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4
The boy couldn’t even tie his shoes. Always put his shirt on backwards. So who cares what kind of names he called him.
Bruce didn’t.
He knew he wasn’t a lumpy daddy.
Lumpy where?
Kept looking at himself in his bathroom mirror, trying to figure out what his son had been pointing at. What had been so funny.
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5
It was his weekend to see his boy, but Bruce would have preferred he be alone. He had to go to the doctor. They were going to lance his cysts and he knew it was going to hurt and he didn't want anyone to see him like that. Screaming and complaining and screaming as they cut his face open. Would rather be alone but instead his boy would be right next to him, watching.
Watching what came out of him.
Calling him Daddy Cheez-Whiz.
The doctors wrapping his face in bandages once it was over.
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6
It had been his idea for his son to bring the Atari with him for his visit, but it had been a bad idea. Of course the boy didn’t know the first thing about electronics or where to plug things in and now Bruce was never going to get out from behind here, fumbling with wires, swearing, pouring his beers poorly while on his knees in the dust behind his television. Filling his glass mostly with foam as the boy just sat there with his watchful eyes. Unnerving him with his silence. Never once having anything better to say back to him other than ‘nope’ when asked if it had come on yet. If maybe him sticking this other wire in that different hole had helped.
How about this? No? Goddamit!
Well, then how about that?
And every time the child just fidgeting a little bit more as he let his father know, nope, nothing yet. Worrying that there would be no video games after all. No different than Christmas, when he got the damned thing and he had the exact same face. Just this past Christmas when Bruce got himself stuck behind his parents television all morning, trying to get it to work. Telling his son to hand him little screwdrivers and pay attention. Yelling over the sound of carols coming from the kitchen radio because everything in this house was old and out of date and looked nothing like in the manual that came in the box.
“Maybe if your grandparents could get a TV from this century....”
A miserable Christmas morning and now here he was again, this time behind his TV. No longer remembering what plugs went in what holes but this time even worse because his face was throbbing. Was plastered in gauze. Always something threatening to leak through the bandages whenever he opened his mouth to swear about how he didn’t want to be back here. Re-opening his wound every time he let his son know this is not how he expected their weekend together to go.
Oh well. Just calm down, Bruce. It wasn’t so bad. At least it would be something gross to entertain the boy with in the meantime.
So, let it leak. Let him notice. This could take awhile.
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7
It was the boy’s videogame, but Bruce came up with an idea that would make it better. He said first they should think up some names for their boxers. Good names that let you imagine what their faces looked like. Names like Charlie Cigarettes and Knuckles Nils and The Magnificent Haircut.
Names that would give them an idea what they were punching when they were trying to punch each other out. Names that would make it more fun.
“Shout them out, whatever comes to mind, I'll write them down”, he said pointing to a pad of paper stained with coffee rings. “Then once we’ve got enough, we'll take turns picking our teams.”
Immediately, he began to scribble excitedly. It was like he’d spent his whole life thinking up the kind of names that maybe he would have preferred for himself. Maybe had lots of practice since anything was better than Bruce.
Fat-Boy Wallop. Black-Eyed Blue. The Frankenstein Strangler.
He could hardly write them down fast enough, gurgling with excitement, nearly giddy with his genius. All of them so much better than anything his son was coming up with. Every name the boy proudly shouted out exactly as terrible as his were great. Started feeling his were too good to share if the little shit wasn’t even going to try.
“Oh, for Christ sake, that's no name for a boxer”, he warned as the boy continued to make it clear he knew nothing at all about the sport. Knew nothing about toughness if he thought these kind of names cut it. “The only way I’m writing these down is if you promise you take them. You’re not going to spoil my team with all this weenie crap of yours"
“Of course”, the boy said, quickly agreeing to his father’s conditions. “If you don’t want Mr. Chicken Legs, I’ll be happy to have him. I’ve got a good feeling about that one”
And so under protest Bruce added this name, and all of the terrible ones that soon followed, spoiling his list of magnificent bruisers and brawlers. The kid was clearly asking for it. He could hardly wait to get in the ring and start swinging. It was going to be a bloodbath.
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8
All hail Daddy Cheez-Whiz, champion of the world.
The boy was jumping off the sofa, chanting the name of the unbeatable one, over and over again.
“Dad-dy Cheez-Whiz! Dad-dy Cheez-Whiz! Dad-dy Cheez-Whiz!”
The imaginary crowd had erupted into rapturous applause for his son, finally taking over from the long and continuous spell of booing and hissing that had been aimed at Bruce and his team of now battered palookas.
His humiliation had happened so fast, his whole team knocked clean out by the likes of Gino Armpits and Horizontal Steve and the Great Dirty Pants and Ham ‘n’ Eggs Harry. Even Mr. Chicken Legs and his uppercuts proving too much for him to handle, leaving no one but the boy’s army of misfit losers to fight amongst themselves for the title.
And then of course, there was the king of them all, whose name the boy would now not stop chanting. The boxer Bruce had every opportunity to choose for himself but refused. The one his son had left for him, tapping it with his finger whenever it was his turn to pick something from their list, and being sure to remind him who he was.
“You can’t expect me to be Daddy-Cheez Whiz, can you?”
Bruce told him to shush.
“You can't ignore him, dad. Don't make this worse. He will have his revenge”
Bruce said there was nothing funny about cysts. That gunk inside was poison and warned the boy they might be hereditary. Explained how painful they were. Refused to indulge whatever game the child was trying to get him to play.
So it was left to his son to take the unwanted boxer for himself, who he would then make a great show of not wanting either. But once firmly a part of his team, he would quickly prove to bring something fearsome out of the boy whenever he was Daddy Cheez-Whiz in the ring. Moving so fast no one could hit him. Hitting so hard anyone's knees would buckle upon impact. Showing absolutely no quarter, even when he had to face his own boxers on his way towards the championship.
All sorts of hooting and hollering. All sorts of victory laps around the coffee table.
Daddy Cheez-Whiz, undefeated.
Daddy Cheez-Whiz, the greatest who had ever lived. Not only champion of the world, but also a reminder for Bruce to change his bandages as the boy chanted the name over and over again.
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GIRLS 1: "Oh, hi internet"
Is she pretty? Or is she not pretty? Those are some eyebrows. There was a time in my life where I would have really liked them. I think. But it’s a lot of eyebrow. Possibly too much.
With only one picture it's hard to be sure of anything. She looks like a Manson girl sitting in a kitchen. She seems small and is leaning over and staring into the camera. Her eyes are enormous, and they are black. Her tiny mouth crooked like a quick strike from a penknife. The collar of her dress hangs loose around her neck and shows her collarbone. The dress looks cheap and homemade. Her hair isn’t combed.
Is this what I was looking for when I came here?
Should I be frightened?
Surely one photograph isn’t enough for me to even know what I should be feeling.
Not that I can complain about that. I’m just as bad as her and one photograph is all she has of me too. Me sitting blurry and drunk in some hallway, next to an abandoned refrigerator. Looking like I’m having a good time because I’m laughing with a glass of beer between my knees, even though this was not a good time at all. But maybe I look fun enough to her. Maybe she likes people who live in hallways where there are broken appliances to keep company and dying plants looming ominously in the background. Maybe she didn’t notice what a bad fit that t-shirt is on me. Maybe she likes my eyebrows.
At least we appear to have things in common. Me living in a yellowing hallway, her living in a grease-dirty kitchen, both of us detached from the world and spending our time with refrigerators. An abundance of refrigerators being the important thing.
But I just don’t know. I keep a watch on those eyebrows reaching out like jazz-hands. Those black eyes giving away her nightly dreams of death. I look at her photograph a little bit longer and find I can tell what her dress smells like, just by looking at it. It’s a thick smell I think I might like, even though it’s something damp and old and would make me think of haunted attics. And so with this in mind I decide to read what she wrote to me one more time and try to make sure I understand what it means and what I should do about it: “Woman Under the Influence! I love that movie too! Let’s watch it sometime!”
I take a long time before my hands reach out towards the keyboard to reply. “Um, yeah, okay”. Then quickly turn off my computer.
I don’t dare yet tell her I have a copy of this movie inside of my apartment, the place I stay when I’m not out in that hallway keeping company with the things my neighbours have discarded. I don’t want to be too presumptuous, after all. Baby steps. This might be love.
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Girls 2: The Bygone Era of Strangers
Remember strangers? That’s how you used to meet people. They’d sometimes appear across the table from you. Sometimes they were a girl. Maybe a friend of a friend. Or sometimes someone who got lost on the way back to their own table, and needed to find a place away from their friends to cry. Would just sit there with her head in her hands until you introduced yourself. And she might not like you much, but for a least a few seconds she would look over at you and tell you about what a son of a bitch he was. How she hated every last one of them. They were all stupid fuckers. And you would not have any idea what she was talking about but would nod and say things that sounded very wise and start thinking to yourself ‘she’s kinda pretty...maybe if I can get her to stop crying....”
Then, as she got finally herself together, and she got to know your name, and you made her laugh a few times, and she put her hand on your shoulder, you’d think about what a great job you’d done. Then she’d thank you and disappear into the crowd, off to look for all those stupid fuckers, and you would realize you would never get to see her naked after all. And when your friends asked who that was and, boy, the things they’d do to a girl like that if they got the chance, you’d tell them to mind their business. To get their mind out of the gutter.
“She was having a bad day”, you’d say, “Is sex all you think about?”
So remember strangers.
And how they never come back.
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Girl #3: Hide When They Like You
It was better when you were younger. Easier to just hide under your cousin's bed when you hear how the girls are coming over. When the grown-ups couldn’t keep secrets and let you know one of them is in love with you. The girl who lives a few floors down who just called up to check and see if you were still here, visiting. The prettiest one of all they all keep telling you. As if you hadn’t already noticed.
Oh, the good old days, when you could just crawl beneath the mattress and pretend they won’t find you. A perfect hiding spot if not for those same untrustworthy grown-ups telling the girls where they saw you run off to, and that little bit of foot you leave sticking out. A little something for them to grab onto, drag you back into the light, and cover you with kisses.
But hopefully only the one you like.
As you find yourself pulled across the hardwood, you look up to see the others are not so good as her. Have got some very bad haircuts. So many funny, downturned mouths that will turn out to be ravenous, making it hard to look up through that flurry of kisses in hopes of getting a glimpse of the pretty one. Not sure where she even is, but more than enough to know she’s in there somewhere as you slowly dissolve beneath the touch of so many damp and plain faces.
Really not so bad, all these girls.
Way back when you thought this was going to be easy.
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THE TOO LATE FOR BUSES HOSPITAL BLUES
Bruce knows most nights he starts getting tired around 7:30, so tells his mother she’ll have to wake him at 11:00 if he ends up falling asleep. Reminds her every few hours. Writes a note on a paper towel that he tapes to her bedroom door.
“Don’t forget. Wake me up. 11:00. Bruce”
Now she keeps coming down the hallway and standing in his doorway.
"Are you going somewhere?” she asks every time. “Where are you going?”
“I’ve told you, I’m getting David”
“Is he coming over tonight?”
“Yes. How many times--”
“...so late?”
He doesn’t say anything and waits for her to return down the hall so he can roll back over and face the wall. Can hear her out there watching TV as he drifts off to sleep.
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2
Norma didn’t know she was supposed to be waking her son up as she went to go looking for him. She’d only noticed he was no longer in the room with her, so had gone to see where he might be. Stepping carefully down the hallway with her hair sticking up at the back, touching the walls with her fingers to steady herself as she made her way towards his doorway. Then standing there looking into the dark bedroom, watching the figure under the blankets breathing. Trying to remember what she had come down the hall for and whose name to call out.
Eventually, she will say: “Are you asleep, Bruce?” Her voice soft, but enough to get him grumbling and starting to wake. “Didn’t you want to come and talk to me?”
“What time is it?”
“Time?”
“Is it eleven?”
“I don’t think it’s as late as that”
“Jesus Christ, it’s quarter after. I told you eleven. Jesus Christ”
Her son gets up and sits on the edge of the bed, with his socks still on. Eventually stuffing his feet into the shoes that are sitting on the carpet in front of him.
“Are you going somewhere?”
“How many times—Jesus Christ!”
"Stop it, stop it, stop it”, Norma waves her hands at her son like she can smell his terrible language. Tells him she doesn’t want him to come talk with her after all. Not if he’s going to be like that. Quickly turns to go back down the hall to her chair in front of the television. It’s not even a very good chair and such a long walk for her. Has only just sat down in it when she hears her apartment door suddenly open and then close.
She sighs and slowly begins to rise from the chair to see who just came in.
She wasn’t expecting guests. Can’t even imagine who it will be. She’s so exhausted.
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3
Bruce can’t remember if he got the cupcakes and so stands motionless in the parking lot across the street from his apartment. With one hand on the door handle of his car, he stares towards the grocery store, looking to see if it’s still open at this late hour. It doesn't look like it, and this makes him angry. First at the workers who he can see still inside, turning the lights off, standing by the doors in their jackets and holding their bags and getting ready to go home. Then angry at himself, for not checking their kitchen cupboard before leaving. Then cursing his mother most of all for not waking him earlier when he told her to, like he wrote on the paper towel he taped to her bedroom door.
Growing even angrier as he gets into his car, furiously turning the key in the ignition.
“Fucking Norma”
As he drives towards the hospital, his anger turns towards his night blindness. All of the lights he can see approaching from the other lane of the highway. His hands tightening around the steering wheel. Feeling old. His mind flashing back towards thoughts of those cupcakes in their cellophane wrappers. Mostly worried there would be nothing to tuck into the lunch his son would be bringing to work tomorrow morning.
The kind of thing a father does.
He’s already late when he picks David up from the hospital at the end of his shift. Is still in his scrubs as he slides into the car next to him, beginning to tell him all about the afterbirth he had to clean up in an Emergency Room bathroom tonight.
“If all the blood had pooled in one spot, it would have been the nurses job....but of course it spattered everywhere so I had to do it. Must've hit the floor pretty hard to have done that. Just my luck”
Bruce isn’t sure what to say to this. There are a few moments of silence before he blames his mother for the fact that he’s late picking him up. Doesn’t even bring up the cupcakes, even though that is what he’s thinking about most.
“So, my shift starts early tomorrow. You good to wake me up”, his son asks as they drive back out onto the highway, Bruce already squinting. Can’t see the dividing line on the highway. Only all the lights coming towards him like stars.
“I’ll be up”, he assures. Already wondering how early the grocery store opens. Hopefully at the crack of dawn. Hardly noticing as he begins to drift into oncoming traffic.
“Hey, watch out there”, his son’s voice brings him back and he veers safely back into his lane. "Pay attention"
Bruce grumbles something. Maybe something about his mother. He's trying not to be angry all the time, but it's so hard.
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4
“Let me guess, cupcakes”, Sarah laughs as David returns home from work and starts gloomily emptying his bag. Kisses him on the cheek. She’s always glad when he gets back after being out of the house overnight.
“I meant to eat them this time, I swear”, he says. “I already feel guilty. They get all crushed in my bag when I forget they’re in there”
“Aw, it’s cute. He's trying”
“If that’s what you want to call it”. He tells her how every morning he hears his father in the kitchen, sneaking them into his bag and, like always, Sarah covers her heart with her hand. “I don’t know what it’s all about. Maybe I liked them when I was a kid. I don’t know”
“Well, you’ve got to eat them”
He sighs
“Or I will if you won’t. You know if they just sit there, they’re going to make you feel bad every time you open the cupboard”
He tells her to go for it and the crinkling of cellophane fills the kitchen. Sometimes the saddest sound in the world. At least until next time.
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A PERFECT DAY FOR BANANASOUP
My father says he’s never eaten soup. In a lifetime of nothing to be proud of, this is what he tells strangers when they ask about the life he’s lived so far.
“I don’t eat it. Never”
“Not even tomato?”
“No”
“Chicken noodle”
“No”
“Clam chowder?”
“Fuck right off”
As for me, I tell them I don’t ever eat bananas. That’s the thing I don’t eat. Then when they ask what kind of person doesn't like bananas, I tell them I do sometimes if I’m in the mood. They’re alright. They taste just fine. I might even like them, as long as there’s no bruises. But I’d just prefer not to have them around.
Not that I need a reason. I’ve already told my grandmother many times how I don’t like them, and this should be enough, even if it’s not entirely true. Even if she knows it’s a lie, sometimes catching me eating them in secret when I think no one is watching, I’ve made it clear I hate the things and she should just believe me if she knows what’s good for her.
So that's why I’m so angry that she has brought another bowl of them to me tonight. As always, carefully cut into slices, soaked in cream and sprinkled with sugar. Once again, lowering them onto the table between me and the television, handing me a small and dainty spoon for me to eat them with as I try to look around her.
Yes, I know she’s just being nice, but she should know better.
And so I grow agitated. Remind her one more time how I don’t eat bananas. Yell at her how I know there’s ice cream in the freezer and that I’m not stupid. That she’s got to get her desserts straight when she’s dealing with me. That I know the scene, and if she ever brings me another banana after a dinner like that, I’m outta here.
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ONE CAR COMMISSION
The sign out front of the nearly empty lot says “Phil’s Car” in confident, red letters. We see it every time we are passing this way, one of us always reading it out loud as we continue down the road.
“Phil’s Car”
“Just the one, you think?”
“That's what it says"
"Is it for sale?"
"I suppose so"
“I’m worried about the business if he ever sells it”
“So far so good”
“Phil must not be much of a salesman. He's had that one car for awhile now, hasn’t he?”
“It’s still on the sign”
"Maybe the car smells”
“I blame that horrible combover of his”
Continuing to drive we leave Phil and this car he will never sell in the distance. Not that we could ever really be sure if Phil was there anymore, or if that shape covered by a tarp in the parking lot was even a car. All we knew for sure was that there was a sign fluttering in the wind that could get us talking if we had run out of things to say.
And so we always look for it. It’s a long drive when we come up here and we find it's a good break for us to fuss a little over Phil’s well-being. At least once the sign reminds us of him, and his terrible life, and how now that we've passed it means we must be getting close to where we are going and soon we will be able to get out of the car and stretch our legs and start having some fun.
Not that we don't genuinely worry about him. We do. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, one of us might even roll over in this bed that isn't ours and whisper into the ear of the other: “Do you think Phil’s going to be okay”
And when we start to laugh, it's only because we care.
Or because we're happy.
Last edited by crumbsroom (12/29/2024 6:21 pm)
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THE GRISWOLD’S MAKE A MEAN GREEN BEAN CASSEROLE
My father says he wouldn’t have done that. I tell him how it eventually turned out alright and we had a good time, but he definitely wouldn’t have done that. Is hardly convinced there was any reason to have gone to the Griswold’s for dinner even after I tell him about the good parts. Like the secret door the old couple opened as soon as we finished eating, letting out half a dozen giant dogs who immediately jumped onto tables and pushed couches away from the wall. Tall enough to get their heads in the kitchen sink and eat from the dirty dishes. How these dogs filled me with the hope they had been released into this crowd to gobble up all these kids who wouldn’t stop running around, no matter how many times they were told to sit down and behave by their parents and grandparents and aunts and uncles. All of these people who were complete strangers to us.
“It was wild”, I tell him. “Nearly got ourselves trampled to death by Bumpus hounds”
But my father doesn’t care about the dogs. And when I tell him about the conversation about a haunted painting we had a little later, a story told to us by an agitated girl who we found eating her dinner standing up in another room, he is clear he doesn’t care about haunted paintings either. He only wants to know who these Griswold’s even were, and why we would ever think to go to such a place.
“I don’t know. Some lady Sarah met on one of her missing kid walks invited us for dinner”
“Did they find the kid?”
“Maybe some bones. Probably a raccoon’s, I bet”
“Well, I wouldn’t have gone to any goddamned Griswold’s for Thanksgiving”
I tell him it wasn’t so bad even if I hadn’t expected so many of them to be there. A bit of a shock to come upon a whole house full of Griswold’s as soon as we stepped inside, all of them looking straight at us as we came in, not knowing who we were or why we were there. If we were expecting to get some of their turkey dinner or if we would be sitting and eating with them. Wanting to know which one of them had invited us, but most suspecting it must be Sherri. All of them politely smiling when we told them that’s exactly who it was.
“And after that it got better. We had a pretty good time”
My father is incapable of believing this and says the whole thing sounds horrible. Even the dogs. Even the haunted painting. And he almost seems bothered over how easily it all could have been avoided if we just stayed home. Like he would have done. Says we only have ourselves to blame.
“But if I didn’t go, I would have missed Sherri's famous green bean casserole”
My father makes a face like he’s nearly had a heart attack at just the thought of such a thing even existing.
“I wouldn’t eat that”, he says, somberly.
And of course he wouldn’t. It’s why I’m telling him. Talking in detail about how good it was until he can’t do anything but leave the room, spitting the imaginary taste of green beans and canned mushroom soup out of his mouth. Realizing his son has clearly lost his mind. Is out of control.
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PASSING THE PLATE
Sarah doesn’t know that it’s going to be too much food for Norma. She’s just trying to be helpful. Didn’t see anyone else getting a plate for the old woman and so she offered.
“She’s not going to eat all of that”, my father warns her. “That’s too much”
“Oh, okay, I can put some of it back”
“She’s not going to eat half that”
Sarah stands holding the plate full of turkey and carrots and potatoes and cranberry sauce and a slice of buttered bread and broccoli in melted cheese and gravy over nearly all of it, feeling its weight, not knowing where to put it.
“Well, then this one can be yours Bruce, and I’ll go get a smaller plate for your mother”
She holds it out for him to take and he just sits there, twisting an empty water bottle in his hands, holding it tightly to his chest.
“Oh, I can't do that. That's not going to happen.”
Others at the table inform Sarah how he’s only going to want the meat. Just meat. “And definitely none of that gravy”
“I was just trying to help”, she says, resting the plate on the dining room table where Norma has just sat. Not even looking where she’s putting it as the old woman stares down at the food just set in front of her.
“Oh no, this is too much”, she says. Already looking distressed. “Oh no”
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GUTTY THE TOURIST
“Oh yeah”
Gutty has once again got himself invited back to sit on someone’s couch after the bar. As always, brings his skinny friend Mark with him. They won’t like any of the music they play where they are going, but they also won’t go home.
Gutty and Mark. Great sitters of couches. Especially Gutty. He doesn’t leave unless you tell him to. You will have to say those exact words to him or he will still be sitting there when you leave to sleep. When you get up the next morning for class.
“Oh yeah”, he’ll say when he sees you finally out of bed. Still rocking out on the couch but now to music in his head since the records stopped a long time ago.
“You gotta go, dude”
“Oh yeah”
He will always leave as soon as you tell him to go. He’s good that way. Always very polite as he smiles and nods and thanks you for the evening. But always sure to ask where you’ll be tonight.
Wants to know if you’re still going to the Wick like you said you would last night. Asking as he's nearly out the door. For a moment slowing down, looking like he might stop entirely. Might never leave after all.
Waiting for you to answer.
“Not definitely, Maybe. We’ll see”.
And that’s good enough for Gutty. He jumps from your porch, already playing air guitar as he hits the sidewalk. Still playing as he waits for the bus that will finally take him home.
He’ll definitely be at the Wick tonight.
And God knows whose couch after that.
Oh yeah.
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A CHRISTMAS HEADLINE: GROWN MAN LOSES MIND OVER GRANDMOTHER CLAIMING HE'S TOO OLD FOR STOCKING, EVERYONE DIES
What about the packet of socks? The child sized underwear that doesn’t fit?
What about the losing scratch off lottery tickets?
What about the hard candy found forgotten in a drawer?
What about the crumpled up wrapping paper used to fill up all that empty stocking space?
But most importantly, what about the soft clementine down in the toe?
Who cares if it never gets eaten and will be put right back into the fruit bowl where it came from to grow even softer.
Where is it?
No, I won't lower my voice!
Does tradition mean nothing anymore?
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JAMES JOYCE MADE MY SON A CUNT
1
“The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot”
Bruce used to read this line over and over. It was from his favorite book. The one where the drunk sits in a bar contemplating whether or not he should steal some ladies purse. He’d read it for the first time while sitting in a bar himself and it was almost as these pages could read his thoughts as he ordered another two bottles. As if it also noticed the handbag he was currently peeking over its pages to look at, wondering how long it would be left unattended on the table next to him. Continuing to read in hopes of finding the answers to all of life’s most important questions. Not sure if he had enough money in his pocket to keep drinking forever.
Reading. Keeping watch. Feeling alive. Slight headache.
The title was The Lost Weekend, the author was Charles Jackson, and it had an illustration of booze bottles on the cover. It was very skinny book and could be read in one sitting if he didn’t drink too much. The pages were falling out but it was possible he never noticed which one’s were missing as he clumsily thumbed from one to the next. The whole thing smelling like the cigarette smoke he sat there blowing at it until last call and that whoever had owned it before him had also blown at it. One old drunk after another, reading it over and over since the beginning of time, until they inevitably forgot it on their table with their matches and lurched out into the night. Leaving it behind for whatever hopeless soul came in next. This book turned the color of piss. A comforting shade of liver damage that Bruce could relate to.
“The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot”
Sometimes he would recite this line to his son. It was the first one in the book so was easy for him to find. Yet another reason it was such a favorite. The convenience of it. Always there when he wanted it. When he got himself into that perfect mood when he needed his life to sound something like poetry, but when things would also start getting hard for him to find. Sometimes also hard to say.
“I’ve got to wait until I hear the click”, he explains, referencing the line from that play he hasn’t read. But he’s seen the movie. The one with Paul Newman. “That’s when it speaks to me”
Either way, his son has no idea about any of it. Just assumes his father knows what he’s talking about. Watching him from the carpet as he rolls those words around in his mouth. Pages falling to the floor.