Debt has a particularly unique effect on the human psyche, and i’m not talking about credit card debt. I’m talking about school debt, student loan debt, the big bank stuff. The kind of financial obligation that’ll violently shred up your college degree and spit you into the workplace kicking and dragging your feet into the machine. It’s the ability to both destroy your childhood fantasies of living the bohemian life you thought you could have while at the same time activating your humility in order to find a way to make money that makes student loans so goddamn oppressive. We all have to pay our bills. That’s the way our society functions. And debt, it seems, is one of this societies key machinations.

I owed about $85,000 in student loans. And after my father had paid for my first year of school in cash, he lost his job, and in a manner which defines my father exactly, he was fired, and left his family with an empty bank account and massive credit card debt. My father was real fucking good at getting fired, and even better at spending money than I am, because he always spent the money he didn’t have. So three remaining years of school were paid in full by the banks with no help from the federal government because, well… they, rightfully so, didn’t believe my father was dead broke soon after writing a check for $30,000 to pay for my freshman year. So I borrowed everything I had to, and promised to pay it back with a signature and a family member as my cosigner. And it was about a month after I graduated when I got my first bill in the mail from the bank… for something like $750. No way I could afford to pay that. So I deferred the payments and continued working at Louis Boston — the most unbelievably lux boutique on Newbury street — for about $300 a week after taxes, an salary which at that time nobody had believed when I told them.

I worked full time, scribbling down tight budgets every week, with I think something like $50 available to spend on food. My college girlfriend had wanted us to move to Brooklyn together. This was back in 2004 when you could get a one bedroom apartment in Carrol Gardens for $1,500, but I knew that if I moved to NYC with my college girlfriend that most of my life as I understood it would be laid out in front of me. And whatever I thought I could accomplish, whatever I dreamed of being as a young man, felt as if it would slip through my fingers. I had relied on her for the kind of emotional and financial support that a child would expect from his mother, and I wasn’t speaking to my parents much at the time. I was sick of them even when they loved me; I wanted to find another way through my life. A big ask, really, when I had nothing available to me other than a sweet, loving woman who had offered her life to me, so long as I was content to eventually move out to the suburbs and raise a couple of good Christian children. I refused her and her life, and I tried over and over to explain to her why, but soon we went from being together and it being long distance to breaking up. She drove from her mothers house in Long Island all the way to Boston one morning to declare her love for me and to hope it would get me to stay with her. I almost sent her back home packing without so much as opening the door. I was so angry at her persistence.

She went back home after a day or so of us talking, talking, talking through it. Which really must have been the two of us finally releasing ourselves from each other. She was, in many ways, my mother as I wanted my mother to be. But it was about time for me to detach from her, from my real mother and father, and all my memories of the past life I had lived until now. I packed up my books and poems from college and rented a one bedroom on Adamson Street in Allston, stored all my ambitions deep in a front hallway closet and buried my head instead into a job I didn’t want, but fascinating enough to keep me going back every day. It was a paycheck, and I decided if I was going to pay off my debt I had to buckle down and learn everything I could about this new, alien world. The world of commerce.

At first I keep my face flat to everyone at Louis Boston, and I ask a lot of questions. The mens shop in the tall four-story building was happy to answer, but as I was tasked solely with maintaining the fitting room area, it was really my duty to be proactive in asking questions. Being humble and getting to know everyone there. Often, it was necessary at first. But soon, the questions became distractions. One of my first Saturdays — the busiest retail day of the week — I watched a man spend the entirety of my student loan debt… that’s right, about $85,000, on a seasonal wardrobe for himself in a single transaction. I wondered if I could walk right up to him and ask him for the money I needed, and what he’d say to me. I ran it back again and again in my mind as his things were being bagged up at the register downstairs near the exit, but I knew it would cost me my job. I wasn’t an idiot, just desperate. That night, and in the coming weeks, I remembered that payment, and where it had placed me in this new world. I was nothing. A steel washer stacked onto a single moving part of a system so immense I could be burned up or broken off without impeding a single operational transaction. This world didn’t need me, but it would absorb me. So I kept my face flat.

I had learned how to do this in college studying performance, how to control the muscles in my face. I can morph my body into stone, or into a carnival, depending on what’s necessary for the moment. And since I didn’t have anything to say to anybody and didn’t really even WANT to be there, I relied on whatever training rose up within me to manage my employers expectations when they looked over at me. Keeping busy, asking questions, and all with a flat, affable posture and face. And I watched them, the salesman — or Wardrobe Consultants, as they so put it… how they carried themselves and the clothing they were handling in front of the customers. One man, Arthur Jordan, a tall thin old man, a real handsome character, one of the oldest of the group, pulled me into the fitting room one afternoon about a month into working there and let me in on it. “It’s all in how you handle the merchandise, Derek. Present it like this — and here he would set the tie down on the shirt abruptly and crudely — and it doesn’t read. Present it like THIS instead — and here he studies the tie, holding it carefully, preciously, and rests its long blue body across the shirt collar with a simple grace — and they’ll love it. It’s all a performance, Derek. Lets give em what they came for.”

Had I decided to work in a new kind of theater? Would this insight be the key to rising up in this world? I left work that day and went home like any other day and ate my dinner alone in my room. It was November, or early December, when the sun is running out of warmth, and the room grows cold at night. I write a poem about it, a bad one, and listen to some music. I play a song I love to sing along to and sing along to it, but hushed so as to not bother anyone else in the apartment. I get up and shake my body to the music, my reflection in the mirror. If it’s performance they want, I will oblige them. It’s what I know, after all.

Look at the Sky

Hey. I’ve been here, lying underneath this blog screen, with a bunch of unfinished ideas and half thought out articles on topics ranging from my history and involvement with Magic: the Gathering, to a couple of social outcasts sitting on lawn chairs before a bonfire on top of an abandoned mall in suburban connecticut. I’ve been sitting on all this energy, chewing on it, taking notes and attempting to work out these ideas. And each night dreams fire off within the private realm of sleep… dreams that used to provide so much meaning for me… dreams that used to frighten me, ignite me to action, forgive me, ridicule me… a cacophany of emotion, but a beautiful and elaborate scenario always. Always a store. Always a crowd. And there’s me, among the going, thinking of how I could leave the mall, leave the party, leave the buildings and the cities and find somewhere hidden. Somewhere new and dark and vast and unexplored. A mystery in the age of information. These are the dreams that I can remember. The other ones are a blur of voices, characters, and scenarios running on and on and on. A crime. A love. A city.

my mind is so hungry for a narrative, for some kind of story to tell. And I need to tell them, somehow. I believed for a long time in my secret abilities as a writer, and dreamed a life wherein I lived to write. But it wasn’t in this lifetime, instead in another time and place altogether. And it was then I knew I was making up stories about myself, about my life. Dreaming up a manner to live it that evoked my desire to escape and my desire for the past to be the present, I lied about who I even was to others. At each turn, I was someone else, someone I believed I needed to be, and I was damn good at doing it. The arenas of my life separated me into different mirror images of my story, where at each turn I could morph my posture, my behavior, my thought and, perhaps most importantly, my presentation of myself.

And how exactly am I supposed to get down into it, then? How am I being true if I never really was any of them? Why did I navigate my life as if it were simply a play, and I the superstar at every turn? Why did I not just look at the sky? I’ve never known who I was, but who I am right now… is it really that important to understand? Or, is it merely a focusing of this scattered energy into something real, something tangible I can use?

In the darkness of my dream I stand before a row of avenues carved out of stone, and each passage is equally guarded with iron bars. A dog sleeps. A woman approaches me, her old frail body warmed only by rags, her hair big and gray and dry. She gestures to the smoky night sky above us and says, ‘look at that sky.’ Beyond us up a staircase a massive house hosts a massive party scrambled with aquaintences, friends, faces of strangers and all the discussion meaningless. All the laughs are hearty. The clothes are all beautiful. I left that party down a long stairwell to get here. The four avenues, they end in ancient doorways that must creak and whine when opened.

The dog is awake, I hear its chain jangling as it lunges and tackles me under its massive weight. I throw my arms up against it, and feel the dogs teeth sink into my wool coat, but the teeth don’t penetrate into me.

Morning Man

It’s morning when the man appears… early morning and only when i’m in the shower. My showers are only five minutes because he insists I only have five minutes to wash myself, and its exactly because these showers must last five minutes I adopted a soundtrack to play along in my head in order to keep time. Smells like Teen Spirit’s recording time is five minutes and one second… it’s what play every morning, and I guess Morning Man is okay with this as i’m still alive, still returning to the bathroom to clean myself and continue each day going about my usual business.

Thing is, I can’t ever see Morning Man even though I know he’s there. I can feel him, though, floating somewhere just beyond the periphery. He appeared in the corner, where the shower curtain and the white tiled bathroom wall meet. You’d think a full grown man with a tall black hat holding a knife that glints in the bathroom light would be easy to see, especially in a place as small as a suburban condominium bathroom… but he has a real fuckin knack for slipping out of view when I finally get fed up and pull the curtain aside to look. Keeping an eye on Morning Man’s whereabouts is useless, but I go through it anyway, everyday… and he continues to slip away before resuming his pose there in the bathroom, pale and silent, holding his knife, his eye bore through me.

So I keep the shower curtain open and sing to myself my favorite Nirvana song, keeping time, the beat and the lyrics as near to the recording as I am able to orchestrate… steam rolling up into the vent or hanging there in the little bathroom, caught on the mirror, the faucet and the sink, the towel rack. The water white hot. And even with this precautionary measure, Morning Man persists. I turn, and I see nothing.

Morning Man tells me how long my showers will last. He also tells me other things, too. Like what time to wake up, or go to bed. Mom and dad do that stuff too, but it’s different when they do it. Morning Man tells me how they’re fucked and they shouldn’t have gotten married, and ultimately it was me who drove them apart. I hate how Morning Man makes me feel about my parents, but he insists on it, just like he insists on a lot of my other shit too. Like what happens alone in the basement, or when friends sleep over on weekends. Morning Man calls it all fucked, pathetic… and if you don’t straighten up and fly right you’ll end up just like them, too. Like all the rest of em. Morning Man can be fairly dramatic.

His knife hasn’t penetrated me. Not yet. When I step out of the tub all wet, open the door to the hallway with the shower running… thinking maybe I heard him somewhere. Early enough nobody else’ll be up yet so… it’s fine. Fine and whatever, its five minutes. I return to the shower, still hot, press play on the song resuming in my mind, the steam rolling onto the hallway carpet as I rush through each step with my heart coming through my chest.

He leans against the tile wall, his faded cartoon black hat and pale eye. The knife clean and shining.

If I don’t take care of things like… I dunno what’ll happen to me. If I don’t straighten up and do it right. I won’t be there to see it. Morning Man says I have asthma. Cancer. That i’m fucked. Doomed. He gets all big with me when i’m walking to the bus stop to go to school. I don’t talk about Morning Man, and I try not to believe in much he says, but it doesn’t matter much to me if eventually I turn up dead.

The shower’s off. Toweling dry in front of the mirror I listen. I hear my parents talking, or fucking, doesn’t matter which I still listen. Silently I plot a path to the bedroom door at the end of the hall and move. I can barely breathe. I hear something. A thud, a silence stirring. And in the darkness of morning with all the house lights out and my face pressed against the bedroom door, his long and silent fingers slowly prey.



In my parents finished basement where I spent most of my time, with friends, my brother, or with my two best friends Nintendo and Sega, I discovered one afternoon after school a slug on the carpet watching the television. The television was on and had already been tuned to channel 18, the playboy channel, but the broadcast was heavily blurred… flickering a distorted and infinitely scrolling picture… the bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep — that sound, instead of what you wanted to hear. And the slug was simply there, contentedly watching the images ripple incomprehensibly, the alarm soundtrack going going going… and that’s when the slug reached up with its antennae and clicked the dial forward once to channel 19.

Channel 19 was, in terms of the audio and video, the almost complete inverse of channel 18: you could see nothing except dirty snow shimmering on-screen, but could hear everything happening over on channel 18 well enough to follow along. So the slug was at it when I arrived downstairs: clicking the dial back and forth between the two channels, sliming the carpet area where I usually sat down and played my Nintendo. I spent a good few moments staring at the slug, disturbed by its presence but also, and probably moreso, engrossing itself over the two channels I had kept to myself so closely and secretly for well over a year. It not only knew what it wanted to watch, but it was almost as if it had sneaked into this basement at the exact hour I had already check-marked and set aside for this very routine and time-sensitive activity. And the slug, while ostensibly not doing all that much, was quite the display. The carpet was beginning to stick together, had already become shiny and gnarled from the trail of obvious filth it had secreted and used to slide on over from the cellar door. It stunk humid and warm and stale in the basement, like the way I imagined sex could smell. The slug looked up and acknowledged me with the side of its antennae before shrugging me off to resume its deranged enjoyment, clicking disapprovingly between the channels, between a blaring alarm and canned moans or ugly talk, with a sort of quiet, lubricated poise.

I ran upstairs and grabbed the salt shaker from the kitchen table.

As I readied my way back down the staircase to the basement again a sourness had begun rumbling up from my stomach. As I took my first steps, salt shaker in hand, the sourness lurched acridly upwards into my throat. I wrestled it down, swallowed it into a ball of nerves and continued slowly downward, stumbling off the final step and nearly spilled my teenage body — and the salt shaker — face-first across the carpet. It was summer and the heat brought with it a storm of insects to the condominium complex where we lived, a village surrounded by the woods I used to play with friends in as a smaller child. As you walked Happy Hollow Circle the road eventually led to a roundabout, and at the back end of the roundabout a grassy patch coaxed you inside the Woods… the soil was usually damp there from a quiet brook that moved softly through small rocks and over dried leaves — and all the kids who lived on Happy Hollow Circle could be found at any point there in the day along this partition. My mother told me never to play there, as an inch of water was all it would take for me to drown. If I slipped and fell, and I did spend a lot of time falling, I could have died there. I played along the brook in the woods whenever I wanted to, defying her wish. She always wanted me to stay away, and for the most part it was ingrained in me. I never traveled beyond the brook in the woods and I never went into the woods at night.

The carpet held within its little grasps a garden of negligence. As a teenager i’d hidden my pimples picked clean in the basement, and to learn about sex from these crude images instead of asking anyone, or my parents. It was better to have a place I could explore myself, a place I could break and leave and come back to without change. Often, i’d come onto the carpet standing up, my jeans still around my ankles, the bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep cheering me on and then, pulling it back together, the television quickly to channel whatever, I’d stomp upstairs and tear into my box of Wheat Thins, pushing at and adjusting myself. Once the rest of my drizzle had oozed out and stiffened my boxers I tucked them into the hamper pile, expertly beneath my family’s supply of socks and washcloths. Sometimes, I just left them on the carpet among my bitten off nails and leftover toys, but they’d be gone, washed by the time I remembered I should be hiding them. I always became flushed when someone had the nerve to penetrate my garden.

Since my discovery of Channel 18 i’d humped anything even suggestively soft in the basement garden. The couch, a repulsive rust color, had perfect little crevices between each section. My blue convertible floor chairs that opened into beds could be squished together nicely. The torn back of a stuffed animal. Socks from the adjoining laundry room drier, which i’d hide in storage boxes or seasonal shoes and boots filed away on the upper shelves of the laundry room. There were spots on the carpet by the television i’d grown to avoid and used the floor chairs more frequently. Nothing felt quite right, even though I knew nothing of what it should feel like, but I maintained an imagination that supplied me with a warm body in every secret place i’d selected.

I hated the way it smelled, and it was always a little damp feeling which brought on spasms same as when I resorted to killing bees with magazines or the bottom of my sneakers. An oily rush of blood, the way i’d imagined death. The slug there, minding its business and ignoring mine, aware but not wholly concerned with my steady approach. It was so disgusting to me… but I couldn’t think of another way to get rid of it… the shame was already so overwhelming, the shame of resorting to this bullshit… it was bullshit to kill the slug. And I had never even tried it before… what would happen to it? Would it break into a panic and slither away fast as a cartoon back up the little hidden place it arrived through? Would it simply explode? Or would I hear it shriek… cry out… wail in a death agony? I just didn’t know anything at all, and I was seething with fear and shame over what was about to go down in my garden. I unscrewed the shaker and held it slowly over the slug.

It was making a fool of me. It had watched me, no doubt, at this exact hour watching Channel 18 and Channel 19. It had watched me grow, stroke, and spread my teenage bleach across the carpet like a clown, a madman… and now it was here to do its own kinda getting off. Whatever that was. I began sweating oil as I tipped the shaker over the slug from a height of at least 2 feet. The slug swells immediately. I screamed and gripped the shaker ran upstairs to the kitchen feeling sourness in my throat I turned and spit drooling into the sink… hung suspended over the counter and bubbling off my bottom lip… I started to cry hot sick tears and slammed my palms on the kitchen counter hard… again…again… until I could feel it sting.

I managed to sit down at the kitchen table. My head fell into my hands. Being summer Mom didn’t need to cook breakfast so i’d eat cereal and milk, but sometimes i’d make myself scrambled eggs. I would watch her make them for us during the school year: the little kitchen television playing Good Morning America, her scrambling with salt pepper and milk the eggs and pouring the mixture in a sizzling pan streaked with butter. She’d empty the cooked eggs onto my plate and we’d eat. Her with her baked potato and salsa and egg whites, me with my juice and scrambled eggs. I’d grab the salt shaker before tasting the eggs and shake a little over my plate. Taste it first, she’d say, don’t wanna put too much salt on you’ll blow up. She had it down for everything she ate how much salt would go into it. I didn’t care… I liked salt, made everything taste better, put as much on as I liked. Especially when she made me overcooked eggs, you needed salt to make em better.

I put the shaker back in its original pose. The light that fell through the kitchen window darkened the afternoon. I only hope I used enough salt.

Unfolding a towel from the linen closet I held it open as I made for the basement again, Blanketing the mess and pulling it together in a heap underneath. I formed a tight ball with the towel, careful not to look, and held it at arms length until it was in with the trash. Back in the basement, humid and stale from slow summer, the dehumidifier clicked on. It rattled and shivered as it pulled the moisture from the air. The television had been turned off. The carpet needed to be cleaned. Cereal bowls stacked high with dried milk on their spoons loomed. Evening entered along with the rest of my family, and we decide to get Chinese food. Low sodium soy sauce, she said, and the salad dressing on the side, please. Thank you.

Dream One, The Second Season


So we’re ambling along a sunny vale in the countryside, punctuated with old stones strewn along the sloping green. Everyone’s vacationing here; most of us are off receiving the summer wind as it feathers the far off and surrounding trees, or are otherwise busying each other with fleeting exchanges. A gravel pathway cuts into the hillside and points down to that overgrown monument, an immense figurehead enveloped with wild air steaming from the grounds around the stone. And there, walking up the gravel path he emerges through a staccato of birds with this silly smile, no doubt directed at my open reverie.

He gets right to it and shakes my hand. It eases the news: he’s resigned as my colleague and has readied himself to leave this place. We say nothing more, and then he goes, waving at me one last time before turning back down the path. Crunch crunch crunch away, the breath of the hillside swallows him whole. Another in his wake approaches, shakes my hand, and says goodbye, obfuscated in celestial sunshine.

But it’s not until she approaches me, beaming, to tell me of her decision to leave that I confront it at all. Her smile simply continues, and together with the brightness of the vale it turns me. She laughs big and directly, tells me she’ll miss me, that ‘you’ll be great’ with regards to my commitment to the organization. She turns and slopes away, crunch crunch crunch, and with her exit into the trees the whole long bright scene grows dark from a sudden incoming and roiling storm.


The basement of the organization is small, reasonably lit and survives our assembled rows of commercial office supplies, dusty surfaces with dead-pan computer equipment, storage bins stuffed with products or neatly filed — depending on the week — and correctly labeled. It feels crowded and cold. Two footsteps slowly down the iron stairs reveal a young man and woman in morning.

The woman has tall, porcelain skin, her head surrounded by microscopic buzzing insects, deep sunken eyes glow iridescent, hair bleached and dried out from bleaching. She stares only into the concrete floor. I know her — we worked together years ago, before she had snapped and left the city for the road, leaving her well regulated future all bagged up and tossed out with the garbage onto the sidewalks of Brooklyn. She holds a defeated gesture now, resigned to a new fate, one wherein her night has ended. I see her child, less than a year old, and her lithe body having become bent by the child, by the world.

Having no business other than it’s own, the world came at her viciously once she supposed a scheme to shudder off her cultural imprint, and unveiled the tendrils slithering forth to apprehend her… and the child, feeling this spectre seize her protector, would learn to walk with a spike cast through her little heart like a harpoon, made of the same insidious material as this spectral binding. I see her pulling this whole scene behind her much to the same music as my mother did, a beaten drum with the skin pulled too taut, the distant thuds still reverberating. The world dropped her off here, child in tow, so as to cast its net over her and her new little future.

The man is thin and pale, his thick hair licked violently and hung over his face like a mossy overgrowth. He has the face of a young man who never smiles and yet is smiling brightly, alighting his insides through pimply, translucent skin. He died in the world years ago, which may be why he only sighed and didn’t speak. But the sigh was enough to wash over me all the emotion of a man as confused as I am, yet held the courage to delve into the dark infinity of his mind. The glow that confronted him there, in this nothingness, pulled him away from love. I think it killed him, but I lost him long enough ago that I can never be quite sure of that. He was mad, possibly brilliant, and always had the face of a man encaged by his own tyrannical brain. His face here however, in this office basement full of cold things, stands illuminated and peaceful. His eyes, half open, watching. I couldn’t stand it to see him broken, or her for that matter, down here together with me forever with the ugliness of the world.


And I am gone as suddenly as I arrived, speeding up a steep hill in a large black SUV on a dirt track alongside the vale. I’m with my love in the back seat, and someone I know is driving but I can only see a blurred mass. Outside, it all rolls on through a blur of trees: the hot green hillside, the monuments ablaze with memory, the sun above, and beyond a deciduous sea. We’re fast approaching a bridge over a narrow ravine, the old planks firm and dark and silent as we pass over. Only in the way of dreams could this moment be so brief and so infinite.

A decade of bridges in my dreams rushed forth. Bridges shrouded in heavy blackness, or broken, and with such immensity as to become the path of my world. And my attempts to traverse them failing. Massive concrete and steel melted and crumbling into a vast river. The bridge of the night city shone only by flashlight, and me there too scared to pass. They were all my colossus, and I stood forever in the shadow of it’s gaze waiting, trying, then waiting again. It loomed with the birds and the big planes and it wasted no dream on me. Me, too scared to fall the dream would flicker just as I failed each ascent, flicker and restart the way games do, or the music you love too deeply. We pass over the little bridge and continue towards the top of the hill.

The SUV rolls to a halt at a perpendicular dirt pathway as we reach the apex. The path is dark from travel. We exit the vehicle and begin to poke around the surrounding area to figure where we are and why we stopped. Through the woods a little way sits a small New England victorian-style home. It’s unremarkable in almost every sense, except for the presence of a large present wrapped in shimmering metallic paper placed outside the front door. The bowed ribbon polka-dotted red yellow red. Down the road some is another house, exactly as my grandparents house when I was a child. Placed neatly outside on the sill is a present, similar in size and color to the first one.

Suddenly I see it all around us, and I begin to lose it. The houses, stretching off into the distance both ways away from the car are all the homes of my dreams. Every one of them i’d visited previously except now they stood together beneath the sun dappled canopy proposing gifts. They are each welcoming me to them, welcoming me inside. For so many years I had cautiously walked their hallways, feared their dark basements and quiet bedrooms, slipped through their cracks and secret doors. I had been wormed my way through them, landed on their ancient rotten doorways and crawled through to the musty underbelly and to the other side I emerged reluctantly onto a new path, a train track or an open field spread open before me. The old loneliness and empty spaces collapsed together, and new sweet vines were growing, and were looking to tangle upwards.

My love held me close, held me like a lover should hold you, and I gave.

Dream, 9/3

I’m still drunk as I awake inside the passenger bus. It heaves as it pull up alongside a quiet road, the bus rumbling into otherwise quiet darkness at what appears to be the outskirts of a mid-sized city. Fumbling my way outside the bus, the other passengers are whispering of Costa Rica, but each unsure if ‘here’ was actually ‘There’. Did we pay to take this bus to Costa Rica? No one could put it together any better than — and suddenly I remember the sign for it posted on the highway before I fell back asleep again. Nevertheless, I couldn’t be sure of my memory and I was too drowsy anyway to care enough to find out for sure. We had arrived, and wherever we were the place we had all agreed to go, not a lot was happening.

We soon grouped and moved in the group away from the still rattling bus, that grizzly mechanical churn shrinks as we turned at the dead traffic light, then all but lost at the din of nighttime bugs that quickly rose from the earth. Further into the darkness only punctuated by streetlamps, we moved along the pavements edge, passing empty tenements and overgrown homes, sad plastic toys and peeling slogans of old political campaigns staked into the weeds, wet from recent rain. Pools of standing water swirling with bugs trembled silently. It was the kind of strange city quiet one hears deep into the night, when an acorn fallen on a leaf could be mistaken for an animal, or even ones own footsteps. This was nowhere near Costa Rica.

They jumped the fence it seemed at once, a surge of boots and hands bouncing off the feeble brick building. They swarmed the windows and doors and were absorbed into them, evaporating as on a black and white photograph into unlit places. Everyone moving in unison drew me after them, over the fenced barrier and into the floodlight that had somehow opened just for me, scorched the grounds and the dirt path pressed into the grass. The dirt path pointed to the rear entrance to the apartment building, but I climbed. Up the iron ladder and slipped through the nearest open window into a dim musty living room. I fumbled around, tripping over this and that before pushing opening the far door that revealed a rotten wooden staircase. I creaked upwards, ever upwards, slowly, towards the sound. The door at the top must have been painted a hundred times, and the edges faintly glow.

The apartment beyond is small, and barren if not for a TV and a few pillows on the hardwood floor. They’re sprawled across the room, the men and women from the bus, coupled on the pillows or spread alone and drinking cans of beer.  I lower myself down and feel the floor buckle and creak. Someone hands me a drink with a limp hand. Candles dance in the windows. A girl stands up, starts twisting her hips to the flickering silence. I watch her dance, the part where her ankles show between her jeans and her little boots. Everyone laughs, claps, stomps. She bounces and throws her hands in the air one last time.

We settle down and get to talking. The TV watching everything with a dead screen. I’m somewhere between drunk and tired but it’s not long before i’ll get swept up again, the heat building inside, somewhere further into the unknown. Am I intoxicated with alcohol, or something else? What is it happening now, that separates us, that keeps us from finding these forms? The candles glow, a faint glow that permeates the atmosphere. The floodlight clicks off, and all that’s generated now in the darkness is the warmth of those windows atop the tenement. The candles burn, melt, and lay sighed down the sills in gray morning. The bodies gone away, the cans left to collect dust and light. Beer drips from a half drunk can down into the cracks between the boards.


Excerpt, 8/22

The girl stands at the bedroom door her feet rubbing the hallway carpet floor. She chews on a finger thinks to herself what goes on beyond this door aint none of my business. Soon enough though it will be. For now she listens, the bubble around her glistening from the sun through the morning window. Brushes like an insect on her skin. Her hair is a force falling across her yawning face, and through it her eyes locked unflinching at what goes on beyond the door. A bubble keeps her silence inside it, and the sun through the window keeps the silence warm. When she hears a sound beyond the door, her spirit jumps out of her skin and runs back into her bedroom and closes the door. Pulling the covers over her frightened little fear. The bubble shrinks and shrinks until it floats around her heart. Another sound and she loses it, falls into the bathroom pretending to wash the sleep off her face as the bedroom door opens at the end of the hallway.

A darkness greets her good morning with a reptile smile, then moves on down the steps and out the front door with a crash. A car engine revs and pulls away into the distance. She wipes her hands clean of it and follows his scent down the stairs through the kitchen. All the way to the door, her handle on it soft and fleeting. Little wrists pale as they press against the door, she moves to open it but steps back and twirls onto the rug, humming a song. The bubble grows and grows, her music vibrating along the membrane like rocks thrown at a lake. She spins through the kitchen and opens the fridge removing a jug of milk and fixes herself some cereal. She eats it at the kitchen table with a napkin folded at her lap. The silence lays golden in a single ray of sunlight.
When she hears the door upstairs open again she pauses, her mouth full of rainbow milk, holds her breath and waits to hear her come down the steps. Mother arrives to the kitchen to see her son eating breakfast, turns the little television on and starts at the dirty dishes. She talks to him but he wont look at her, he just chews and shakes his head to the news station blaring Good Morning America. She smiles at her son, asks him how he slept, doesn’t mention the man who left. Figures he can bring it up if he wants. Hearing nothing she quickly begins on her nights sleep, up all night, congested, and she sniffles and sucks at the phlegm spidered in her chest.

She doesn’t ask him if he wanted eggs, she just starts it up, putting butter in the pan and heating it up on the stove, the kitchen more cluttered with every heavy second.  He feels a railroad spike in his chest as the phone rings just above his head. Answer it, she says. He lifts the phone and its Dad calling from the car phone asking if he’s ready yet. Who is it? It’s dad. Oh. Well, you tell him I’m making breakfast for his children.

Through the receiver dad’s voice. What’d she say? Mom’s making us breakfast. Well, I’m almost there. Tell her to make it to go so I can pick you guys up.
Across the kitchen his brother enters and yawns as he flops down across from him. Who is that, dad?
Yeah its dad.
Mom’s busy listening and burning the eggs in the butter. What’s he saying?
He’s almost here.
Well you tell him he ain’t getting his kids until they’ve sat and had breakfast with their mother.
He repeats that to dad, who’s screaming something off in the distance.
Tell her she doesn’t have to cook for you. I’m taking you boys out for breakfast.
He says he wants to take us out for breakfast.
She swells up like a beast, burning her hand on the stove and rushing to douse it in cold water from the sink.
Mother fucker. Tell that bastard he can have ya for the rest of the fuckin day but right now I got you boys and I’m makin em their breakfast. Hows that grab ya?
What did she say D? Derek.
He sits there with the phone at his ear twirling the cord around his finger and letting it unravel.
Tell him I’m not letting you pick em up. Tell him that. Right now. Mother fucker. Huh. Hows that. Hows that grab ya?
Tell her I heard every fuckin word… he screams off in the distance MOVE OVER ASSHOLE. CHRIST ALMIGHTY. Tell her I heard every fucking word and I’m coming to get you. You hear me D? Get your shoes on. Hang up and get your shoes on. Right now. I’m getting you out of that house.
She dumps the eggs from the pan brown and dry onto the plates with toast and butter and salt at the table. She unrolls a potato from its tin foil with an oven mitt, opens a salsa jar, and dumps salsa over the potato. She’s talking everywhere, to herself, to him, to Jay, to the ceiling, to the food.
Hang up the phone D. Hang it up now. Christ. Jesus christ. And she grabs her head with her hands and bangs her elbows on the glass table top.
He hangs up the phone.
That bastard. That fucking bastard. I don’t get to see you at all and this is all I want is for you boys to have some goddamn food with your mother, alright? Bastard. Here’s the salt. I didn’t salt the eggs or else I’d blow up. She smiles all beady, her veneers through wide open lips. I burned the toast. Here. I’ll make some more.
No. It’s fine ma. Just sit down.
He drives me fuckin nuts. I’m like a nutcase right now.
Nobody speaks anymore but the television is going and the sun is spread out on the kitchen table. There’s a car honking outside the condo and they know its him but nobody gets up or says anything.
The television. Then another honk, long and hard crashing through the kitchen.
Christ. And she stomps to the door shaking the little pictures on the wall and unlocks it with a terrifying rage. The phone starts ringing above his head.
She goes outside wearing a thin printed robe and slippers and starts at him wildly. They erupt under the birdsong and the clear sky of a Saturday morning with a storm of violence. He runs outside with his brother yelling stop, stop. The tears already streaming down his face, his heart pounding in his chest. Stop fighting. But they don’t stop and it doesn’t take long before he sees the shifting of the blinds across the way, the peering eyes feeding on the human ugliness happening in the street. They tumble and push and shake furiously, their jaws snapping, bodies swelling. They go blind and deaf and dumb, two beasts in a pit contesting over their young. Doors opening from adjacent condos and people spilling into the street. It isn’t only but half a minute with their claws outstretched but it sunk them through a darkness witnessed by all the small and silent people living, living out their saturday mornings in the usual way before this sudden violence. Before this storm.
They run inside to grab their bags and back out onto the sidewalk where the remains of the battle still shook the earth. The people watching them as they get into dad’s car and drive away, Mom pounding on the drivers side glass, her mouth foaming, her body jerking about before stomping defiantly back, past the driveway, past the eyes and faces floating in windows, past the morning dew, the sky rumbling and clear. A single slipper lay upside down in the grass like an insect dead from poison, a body part mutilated and stinking in the day.
I don’t want you living there anymore, he says to his sons. Your mother’s fucked. She’s completely fucked. You know how fucked she is. Look at me. He adjusts the mirror. Look what she did to me. What a bitch. What an absolute bitch. Here. I’ll turn on some music. You’re with me now, you’re with your father. I’m gonna sue her ass for this.
They drive off in the silence of the radio playing his favorite station, a station that played all the rock songs he liked. He fingered the back of the seat and said nothing nor looked up at either of them. Up ahead was the weekend, the rest of Saturday and all of Sunday before they’d get dropped back off with mom. The hills rolled by as they drove up and up the state roadway. The bubble was the exact size and shape of his heart. She watched the trees and the light flash and move across the seat. She sung a song to herself.