Do you want the life I live? Do you think it'd be any better in someone else's shoes?
Would you rather be backstabbed numerous times by people you thought you could trust? Never being invited to things because no one thought to ask if you'd like to come, until you were on the verge of death? Being denied questioningly by your love, over and over again? Do you want my shoes?
Would you rather be in a field working day in day out with no pay? Your family is gone and dead, you have no friends- your friends are dead. Dying. Did they say to stop working? CRACK. See what I get for talking? For living? Being denied access to your love- because they don't want any babies around here. Too many to begin with. CRACK. Get back to work. Do you want my shoes?
Would you rather be on a bed every day with someone you thought you could trust over you, hurting you? The teddy bear the only thing to hold on to childhood. The drugs coming and going, the people coming and going, over top of you- coming, then going. There is no solitude, there is no peace, just the constant noise of the bed jerking, the money unrolling, the zipper's up and down. Do you want to suck on something that tastes like shit every day with no choice? Do you want my shoes?
Would you rather come home to empty bottles, a lifeless body that still breathes? One that never tells you 'hello' but only can muffle a 'get me another'. And that's only on your birthday. Would you rather be only known to counselors, because you come there so often trying to explain how the bruise was from hitting a door? Do you want my shoes?
Would you rather be afraid to come home because you heard two loud pops near your house the night before? Scraping by like rats, entertaining yourself with matches and rolled up paper, and the big man with a club will bust in any moment to beat you down and throw you away like a piece of trash. Do you want my shoes?
Would you rather walk outside, always having a high chance of hot metal piercing through you? Men on horseback, lit with vengeance, coming by every night to take more away with yellow and red. A hint of orange. But more red. Yelling at you, telling you, you should die for nothing you did and watching them cut off fingers of people because that's just how it works. It's an example to be made of. And if you move, there's the hot metal again. Do you want my shoes?
Would you rather eat what you can find in the forest, drink muddled water, and risk it all by living next to monkeys? Would you rather be so ill you couldn't walk, and when you beg to the rich people they just say 'nothing we can do' when they could? When they could do so much more if they just wanted to? Would you rather watch your six year old son dying outside next to a vulture, waiting for him? Do you want my shoes?
Would you rather be rich and famous? People gawking at you all the time. You couldn't go outside without a camera shoved into your face. Without a person yelling at you. No peace. No solitude. You make a mistake, and everyone knows about it. You can't even tell your parents what you've done wrong, it makes the papers before you could even dial the first number. It's too dangerous to drive, and your kids are meant to be superstars- even if you don't want them to. You want them to do what they want, not follow your footsteps. And love doesn't exist here, just a quickie marriage for publicity. Do you want my shoes?
Now I ask, do you want the life I live? Do you think it'd be any better in someone else's shoes?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Story Told 1000 Times
I read about this girl once. She was five foot nine, weighed about 1000 pounds, and dear Jesus it was horrifying. I wondered what she'd taste like if they killed her and cooked her. Cutting off the fat would be hard, but I have a feeling it'd taste like McDonald's. French fried human meat, mmm.
I read about this guy once. He was seven foot ten, weighed more than me but was skinny, and dear Moses it was gruesome. Couldn't walk, fit in doorways, couldn't even go into some buildings because the ceiling was too low. I wondered if he'd constantly hit his head on the ceiling before so many times that he'd get a concussion. Bloody heads are delicious, mmm.
I read about this kid once. He was three foot six, weighed normal weight- but his face was, dear Lord Almighty, atrocious. Had gotten into a bad accident with a tractor trailer. Or a bulldozer. Don't remember. People would look at him, and make fun- and he was only seven...maybe twelve. Couldn't get into schools because he distracted classes too much, and his medical treatment became too important. Dragged him out of class. I wondered if he ever tore off a piece of him when he got hungry and ate it. Bulldozed baby face, mmm.
I read about this old man once. He was five foot four, weighed about a hundred pounds but probably less- and dear Joseph and Mary, it was dreadful. You could his ribs, and bones. Almost like he was a walking skeleton with a thin layer of skin. Had no hair, no teeth- and they even showed how his heartbeat could be seen through the skin. I wondered if he tasted like onions like old people smell like. Aged human with a onion twang, mmm.
I read about this baby once. It didn't say how big she was, but dear saintliness, was she weird looking. She had an eyeball on her palm, and one on her knee. She had hair all on her chest, and no eyes in her sockets or hair on her head. Like they transplanted it all there. They had no cure for her, but they tried operating on her- and she died of complications with the appendix rupturing. I wondered if the appendix exploding over the insides made her taste any different. Appendix soaked baby meat, mmm.
I told this story to some people once. It was about how I liked to try new things to eat. So they came over to my house and I took them to my basement. I showed them my cutting board and utensils, and dear Satan, was it ugly. Blood all over the place from the cows, the ducks, the chickens. I forgot to clean off my axe, my knives, my everything. They saw a moose head I stuffed and mounted, and asked what it tasted like. I told them it tasted like what they thought it would taste like, and they said "mmm".
I told them the story of me capturing the moose. It was a hunt in the woods nearby that I shot and killed it, and dear Buddha, was it foul. The body was torn to pieces by the shots I had to take, and little of the meat was left. But I was able to scrounge for what I could, and ate it. I told them it tasted exactly like I thought it would taste like, mmm.
They told me their story of wanting to try more foods. It was a strong desire from when they tried to go hunting and killed a deer, and by golly, was it gruesome. They told me about how they had shot the head by accident, the brains had splattered all over some concrete. I wondered what they'd taste like. Brains with a light seasoning of gravel and dirt, mmm.
Now I'll you the story of them trying something new. I offered them to try something new and they agreed. I grabbed them a hatchet, a knife- something sharp to cut with and gave it to each of them. I made them put their hands palm down on my cutting board. I made them chop down, practicing cutting. Told them to go faster. One of them accidentally cut off his finger. We quickly bandaged his hand, and put the finger on ice. I made a pot of hot water for tea. When he said he was fine, and had calmed down- had stopped bleeding- I put his finger in the pot. We tried it, but it didn't taste very good for was a health nut and we needed some fat in it. Boiled human finger with a side of fat, mmm.
Now that's what I call a meal.
I read about this guy once. He was seven foot ten, weighed more than me but was skinny, and dear Moses it was gruesome. Couldn't walk, fit in doorways, couldn't even go into some buildings because the ceiling was too low. I wondered if he'd constantly hit his head on the ceiling before so many times that he'd get a concussion. Bloody heads are delicious, mmm.
I read about this kid once. He was three foot six, weighed normal weight- but his face was, dear Lord Almighty, atrocious. Had gotten into a bad accident with a tractor trailer. Or a bulldozer. Don't remember. People would look at him, and make fun- and he was only seven...maybe twelve. Couldn't get into schools because he distracted classes too much, and his medical treatment became too important. Dragged him out of class. I wondered if he ever tore off a piece of him when he got hungry and ate it. Bulldozed baby face, mmm.
I read about this old man once. He was five foot four, weighed about a hundred pounds but probably less- and dear Joseph and Mary, it was dreadful. You could his ribs, and bones. Almost like he was a walking skeleton with a thin layer of skin. Had no hair, no teeth- and they even showed how his heartbeat could be seen through the skin. I wondered if he tasted like onions like old people smell like. Aged human with a onion twang, mmm.
I read about this baby once. It didn't say how big she was, but dear saintliness, was she weird looking. She had an eyeball on her palm, and one on her knee. She had hair all on her chest, and no eyes in her sockets or hair on her head. Like they transplanted it all there. They had no cure for her, but they tried operating on her- and she died of complications with the appendix rupturing. I wondered if the appendix exploding over the insides made her taste any different. Appendix soaked baby meat, mmm.
I told this story to some people once. It was about how I liked to try new things to eat. So they came over to my house and I took them to my basement. I showed them my cutting board and utensils, and dear Satan, was it ugly. Blood all over the place from the cows, the ducks, the chickens. I forgot to clean off my axe, my knives, my everything. They saw a moose head I stuffed and mounted, and asked what it tasted like. I told them it tasted like what they thought it would taste like, and they said "mmm".
I told them the story of me capturing the moose. It was a hunt in the woods nearby that I shot and killed it, and dear Buddha, was it foul. The body was torn to pieces by the shots I had to take, and little of the meat was left. But I was able to scrounge for what I could, and ate it. I told them it tasted exactly like I thought it would taste like, mmm.
They told me their story of wanting to try more foods. It was a strong desire from when they tried to go hunting and killed a deer, and by golly, was it gruesome. They told me about how they had shot the head by accident, the brains had splattered all over some concrete. I wondered what they'd taste like. Brains with a light seasoning of gravel and dirt, mmm.
Now I'll you the story of them trying something new. I offered them to try something new and they agreed. I grabbed them a hatchet, a knife- something sharp to cut with and gave it to each of them. I made them put their hands palm down on my cutting board. I made them chop down, practicing cutting. Told them to go faster. One of them accidentally cut off his finger. We quickly bandaged his hand, and put the finger on ice. I made a pot of hot water for tea. When he said he was fine, and had calmed down- had stopped bleeding- I put his finger in the pot. We tried it, but it didn't taste very good for was a health nut and we needed some fat in it. Boiled human finger with a side of fat, mmm.
Now that's what I call a meal.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
What if...
March 11, 2012
Dear mom,
The camps aren’t so bad, as you’d expect. They have computers, just no Internet. And it’ll cost you a half of a sandwich to print anything out. But the guys here are nice, nicer than you’d expect. And at least the money I’m making will help the rest of you out. I just hate that I can’t speak any Chinese.
Classes are OK too- but I never thought high school would start out this way. Stuck working here, making toys for kids in the rest of the world. I wish I could meet a girl though, this camp is full of guys. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but hey- who else am I going to tell, huh mom?
We get about a half hour a day to talk with each other. The guards don’t understand much English, so they yell at us in whatever it is they’re speaking. I don’t even know if it’s Chinese or Japanese or what. One guy told me we would have to learn their language soon to make it anywhere.
I got lucky though. My supervisor is new, and he seems to be more tolerant of errors. He speaks English too, used to be in my position. I just hope that I can get a promotion before I wind up dead from some disease. They tell us to stay away from the tent full of sick people.
I’d tell you more, but they sometimes read our letters and I don’t want to disobey their orders.
There’s talk of them giving us a TV, but only for videos they want to show us. Right now they show some type of Asian movie every Friday. Or Saturday. I’m not really sure of the date anymore. I kind of guessed when I wrote it on the top of the letter.
I do know it’s March at least. Weather tells us that it’s spring. And that means it’ll soon be summer and we’ll have to work all day and not worry about school too much. And we get to come visit our homes, if we can afford it. There’s talk of them making it a whole week without being fed to allow you to go home.
I hope you get the money I included. Tell David, he owes me one for his braces. Even if they’re huge and ugly. And tell the rest of the family I love them, and hope to see them soon. I really do.
Sincerely,
Greg
September 23, 2013
Dear John,
I can’t believe I’m handwriting a letter to you instead of email. This just seems such an old way to do things. But I just don’t have the money anymore for Internet. I can’t believe that stamps cost so much though! Almost a dollar just for one. I remember getting them for a lot less as a kid.
How have you been though? I think the last thing I told you was my Internet was getting cut off. Nothing new in my life really. Just having to work a lot, and I mean a lot. I’ve got three jobs now! All of them suck too. I just wish you were here so it’d be easier.
I still have my job as a waitress, but now I work weekends at a grocery store and the mornings as a receptionist. They don’t pay enough to keep me and my kid going, but I have to do something. I hope you can come visit soon, maybe even move here. I miss talking to you is all. And our phone is cut off too, but you knew that. It was cut off way before the Internet was lol.
I know we met on a dating website and all, but I feel like we really connected. There’s something that we just had, you know? It was special. And I just wish you could be here so I can experience that again. So we can!
I’m blabbering on now. I have to get going, I wish I could write more to you, tell you everything I feel but the people that keep coming in may see me writing this. I just have to get back to work.
Love you.
Sincerely,
Vanessa
February 1, 2014
Dear Abbie,
Happy birthday sweetheart! I can’t believe you’re already five years old and starting school soon. Daddy wishes he could come back home, but you know he can’t. Not since all the bad men blame daddy for what’s going on now.
I’m going to see if you can’t come down here to visit daddy on the island here. Mommy knows which island it is, but we can’t tell you. The bad men might try to find you and kidnap you. And we wouldn’t want that.
Mommy told me you were going to start school soon. So make sure you be nice to the other kids, because they might not have the kind of things you have. Don’t go around telling them who your daddy is either, we wouldn’t want people to not like you because of me. If they ask, just tell them your daddy is always away on business and you don’t remember his first name.
Or tell them his name is Frank. Just Frank.
I know we’ve only talked a few times, but I love you Abbie. I wish things didn’t happen like they happened. I know Mommy might not read this to you, word for word, but know that with all my heart I really do love you. I just hate what I did. I made a mistake, and I hope you can forgive daddy for that.
I hope everyone can forgive daddy and that one day mommy and you and I can be together again. I miss you both so much. But what can you do when you’re at the top of a business and it’s going to crash anyways? It’s why you have what you have.
I know you don’t understand, and I don’t expect you to. Just understand that I love you, and miss you and want to see you very very soon.
Make sure you keep on feeding Mr. Gibbles. Mommy sent me a picture and he’s gotten so big! Just like you have.
Love,
Daddy
Dear mom,
The camps aren’t so bad, as you’d expect. They have computers, just no Internet. And it’ll cost you a half of a sandwich to print anything out. But the guys here are nice, nicer than you’d expect. And at least the money I’m making will help the rest of you out. I just hate that I can’t speak any Chinese.
Classes are OK too- but I never thought high school would start out this way. Stuck working here, making toys for kids in the rest of the world. I wish I could meet a girl though, this camp is full of guys. I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but hey- who else am I going to tell, huh mom?
We get about a half hour a day to talk with each other. The guards don’t understand much English, so they yell at us in whatever it is they’re speaking. I don’t even know if it’s Chinese or Japanese or what. One guy told me we would have to learn their language soon to make it anywhere.
I got lucky though. My supervisor is new, and he seems to be more tolerant of errors. He speaks English too, used to be in my position. I just hope that I can get a promotion before I wind up dead from some disease. They tell us to stay away from the tent full of sick people.
I’d tell you more, but they sometimes read our letters and I don’t want to disobey their orders.
There’s talk of them giving us a TV, but only for videos they want to show us. Right now they show some type of Asian movie every Friday. Or Saturday. I’m not really sure of the date anymore. I kind of guessed when I wrote it on the top of the letter.
I do know it’s March at least. Weather tells us that it’s spring. And that means it’ll soon be summer and we’ll have to work all day and not worry about school too much. And we get to come visit our homes, if we can afford it. There’s talk of them making it a whole week without being fed to allow you to go home.
I hope you get the money I included. Tell David, he owes me one for his braces. Even if they’re huge and ugly. And tell the rest of the family I love them, and hope to see them soon. I really do.
Sincerely,
Greg
September 23, 2013
Dear John,
I can’t believe I’m handwriting a letter to you instead of email. This just seems such an old way to do things. But I just don’t have the money anymore for Internet. I can’t believe that stamps cost so much though! Almost a dollar just for one. I remember getting them for a lot less as a kid.
How have you been though? I think the last thing I told you was my Internet was getting cut off. Nothing new in my life really. Just having to work a lot, and I mean a lot. I’ve got three jobs now! All of them suck too. I just wish you were here so it’d be easier.
I still have my job as a waitress, but now I work weekends at a grocery store and the mornings as a receptionist. They don’t pay enough to keep me and my kid going, but I have to do something. I hope you can come visit soon, maybe even move here. I miss talking to you is all. And our phone is cut off too, but you knew that. It was cut off way before the Internet was lol.
I know we met on a dating website and all, but I feel like we really connected. There’s something that we just had, you know? It was special. And I just wish you could be here so I can experience that again. So we can!
I’m blabbering on now. I have to get going, I wish I could write more to you, tell you everything I feel but the people that keep coming in may see me writing this. I just have to get back to work.
Love you.
Sincerely,
Vanessa
February 1, 2014
Dear Abbie,
Happy birthday sweetheart! I can’t believe you’re already five years old and starting school soon. Daddy wishes he could come back home, but you know he can’t. Not since all the bad men blame daddy for what’s going on now.
I’m going to see if you can’t come down here to visit daddy on the island here. Mommy knows which island it is, but we can’t tell you. The bad men might try to find you and kidnap you. And we wouldn’t want that.
Mommy told me you were going to start school soon. So make sure you be nice to the other kids, because they might not have the kind of things you have. Don’t go around telling them who your daddy is either, we wouldn’t want people to not like you because of me. If they ask, just tell them your daddy is always away on business and you don’t remember his first name.
Or tell them his name is Frank. Just Frank.
I know we’ve only talked a few times, but I love you Abbie. I wish things didn’t happen like they happened. I know Mommy might not read this to you, word for word, but know that with all my heart I really do love you. I just hate what I did. I made a mistake, and I hope you can forgive daddy for that.
I hope everyone can forgive daddy and that one day mommy and you and I can be together again. I miss you both so much. But what can you do when you’re at the top of a business and it’s going to crash anyways? It’s why you have what you have.
I know you don’t understand, and I don’t expect you to. Just understand that I love you, and miss you and want to see you very very soon.
Make sure you keep on feeding Mr. Gibbles. Mommy sent me a picture and he’s gotten so big! Just like you have.
Love,
Daddy
White Van
The park was covered in a light darkness, the trees surrounding Jack and Fran moving in the subtle wind. They sat on the park tables made out of old wood, and were covered by an overhead canopy. In front of them was a winding road, both directions filled with shadows from the overhead trees and numerous turns they could see.
“It sure is nice out here,” Jack said.
“Yeah.”
They sat there in silence for a few good minutes before Jack spoke again.
“Remember that time we tried to go as high as we could on the swings over there? And you fell and twisted your ankle and we had to go to the hospital? All ten of us trying to fit into the back of my truck?”
“Yeah.” Fran said, watching the cars go down the left side of the road.
“But wait, there was only nine of us. Greg wasn’t there was he?”
“Nope.
“Yeah, he was at the university. That’s right. He was two years ahead of us.”
“Mm hmm.”
“You talked to him at all?”
“Not since he left.”
“I called him a few times but he never picks up his phone. I left him a few messages, but he never calls back.”
“That’s Greg for ya.”
They stared at the road watching cars go by every few minutes out of the shadows. A black car’s headlights appearing out of nowhere from around a corner, down the small hill to take the short curve in front of them and go back down into a winding road full of shadows. Then a white van rolled by from out of nowhere and Jack punched Fran in the arm.
“Cancer,” he said.
“That wasn’t a cancer van.”
“It was too a cancer van. That’s how you get cancer.”
“No it wasn’t.” she said, her eyes on the road.
“That van didn’t have sliding doors, did it?”
“Nope.”
“That’s right. If it did it’d be a cancer van.”
“Yep.”
“I remember when we went to the old run down nuclear power plant and started that.” He looked away from her down the right side of the road.
“You weren’t there. You don’t know.”
“I do too. You got cancer because of the creepy white vans near the nuclear plant, right? And there was a white van following you guys from the power plant that one day and Hank said that it was trying to give you cancer. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And I came the second time you guys went out there and we got lost and almost hit the deer. So then anytime you see a white van with sliding doors you hit someone and say cancer and that gives them cancer.”
Fran didn’t reply, but half nodded while watching the winding road. They sat there again in silence, Jack carving the old wood with his fingernail.
“Have you talked to Drew at all?” he said.
“Nope.”
“So what are you going to do then?”
“Don’t know.”
“I mean, are you guys gonna break up or. What?”
“Don’t know.”
“So does that mean you’ll come back here a lot then?”
“Maybe.”
“I hope so. Amy and me haven’t talked since I broke up with her, ‘cause, well you know.”
“Yeah.”
They watched a green SUV go by, down the dark winding road as the sun went down.
“You hear about Ben getting in to the school here?” Jack said.
“Yeah.”
“That big fat ass.” He made a loud gulping sound, “Could he even fit into the hallways? They’ll have to reinforce everything with steel or have cement trucks on hand.”
They both smiled and Fran kept her eyes on the cars going by.
“So when’s your first day?” Jack asked, looking directly at her.
“Monday, actually,” she said, as her eyes followed a white mini-van.
“You got everything you need then?”
“Yeah, it’s all in my trunk.”
“’Cause if you need anything I can go with you to the store real quick. I heard food is more expensive there.”
“No, my mom packed a lot of things for me already.”
“Oh. I think all of our moms did that. I know Hank’s did.”
“Yours didn’t.”
“Well,” Jack shrugged, but Fran didn’t see it with her eyes focused on the road.
Three more cars went by and they sat and watched them, Jack picking at the table as they drove past. Fran looked at her watch.
“I should get going here soon. Check-in is early, and I have to sleep some tonight.”
“Yeah, I’ve got work tomorrow morning.”
They sat and watched cars go by again: a red one, a blue one, and a black truck. The sun was still slowly setting, a red sky just barely visible and lightning bugs flicking on and off around them.
“Have you seen that YouTube video with the newscaster on CNN saying the c-word? It’s pretty funny.” Jack said, ignoring the cars going by.
“You know I don’t get online a lot.”
“Yeah, but you should get on there. It’s pretty funny.”
“Yeah, I’ll try.” Fran said, she checked her watch, “Do you need to call your mom again? It’s been half an hour.”
“No, I’m good. She knows where I am.”
“You really need to get a cell phone and stop using up all my minutes.”
“Yeah, I’ll try.”
Another white van passed and they both looked at each other. Jack smiled.
“That one had the sliding doors,” he said.
“It did,” she said with a half-smile.
Fran got off the table and stretched out some. Jack followed suit, and they started walking to their cars nearby. They hugged, and Jack waited for Fran to get to her car door.
“I’ll see ya around,” Jack said.
“Yeah. See ya later.”
They got into their cars and turned them on. Fran backed out first, and Jack followed behind her. She turned left down the dark winding road as he turned right into the shadows, their dim headlights illuminating the road.
“It sure is nice out here,” Jack said.
“Yeah.”
They sat there in silence for a few good minutes before Jack spoke again.
“Remember that time we tried to go as high as we could on the swings over there? And you fell and twisted your ankle and we had to go to the hospital? All ten of us trying to fit into the back of my truck?”
“Yeah.” Fran said, watching the cars go down the left side of the road.
“But wait, there was only nine of us. Greg wasn’t there was he?”
“Nope.
“Yeah, he was at the university. That’s right. He was two years ahead of us.”
“Mm hmm.”
“You talked to him at all?”
“Not since he left.”
“I called him a few times but he never picks up his phone. I left him a few messages, but he never calls back.”
“That’s Greg for ya.”
They stared at the road watching cars go by every few minutes out of the shadows. A black car’s headlights appearing out of nowhere from around a corner, down the small hill to take the short curve in front of them and go back down into a winding road full of shadows. Then a white van rolled by from out of nowhere and Jack punched Fran in the arm.
“Cancer,” he said.
“That wasn’t a cancer van.”
“It was too a cancer van. That’s how you get cancer.”
“No it wasn’t.” she said, her eyes on the road.
“That van didn’t have sliding doors, did it?”
“Nope.”
“That’s right. If it did it’d be a cancer van.”
“Yep.”
“I remember when we went to the old run down nuclear power plant and started that.” He looked away from her down the right side of the road.
“You weren’t there. You don’t know.”
“I do too. You got cancer because of the creepy white vans near the nuclear plant, right? And there was a white van following you guys from the power plant that one day and Hank said that it was trying to give you cancer. Right?”
“Yeah.”
“And I came the second time you guys went out there and we got lost and almost hit the deer. So then anytime you see a white van with sliding doors you hit someone and say cancer and that gives them cancer.”
Fran didn’t reply, but half nodded while watching the winding road. They sat there again in silence, Jack carving the old wood with his fingernail.
“Have you talked to Drew at all?” he said.
“Nope.”
“So what are you going to do then?”
“Don’t know.”
“I mean, are you guys gonna break up or. What?”
“Don’t know.”
“So does that mean you’ll come back here a lot then?”
“Maybe.”
“I hope so. Amy and me haven’t talked since I broke up with her, ‘cause, well you know.”
“Yeah.”
They watched a green SUV go by, down the dark winding road as the sun went down.
“You hear about Ben getting in to the school here?” Jack said.
“Yeah.”
“That big fat ass.” He made a loud gulping sound, “Could he even fit into the hallways? They’ll have to reinforce everything with steel or have cement trucks on hand.”
They both smiled and Fran kept her eyes on the cars going by.
“So when’s your first day?” Jack asked, looking directly at her.
“Monday, actually,” she said, as her eyes followed a white mini-van.
“You got everything you need then?”
“Yeah, it’s all in my trunk.”
“’Cause if you need anything I can go with you to the store real quick. I heard food is more expensive there.”
“No, my mom packed a lot of things for me already.”
“Oh. I think all of our moms did that. I know Hank’s did.”
“Yours didn’t.”
“Well,” Jack shrugged, but Fran didn’t see it with her eyes focused on the road.
Three more cars went by and they sat and watched them, Jack picking at the table as they drove past. Fran looked at her watch.
“I should get going here soon. Check-in is early, and I have to sleep some tonight.”
“Yeah, I’ve got work tomorrow morning.”
They sat and watched cars go by again: a red one, a blue one, and a black truck. The sun was still slowly setting, a red sky just barely visible and lightning bugs flicking on and off around them.
“Have you seen that YouTube video with the newscaster on CNN saying the c-word? It’s pretty funny.” Jack said, ignoring the cars going by.
“You know I don’t get online a lot.”
“Yeah, but you should get on there. It’s pretty funny.”
“Yeah, I’ll try.” Fran said, she checked her watch, “Do you need to call your mom again? It’s been half an hour.”
“No, I’m good. She knows where I am.”
“You really need to get a cell phone and stop using up all my minutes.”
“Yeah, I’ll try.”
Another white van passed and they both looked at each other. Jack smiled.
“That one had the sliding doors,” he said.
“It did,” she said with a half-smile.
Fran got off the table and stretched out some. Jack followed suit, and they started walking to their cars nearby. They hugged, and Jack waited for Fran to get to her car door.
“I’ll see ya around,” Jack said.
“Yeah. See ya later.”
They got into their cars and turned them on. Fran backed out first, and Jack followed behind her. She turned left down the dark winding road as he turned right into the shadows, their dim headlights illuminating the road.
Personal Jesus
When I was 15 I met a man who said he was Jesus. And if he told anyone they wouldn’t believe him anyways, so there was no use in telling people. I on the other hand knew he wasn’t Jesus, but I had to believe because that’s what a faithful Christian would do.
He lived in an alleyway about a block from my house, and every day after I met him I decided to bring him our leftovers from the night before. My mother wasn’t prone to making the best meals, and she didn’t like the fact I was bringing Tupperware- nonetheless her Tupperware- to a bum in an alley who called himself Jesus. But I did it anyways, because that’s what a faithful Christian would do.
I continued this ritual for about two years, until I was a senior in high school. I couldn’t keep bringing Jesus food every day, because I had a girlfriend and basketball or football or baseball or soccer- something to do. If I hadn’t made plans to hang with my girl, I had made plans to play a sport or hang with the guys.
Jesus didn’t really mind I don’t think. He understood that I couldn’t always be with him, though he swore he was always with me. I wasn’t sure if He was talking about a metaphorical sense or if He actually followed me to school and whacked off in the bushes, but I wasn’t going to ask.
It’d be weird anyways, especially if He happened to really be Jesus. It’d be a little embarrassing to die and go to Heaven to have God’s first words to you be “Why’d you ask my son if He was whacking off in the bushes?” It was not a very Christian thing to ask.
I never saw him perform any miracles, though He told me three- and only three- stories over and over again. He would always tell me about how He fed a whole group of bums with a single loaf of bread and a single fish. He swore, there were thousands of bums that were able to eat, and by the time He was done passing out he didn’t have any left for Himself.
I preferred to hear about how He got the fish and bread though. He told me He was walking along when a nice Christian lady happened to have bread cooling on a windowsill. So He knocked on the door, told her He was Jesus, and explained He’d love to have that bread to feed himself and others with. He then promptly had the door slammed in His face. But apparently, she really wanted Him to have the bread because the door slamming made the bread fall right into His hands.
He yelled a goodbye and thanks to her and went off. It was the Christian thing to do.
And as He was walking along a bridge with the bread he noticed a stick with a line cast into a river. Not a fishing rod, but a stick with nothing but a line of string attached. And when He pulled it up, there sat a dead fish. He didn’t know how it was dead, but He swore it had to have been huge and was somehow on the end of a small string and stick.
Then there was the one about how He could heal people. He’d tell it if I happened to have a new scratch or bruise on me when I visited. He told me about one woman, a bum of course, who had gone blind from eating out of a garbage can. And so He smacked her and bing, botta, boom she was back in business.
There was another one whom He said was deaf, an old man. Well sure enough, He went up to the old man and peeked inside his ears. Within seconds he had the ear uncovered by all the hair the man had on his head and was able to clean out the earwax. He swore that man could carry on about World War II like there was no tomorrow.
My favorite was the leper. He told me he was in a hospital one time, because the police made him go. And while He was there, He spoke to this guy who was a leper. Next thing He knew, the guy went nuts. Crazy almost. The doctors had to rush in and subdue him and he became better due to Jesus being there. Now whether it was an actual leper or not I don’t know, because when he mentions the hospital it’s usually Saint Victoria’s. And Saint James is the hospital you go to around here, Saint Victoria’s is if you’re crazy.
But He swore to it, and I believed him. It was the Christian thing to do.
His last story was rarely told. I had brought a friend one day, not by choice, and as He started his usual story she had to go and ask why He thought He was Jesus. Not why He was, or why He knew, but why He thought.
Now this, this made Him angry. And He told the girl- He didn’t think, He knew. He knew because He could see things that no one else could. He told her I had thing for her, which I did, and that she would go out with me. It was no surprise we did, because why else would I have trusted her to meet Jesus?
It was really the only time He showed His powers to me. All the other times, He would mention nothing about this or that or even try to show me a card trick. It was just one of His three stories. I knew the last one wasn’t a story, but He’d always remind me about it. And I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell Him she didn’t believe, though she pretended to. And it was obvious the girl and me liked each other, but I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the Christian thing to do.
The summer before I went to college He told me a few things. I had known Him since I was 15, though I was almost 16 at the time, and it had been about two years or so. He told me that He wasn’t going to be there when I got back, that He was going away for awhile. But it didn’t matter, because Jesus always walks again at some point and is resurrected somehow. That I should just be faithful, and so I was because it was the Christian thing to do.
When I came back home He had wound up dying of starvation. Though I also heard it was suicide, and that He swore up and down that He would come back and walk again to prove He was Jesus. That He could do anything- even die and come back- just to prove He was Jesus.
But he didn’t come back, at least not since I’ve been home. I pass that alley now, and think to myself about him. I put a cross with the depiction of the older Jesus down there, but it got stolen so I did some graffiti on a wall about him. No one dare touches it. It’s beautiful, as if Jesus had in fact had a hand in it.
I sometimes think, that maybe He did. Maybe my right hand is now Jesus’ right hand. Not the Jesus you all know, but my Jesus. My personal Jesus that I believe in so faithfully, because if I didn’t, well…wouldn’t be very Christian of me.
He lived in an alleyway about a block from my house, and every day after I met him I decided to bring him our leftovers from the night before. My mother wasn’t prone to making the best meals, and she didn’t like the fact I was bringing Tupperware- nonetheless her Tupperware- to a bum in an alley who called himself Jesus. But I did it anyways, because that’s what a faithful Christian would do.
I continued this ritual for about two years, until I was a senior in high school. I couldn’t keep bringing Jesus food every day, because I had a girlfriend and basketball or football or baseball or soccer- something to do. If I hadn’t made plans to hang with my girl, I had made plans to play a sport or hang with the guys.
Jesus didn’t really mind I don’t think. He understood that I couldn’t always be with him, though he swore he was always with me. I wasn’t sure if He was talking about a metaphorical sense or if He actually followed me to school and whacked off in the bushes, but I wasn’t going to ask.
It’d be weird anyways, especially if He happened to really be Jesus. It’d be a little embarrassing to die and go to Heaven to have God’s first words to you be “Why’d you ask my son if He was whacking off in the bushes?” It was not a very Christian thing to ask.
I never saw him perform any miracles, though He told me three- and only three- stories over and over again. He would always tell me about how He fed a whole group of bums with a single loaf of bread and a single fish. He swore, there were thousands of bums that were able to eat, and by the time He was done passing out he didn’t have any left for Himself.
I preferred to hear about how He got the fish and bread though. He told me He was walking along when a nice Christian lady happened to have bread cooling on a windowsill. So He knocked on the door, told her He was Jesus, and explained He’d love to have that bread to feed himself and others with. He then promptly had the door slammed in His face. But apparently, she really wanted Him to have the bread because the door slamming made the bread fall right into His hands.
He yelled a goodbye and thanks to her and went off. It was the Christian thing to do.
And as He was walking along a bridge with the bread he noticed a stick with a line cast into a river. Not a fishing rod, but a stick with nothing but a line of string attached. And when He pulled it up, there sat a dead fish. He didn’t know how it was dead, but He swore it had to have been huge and was somehow on the end of a small string and stick.
Then there was the one about how He could heal people. He’d tell it if I happened to have a new scratch or bruise on me when I visited. He told me about one woman, a bum of course, who had gone blind from eating out of a garbage can. And so He smacked her and bing, botta, boom she was back in business.
There was another one whom He said was deaf, an old man. Well sure enough, He went up to the old man and peeked inside his ears. Within seconds he had the ear uncovered by all the hair the man had on his head and was able to clean out the earwax. He swore that man could carry on about World War II like there was no tomorrow.
My favorite was the leper. He told me he was in a hospital one time, because the police made him go. And while He was there, He spoke to this guy who was a leper. Next thing He knew, the guy went nuts. Crazy almost. The doctors had to rush in and subdue him and he became better due to Jesus being there. Now whether it was an actual leper or not I don’t know, because when he mentions the hospital it’s usually Saint Victoria’s. And Saint James is the hospital you go to around here, Saint Victoria’s is if you’re crazy.
But He swore to it, and I believed him. It was the Christian thing to do.
His last story was rarely told. I had brought a friend one day, not by choice, and as He started his usual story she had to go and ask why He thought He was Jesus. Not why He was, or why He knew, but why He thought.
Now this, this made Him angry. And He told the girl- He didn’t think, He knew. He knew because He could see things that no one else could. He told her I had thing for her, which I did, and that she would go out with me. It was no surprise we did, because why else would I have trusted her to meet Jesus?
It was really the only time He showed His powers to me. All the other times, He would mention nothing about this or that or even try to show me a card trick. It was just one of His three stories. I knew the last one wasn’t a story, but He’d always remind me about it. And I didn’t say anything. I didn’t tell Him she didn’t believe, though she pretended to. And it was obvious the girl and me liked each other, but I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t the Christian thing to do.
The summer before I went to college He told me a few things. I had known Him since I was 15, though I was almost 16 at the time, and it had been about two years or so. He told me that He wasn’t going to be there when I got back, that He was going away for awhile. But it didn’t matter, because Jesus always walks again at some point and is resurrected somehow. That I should just be faithful, and so I was because it was the Christian thing to do.
When I came back home He had wound up dying of starvation. Though I also heard it was suicide, and that He swore up and down that He would come back and walk again to prove He was Jesus. That He could do anything- even die and come back- just to prove He was Jesus.
But he didn’t come back, at least not since I’ve been home. I pass that alley now, and think to myself about him. I put a cross with the depiction of the older Jesus down there, but it got stolen so I did some graffiti on a wall about him. No one dare touches it. It’s beautiful, as if Jesus had in fact had a hand in it.
I sometimes think, that maybe He did. Maybe my right hand is now Jesus’ right hand. Not the Jesus you all know, but my Jesus. My personal Jesus that I believe in so faithfully, because if I didn’t, well…wouldn’t be very Christian of me.
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