Penguinoia

I always knew those penguins were up to something, with those beady little eyes and that helpless looking waddle – like a mugger faking a limp until he’s right up on you. I never wanted to go to Alaska, or anyplace cold for that matter. I haven’t seen any penguins here, but I’m not surprised. …Sneaky little buggers.

People just aren’t right up here, but I’m glad to be out of Canada. They don’t even have biscuits in Canada, the Nazis; not even at McDonalds. I asked for them and they looked at me like I was some alien freak and said,

“Biscuits?” they laughed, “Biscuits are just an American thing.”

“But this is McDonalds.”

“We don’t have biscuits, we have muffins.”

I ate the muffins. I knew it was just a power-play, trying to show that they could control what I got to eat, but I was too hungry to argue. It had been a long drive, and one I wasn’t expecting, so I hadn’t eaten enough. The Muffins weren’t so bad. Keeping my sunglasses on helped. Everything kind of smoothed over to shadowy colors, soft and undefined like a dream. English muffins are definitely chewier than biscuits, but I could imagine they were biscuits in my hand. It still felt strange to be eating breakfast, but apparently we had driven all night and, to everyone else, it was a new day just starting.

I never wanted to go on this trip to begin with, but since my roommate had already charged the tickets to my credit card, I figured I might as well take a trip. He was so excited to tell me when we were leaving for Washington, but that was the first I knew we were going anywhere.

“We’re going to Washington?” I asked.

“Yeah. What? You knew.”

“I did?”

“Told you I was going to Dad’s to look at airfares on his computer”

“’Look’, not ‘purchase’. And why Washington?”

“You know I have a cousin there. You’re acting awfully ungrateful. You should be excited. I did this for you, man. You need to get out of here. You’re like a shut-in.”

“You bought tickets to see your cousin for me?” I must be missing something.

“I thought you would like Washington.”

“The state, right?”

He rolled his eyes, “Yes, the state. Why would we wanna go to DC?”

“Why would I want to go to Washington, the state?”

He shot me the ‘you retard’ look. “The ocean? It’s beautiful out there. You can even take a ferry out to this island out there. It has all kinds of old shit, like you like.” He said, with a glare that said ‘you fag’. He always thought it was “so gaaay” that I was into history, antiques, and all that “old shit”.

“How’d you pay for tickets online? You can’t get credit anywhere.”

“I used your card.”

Confused, angry, and not feeling like an argument, I resigned myself to planning for a trip… a trip to beautiful Washington State. Yeah, John wasn’t always the most considerate friend, but he was a good guy. He was also my only real friend, though admittedly that was based mostly on convenience. He was there, in my apartment, and I didn’t go out much. Maybe he was right, anyway. I am a bit of a shut-in. It isn’t like I don’t meet people, though. I talk to people from all over on x-box live, even the weird English ones.

“Wait”, I said “That’s way North and it’s Just March. Won’t it be cold?”

“So”

“What good is seeing the ocean if it’s cold?” I hate the cold.

“You’re such a wuss. You just have to be negative about everything, don’t you?”

“Ef-you, man. I was just wondering if I have to find my coat.”

“Yeah… I would say so. It’s probably under your bed along with all your other clothes, the body of Jimmy Hoffa, and your inflatable girlfriend.”

“I don’t have an inflatable girlfriend.”

“Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you. Maybe you need one.”This time, it was my turn to roll my eyes. I had my favorite sunglasses on, as usual, though, so my thoughts were easily concealed.

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That explains how I got to Washington, anyway. Judging from the insides of the bars, which was all we saw there, it wasn’t any different from Louisville, Kentucky. Same tin signs on the wall, same smell of stale smoke, same chicks posing for attention but sneering if you got too close. I sat for hours on end drinking beer after beer that was shoved in my hand, crappy light beers you get for a few bucks because they’re only worth the cost of the bottle. I wasn’t about to ask for a Guinness or look for a micro-brew, though. John and his cousin would have just gotten that much more intolerable. Wanting beer with flavor is apparently “gaaay” too. If I was home, I could be playing halo2 right now.

We sat through John’s cousin’s life story, or “wife story” at least. Josh went on for an hour or so telling us how she was an evil witch out to manipulate the world. He was going through a divorce, custody fights and all. I listened to him rant about her for a while, and then talk about which bar chick he was going to pick up. Then, it was the lengthy discussion of how he was going to “hit that”. Oh, just get me out of here. …As if he’s even going to talk to her. He conveniently became distracted with ranting about his wife again, though, so he never got around to blessing any of the bar girls with a display of his smooth prowess.

I thought about how marriage must really suck. Every guy I knew who got married had some story about “what that bitch had done to him.” I wondered if it really was always the wife’s fault, or if they just always play it off that way. Then I looked over at the giggling chicks in their tight party-pants, leaning over the bar. They saw me look and rolled their eyes, snickering at me snidely. Bitches. Yeah, gotta be the woman’s fault.

“Would you take those things off. It isn’t bright in here” John scolded.

Had I missed something? What is he…“Oh, the sunglasses?” I asked

“No, your shoes. Of course the sunglasses. It’s bad enough you wear sunglasses everywhere, but those make you look like a frickin fairy.”

“What’s the matter with them?”

“They’re pink” He said, with a disgusted tone.

“They aren’t pink”

“How would you know? You’re color blind. Josh, tell him they’re pink”

“They look purple to me” Josh said, though clearly not caring either way.

John huffed and gave up, returning his attention to his beer. I watched the door. I always watch the door. Never leave your back to the door. A new flock of women came in, giggling of course. I started to wonder if it was some sort of bird-call they did. Some flirtatious cackling to lure the male birds. The giggling fizzled off and one of them looked straight at our table.

“Josh! Sweetie, I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Hey Beth. What are you guys doing?”

“We’re just eating here.”

This place has food?

“After we eat we’re all going back to my place to hang out. Come out if you like. You can crash there if you want. I think everyone else is. Who’s your friend?” She said, smiling at John. Apparently I was invisible.

“That’s my cousin, John. This is his roommate, Glenn.”

I nodded my hello and shook her hand.

“Well, you’re all welcome to come by later. We’ve got vodka and lemons for lemon-drops.”

“Sounds great”, Josh said. “You guys will love her place. It’s right on the beach.”

Hmmm… he said will, not would… Why do I get the impression I’m not going to get a choice?

“We’ll be there.” John said.Thanks for asking me first, buddy.

“So, you’re on the beach?”, I asked.

“Sure are.”

“Do you get much penguin trouble there?”

She stared at me blankly, and Josh shook his head. “He’s just kidding, Beth. It’s a weird Kentucky joke.”

“It’s no joke” I said, shaking my head. Poor fools. Brain washed by the government-controlled media, no doubt.

“Glenn, quit it. Glenn, here, just spends too much time on his computer. Some nerd-culture thing… always talking about evil penguins and sporks.”

Everyone was silent. I wondered if they had crickets in Washington. I didn’t hear any, but then we were in a bar.

“Ol Glenn is a blast, though, when he gets going. Seriously, this dude is crazy.” He boasted. Then he shrank in his chair, knowing they’d see what a lie that was eventually, even if they didn’t know it now. I could be updating my blog right now, if I was home. I wonder if Beth has a computer.

“Beth, what color are these glasses?” I said. She looked at me blankly, like a doll with big plastic blue eyes that didn’t move or blink. “We were just discussing it, is all”

“I say they’re purple” Josh added, while signaling the waitress for another round.

“Magenta” She decreed. “Definitely magenta, but almost plum”

On the way to Beth’s, John was popping codeine like ticktacks. He’d hurt his back showing off at the warehouse the week before. The codeine was leftover from some previous injury and he figured it applied to everything. I told him not to mix Codeine with beer, but what do I know? At Beth’s, we all drank shots of vodka, followed up by lemon wedges coated in thick blankets of sugar. Nasty. I watched them drink for hours on end and tried to figure out just how drinking was so different in Washington. Eventually everyone passed out somewhere or another. John and I had to share one of the guest-rooms.

I’ve already forgotten most of the room. I was tired and drunk against my will. The carpet I remember. It was a long, hairy-looking shag in a color that looked like vomit even before John started yacking on it. He was too drunk to get to the bathroom or even clean up his own mess. I spent the night cleaning puke out of some stranger’s carpet, and keeping vigil at the window, watching out for those penguins. Something about the night just didn’t feel right. I felt anxious and uneasy. It had to be my senses telling me the penguins were coming. I wasn’t really sure if penguins made it down to Washington, but they could swim faster than most people know and we were right by the ocean.

All night I just reminded myself “tomorrow we ride the ferry to that island.” It wasn’t exactly chitzen Itza, but it interested me more than the bars. I didn’t even know the name, it was just “that island”. The ferry ride was pretty neat. I’d never seen a ferry before. We just walked onto this dock, and the dock floated away. Except for the general lack of fortifications and security, I thought it was great. John didn’t think so, although he was watching the water pretty closely… his head hanging over the side like that.I don’t know if that island is as interesting as people say. We took one of the later ferry’s, since John slept much of the day. So, a lot of the antique stores were closed. Beth and her sister, Wendy, ended up coming with us and were going to show us the cool sites. We made it to one bar on the island. They said it was to get some “hair of the dog”. The only sight we saw was John darting down every other alley to puke. We finally gave up and took the next ferry back.

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The highlight of Washington was Caliente, some Mexican restaurant. It was maybe the only decent meal I had up there. I ate there with John, Josh, and Sarah, and their kids. Sarah was Josh’s ex wife. I was surprised to find that the “evil witch” seemed pretty harmless. But then, maybe that’s just some female trickery. The kids were cute. I liked having them there. There was much less drinking with them around.It was during this dinner that Sarah said she was taking the kids back to Alaska. She’d be leaving the next afternoon. Turns out, she lived in Alaska and had just been in Washington for business. Josh had lived in Alaska too until they split up, then he moved here to be closer to the business. I wasn’t really even sure what they did. They didn’t look like Alaskans, but I’m not really sure what Alaskans look like.

I went to the bathroom, and by the time I got back to the table the conversation had left me far behind.

“See, Glenn… I knew this trip was a good thing. Who woulda thought we’d get to see Alaska?” John said.

“Alaska?”

“Yeah, it’s a long drive so we’re riding up in the van with Sarah and the kids to takes shifts driving. She can even get us cheap tickets to fly back from Ketchikan instead of having to drive back. Her dad’s a pilot or something”

“Ketchikan?”

“It’s in Alaska, where they live.”

“Is it by the ocean?”

“Yeah, man. It’s beautiful. Her mom has a place with its own dock and everything.”

“So, we’re going to Alaska?”

“That’s what I said.”

This is bad. I just know it. “Where will we stay?”

“With Sarah and her parents. They have this huge house, you won’t believe it. I’ve seen it before. You’ll love it.”

“Do they have a computer?”John shook his head and Sarah looked confused, but she answered.

“Um, yeah… a pretty nice one, I think.”And so it was settled.

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It was a long drive. We made a couple stops in Canada, one being the Nazi McDonalds. John and Sarah took turns driving, but never gave me a shift. I didn’t mind, of course. The kids were quiet. I looked back at one point and Mac, the youngest, was hunched over with her head in her lap, blue eyes peering up under piles of curly red hair. John had laid down and had his boots on her tiny back.

“John, get your legs off her.”

He didn’t even look up “She’s fine. She isn’t complaining.”

I looked at her pitiful eyes and wondered how long she’d been like that, sweetly crumpled without making a peep.

“Are you ok, Mac?”

She just stared, but said nothing. I was about to say more about it, but we were close to the ferry station in Canada anyway.In the parking lot, John straightened up to look around. Mac unfolded herself and leaned up against the inside wall of the van. Instead of finding a parking space, we pulled into a long line of waiting cars. We waited there for nearly and hour before the cars began to slowly move forward. We pulled through some huge gates onto the ferry. This was nothing like the ferry we rode before. This you drove onto and parked. It seemed pretty odd. There wasn’t much to keep the cars in place, that I could see. Maybe the water doesn’t get that rough, but they could at least have some protection from whatever might waddle out of the sea to do some mischief.

The trip from wherever we were in Canada to the port in Ketchikan took many hours. Sarah had paid for a room on the ferry for her and the kids, so whenever the kids were up we got to use their beds. I couldn’t sleep, though. We were floating loose out there with no tie to land, just helpless. Plus, there was a window in our room that looked right over the water. I figured Penguins couldn’t climb up the side of the Ferry that high, but I wouldn’t really know. I was a little nervous when we got back in the car. If any break-lines were cut and we ended up in a wreck, would the hospitals be as good in Alaska?

Well, we got off the ferry just fine and I never once saw a hospital there. I did see a golf course. I don’t know why we went to the golf course. Nobody played any golf, they just went to look at it. Apparently, grass isn’t all that plentiful up there. The golf course had round sections of fake turf around every hole, with just gravel between each one. A gravel golf course? Anyway, so we drove from there out to Sarah’s parents’ place. Sarah apparently moved in there when she and Josh split and sold their place. It was pretty, I suppose, but I just wanted to get to the computer. I breathed a sigh of relief as I slipped into the chair, keyboard at hand. I updated my blog with stories of the adventures I was bravely facing in the wilderness of Alaska. I may have embellished a little, but it wasn’t that far off. I was, after all, in Alaska.

I had an email from my mother. Mom hates email, or anything computer related. She hates any electrical device with controls more complicated than off, on, and volume. I once had to show her how to use her new oven, and I never even use an oven except for heating the occasional fish sticks. But mom emailed me and said she’d been taking my mail inside my apartment for me. She said she cleaned the place and did the laundry and that she found moldy dishes under the bed, etc… etc… She listened to our answering machine messages and it was completely full.

Some girl named Brittany had been calling the whole time we were gone, trying to get a hold of John. It was an emergency, she said, and mom gave me the number. She also told me to look out for bears and not to drink the water. I responded to mom, explaining that bad water was a concern generally for Mexico, not Alaska. I told her there were no bears where I was (contrary to what I may have said in my blog post). I did not mention the issue of evil penguins. Mom worries enough as it is.

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“You need to call Brittany.” I said, handing John a paper with her number.

“Brittany who?”

“How should I know? She’s flooded our answering machine and is all hyper about reaching you or something. Some kind of emergency.”

“Women… everything’s an emergency. I’ll call her tomorrow.”

That night, John went out to some local bar with Sarah and Sarah’s friends. I stayed home with the kids and the kids grandparents and watched TV. Sarah’s mom, Betty, was an awesome cook. If my mom cooked that well, I would not have moved out when I turned 27. She made lasagna and the sauce didn’t even come out of a jar. She made her own sauce. I didn’t know you could do that. I didn’t sleep much that night. I never can sleep well if I’m not in my own bed in my own room, but this was even worse. There was something in the air that wasn’t right. Something was about to happen. The penguins are coming, I thought.

I kept watch at the window until John came in at 6am, then I managed to sleep a few hours before I woke up to the sound of screaming children. Oh no… the penguins have the children. Well, it turned out that no penguins had been seen yet. It was just time for Sponge Bob. Thanks to the wonders of the modern DVD, any time that Sarah wanted to not be bothered was time for Sponge Bob. After the false alarm, I couldn’t go back to sleep, so I just talked with Betty over Coffee. I asked her if she’d seen any sign of penguins that morning.

“Penguins?”

“Yeah… any sign of them?”

“Um, no, sweetie. We don’t get penguins here.”Brainwashed… sneaky devils. I knew then that it was up to me to watch out for the evil buggers.

Within a couple days from mom’s email, she managed to send me another. This was quite a lot for her. She’d been rooting through my apartment some more. I was worried to think what she might find in John’s things, but I was hoping she stayed away from his space. She had listened to the messages again and more frantic calls had come from Brittany. Mom said she did not approve of the language that the young woman used, but the poor thing was obviously distraught and someone had better call her right away. Mom said that, in the last message, Brittany was screaming into the phone and insisting that he would not be able to ignore her after the fraternity tests. Mom asked what a fraternity test was and if it was like some silly initiation thing.

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“Uh, John…”

“Yeah” he answered, without turning away from the TV.

“Did you ever call that Brittany chick?”

“What do you care?”

“She…uh. You really better call her.”

John turned to give me an annoyed glare. “Why should I?”

“She left more messages. I think she was saying something about a paternity test. Is she pregnant?”

“Maybe. How do I know? Probably making it up for attention. She’s a freakin’ nerd like you are. Damn shame, as hot as she is. She’s probably just imagining it, like you and those penguins.”

“Well, you should probably call her. At least let her know when we’ll be back home and then maybe you can talk to her then.”

John hesitated “Why even go home?”

“So we don’t loose our jobs, for starters.”

“What do I really need a job for, anyway?”

“Well, there’s your half of the rent for the past 4 months that you still owe me…”

John glared at me in disgust.

“I’m not complaining, I’m just saying… you have to have a job to get by, have a home, buy food, you know… all that stuff. We’re supposed to fly home tomorrow. Just tell her so and you can meet up with her when we get back.”

“You want me to fly home so I can keep my job, so all the money I earn can go to some baby-making whore?”

“We live in Louisville. That’s our home. We have to go back home eventually.”

“Maybe you do. Trish makes great money and has a nice place. She already said I could stay with her for a while if I wanted to stick around.”

“Who’s Trish?”

“A friend of Sarah’s. If you went out with us instead of staying home like a fag, then you would have met her.”

“What about this girl, Brittany? Are you just going to leave her hanging? Not even a phone call to tell her where you are?”

“She doesn’t need to know where I am and she better not fuckin find out. Who made you the cop all of a sudden, with all these questions and shit?”

“Look, I just – Hey, where are you going?”

“I’m going out. I’m not putting up with this garbage.” He said while putting on his coat.

“Don’t overdo it, man. I mean, don’t stay out too late. We have a plane to catch tomorrow. Don’t get too drunk, either. Something isn’t right out there and you need to stay alert. Watch out for anything… strange.”

“If you start in with the penguins again, so help me I’ll wring your scrawny neck.”

I didn’t know what to say. I just stood there, frozen, while he stormed out the door. I turned around and one of the kids, Mac, was standing silently beside me. She was just looking up at me as if to ask if everything was ok. Do these kids ever speak? I felt bad for her, hearing all that yelling. Then there’s that language... You aren’t supposed to cuss in front of kids, I don’t think. I figured I should say something to her, reassure her or tell her those are bad words or something, but what do I know about kids? I just sat down on the couch and turned on the TV. She climbed up beside me and we watched SG-1 episodes on the sci-fi channel.

I wondered what would happen if there really was a Star Gate. There could be one for all we know. The government would keep it a secret just like they do with area 51 and all the penguin attack reports. If there was a Star Gate and wars between planets, would we be the good guys or the bad guys? I just wonder. Maybe the penguins aren’t even so evil. Maybe they hate us for a reason.

I’d expected John to blow off some steam that afternoon and come back for supper, if only just to clean up and slap some more of that Stetson on before heading out to the bars. He didn’t come around, though. I suppose that’s when I started to worry, but he’d been pretty mad when he left. Maybe he just didn’t feel like coming back yet. I kept a keen eye on the water that evening. I finally fell asleep on the couch some time after 1 am.

When I woke up and went up to our room, my first thought was that John had been back, since his suitcase was gone. But, then I noticed that someone had been through my suitcase too. My clothes had been thrown all over the room and my game boy, headphones, and cash were all missing. That’s when I knew the penguins had been there. They must have slipped right past me in the night and robbed us blind. John was out and I was asleep downstairs, so they saw an opportunity and took it. Wretched penguins.

I waited for John to come home so I could give him the bad news. The flight didn’t leave until 3 pm. By noon, I knew something terrible had happened. He’d never be gone that long. Something was wrong. I didn’t want to scare Betty and Sarah by telling them about the penguins robbing us. Plus, I was afraid they’d feel guilty for not having better fortified their home against penguin attack. But, by one a clock I had to tell them what had happened.

“So you think these same…um… You think these penguins did something to John?” Betty asked.

“I’m afraid so. I know he was angry at me because I butted in about the pregnant girl, but he would never be gone this long. Something has to have happened to him.”

“Pregnant girl?”

“Yeah. Some girl’s been calling for him talking about paternity tests and stuff. I butted in and said he should call her. I know it was rude of me. It’s none of my business.”

“I see” Betty said.

“Should we call the police and tell them about the robbery?” I asked

“You said all of Johns things were gone, his clothes and suitcase and everything?”

“Yeah, and they took my money and my gameboy.”

“I see” Betty said again. She said it like it meant more than she let on. I wondered if that meant she had known about the penguins all along, but didn’t want to say so out loud. Maybe the penguins watch her place.

“So should we call the police?” I looked at Betty and then at Sarah. Sarah dodged my glance, so I looked back at Betty again.

“How about Sarah and I just go look for him first. Jim can watch the kids when he gets home. If we can’t find him, then maybe we can turn in a missing person’s report.”

“And tell them about the penguins, right?”

“Of course.”

“What about the flight? We’ll miss the flight”

“Maybe you should just head on home. We can take care of things here.” Home… my bed, my favorite computer chair, my favorite TV blanket… “But, I can’t just leave him. He would never leave me behind.”

Betty and Sarah exchanged glances and then dropped their respective stares into their coffee, which they began stirring busily. After a few stirs, Betty looked up at me.

“You always see the pretty version of things. Don’t you, son? If beauty is in the eye of the beholder, my dear, you must have beautiful eyes” she said, removing the sunglasses from my face. She smiled a sweet grandmother-type smile at me, as if she was pleased with what she saw. “They’re even lovelier without those burgundy lenses hiding them.”

Just as I was wondering if she’d forgotten what we had been talking about, she answered, “You should be home to take care of things. We’ll take care of things here. I’m sure that’d be best.”

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So, that’s how I ended up in this airport, waiting to board a plane. I’m going home and leaving my good friend behind, in who knows what sort of peril at the hand of evil penguins. I never even saw a penguin while I was here. That’s just how good they are. You only see them when they want to be seen. I can’t help but wonder if I’ll ever see John again. I think of this poor girl back home waiting for him. I figure I’ll send her flowers or something when I get back. I’m sure that’s what John would do if he weren’t a penguin captive. If he is a penguin captive.

I removed my sunglasses to clean off a Betty-fingerprint. I hadn’t realized till then just how many windows they had in this place. The glaring sun was harsh, pervasive, but it spilled a warm yellow glow over everything. It was both painful and enjoyable, swelling full of promise and potential. I studied my hand, which seemed almost magnified in the stark light. Every pore, dry patch, scar, and hair stood out in startling contrast. The texture was fascinating.

I folded the sunglasses into my pocket and squinted into the sun; half-blinded by the light, but determined to adjust. The naked yellow glow stirred my thoughts. Maybe ordering flowers online for that Brittany girl isn’t enough. I should do something; check in on her, see if she needs anything. I do stay inside too much, anyway. There’s really no reason to hide in my apartment all the time. It isn’t like there are any penguins in Kentucky, or anything. Then, I pictured penguins waddling across the bluegrass and I chuckled to myself. That’s just plain silly.

Bui k

(published in 2004 review)


When I fell into the seat and shut the door, I knew it didn’t matter why I’d been crying. I turned the key and the engine welcomed me. The world around all my windows was vibrant and alive, filled with infinite changing life in each direction and flooded with the yellow glow of a fresh March sun. I felt an adrenaline charge in my veins as I sped away, giving the car a little more gas than necessary. It was as if I’d defeated danger in a brave and daring escape. Perhaps I had. I was escaping the stifling darkness of being still, letting my own thoughts be all that moved around me. It isn’t natural to drown in my own thoughts. There is a world greater than I am. I am a speck on the surface; a surface that curves and moves. The earth rises and falls with its slow, patient breathing.

My little red Buick, or “Bui k” as it said on the rear, felt it with me, I think. It was no muscle car, nothing fancy, no 4-wheel drive, but it gunned ahead at the gentle nudge of my foot and took rocky back roads like it was hungry for the hills. You’d never guess I had such affection for that car. It was covered in a year’s worth of dust, which most would interpret as neglect. But, the dirt was more of a record of history, or perhaps a decoration of medals, for each hill that we had conquered together. The crack in the steering wheel was really a snapshot, from a night long before when I’d beat my fist on it. That was another night the car held me inside itself, like a cocoon, until I had grown a little.

The sun glowed hot through the windows. It was warm for March. Those surprise days are the best, a bonus glimpse at summer when we’re used to bitter cold. There were still icy lumps in parking lots. The gray piles were strange monuments to the dreary weather of the week before. They made the warmth of the sun seem so much richer by contrast. Could it be? Maybe it’s warm enough even to ride with the windows down. The wind barreled through as I lowered the glass. It seemed overly excited, since no one had welcomed it inside all winter.

As I slipped onto the highway, the damp wind became a little too much for me, but I was not about to cut it off. I turned the heater on low, aimed at my feet, and I drifted off onto the next ramp towards the country. The wind smoothed my hair back, like my mother brushing it back to braid it. Then, the wind would get too giddy and flip it into my face, like some playful game of teasing. I felt the gravity leave me when the hills would fall off below the wheels, then it would push at me again, then let go. I was riding on its knee like a child. The music on the radio meshed with the waves like it felt every push and drop with me. It all came together, the wind beating frantic rythms on my eardrums, the sun’s heat and liveliness, the melodic sway of the curves… I was caught in the middle of the crowd when the earth, wind and weather all decided to dance. I let it sway and tug at me, lifting me up, and dropping me again, giving me little moments of weightlessness.

In that fury, caught up with the winds that seem to sync with the radio, my mind channeled something from inside myself. Words come from somewhere once buried. They all seemed so profound, so meaningful, so inspired. My fingers stumbled through the dark crevices between the seats and around the molded plastic shapes, looking for paper and pen. I scrawl words and phrases in mutated hieroglyphs on envelopes. Only I could interpret them, if even I would be able to after the moment had passed. My eyes flashed clipped images of the road, just enough to aim the car, but focused mainly on the paper where my life’s work was growing, evolving, becoming something on it’s own. Is this the spine of my novel-to-be? A poem, perhaps? A song?

But it was not the words that mattered, it was the rejuvenation that brought them forth… not the product, but the energy. The words aren’t lyrics, just words, but the song that they were wrapped up in was the hum of my exhalation, the spewing forth of my soul into this warm, liberating breeze. The words will be discarded when I reach the next stop, or maybe be lost in the layers of forgotten scraps on the back floorboards. The life that the wind has forced into me today, and the healing from the stale air that was thrust out – that will remain.

Such a simple thing, the sunlight heating my chest through the window, the hills and valleys undulating like waves to either side of me… I’m sailing on the movements that are life and nature, letting it tug at me on the curves. It throws me into the air at the apex of hills, like a child tossed up by her father’s hands, and catches me each time in safe little valleys. I don’t remember why I was crying. It must have been something so small that I lost track of it. It was like some speck of dust that I could no longer train my eye on, once I caught sight of this big world around me.

Ode to Insomnia

There’s no reason for me to be awake. Everyone always asks, “Why can’t you sleep, Devin? What’s on your mind?” as if it’s that simple. What do I think about? Absolutely nothing, really …and everything. I think about the texture in the ceiling, wondering who first decided to put those little mini stalactites all over them. I run my fingers over my chin to hear the bristling of my copper-brown stubble. I list what movies I want to buy when I have the money. I think about the way my eyelids grind open and shut, wondering if a really sensitive microphone would pick up sounds from them like rusted garage doors. These are the pivotal issues that keep me awake at night.

At first, the insomnia was almost a blessing. I read a lot. I read a full series of Orson Scott Card Books, a bunch of Dick Frances novels, Orwell’s 1984, and Shopgirl, by Steve Martin. Now, my eyes are too fried to read anymore. I can’t focus on a page. I’m awake all the time, except maybe three or four hours a night before the alarm clock goes off. Still, with all those extra hours in the day, I get further behind in everything all the time. It’s been like this for months, now. Actually, for the first month or so I was lucky to get two hours of sleep per night.

I work late every day, now. It takes me 12 hours to do 7 hours worth of work. My brain is like a stale marshmallow from that ancient box of Lucky Charms in the back of the pantry. I suppose the low point was when a coworker asked me if I was on drugs. The answer, of course, was no, but that very night I bought several bottles of various sleep-aids. I figured something had to be done. None of them work, separately or combined, not even when washed down with ample servings of Miller High Life.

I started training in boxing. Yes, boxing. There was one girl in the class and I think even she was progressing faster than I was. My pasty white cubicle-accustomed arms wore out pretty fast, but I kept at it. The plan was to let exercise exhaust me so I’d sleep. It sounded like a smart plan, but maybe I should have just asked Pedro Juarez to hit me once in the jaw. That might have worked better.

After a few months, the ceiling nubs got really tired of me staring at them. I hated their smug blank whiteness, always looking down on me like that. Just seeing them made me angry. I had to get out of my apartment. Unfortunately, my car was as likely to move as I was to sleep like a Nyquil commercial. I couldn’t afford to fix it. I couldn’t really go asking for a raise, either, after going in to work unshaved and zombie-like day after day. So, I just walked.

The coffee shop was only a block from my place, but I had a good 15 years on most of the clientele, from the looks of them. Most of them were college kids, the guys all sporting various creative facial hair patterns. I caught myself staring through the window way too long, wondering what sort of calico beard one could assemble out of the goatees, mutton-chops, Amish-looking under-the-chin hedges and what have you. Some of the sparse and scruffy faces looked like perfect mascots for the shop, since the name was “The Ugly Mug Café”. I chuckled as I walked on another four blocks to the bars. I saw some drunk karaoke singers. I drank some cheap beer. None of the bars had any decent food at all, but they were more interesting than searching for patterns in the plaster-stubble of my ceiling at home.

I’ve never been one for the night-scene. Even in my college days, I didn’t much care for bar-hopping with the boys. I preferred a quite night at home with a really good book, a rented movie, and a Stouffer’s meatloaf dinner (or two). I like a good beer, like any other self-respecting three-quarters-Irish man. I just prefer it at home, enjoyed from the comfort of my favorite rust colored recliner. Some people swear that beer and cigarettes were made for each other. I consider beer and fiction a better match any day. It’s no wonder my father gave up on the nickname “Scrapper” and replaced it with “Bookworm” by the time I was twelve. He was still calling me that up until he passed 5 years ago.

So, at forty-two I found myself among the all-night partiers, trolling for ways to pass my sleepless nights. One night, my feet were just too blistered to make all five blocks to the bars. I sighed out my pride, pushed open the Café door, and entered the beatnik hive – the coffee house. The stale cigarette smell was familiar enough, but the conversation there was less slurred. It was more like rapid-fire chatter from shaky, chain-smoking, caffeine junkies. Most of the girls were pretty, but way too young for me. With all the short hair styles and baggy pants, it was hard to tell which ones were straight anyway.

I ordered plain coffee, of which they had five kinds, or “blends”. I sat in a corner for a few hours and listened to the “poets” on stage. The closest I ever came to poetry before that, other than the lessons I slept through in high-school, was when I was 17 and had pneumonia. I read every decent book in the house. When I had nothing left to read, my younger sister, with dramatic ceremony and a twisted grin on her deceptively innocent face, presented me with a copy of “much ado about nothing”, by Shakespeare. She was obviously amused with herself for that one, but I was desperate and I had already read the tissue box, the vitamin C bottle, and all the Nyquil ingredients 3 times. So, I cracked open the book, disgustingly lavender as it was, and I began to read Shakespeare, which was the closest to poetry I’d ever ventured.

Every scene was probably more psychedelic than the author had intended, being projected through my highly medicated and fevered imagination, but the arguments were hilarious. The sarcasm was right up my alley, even if the language was a little too fancy. Those poets on stage at the café were nothing like that, though. The language was usually simple and conversational. They did throw in a few words like “juxtaposed” a little too often, but for the most part it was just guttural ranting. In fact, I soon learned they even called it “slam-poetry”, or something like that.

Most of them followed a simple pattern. They’d repeat whatever they wanted to dramatize, usually three times. They would get loud at some point. They would punctuate phrases with carefully timed drags off of clove cigarettes. They would usually say something blasphemous or iconoclastic at some point to make them seem daring, as if they were breaking new ground, but they all did it. There are generally some comments about God being on the john when the world needed him, or promises to dance on all our graves, or at least some references to something taboo, like something blatantly sexual or grotesque. Nearly all of them had the walk, the slow stroll up to the microphone and the pensive stare-down glare over it before reading. There were exceptions to this. A couple girls shuffled up shyly, looking back at their crews at least twice for encouragement.

The most pretentious ones, while least impressive with words, were the most captivating. I marveled at the way the audience ate up the act. I imagined that one boy’s elegantly brandished Marlboro-light was a conductor’s wand, or perhaps just the watch of a hypnotist. I think the calculated movements of that glowing butt were the center of his power to mesmerize the room into finding his words deep and meaningful. It sounded like a load of crap to me, but then maybe cigarette-hypnotism only works on the young. Maybe if he were waving pot roast and mashed potatoes, I’d be his number one fan.

Of course that thought made me hungry, so I dared check the chalkboard for food. I was reluctant to try chili in a coffee-house, but it was the meatiest looking thing on the list, so long as I didn’t order the “veggie-vegan” kind. They offered both versions. That bowl changed everything. I blame and thank that greasy bowl for everything that happened since. The bowl was plain, cracked, off-white stoneware, but the stuff that was inside it was incredible. It was the best chili I ever tasted, meaty and thick and full of flavor with enough spice to wake me up, but not enough to really hurt.

The next night, after work and a TV dinner, I piddled around the apartment as long as I could stand it, but eventually had to escape. I walked past the café and hit the nearest bar. I was determined to get sleepy, so I chugged beer like it was the only antidote to a deadly poison. If insomnia was the poison, then beer was a rotten antidote. It didn’t make me sleepy, just off-balance. It also made the room blurry and unsteady. After a while, I was hungry again. I couldn’t stomach the thought of more luke-warm jalapeño poppers, so I waddled back to the café for that scrumptious chili. It was good. It was just so very good. I was happy… happy and drunk off my butt.

I listened to the poets again, this time writing down the repeating traits on a napkin, listing the cigarette wand and the dramatic drags, the way the women waved their sexuality like flags of independence. I studied the way they spoke… with long, poignant pauses, always followed by the stare. I observed, and I scribbled. I guess being a guy who’s had his nose in books all his life, it’s just in my nature to put things on paper.

That’s when it happened. The organizer looked around, biting her lip, leaning into the regulars and whispering at them. Then, she walked right over to me.

“Hi” she said, with way too friendly a grin to be looking at me.

“Hello” I answered, hoping the chili covered the smell of beer.

“Um, we’re looking for more readers if you’d like to sign up” she said nervously, but still smiling. “we’re supposed to go for another hour or two at least, and I’m kinda out of names”.
A damsel in distress? She stood there, smiling at me, smelling like some sort of incense, something woody and sweet.

“I don’t really write” I said. She glanced at the napkin under my hand, then back at me again.

“Uh, that’s just… that wasn’t anything” I muttered. She looked so disappointed, then started scanning the room again with a rather hopeless look on her young face. “Well, I can do something, I guess, but I’m no poet”.

She grinned and thanked me, motioning me up to the stage.
What the heck did I just agree to? I thought. I tripped onto the stage, still too drunk to really focus. I walked up, smiled over the mic, and spoke.

“Hey there” I smirked. The cute organizer girl smiled back, but looked either nervous, frightened or disgusted. I wasn’t sure which. I looked at the napkin still in my hand. I had already written out the formula. How hard can it be? Just follow the recipe. I didn’t have any cigarettes, but I could say something sacrilegious easily enough. With that organizer girl looking at me, I figured I could think of something blatanly sexual too. I can do this –I think.

“I’m gonna read you guys a poem” I said, in my coolest voice, part Jack Nicholson and part John Wayne. “it’s called…. Uh, yeah... It’s called…” …think… think. “…How to be a Poet”. Yeah, that’s it.

“Fuck the masses.
Fuck the pope.
Make a sign on the air
with a camel-wide stroke;
a glowing ember firefly
to captivate your eyes
while my words evade,
tirade, pause…
to…
emphasize….
Because, you see, these thoughts
take time to grasp the sense…
A self-important soliloquy
saying nothing,
…but styled…
…with pretense.”
I made the essential confident, meaningful eye-contact after the last word, while privately thinking how much that sucked. It was all I could do not to laugh, but I didn’t. Part of delivering a good joke is keeping a straight face, after all, and that poem was a joke. Then, they applauded. They applauded madly, nodding as if I’d said something important. The pretty girl with the list of names smiled at me, and I sat back down, stunned.

I sat silent for another hour, while the organizer filled time with her own poetry, between the occasional coercion of other readers. I tried to analyze why they clapped so hard. Was it sympathy? Was it confusion? Was it pity for the old man? Did my age make me seem wiser than I am? It boggled my mind. After another bowl of chili, I walked home. My belly was full, my body warm from alcohol and spice, my mind full and busy. I slept like a baby for the last few hours before my alarm went off.

The next day was the same as usual in the rat-maze hell I call work. I guess it isn’t a bad job, it’s just blank; blank white paper, glaring white computer screens, blank grey cubicle walls that looked nearly white in the blaring florescent light. The work is ok, but just that. It isn’t bad enough to make for good stories or even for a decent complaint about “my hard day”. It isn’t good enough to look forward to in any way. It’s white, with texture that repeats, randomly but without style. My job is one of those damned prickly plaster ceilings; normal, boring, and abrasive.

Soon, I found myself scribbling words that came to mind on a “while you were out” message pad beside my computer, the computer I lovingly refer to as “Hal from Hades”. Then, I was ranting on paper about coworkers, women, managers, even the crappy lunch off the sandwich cart. I guess my mind had been frayed from a rope, tied to the task at hand, to a thousand little threads all going in different directions. I had the same amount of thought going as usual, but sleep deprivation had taken all cohesion out of it. I had no control over my own mind. It rambled on about anything and everything, but I could focus it on nothing. I started writing poems in Word when I should have been compiling technical data. I started a blog under a fake name, “TheAntiPoet”, when I should have been updating spreadsheets in Excel. I was so far behind that I was literally in fear for my job, but I could not seem to bridle my brain. I could lead my head to water, staring at the printouts, but I could not make it think.

I told myself that I returned to the café for that delicious chili, but that was only part of it, albeit a tasty part. I took the stage more and more often. I griped about everyday things, playfully weaving words together for rhythm, clarity, ambiguity, and impact. I got better at it, though I wasn’t sure if that was something to be proud or ashamed of. I vented. I cursed. I gradually got more involved in putting the words together in ways that I liked, rather than just complaining onstage. I became a freakin poet.

I stopped going to the café every night. Sometimes I stayed home to write. Some things that I began as poems I rewrote in paragraph form and discovered that they were more like scenes than poems. Then I realized that, despite all my avid reading through the years, I’d never considered writing. Am I too old to learn? Is the language already there from taking it in for so long? Can one learn to be a chef just from being a glutton? It had to be worth trying. If practice led to anything worth while, maybe I could take some classes. Maybe I could write spy novels or science fiction. I’ve read a lot of those genres. Maybe not, maybe something smaller, like short stories. But then, I never read many short stories. Wouldn’t they take a different sort of writing?

I suddenly found myself full of ideas for story lines. I wasn’t sure if any of them were any good, but I didn’t much care. My first few stories were probably just going to be learning experiences anyways. I just started writing. Some nights I turned out twenty pages, some nights only three. I created a plan for myself, typed it up and hung it on the wall next to my pc. “1) write regularly: Try to write 10+ pages at least 4 nights per week. 2) complete at least two cohesive stories. 3) read books on writing (start with King’s on Writing) 4) take a writing course in the evenings.” Etc…

I was spending a lot of time at home, so I cleaned the place up. I painted the living room a green color that made me think of an old pub. I painted my bedroom walls in a rich saffron color and the ceiling in parchment. I bought a couple book cases and finally set out the rest of the books that I’d had in boxes for the past 4 years. I got a new computer chair, brown leather. It was the most expensive piece of furniture in my otherwise scavenger-style home, but somehow that seemed appropriate.

Maybe you have to make a place to unfold yourself inside your own mind, before you can belong in the world around you. Maybe I just had to become who I was meant to be, before I could keep on being. All that restlessness made perfect sense now. All that taut-wound throbbing of my psyche lately was just like the slowly increasing ache of a Chinese girl’s foot, bound tight and never allowed to grow.

I had a long way to go before my fiction-writing was worth reading. I knew that. I also knew that would change. Somehow I knew that I would write someday. I would write well. It sounds idiotic, no doubt, but it wasn’t’ as if I expected to become the next Grisham or King. I could enjoy my job, if I knew why I was supporting myself and sustaining myself. I could enjoy that bland rat-maze of cubicle walls and all it’s busy occupants if I knew my place among them. I was Devin, the writer in the last cube on third row. That blank, white, textured expanse that my job could be was just a page where I was free to be whatever word I chose.

I strolled into the office each day in Technicolor, 3-D. I felt defined. I described character ideas over the water-cooler and plot-lines over the ever-brewing Bunn coffee pot. The coffee seemed to take on a stale flavor, but that was likely a side-effect of sipping Blue Mountain blends so often on the weekends. I had, after all, become a staple of The Ugly Mug. I MC’d the readings on Thursday nights and participated in a short-fiction writers’ group that met there on Saturday evenings. Good coffee is, unfortunately, quite addictive. I tried bringing in a bag of quality fresh-ground fair-trade coffee to share with my coworkers, but after the tree-hugging hippie gay jokes died down I decided to brew it at home and bring in just a travel mug for myself. Sharing seemed unnecessary.

To people in the office, though, I became the coffee guru. When a new pot was needed, they asked me what kind to get. When brands were debated, I was asked to choose what should be ordered. Also, when important letters were written, I was asked for my opinion. When someone wanted a good book to read, they asked the bookworm which ones lived up to their hype. Funny, no one told them about Dad calling me that. No one had called me that in years. I hadn’t had a nickname. I was just dull Devin in just another cube. I liked being the bookworm, the writer.

My mother called the other day. She asked if I was sleeping any better. I said yes, and started to tell her about my plans of writing. I told her I finally knew who I was and what I wanted to do. I told her that all the reading I had done through the years was like breathing in, and I needed to exhale or I’d pop. I wanted to live my life taking words in and expelling them creatively, like my dad could turn smoke into artful shapes, O’s for most people, even hearts for mom, just by shaping it skillfully in his mouth. I wanted to do with words what he did with smoke, enjoy both taking it in, and letting it out.

“Are you smoking, now?” She said.

“No, Mother, you don’t understand. It’s just an illustration. I’m talking about writing. I’m a writer, mom. That’s who I was supposed to be”

“Devin, have you been drinking?”

“No, mom. I’m sorry. This must all sound very silly to you. I’m just excited. Just be happy for me. I’m happy. I found purpose, and I’m sleeping much better.”

“You’re forty-two and you just now found your purpose?”

“So I was slow, but it was a bit surprising. Dad didn’t even like to read, and here I realize I need to be a writer. Who’d have guessed that?”

“I named you Devin before you were even born, you silly child. You know it's Gaelic for Bard.”

“What? No, I didn’t know that. You never told me.”

“Some Gael you are. With all the reading you’ve done you didn’t find time to learn a scratch of Gaeilge, not even your own name.”

She soon steered the topic back to what Lula Mae had said at Bingo, and to complaining about how Brianna, my sister, refused to bring her any more beer. My mind was stuck on how my mom had known to name me Devin. I wasn’t sure, but I thought there might be a story in there somewhere. It wasn’t fiction, but it might make for a decent story. My mother was, after all, a bit on the nutty side. I got the auburn hair from her, although she was only half Irish. We eventually said our goodbye’s and I went to bed.

I laid awake at first, wondering if writers can really start out this way; bored office-workers with pointless lives who just wander into the wrong place for a good bowl of chili. I stared up into the darkness of the room but saw only the words in my head, timelines, scenes, characters…I drifted off to sleep in a maze of plans, questions, and ideas. I tried to fight it. I tried to stay awake. There was so much to think about, so many colorful ideas in my head. There was so much on my mind and so many reasons to stay awake, but my eyelids slipped shut and I drifted off to sleep. No need to get stuck in today... Tomorrow would be full enough.

Traveling Without Moving

(published in the 2005 Review)

Tall blonde women are not the stereotypical comic-book patrons, but then I’m more tourist than patron. I’ve bought a few for my niece, since she already draws her own comics (and quite well for a 10 year old). I never buy any for me. I live vicariously through my super-team of South End basement dwellers. They are rich enough in pulp to keep me well fed off the crumbs. Mostly, I just follow them here to the comic store and swim through the wealth of color-pumped fiction. Mulling silently around racks of cartoon-heroes may not sound like much, and if you just wait around it is quite dull. But, when you take the plunge… open up some random item and dive in to another dimension, you are transported further than any airplane could fling you… traveling through worlds without even buying a bus ticket.

The lot of us file in the front door, the laughing and prodding jumbled into a static of jubilant ribbing without specific words. My mind is off sliding on some funky bass-line from listening to Jamiroquai on the way over. The CD is left behind in Kyle’s beat-up Buick Skylark, but the tune still follows me like background music, matching my footsteps and setting a mellow mood. We hit the shelves and spread through the pulp-sea like oil over water. The chatter fizzles to a few soft conversations between paired-off wanderers. Off on my own, I take one last look around me before picking a random comic book off the shelf. My mind will soon be sucked into an ink and pigment world, so it’s best to know what’s going on around my body before I leave it behind.

I fall into the first page. Immediately, I’m swimming through washes of color, moving in and out of frames, weaving through and around the scaffolds stories are built on. My senses flood and my mind's eye takes over; my imagination as real and more vivid than the floor beneath my worn Skechers. Surreal characters fight massive foes as well as their own internal conflicts, all to the grooving-retro sounds still playing in my mind; X-men stories unfurling to a soundtrack more suitable for Shaft. Somehow it all works in my head. I can see myself moving to the rhythms like dramatic slow-motions shots in movies as my enemies approach. I can feel the metal claws unsheathe, sliding against bone as they emerge from my fists. I feel the wind off the characters’ movements, the adrenaline surging through my blood, and the satisfaction of tension and fury well vented.

Suddenly, I hear Mike cussing to one of the guys at a distant rack. I don’t pull out of the comic enough to hear why. I can’t just leave Wolverine hanging with those nanites sapping his healing factor. Besides, I know Mike isn’t really angry, just making observations in his own colorful way. So, I sink back into the vivid dream of the latest Ultimate Nightmare, letting it inundate my brain with vivid color and movement.

My friends and I meander about the universe, zipping into one portal and out another, explorers of worlds. Some worlds are painted stiff and bright with archetypal patriots… some misfit super-teens in pastel panes with their waists smaller than their wrists… some complex heroes lurking in dark rich pools of color like the algae-packed lake on campus. One minute I’m in a derelict military compound discovering abandoned super-soldiers gone wrong. I feel the pent up anguish of twisted men pushed past all things natural, then left to rot without contact for years. I sense the conflict in a mind making room for both it’s own voice and that of a psychic S.O.S. driven to unbearable volume by hopeless isolation and mounting physical changes. The next moment, I’m peeking around wondering why Bryan didn’t come today -thus in and out of this newsprint grey shop, and the moving, churning worlds inside each comic book.

I fall out of one story, the cold air of reality whipping around me once the 24 pages comes to its abrupt end, and I’m left hanging on yet another plot-cliff. I adjust my eyes to peruse the shelves for my next excursion. I stare at the covers sporting exaggerated artwork, stylized versions of styles. I study the eyes, broad and tipping off the sides of sharp-edged faces, the washes of red making dramatic swaths of cloth that deny all laws of physics… I never open these. Just stare. I glance over cover after cover, wondering which comic might be a gem, which will be more trite, archetypal characters in predictable conflicts. I’ve only recently begun searching the gems out for myself. Kyle made suggestions in the beginning to get my feet wet. Speaking of his suggestions… I wonder if Kyle checked to see if the next Ex Machina is out. Where is he?

I spot Kyle slumping quietly over the latest Astonishing X-Men, which I know I’ll borrow the instant he’s finished. His woodless pencils peer from the unzipped pockets of those atrocious nylon pants of his, hanging at his hips like revolvers. He’s a comic-book gunslinger; always ready to draw should the inspiration call him out. Danny wanders over to inspect Kyle’s find, but Kyle doesn’t raise his backwards hat an inch as Danny dances beside him. Danny looks about the racks and drags his gaze casually across the room, checking over all the guys, then returns his concentration to the floor a moment, doing another buoyant foot-shuffle to amuse himself. Danny’s the energy of the group… on a constant natural buzz; half night-shift sleep-deprivation and half electric personality. Always equipped to throw in a peppy sound-bite or silly banana-phone song.

I smile silently as they look at me, no doubt wondering what I’m staring at, and I pick up the next comic on the shelf. We’ll try Mystique. She seems like an interesting character. Let’s see how they write her series. Only three pages into the comic, I find myself staring instead at the black wool coats that seem to be becoming a pattern with the guys - mostly navy-style coats and blue jeans. A lot of them dress pretty similar, although the bright red dragon on the back of Dobbins’ long-legged jeans stands out. Thank goodness they don’t all wear those awful nylon pants like Kyle. I realize I’m watching them and forgetting to read. This story sucks… next.

My next pick is much more gripping. Page one wraps around my psyche, envelopes my vision, and I’m sucked into yet another world. I’m dropped from the sky onto a city in chaos, my keen senses peak, supernatural… my muscles are strong and rigid. I feel like some super-human potential is unleashed from my subconscious. My long legs tense with anticipation, ready to leap into action… my imagination so consuming all lines between waking world and fantasy dissolve. Kitty is doing her best to help stop some gruesome beast, while still mulling around in her mind the curious behavior of her friend. I’ve followed her story enough that this is like hearing a workmate talking around her cigarette about her boyfriend while on smoke-break, familiar and natural.

Wolverine seems to be getting some pleasure out of the fight, which is more in line with my thoughts. I often join these fights only to sink my fists into tangible villains, a refreshing contrast to the real world with all its grey areas where our foes have no body to battle, where our enemies are cancer, bills, sickness and the worst enemy of all, our own weaknesses. Here I am empowered against evil. Here, even if I lose, I first get to stare my tormenter in the eye and get in at least one solid hit. Here, inside these vibrant creations of pigment and pulp, I can direct all my rage and angst against the embodiment of evil. I am liberated from the smoky haze of reality’s limitations.

In the midst of battle, Wolverine (Logan) is thinking about beer, of all things. I laugh, and of course I’m with him. After this blessed purge of fury, I am exhilarated and ready to laugh and relax. Though, for me, the beer would be Guinness… a little fancy for Logan’s taste. I’d also pass on the cigar.

I roll out of that comic and remember my feet are still glued to the white tile floor. I check to make sure …yes… I kept my hand under the bridge the whole time… One must hold a comic correctly. It almost takes a minute to remember where I am whenever I hit that last page and come falling out of the story, feet-first, into my body standing here by the rack.

After nearly an hour, I decide I’ve had enough traveling, and that seems to be the consensus as the guys start to gather and pay more attention to each other than the walls. The chatter starts to rise, again, as the travelers coalesce on one common world. They shuffle through the line to buy their respective picks and we move towards the door, ready to rejoin a world not so slippery with dimention-trancending shifts.

We step out into the cold January weather, and I’m back here on planet earth, where my friends are still heroes, but without capes or dramatic foes to fight. They fly through my days and replace the mundane with the unexpected, generously feeding my newfound comic habit all the while. I watch them like they’re part of some warped Kevin Smith movie, playing out to the funk soundtrack in my head. As for me, I am just myself, mild-mannered chick about town, although I can feel the metal wrapped around my bones… the claws lingering just under the skin, between my knuckles.

Scotch

I walked into my usual liquor store, direct to the coolers. I stood in front of the Guinness, my usual beer. I always buy Guinness, except when I veer right and choose a nice dry red wine, usually perusing the mark-downs. This time I turned left. I grabbed a large bottle of Jameson Scotch Whisky and carried it to the counter. Tonight I’ll be a scotch-drinker, I thought. Tonight I want to be someone else.

“Will this be all for you?”

“A pack of Camels too, please. And this lighter.”

She rang up my purchase and took my debit card from me. I hoped it would not overdraw my account. I wondered if she could tell I was hoping that. I wondered if she could tell I didn’t smoke.

So, this is me as a scotch drinker. Guinness is for drinking in pubs with good friends. I have no friends. Wine is for romantic dinners. I have no romance, and no desire to eat. Scotch is for lone drinkers, for a man to drink alone while smoking and forgetting his past. I’m not a man, but I have a lot of forgetting to do. Right now, I would even forget that I am a woman. I want no emotions, no longings, and no gifts of love that go unwanted. I just want to be a writer who needs no more than a glass, a few ice cubes, a cigarette, and scotch.

As I lean back in my large antique chair, I feel almost numb, removed from myself. I am, now, just a character sketch. I’m just a body, this glass, and this stinking roll of burning leaves between my fingers. I sit here, reflecting and sucking in bits of bitter smoke, holding it, then letting it roll out through my nose like I’m some sort of dragon. I shut my eyes after each drag. Being a novice to tobacco, one puff makes me dizzy. Then I sip the cool scotch. Scotch isn’t a pleasant taste, really, but interesting. The woody tones of each cool sip work with the cigarette. I sit and stare at the window for some time, just going through these slow motions and thinking as little as possible.

Images of my first apartment lay themselves out in my mind. I remember sitting on the shared deck at night with Misty, sipping Glenlivet Scotch and listening to Robert Johnson CD’s. It was a bottle I lucked into for free and I had no money for buying luxuries like beer (or groceries for that matter). I think back to how smooth the night air felt, how calm I felt inside. Things were just perfectly simple. I was broke, but I knew I’d work through it. I lived alone, but I enjoyed it. The future was infinite. I still believed in things back then. I believed in people, at least a little bit… enough. I believed in my art, in books, in the simple pleasures of hard physical work and the joy of being my own person.

What changed? Well, People. They didn’t change; I just gained enough experience to learn that how they are doesn’t change. The history I had still left hope open for a different future, but then things always turned out the same, no matter what I did. I’d let them in, and thing always went haywire. One after another; one form of heartbreak or another. Maybe I met the wrong people. But if so, where were the right people? At home, with the people they already bonded with, no doubt – not out where I’d run into them. I’m not really sure how to act around people anyway.

I swish the golden liquid around the wide-mouth glass, the cubes now taken on random shapes in the wet ore. Well, scotch-drinkers don’t need people. They’re calm, laid back… they read books in large chairs, and they write novels at a desk like this, with a cigarette ashing in the tray. So will I. I will write something, not about the people I miss or losses I’ve known or hopelessness or foolish dreams, but something outside those feelings. Something I would write as this new me, as a scotch-drinker.

So, finally, I open Word, take a final drag off my cigarette and crush it out, filthy grey dust smearing all over the glass dish. Will it be a mystery? The jaded musings of a weathered old man? Some odd tale of eccentric characters in their everyday lives? I take a sip, set down the glass, and type:

“This is me as a scotch-drinker”

I stare at it, looking for more, and take another swig of the Jameson Scotch. Then, leaving the glass on the desk I go downstairs to get the bottle. I wash down a handful of anti-depressants under an up-turned green glass bottle, emptying the rest down my throat for good measure, and I go to bed.

I never cared for scotch.