from it. The taste was exceptionally bitter, it was hard to swallow with his throat numbed.
"Root beer," he choked out. Mark handed him the root beer with a little laugh. And took the small bottle from him and sipped it as well, then reached down and took the fifth of Jack Daniels from the floor, sipping that, grimacing. Kyle looked over at him and smiled, laughing a little, feeling charged. Mark handed back the morphine bottle. Kyle continued holding it out and said,
"To us and this, and fuck those bitches." Mark held up the Jack and clinked it against the smaller glass bottle. They both sipped, Kyle immediately going back to the root beer. Mark began again with the bag.
"So, we take this road for something like 5 more miles, that takes us to the 5 or the 99. The 99 takes us right into Creswell and Cottage Grove, if you want to eat something."
"Nah, I don't want to fuck this up," leaning his head back a little he yelled out, "Jay. Hey, Jay. Wake up for a second." Nothing. "Shake him, will you?" Mark leaned back pushing the map down next to the seat and tightening his grip on the bag. He pushed against Jay's torso.
"What, what?" He said, sleepily, turning to look at Mark.
"Do you want to eat something soon?"
"I want fucking...Burger King. I want Burger King." He rolled back over. Mark and Kyle laughed a little and Kyle took the bag back from Mark.
"Let's stop for a second, this fucking sucks."
They sat and made lines by putting the side of the card in, and inhaling off that. They passed it back and forth seamlessly. Kyle went to drink from the bottle and got only a few drops,
"Oh, shit...it's empty."
"That was a lot of morphine." Mark laughed and did another line. Kyle took the bag and did one more.
"Well, let's get this show on the road, feeling pretty fucking good."
"Yea, yea." Mark laughed. They both laughed their excited cocaine laugh. Mark passed Kyle the Jack, he took a small swig and handed it back. Looking for the root beer, only to find it empty too. He started driving again.
"Hey, put in Imagine, I really want to listen to that album." Mark looked through a small booklet of CD's, trying to find it.
"Fuck yes, that's what I want to hear, fuck yes."
"That's the song. The song you know?" From the back Jay spoke up,
"Fuck yes, I love that song." Mark and Kyle laughed. Mark put in the CD, the opening bars began, and they all quieted down. Jay sitting up in back to listen better, leaning forward into the front. As John Lennon's voice began, they all started to sing along.


II

"Come on, we've got to fucking go. Now," shouted Jay pulling a few things from the car.
"No, I'm not leaving him, he needs a fucking doctor, he's bleeding and shit."
"Fuck, I'm getting out of here."
"OK, OK, take this," Kyle shouted, handing him the bag of coke and the jack bottle, from the front seat. Jay grabbed them and his jacket and started running into the forest. Kyle stepped out, with the empty morphine bottle and threw it into the woods after Jay. A car's headlights brightened the scene. He stood in the road a little and waved his arms. The car slowed, it's window rolling down.
"Hey, call 911, we need an ambulance, my friend is hurt," he said frantically. The man in the car, pulled forward and parked. The front of Kyle's car was buried in the rear end of a large older truck. Mark, was unconscious against the dash. The man from the car came around the truck,
"Is it just the two of you?" Kyle sat against the rear door of the car, on the ground and nodded. The man spoke into the phone, Kyle couldn't really hear him, his ears were still ringing.
"Are you hurt?" He shook his head, tears forming in his eyes. The man spoke into the phone again and began talking to him, even putting his hand on his shoulder. He didn't respond. tears silently rolled down his cheeks. He stared at the ground between his legs, and felt a wave pull him under to some place else. Over the man's voice he heard a siren growing louder. He became suddenly afraid that the rest of his existence would be this, the growing sound of a siren and him staring at the ground. He became terrified. He felt he couldn't move, that he was trapped there in that instant forever. But then the lights hit him and he looked toward them squinting. And in that instant the former instant was gone, and now he became afraid, as the ambulance stopped in front of him, another ambulance and a cop car were coming down the road now too. Sirens growing louder.
He sat on the bench seat in the ambulance, a paramedic helping him hold gauss to his nose which he now realized was bleeding. He couldn't feel it really. He could see blood on his arms, little bits and sparkles there too, paint and glass in him, it looked beautiful. The paramedic told him to lay down, but he wouldn't, he wanted to sit. They closed the door and began moving. Forgetting that he wanted to sit, he lay down on the bench. Black washed over him.


III

He woke up in pain. Pressures at different places all over his body. He was in a bed. The lights were low. He opened his eyes and looked around groggily. It was a hospital room. He looked down to see the IV in his arm. He felt something wrong with his penis and tossed off the blanket frantically, then raising the gown slowly he saw a tube going into it. He pulled it out slowly. Stopping often from pain and more from fear of pain. When he got it out he saw his hand was shaking. Next he pulled the IV out of his arm slowly, a little blood came out. He slid his legs over the side of the bed and put his bare feet on the cold floor. His clothes were on a chair across the room. He sat in it and began to dress, coming slowly to his senses. He knew he had to get out of there. His next thought was where Mark was. He stood and walked to the door, looking out the small window. The hallway was empty. It felt late. He opened the door quietly and began looking for Mark's room. He finally found it. He looked in the window and saw him swollen and bandaged, IV and an oxygen mask. He opened the door and entered. He walked over to the bed, and shook him gently by the arm. After a moment, Mark opened his eyes and looked over at him.
"What?"
"Hey man, we've got to get out of here. We need to go, right now." Mark looked away from him, his eyes a little glossy.
"I can't go with you, I'm sorry."
"No, no, I'm sorry."
"Don't worry, just go. I'll catch up with you sometime." Kyle squeezed his hand, then got up and left the room.

IV

They both settled in a little more for the long drive ahead. Kyle sat back and looked through the grating towards the road ahead. Marshal Deanes slouched a little lower in the driver's seat.
"So, why would you want to do that to yourself, kid?" Kyle paused and thought for a second.
"Honestly, there's nothing here for me. This world is fucked up."
"I'll give you the last part, I see a lot of bad shit. But there's better ways to go about living than just trying to die. You can't just give up."
"What else could I do? I'm not trying to die, I just want something to make it better, the drugs do that."
"But they don't really make anything better. I was like you, not quite so much, but close. It's just too dangerous."
"I don't want to be dangerous, I just want to be happy."
"Everyone does, you're a good kid, I can see that. Life deals out it's cards and some hands are winners and some are losers, but you get to pick the cards you trade in, and I think pretty much everyone gets at least one ace. Don't try so hard to be happy, just try to be content." Kyle thought Marshal Deanes was a pretty nice guy, but laying it on a little thick, but maybe he was laying it on too thick as well.
"But there's always something better. I always want that next best thing."
"Doesn't mean you'll get it."
"But why not try?"
"Try, sure. Just don't mess up a good thing to get there, because you might not get it in the end."
"I guess so. I think it's the journey that is most of the point."
"So then it doesn't matter what you try for really, might as well try for something good for more people than just you."
"Yea, I guess so."
There was a minute or two of silence, too little time for it to become uncomfortable, and just long enough to give an air of peace. He spoke slowly through the little grate, staring down between his legs,
"The doctor told me that we had taken lethal doses of speed and morphine. Our hearts should have burst from the speed in the coke, and they should have stopped from all that morphine; but they canceled eachother out basically, funny how things work like that sometimes." He could see his hand was shaking.

True Rats

Those Rats

He probably ate someone's thrown out roach or maybe flakes from an empty bag of bloomers or something like that. I watched him for a few minutes from the stoop while smoking a cigarette. I knew he was on something. He was dragging his belly around slowly and shaking his head from side to side in a small circle on the ground. A few girls started coming down the block, I pointed at him. They expressed surprise then disgust as they saw what I was pointing at, all except one on her cell phone, wrapped up in all that. The toe of her shiny black pump sliding under his fat belly, scooping him up with the motion of her walk, and dropping him a few inches from where he'd been. He didn't really seem to mind. She screamed and almost dropped her phone, shaking her hands wildly. She seemed to be trying to keep both feet off the ground, dancing, as it was in the wild West. The girls jogged a little bit down the sidewalk. He kind of walked in a half-circle for a moment, then turned towards their direction. He began following then. I watched him slowly chase them for as long as they remained in sight. He was closing in ever so slowly, but I don't think he wanted to catch them.

Our Rats

"So, he walked up to us and I knew we were butched, so I just gave the stuff back when he asked for it. But Amanda, that girl is crazy, she hit him in the face and just started sprinting."
"She hit a cop?"
"Yea, she's crazy, right?
"Crazy, yea, definitely. She's gonna have all kinds of legal shit now."
"I know, right?"
"What were you guys stealing anyway?"
"You're not going to believe me."
"Why, what was it?"
"We were stealing makeup and..."
"And what?"
"Pregnancy tests."
"Oh, my god, that's too funny."
"I know, right?"
"Are either of you pregnant?"
"I don't know, we had to give the tests back."

No Rats

He'd put his gloves on, grab their corpses by the tails, drop them in the bag, twist it, clamp it, and throw it in the trash.
"They serve no good purpose," he'd told himself that many times. But what good purpose do humans serve? Now he wondered if someone were going to do this same thing to him, except not by the tail, humans don't have tails, but the legs, probably by the legs and drop them into bags and throw them in the trash. At least he didn't mind the rats so much anymore.