3    

Norma and Dave, and the friends of Norma and Dave, weren’t the greatest at finishing their drinks. And on weekend mornings, neither Norma or her husband were very good at getting up early to pick up all the half full glasses that littered their tabletops.   

But this is better left unsaid.  

Normally a woman spiteful towards waste of any kind, Norma was nevertheless proud of all those unfinished drinks that were left all around the house. How there being so many of them meant she and her husband and all of her friends could put a glass down and walk away from it. Weren’t the sorts to get sloppy. She liked to use the word civilized, even on mornings she found herself waking up with a bit of a headache.  

And as for leaving those drinks around, it must be made clear this simply did not happen. There was no mess to talk about and Norma wouldn’t have stood for any such thing being acknowledged by anyone. Would quickly implode into a burnt bacon and grey eggs kind of fury if anyone ever dared to mention it before she’d had a chance to finish cooking breakfast. Then spend the rest of the day proving what kind of housekeeper she really was if you didn’t already know.   

Bringing handfuls of trash out to the garage at least two dozen times a day. Slamming the front door with every visit so everyone would know she had found more garbage to be angry about.  

Vaccuuming the same spot on the family carpet for what would seem like hours. Or at least until whatever everyone was sitting and watching on the television had ended.  

Cleaning her children’s rooms, until she found pieces of paper they had scribbled their secrets onto.  

Not talking to anyone until she had made sure she’d proven how she couldn't have possibly left so many half empty glasses out on tables and counters and forgotten on floors. And that it would be best to keep quiet next weekend if you woke early enough to see exactly how uncivilized Norma and Dave and her guests had been the night before.

 But because Bruce was always sure to rise early on these mornings, and come down the stairs, and move from table to table, gobbling down all that melted ice, and Scotch flecked with lipstick particles, and all those warm, flat puddles of beer sitting at the bottom of brown bottles, it was never much of an issue for anyone.  It all functioned as a perfect little eco-system to ensure Bruce, usually so anxious and miserable at the end of every day, would be found tipped over on the carpet and terribly happy by the dawn of every new one.   

EPILOGUE  

And Norma certainly wasn’t complaining. She was fast asleep. Had always said the boy would grow up to be a drunk like Old Johnny McMaster, anyways. Would live with cockroaches. Probably die alone. At least he was helping with the housekeeping now. Letting his mother sleep in a little for once.  

As for Dave, her husband, he was beginning to get hungry so was already shuffling to his feet. Thinking of eggs. Hoping the boy had taken care of their mess, so he wouldn’t have to. His head buzzing with the excitement of a new morning crossword, but mostly, a nervous energy that someone might say something to ruin breakfast.  

It was unspoken what needed to be done. There wasn’t a mess, but it would need cleaning up before she woke.  

Stepping over the high kicking and giggling legs of his son so as not to trip over him, he put on a pot of coffee, asking the boy if he wanted a cup before he got to work. He was disappointed to find he hadn’t lain a finger to help with the mess yet. Worried this might be a problem as they were running out of time. Thought the child looked like he might need a little something in order to get up from the floor.   

“I don’t know. Do you drink coffee?”  

Bruce gurgled as he sat up and stared at his father. Said something about cereal. 

I bet they also take a % of your cat's inheritance.

CLUBBING  

I think I can hear a tractor and it’s got heavy chains and they are tight around my brain. Can feel flakes of rust inside my skull, rubbing and falling off. Can hear the grind of an engine as I lay beneath the clotheslines in my grandparent’s backyard, unable to stand ever again. Hoping I will soon be pulled somewhere else even if these chains squeeze everything inside dry. Need to be put somewhere where people can see me so I don’t die back here.   

Somehow dragged out towards the front of the house and left on the lawn. In a place where there used to be a tree, but where there is now just me vomiting on my hands. Laying here hoping a neighbour might be up late enough to see me pulling grass up with my fingers and making awful sounds. Waiting for the chains to drag me back inside. But no more engines. No more tractors. My shoes barely hanging on by my toes.   

It had been a bad headache. A bad everything. Impossible to tell how many aspirins I took. Only that it hadn’t been enough to work. 

SO WHEN ARE YOU GOING BACK  

You think I’m going back, which is sort of funny.  

I get it. You don’t have the space. Not anymore. Two people is too many already for what you’ve gotten yourself into. Bruce living with his mother. Nan living with her son. Now in this tiny apartment and suddenly realizing how close you're going to keep being. Every single day, nearly side by side. Even when walking to the end of the hall. Or going to your room and shutting the door. Still able to hear the other one moving around. Not a single moment where you can pretend they don't exist, ever again.  

All day long, hearing each other breath no matter how far you try to get away. All day long, hearing the kid upstairs banging his head on the floor. These now the noises that fill your lives. I get it. You don’t need me crying on the couch too.  

It’s already bad enough and me being here will only make it worse. You grew used to the comforts of living in a pretty big house. Still haven’t gotten over how all the rooms are gone. The ones you’d grown so used to. Even the ones you never used. Maybe somehow believing a couple of them were coming here with you. That they wouldn’t dare leave you with nothing but two bedrooms and a living room and a hallway. They must have known how you need more places to stand around. What could life possibly be without them?   

Somehow the apartment would have to get bigger. At least a little bit.   

Somehow.  

But now there are only a couple of chairs to choose from ever since you sold all the furniture. And there are only a couple of windows to look out, all of them facing the same direction. So few options left. Nothing for you to do here but stare down at the plaza parking lot and watch people get out of cars. Wondering if they are going into that store to buy cigarettes. Wondering how much booze they were going to bring out of the liquor store with them.   

If I was here too, you might not like me always sitting so close by and watching you stare out there at parking lots all day. Hear how you say the same things every single time.  

“I wish that was me”, when they come out with a carton of smokes. A shopping cart full of whiskey. “I wish that was me too”  

You don’t want me here. I get it. So what else can I possibly do but start loudly sobbing when you ask me when I think I might be going back home. Waiting for me to say something as I put some more chicken in my mouth. And more chicken and more chicken. As much as I can fit in there without choking. My tears indistinguishable from the grease that is making my face so wet and shiny. 

MUSHROOM COW MIRACLE  

1: Ingestion   

I didn’t agree to do this yet, but she’s already eating some out in the grass. So I close my eyes and eat some too and begin nervously pacing around the cottage. Look up through the branches of the trees towards the sky. Through glistening spider webs. Waiting to feel something terrible to start happening inside of me.   

“I’m already feeling it”, I tell her. “I don’t think this is going to be good”  

She asks if she can do anything to help but I tell her there is nothing that can be done now. I just need to lay in the grass and get back to staring at the branches. The sky. Lay there with tree roots somewhere deep beneath me, but that I can very nearly feel down there in the earth. Like a string of ancient vertebrae. An extension of me, knotted like my back. Twisted like my brain full of drugs. Down there, covered in bark and dirt in a way I wish I could also be.  

“Do you need a cushion to lie on?” 
 
“Yes, that’s a good idea”  

She brings me the cushion from a lawn chair and I somehow roll onto it and keep staring upwards. Waiting for what I can already feel growing inside of me to be over. Listening to the sounds of Donny Hathaway coming softly through a screen door. Sarah suddenly disappearing through that same door into that same music to leave me lying here with the branches and the sky and maybe a softly sung song that I can only barely hear floating towards me. Settling down into the grass where I am laying with my arms stretched out. 

Or maybe it is not a song at all I am hearing. Maybe it is only the sound of the breeze that I am watching move through the trees. Pushing the clouds along. Making the tiny invisible hairs on the skin of my arm tingle like they are a part of my nervous system.  

I think I hear the swelling of orchestral strings. I think I hear the sound of a beautiful voice in love with the world. Or a woman. Or the sound of music. Or the grass I am laying on.  Yes, I will stay here for awhile.

At least until I can figure out if I feel good, or if it’s all too much. If I’m already beginning to see more than I'd like to. Telling myself over and over, if I don’t move it will be fine. Just don’t move, don’t move, keeping very still until I can be sure if I need to be frightened. Or if I can start laughing and rolling around on the ground as I realize how ticklish it is to be laying here beneath the weight of all that sky above me.  

I hear the screen door open and close, but can’t tell if anyone has come out to join me. Can’t tell if I’m alone. Or if I’m being watched, laying there, trying not to move. If I’m even there to be looked at anymore.  

Hey Crumb, I saw on Facebook that you’ll be presenting your work at an event?

Rock wrote:

Hey Crumb, I saw on Facebook that you’ll be presenting your work at an event?

Yeah, I signed up for it before I really thought it through. Mostly just for something to do, but now I've got to do it.