Levity is an example of a movie about constantly dropping dimes on fools.
Now morgan freeman is sensuously stroking a trumpet.
Now billy bob has a speech.
His q and a is bombing.
And morgan was always right.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Favorite Names:
Boys-
Abe
Ichibod
Drexin
Sam
Tracy
Demitri
Girls-
Ione
Rita
Billy-Jo
Lillian
i wonder if she will want these names. or if she knows that she will have to negotiate with me over what to name a person. because as much as i try to avoid it, someday the only thing i will be good at is being a father and that's fine by me.
Abe
Ichibod
Drexin
Sam
Tracy
Demitri
Girls-
Ione
Rita
Billy-Jo
Lillian
i wonder if she will want these names. or if she knows that she will have to negotiate with me over what to name a person. because as much as i try to avoid it, someday the only thing i will be good at is being a father and that's fine by me.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Ode to "Drinking Out of Cups"
What are these? boot shoes? booty shoes. ass. who needs them? romper stompin, fuckin taking liberties. who is this? pretty prairie gentleman. the softest man. he's creating a fuss and no one knows his favorite color. lead the way, fucker. Keeping drumkit blueprints, a library, a full court. don't tell me its raining. the fuck is that? Baby saver. keeps 'em fresh. forget it. its a pool of fools. can they fuckin swim? no. not me.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
What is wrong with these people?
They’re smiling while they insult.
They’re smiling at an insult.
They’re insulting to a smile.
A real one.
----------------
People are starting to realize they don’t have to do anything. Its not really up to any of us anymore. We are finally coming to the point where it dawns on us: nothing is out there, and when we die we’ll have only a corpse. You don’t so much see it as you sense it. How often you’ve been disappointed- how it never ceases to bruise- and how clear it is that magic is an insult. How childhood seemed pleasantly torturous. People are becoming a person.
They’re smiling while they insult.
They’re smiling at an insult.
They’re insulting to a smile.
A real one.
----------------
People are starting to realize they don’t have to do anything. Its not really up to any of us anymore. We are finally coming to the point where it dawns on us: nothing is out there, and when we die we’ll have only a corpse. You don’t so much see it as you sense it. How often you’ve been disappointed- how it never ceases to bruise- and how clear it is that magic is an insult. How childhood seemed pleasantly torturous. People are becoming a person.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Went to a lake
Went to the lake. Saw a snake digesting a fish. Craved salmon. Ate canned salmon. Smoked a cigarette, dare not to throw into the lake. Potential explosions. Drank lake water. Shat lake water and dried my innards in observance of a carcass beach: a catfish meowing at the sun, or perhaps gasping, a seagull settling for a lake. Coors light bottle in my foot. My feet are drunk. The boats observe restraint at the extent of their motors. Motorists observe restraint and at least put the gas cap back on. My upper arms are safe, my shirt is me. Should women see, they would cry out to their friendly women: behold, a man unfamiliar. Wieners and buns, condiments relish their likenesses, and my form knows all the better.
Went to a lake to find out what all the gossip was about. Turns out that its just water. There is a beach and the bottom might be rocks but it might be much finer rock. Skiing is usually acceptable. Brought a cowboy hat just in case someone had a camera. Brought a beer just in case a woman sat on my lap. I did many crunches with everything to show for it. Filled out my will with the lake in mind. Left my unborn son a boatless pier. Its not for sale.
Went to a lake and ate with family amungst the sun, as all lions did and some now do, yawning at hunger- It bores us- shade is the reservoirs unshaved forest. I am in El Dorado at its lake. We observe dry land, full. We are six feet deep and wild with current. Legs the blessed paddle, and spank the surface, it white with anger at us, who wouldn’t swim to eat if eating meant drowning and drowning meant an afterlife dragging guilt: land could not be solid, because at this lake we are tired of the slow tread, and now we dive through dirt, home, hungry with wet trunks and a remarkable thirst.
Went to a lake to find out what all the gossip was about. Turns out that its just water. There is a beach and the bottom might be rocks but it might be much finer rock. Skiing is usually acceptable. Brought a cowboy hat just in case someone had a camera. Brought a beer just in case a woman sat on my lap. I did many crunches with everything to show for it. Filled out my will with the lake in mind. Left my unborn son a boatless pier. Its not for sale.
Went to a lake and ate with family amungst the sun, as all lions did and some now do, yawning at hunger- It bores us- shade is the reservoirs unshaved forest. I am in El Dorado at its lake. We observe dry land, full. We are six feet deep and wild with current. Legs the blessed paddle, and spank the surface, it white with anger at us, who wouldn’t swim to eat if eating meant drowning and drowning meant an afterlife dragging guilt: land could not be solid, because at this lake we are tired of the slow tread, and now we dive through dirt, home, hungry with wet trunks and a remarkable thirst.
Friday, July 3, 2009
my continuing fascination with libido
She told me to feel down the outside of her hips. But I couldn’t. She’s quite proud of those hips. I had come this far and I would not go any further. They were too curvey, too much not mine. Even my own body had become taboo for me to touch. My own fantasies culminated in women being disappointed. And now, as a real woman with real skin and a real desire for me attempted to coach my hesitation away, all my mind would go to was her eventual exit. What a whimp.
I’m smart enough. I’m sociable enough. Where does this all come from? My ex’s weren’t bad people. They didn’t strip me of anything valuable. If anything, I took from them. Maybe I hate myself for that. That would explain why hunger makes me happy and why eating is unconditional surrender.
“so much for that movie time”. I said, gesturing to the clock.
She shook her head and picked up her shirt from the floor. Her shoulders were slumped but she didn’t seem surprised. If she were disappointed it wasn’t in me.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Blake. At least your writing is truthful. You don’t find honesty that often in people your age. People will read Bukowski and take up ‘drinking’, but that’s not you.”
Her tone was porous, open to interpretation.
“What do you mean? I read Bukowski.”
The door swung behind her and would have slammed if the window wasn’t shut. This was an opportunity to finally dream about the sex I didn’t have. I could imagine her now. Her hips squarely atop mine and I do not say no. Her hands, grasping for support that I wouldn’t give and that she wouldn’t find. Her breasts are no longer hers. They are now beckon to the whim of my pace. Is she in pain? She slows. She breathes steady, fixed and conscious. Her eyes assume motherly concern for my well being. And now she knows that writing and reading are just things I do in place of living. I do say no.
--------------------
She made no fuss. They were topped by the ceiling, short enough to bring lights face-side, backs crooked to adopt the slope. The floor was unkept and children felt the cracks with bare feet. Some of them would know the foundation intimately, some would know a traditional grave. But the hallway thickened, ripened as they approached. Please, don’t make the smells stronger, they thought, for my inner adult knows that nothing will ever come close to this smell, and it will linger in me, dormant, spring loaded. My inner most adult is afraid of this place. My inner most adult knows exactly why I am downstairs. But I am a child and believe you when you say that there might be a tornado. Mister Kittingsworth, I am not below reason.
---------------------------
Quick headed, faced to beckon the seats opposed, he breaks protocol. And traced to now there’s one mark made. Be the place first or bust, his weekends stitching and cutting and spinning and holding them accountable. As for the break he’s made, its mending can wait. The skies are hidden here, and god cannot see fortune in high schools, in hotels, in rapist vans and we hope on this.
-----------------------------
Saw a baby in the grocerie store, mother gossips, bottle dangles on a shelf out of reach. I laugh. I can easily reach what it needs. It, because without the bottle it is dead. The dead are not thems. Thems do not need. Need is cold and absolute. Do they have a cigarette aisle?
-----------------------------
“I can’t stand being a civilian” he said. “ I wish I were back on active duty.”
I couldn’t understand. But I wanted to. I wanted to need something identifiable. The army is not a dream, it is a straight spine and blood free, arched feet and ivory eyes, men and women, of whom we owe a question: what’s it like to be me?
I’m smart enough. I’m sociable enough. Where does this all come from? My ex’s weren’t bad people. They didn’t strip me of anything valuable. If anything, I took from them. Maybe I hate myself for that. That would explain why hunger makes me happy and why eating is unconditional surrender.
“so much for that movie time”. I said, gesturing to the clock.
She shook her head and picked up her shirt from the floor. Her shoulders were slumped but she didn’t seem surprised. If she were disappointed it wasn’t in me.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Blake. At least your writing is truthful. You don’t find honesty that often in people your age. People will read Bukowski and take up ‘drinking’, but that’s not you.”
Her tone was porous, open to interpretation.
“What do you mean? I read Bukowski.”
The door swung behind her and would have slammed if the window wasn’t shut. This was an opportunity to finally dream about the sex I didn’t have. I could imagine her now. Her hips squarely atop mine and I do not say no. Her hands, grasping for support that I wouldn’t give and that she wouldn’t find. Her breasts are no longer hers. They are now beckon to the whim of my pace. Is she in pain? She slows. She breathes steady, fixed and conscious. Her eyes assume motherly concern for my well being. And now she knows that writing and reading are just things I do in place of living. I do say no.
--------------------
She made no fuss. They were topped by the ceiling, short enough to bring lights face-side, backs crooked to adopt the slope. The floor was unkept and children felt the cracks with bare feet. Some of them would know the foundation intimately, some would know a traditional grave. But the hallway thickened, ripened as they approached. Please, don’t make the smells stronger, they thought, for my inner adult knows that nothing will ever come close to this smell, and it will linger in me, dormant, spring loaded. My inner most adult is afraid of this place. My inner most adult knows exactly why I am downstairs. But I am a child and believe you when you say that there might be a tornado. Mister Kittingsworth, I am not below reason.
---------------------------
Quick headed, faced to beckon the seats opposed, he breaks protocol. And traced to now there’s one mark made. Be the place first or bust, his weekends stitching and cutting and spinning and holding them accountable. As for the break he’s made, its mending can wait. The skies are hidden here, and god cannot see fortune in high schools, in hotels, in rapist vans and we hope on this.
-----------------------------
Saw a baby in the grocerie store, mother gossips, bottle dangles on a shelf out of reach. I laugh. I can easily reach what it needs. It, because without the bottle it is dead. The dead are not thems. Thems do not need. Need is cold and absolute. Do they have a cigarette aisle?
-----------------------------
“I can’t stand being a civilian” he said. “ I wish I were back on active duty.”
I couldn’t understand. But I wanted to. I wanted to need something identifiable. The army is not a dream, it is a straight spine and blood free, arched feet and ivory eyes, men and women, of whom we owe a question: what’s it like to be me?
Friday, June 12, 2009
Rasputin, et al (final)
I was a chauffeur. But that wasn’t a surprise. We had both be leading each other for months. At least our memories had been. We found the taco joint and loaded up. I politely declined anything for myself. Eating while driving is too dangerous for a guy like me. While I searched for the nearest I-35 exit, she munched on a plate of thick beans, steaming red rice, stringing cheese and all kinds of gaseous etcetera; she need not be nervous to shatter that taboo.
The conversation had dwindled at that point, both of us realizing the full extent of our expectations. Her, with her application admitted and friend satisfied, and me with my limp chivalry. I felt honorable though. I hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t made her feel uneasy, or tried to rush the evening to this eventual point: home. Despite her, I was still a kind and generous man. One who would listen without attempting to solve, the type of guy who you could count on driving you home and never calling you again, if that’s what you wanted. I wouldn’t do horrible things to you, even if you did worse to me. I am Christ-like in that respect. And coming to this realization, I drove home proud.
“Were you ever attracted to me, Matt?”
Shit. She found me out. Its strange that I fantasize about these conversations all the time. These are things I want to happen. When they happen, it’s a slew of forgotten enchantments, one after the other, until my response is most basic.
“yeah, I was. I just never thought you’d be willing. So I never said anything.”
Maybe she would come clean about what love meant to her. I could feel an agreement coming on. There was really no doubt about it. She was the type of girl who would have made a move by now if she wanted anything from me that she didn’t already have.
“You’re right.” She said, sipping her soda “It would have been weird, don’t you think? I mean, you feel like my brother.”
“Heh, yeah I know what you mean.”
I’m every woman’s brother, Cammy. Maybe I just want to fuck, ya’ know?
“And besides, I have my boyfriend now and I’ll be leaving Emporia soon. It wouldn’t make much sense.”
Indeed, neither of us makes much sense. We decided on some music to keep me from falling asleep. I get sleepy when I’m disappointed. The Flint Hills radio stations don’t provide much in the way of agitated guitar music, so Cammy’s collection of Avenue Q sing-alongs had to suffice. She and her brewing beer belly knew all the words.
Dimly, under the tune of “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist”, I heard my phone ring. Two calls in one Saturday? This would be a pleasant distraction from the off-harmonies that comprised the car. The caller ID read: “Billy Jo”. I stared at my phone for what seemed like minutes pondering my next move, in the process skimming the shoulder of the turnpike. Cammy must have seen my jaw dangling. She promptly asked “Are you going to answer that, or should I?”
“Hello?” I said in the most welcoming tone I could muster.
“Let me talk to Cammy”. Billy Jo sounded driven, as usual. But the farther I got from Wichita, the safer I felt from either woman’s wrath. Home is a safe place. So, what the hell- I handed the phone to Cammy and tried to politely eavesdrop.
“Hi. Oh hello Billy Jo. We were just ta---“
Cammy stared at her half eaten tacos for 10 minutes as Billy Jo divulged what I imagined was the secret of life. I pictured her telling Cammy that I was a heartless dope, a reckless and textbook manic depressive who drained the energy out of every relationship that surrounded him. That, if she were smart, she would leave me at the nearest gas station and never speak to me again. Beat me to the punch. Or maybe she was telling her off. Yeah, that was it. Billy Jo was ranting beautifully about how she didn’t deserve such a wonderful guy; about how she had heard all of the nasty rumors about Cammy from all the actors at WSU that claimed to be Cammy’s friends. Yes, Billy Jo was definitely giving her whats-for, but it wasn’t Billy Jo who had to drive home with her.
“oh sure. Its 316-640-6722 and that’s my cell, so you can call anytime… No problem… Thanks for everything B.J., I hope to talk to you soon…bye-bye.”
“what was that about” I said, confused as to why she would ever want to give her number to Billy Jo.
“B.J. wants to give me voice lessons. She said she saw one of my performances a few months ago and she thought I might want some help. She seems really sweet.”
B.J.? what are you, bunk-mates now? This was just too much. She ignored me for months then breaks the silence to drag me an hour away to a performance under the condition that I act an understudy boyfriend. She makes a fool out of me in front my ex-girlfriend, then takes me to a bar where she gets loaded, rants about her life’s injustices, and requests that I take her to Taco Bloody Bueno where she eats as I drive. Then she ties all the loose ends by ensuring that I know that a physical relationship is out of the question. After all of this, now my ‘ex’ and her are conspiring. I had to break the fourth wall on this one.
“I don’t think lessons would be good for you. How tight on money are you right now?”
“Not too bad. My boyfriend can pay for it, I’m sure.”
“Your “boyfriend” and his trust-fund won’t make you into what you want to be, Cammy.”
“what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, there’s nothing worse than Botox. There’s nothing worse than clowns. There’s nothing worse than leg warmers in lieu of pants. And there’s nothing more wasteful than cash on your voice.”
“You’ve never even heard me sing, how would you know if it’s a waste?”
“Have you heard yourself speak? No, of course not. I don’t even know why I bother telling you this. It’s a fucking travesty. You’ll probably blame your voice failures on someone’s inability to provide for you. Like your Boyfriend. What if he doesn’t want to pay for everything? Where will you be? Working at Carlos O’Kelly’s the rest of your life? You know, I came with you expecting to see some emotional progress. I figured that all the people you sucked dry in Emporia would have abandoned you by now and that you had come to some serious realization about yourself, but that sure as fuck didn’t happen. No, all that happened is that you dragged me out of bed- yes, bed- to come watch your friends play around on stage because you’re so vein that you don’t even know how to be alone in a theater. Cammy, don’t get the voice lessons. Get yourself a tape-deck, and after you listen to that PHENOMENAL compilation of music presently stabilizing your desk, record yourself speaking to someone, anyone. I’m not sure you’ll like what you hear.”
Cammy couldn’t handle me. I was too tough. There was only so much I could take before I let her know what time it was. She kept to herself the rest of the way up and so did I. She handed me the money for the toll-booth, but I ignored the gesture, keeping myself safely in the moral right. Approaching my house, I didn’t feel a bit guilty about my behavior. It might have been ill-timed but it was definitely deserved. No one is allowed to take me for granted. Not anymore.
I got out and told Cammy not to ask me on any ridiculous adventures ever again. She stayed in the passenger seat, silent, staring forward until I was securely in my house. It was 12:45 and I needed to dream on the night that just happened. But sleep did not come. It wasn’t self-hatred that kept me awake, it was excitement. I had finally said what I had always wanted to say to all the women who ever blamed me for their shortfalls. There was peace, but the type of peace that needs to be shared. I was restless.
The bar was still open when I arrived at 1:15. It was a quiet Saturday night, but that didn’t matter. Whoever would listen would hear my story. As it was, Rebecca was tending the bar. She and I had become fast friends over the last year. If anyone would listen, it would be her.
“Becka, I’ve got to tell you about tonight. This was the most amazing night of humanity I’ve seen in years…”
“I’m guessing this involves Cammy Pap. She was in here for about an hour and left just 10 minutes ago. She left this for you. You’d better drink up because last call’s in 15 minutes.”
She handed me a note and $40. Cammy had scribbled on the back of a Keno ticket. Somehow she knew I would be there. The note read:
“Matt,
I’ve been trying to piece together my life for the last ten years, and as much as you despise me now, you would have hated me doubly only a decade ago. I’ve been manipulative all my life, but you always seemed to see through it. Asking you to come with me tonight was not a hollow gesture. I know you felt cheapened by it all, but your presence allowed me to face the world. Those people- my friends- that we watched tonight probably think similar things about me as you do. The difference is that they pretend to like me and you don’t. Not anymore. You’re probably right about my voice, and you’re probably right about my vanity. I am not in a position to sound noble or believable, so I’ll only say thank you. I gave Becka $40 for your tab. You can use it whenever you like. I know this is your favorite bar. I’ll miss you.
Cammy”
She didn’t want the world. All she wanted was to be with someone. Anyone could understand that. She chose me, and I disposed of her. All the misgivings were inconsequential. To Cammy, ignorance was a good enough excuse. And now I agree.
A pretty girl entered the bar. She had long legs and she wore red polka-dotted sun dress. I love those. They frame a woman’s neck and back so perfectly. Her long black hair and milky skin almost made me forget about the night. I nearly bought her a drink. But Cammy’s money felt different in my hand. It was heavier. The girl adjusted her cleavage and checked her face in the bar mirror, corrected her Betty Paige bangs. She glanced at me as I gawked. Her purse strap dangled off the bar, she ordered her drink- a rum and coke- and moved to the other side of the room, near a man with a pressed collar, broad shoulders and a strong chin. I guess we’re both understandable: the need to be touched, and the need to not be touched by you. To drink $40 dollars worth in 15 minutes? It couldn’t be done. Not alone.
The conversation had dwindled at that point, both of us realizing the full extent of our expectations. Her, with her application admitted and friend satisfied, and me with my limp chivalry. I felt honorable though. I hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t made her feel uneasy, or tried to rush the evening to this eventual point: home. Despite her, I was still a kind and generous man. One who would listen without attempting to solve, the type of guy who you could count on driving you home and never calling you again, if that’s what you wanted. I wouldn’t do horrible things to you, even if you did worse to me. I am Christ-like in that respect. And coming to this realization, I drove home proud.
“Were you ever attracted to me, Matt?”
Shit. She found me out. Its strange that I fantasize about these conversations all the time. These are things I want to happen. When they happen, it’s a slew of forgotten enchantments, one after the other, until my response is most basic.
“yeah, I was. I just never thought you’d be willing. So I never said anything.”
Maybe she would come clean about what love meant to her. I could feel an agreement coming on. There was really no doubt about it. She was the type of girl who would have made a move by now if she wanted anything from me that she didn’t already have.
“You’re right.” She said, sipping her soda “It would have been weird, don’t you think? I mean, you feel like my brother.”
“Heh, yeah I know what you mean.”
I’m every woman’s brother, Cammy. Maybe I just want to fuck, ya’ know?
“And besides, I have my boyfriend now and I’ll be leaving Emporia soon. It wouldn’t make much sense.”
Indeed, neither of us makes much sense. We decided on some music to keep me from falling asleep. I get sleepy when I’m disappointed. The Flint Hills radio stations don’t provide much in the way of agitated guitar music, so Cammy’s collection of Avenue Q sing-alongs had to suffice. She and her brewing beer belly knew all the words.
Dimly, under the tune of “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist”, I heard my phone ring. Two calls in one Saturday? This would be a pleasant distraction from the off-harmonies that comprised the car. The caller ID read: “Billy Jo”. I stared at my phone for what seemed like minutes pondering my next move, in the process skimming the shoulder of the turnpike. Cammy must have seen my jaw dangling. She promptly asked “Are you going to answer that, or should I?”
“Hello?” I said in the most welcoming tone I could muster.
“Let me talk to Cammy”. Billy Jo sounded driven, as usual. But the farther I got from Wichita, the safer I felt from either woman’s wrath. Home is a safe place. So, what the hell- I handed the phone to Cammy and tried to politely eavesdrop.
“Hi. Oh hello Billy Jo. We were just ta---“
Cammy stared at her half eaten tacos for 10 minutes as Billy Jo divulged what I imagined was the secret of life. I pictured her telling Cammy that I was a heartless dope, a reckless and textbook manic depressive who drained the energy out of every relationship that surrounded him. That, if she were smart, she would leave me at the nearest gas station and never speak to me again. Beat me to the punch. Or maybe she was telling her off. Yeah, that was it. Billy Jo was ranting beautifully about how she didn’t deserve such a wonderful guy; about how she had heard all of the nasty rumors about Cammy from all the actors at WSU that claimed to be Cammy’s friends. Yes, Billy Jo was definitely giving her whats-for, but it wasn’t Billy Jo who had to drive home with her.
“oh sure. Its 316-640-6722 and that’s my cell, so you can call anytime… No problem… Thanks for everything B.J., I hope to talk to you soon…bye-bye.”
“what was that about” I said, confused as to why she would ever want to give her number to Billy Jo.
“B.J. wants to give me voice lessons. She said she saw one of my performances a few months ago and she thought I might want some help. She seems really sweet.”
B.J.? what are you, bunk-mates now? This was just too much. She ignored me for months then breaks the silence to drag me an hour away to a performance under the condition that I act an understudy boyfriend. She makes a fool out of me in front my ex-girlfriend, then takes me to a bar where she gets loaded, rants about her life’s injustices, and requests that I take her to Taco Bloody Bueno where she eats as I drive. Then she ties all the loose ends by ensuring that I know that a physical relationship is out of the question. After all of this, now my ‘ex’ and her are conspiring. I had to break the fourth wall on this one.
“I don’t think lessons would be good for you. How tight on money are you right now?”
“Not too bad. My boyfriend can pay for it, I’m sure.”
“Your “boyfriend” and his trust-fund won’t make you into what you want to be, Cammy.”
“what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, there’s nothing worse than Botox. There’s nothing worse than clowns. There’s nothing worse than leg warmers in lieu of pants. And there’s nothing more wasteful than cash on your voice.”
“You’ve never even heard me sing, how would you know if it’s a waste?”
“Have you heard yourself speak? No, of course not. I don’t even know why I bother telling you this. It’s a fucking travesty. You’ll probably blame your voice failures on someone’s inability to provide for you. Like your Boyfriend. What if he doesn’t want to pay for everything? Where will you be? Working at Carlos O’Kelly’s the rest of your life? You know, I came with you expecting to see some emotional progress. I figured that all the people you sucked dry in Emporia would have abandoned you by now and that you had come to some serious realization about yourself, but that sure as fuck didn’t happen. No, all that happened is that you dragged me out of bed- yes, bed- to come watch your friends play around on stage because you’re so vein that you don’t even know how to be alone in a theater. Cammy, don’t get the voice lessons. Get yourself a tape-deck, and after you listen to that PHENOMENAL compilation of music presently stabilizing your desk, record yourself speaking to someone, anyone. I’m not sure you’ll like what you hear.”
Cammy couldn’t handle me. I was too tough. There was only so much I could take before I let her know what time it was. She kept to herself the rest of the way up and so did I. She handed me the money for the toll-booth, but I ignored the gesture, keeping myself safely in the moral right. Approaching my house, I didn’t feel a bit guilty about my behavior. It might have been ill-timed but it was definitely deserved. No one is allowed to take me for granted. Not anymore.
I got out and told Cammy not to ask me on any ridiculous adventures ever again. She stayed in the passenger seat, silent, staring forward until I was securely in my house. It was 12:45 and I needed to dream on the night that just happened. But sleep did not come. It wasn’t self-hatred that kept me awake, it was excitement. I had finally said what I had always wanted to say to all the women who ever blamed me for their shortfalls. There was peace, but the type of peace that needs to be shared. I was restless.
The bar was still open when I arrived at 1:15. It was a quiet Saturday night, but that didn’t matter. Whoever would listen would hear my story. As it was, Rebecca was tending the bar. She and I had become fast friends over the last year. If anyone would listen, it would be her.
“Becka, I’ve got to tell you about tonight. This was the most amazing night of humanity I’ve seen in years…”
“I’m guessing this involves Cammy Pap. She was in here for about an hour and left just 10 minutes ago. She left this for you. You’d better drink up because last call’s in 15 minutes.”
She handed me a note and $40. Cammy had scribbled on the back of a Keno ticket. Somehow she knew I would be there. The note read:
“Matt,
I’ve been trying to piece together my life for the last ten years, and as much as you despise me now, you would have hated me doubly only a decade ago. I’ve been manipulative all my life, but you always seemed to see through it. Asking you to come with me tonight was not a hollow gesture. I know you felt cheapened by it all, but your presence allowed me to face the world. Those people- my friends- that we watched tonight probably think similar things about me as you do. The difference is that they pretend to like me and you don’t. Not anymore. You’re probably right about my voice, and you’re probably right about my vanity. I am not in a position to sound noble or believable, so I’ll only say thank you. I gave Becka $40 for your tab. You can use it whenever you like. I know this is your favorite bar. I’ll miss you.
Cammy”
She didn’t want the world. All she wanted was to be with someone. Anyone could understand that. She chose me, and I disposed of her. All the misgivings were inconsequential. To Cammy, ignorance was a good enough excuse. And now I agree.
A pretty girl entered the bar. She had long legs and she wore red polka-dotted sun dress. I love those. They frame a woman’s neck and back so perfectly. Her long black hair and milky skin almost made me forget about the night. I nearly bought her a drink. But Cammy’s money felt different in my hand. It was heavier. The girl adjusted her cleavage and checked her face in the bar mirror, corrected her Betty Paige bangs. She glanced at me as I gawked. Her purse strap dangled off the bar, she ordered her drink- a rum and coke- and moved to the other side of the room, near a man with a pressed collar, broad shoulders and a strong chin. I guess we’re both understandable: the need to be touched, and the need to not be touched by you. To drink $40 dollars worth in 15 minutes? It couldn’t be done. Not alone.
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