Class Reunion

Met a lot of people I did not know. So much for the "reunion" thing. Nice that a slightly overweight blonde hit on me, touching my thigh five times.
Twice was enough to ignore.
It is true. You cannot go back.

About An Accident Surrounding Some Damn Fine Automobile Machinery

It wasn't like I hadn't killed before. I just found this particular instance distasteful. I mean, the guy asked for it, getting' drunk and all, but he didn't have to pull a knife. Dumbass. A .38 beats a knife every time. Every fucking time.

And it's not like he didn't receive any warning. He should have known what he was getting himself into, walking into the "Dusty Trail" with his frat-boy cohorts. We usually ignore boys like him, being all immature and all, but some things you just don't let slide. Like insulting the barmaid. Especially insulting the barmaid. Nobody insults Sara. Ever.

After the recent rain, nobody in this place was moving around much. Too muddy. Too humid. Too hot. Half the town could be found playing pool in the bar, drinking cold beer. Strangers were a diversion. Some would welcome strangers, mostly for the escape, and the cold, hard cash that they typically carried. Me? I just sat in the corner, back against the wall, taking it all in. People knew me as a regular, but not as familiar. I hadn't been around very long. I tend to move around a lot. I know my way around cows, and trucks. I don't start no shit, as a rule.

People look at me and assume I don't know a lot. I don't, really, but I know some things. Like the sound of a Porsche 911 pulling into the gravel parking lot of a sleazy bar. Sounds a lot like a pickup with expensive wheels. Nobody else in the bar noticed, but I took note of it. Put it on the back burner, so to speak.

He didn't have to announce his arrival like that. He could have just glided in, but he didn't. He made a big deal out of it. People around here don't care for that shit. Not at all. Especially approaching midnight. Closing time was two in the morning, but those last two hours were tricky. Usually, only the die hards hung around that long, but with the recent weather, everyone was sticking around way too long for their own good.

I watched as he and his cronies demanded "Scotch, on the rocks, and not the cheap stuff."

Yeah, like that attitude is gonna fly in this town. They got their wish, and their drinks.

They seized a table, and started drinking with a vengeance. Maybe they were on a Spring break or something. I don't know. But they had no reservations. They became more obnoxious as the night wore on. And the night did wear on.

Back in my corner, I ignored them, for the most part. Occasionally, I'd look up when the group would break out in uproarious laughter, and then look down again, into my drink. I'd look around, and see all the familiar faces, and then go back to my dream.

At around one in the morning, something changed. The regulars started leaving in droves. I was still nursing a big drink. I had my own glass, as a regular, and it held a lot of gin and tonic. A lot.

Just as I was beginning to slip into a sitting coma, I heard screams from across the building. Sounded like it was coming from the bathroom. There was only one bathroom in the place. No "men's" and "women's" crap, just one room with a toilet. I guzzled the remnants of my drink and stood up. I was a bit shaky at first, but the next scream I heard kind of perked me up. A lot.

I strode, quite decidedly toward the bathroom. When I got to the door, I made my way through the crowd, and stood in front of the door. It was locked, so I picked up my boot, and kicked it open. There, on the toilet, was the Porsche Boy, raping Sara. The crowd clambered behind me, hoping for a sordid glimpse, so I appropriately denied them the satisfaction. I kicked the door closed behind me, and as Sara watched, Porsche boy pulled out a knife and lunged at me. He didn't get very far, with his pants around his ankles and all, so I kicked him in the nuts. He dropped like a rag.

I spoke, rather loudly, "Everyone go home. Now."

The door muffled the noise of retreating feet, and after a while, I opened the door. By that time, Sara had gathered herself and her clothing to the point that she could function.

"Go home, Sara."

"What are you gonna do?"

"Nothing," I replied. "Go home."

"I'm gonna put him in his car and send him on his way," I lied. "Unless you want to press charges?"

She rushed out of the front door. I glanced out of the window, and noticed that Porsche Boy's entourage had gathered around a van. I guess they were traveling in two vehicles. I walked back to the bathroom, just as Porsche Boy was getting up, and I looked at myself in the mirror. I adjusted my hat, just so it was at the right angle, then looking down, I kicked Porsche Boy in the head with the heel of my boot. Hard. It must have done some damage, 'cause he started writhing like a snake, and shaking. I think he may have bitten the end of his tongue off, 'cause there was a little blood trailing from his mouth.

I looked into the mirror again, noticed that my lips were chapped, and turned on the water over the sink to wash my face. Looking down, I used a paper towel on myself, and threw it into the toilet, flushing it down immediately.

By that time, Porsche Boy had stopped moving around so much, and was just starting to wake up again. I bent down on one knee, moved my mouth to his ear, and whispered, "Do you know what you have done?"

He just looked up, all scared and shit. I reached into his pocket and grabbed the keys to his fine piece of motoring machinery.

"Do you know what is going to happen to you?"

Again, a blank stare, only with a hint of fear this time.

"Well, boy, let's go for a ride."

I dragged him to the front of his car, opened the lid, and stuffed him into the luggage compartment of his 911. He didn't much like it.

The drive to the New Mexico desert was inspiring. The darkness. A little ZZ Top. The warm, night air. I drove that fine vehicle to the edge of the desert, to where the desert meets canyon, and stopped. I opened his glove compartment, found a paper napkin, and proceeded to wipe the car down. Satisfied with my actions, I turned my attention to the front of the car. I knocked on the lid.

"Hey, you awake in there?" I didn't want to have to do it, but I was the only one on hand capable. I also wanted him to be awake. Terribly awake.

All I heard was a bunch of whimpering. I looked up at the stars, oriented myself with the belt of Orion, reached into my belt and pulled out the pistol, and put six shots into the front of the car. Then, I started the car, put it into gear, and sent it down the canyon. A .38 beats a knife every fucking time.

Some people wonder how I was able to get away. People who know me don't wonder at all. Ever.

Today, I was looking in the mirror. I adjusted my new hat, washed my face, and said to myself, "I don't like killing. Much."

I move around a lot. I know what I am doing.

I know how to drive a Porsche, for better or worse.

Door Number 3

Sometimes the wind is so gentle, you don’t even notice it. Like when you have a window open, and you see the curtains wave.

It was like that for me, on a Monday, when I figured out that I was a man. I didn’t set out that day to become a man. It just kind of happened.

The postman came and delivered our mail, and I got my copy of Popular Mechanics that I had been expecting. I ran to my room, closed my door, and started to devour the text. This was back in the 60s, when metal meant metal. Circuits were esoteric, and not commonplace.

It was a very warm summer day. The sky was as blue as I’d ever witnessed, and the few clouds that dared to appear were but whispers. I was wearing a pair of cut-off jeans, as it was so warm, and I had not a care in the world.

The funny thing about the weather in West Texas? It can change in an instant.

As the dust blew in, I closed my window, and watched as the wind carried the tumbleweeds into the next yard. Better their’s than ours.

I watched as my father drove onto the driveway. He wasn’t elegant in his approach. I could tell he’d been drinking. I mean, it was Monday, so by noon, he was probably quite lit.

I lowered the window, and turned on my TV. It was an old, black and white thing. Resting on its wire stand, it was something out of a 50s science fiction movie. Still, it rendered images reasonably well. However, it was old, and a hazard. It would shock the piss out of you if you touched its metallic siding in bare feet. It had this funky antenna that had to be adjusted for the best reception.

That early afternoon, I got hungry, and went to the kitchen and made myself a sandwich. My father was sitting at the table, nursing a bourbon and coke. He barely noticed me as I put the mayonnaise back in the fridge. I walked back to my room, and closed the door behind me.

It was getting dark outside, as the storm clouds rolled in. I took bites off of my sandwich, and pondered whether to pick Door Number 1, Number 2, or Number 3. For some strange reason, my TV was getting really good reception at that point.

I was fairly lost in my own world at that moment, but then I heard my mother yelling. I had to put down my sandwich. I could never eat when she yelled.

I heard, through the walls, my father berate her for being a slut. She hollered back that he was an impotent drunkard. I heard the slaps. I felt the blows.

I don’t know what was different about that day, but instead of turning up the volume on my TV and ignoring the situation, I walked out of my room, went to my father’s gun cabinet, and picked up his little .380 automatic pistol. Just my size.

I walked into the living room, where he was hovering over my mother, and I warned him: “Stop it now.”

He was not amused. He turned his attention to me, and then queried, “What are you gonna do, boy?”

I stated, quite simply, that I would shoot him.

He did not believe me. His error.

He lunged toward me, and I carefully placed a bullet in his left thigh. It went clean through, as I did not aim for the bone. He collapsed readily, and my mother went to his aid, as she always did.

She was screaming, “Do you realize what you just did? Do you have any idea what you are doing?”

I casually replied, “I know exactly what I am doing. Do you know what you are doing?”

I went back to my room, and placed the pistol on top of the TV, turned up the volume, and chose Door Number 3. I always had good luck with Door 3. Always.

I continued to work on my sandwich, and my mother opened the door, just a crack, and asked me, “What am I supposed to tell the people in the emergency room?”

I recommended, “Tell them that he was cleaning his gun, and it went off.”

She replied, “Good story.”

They left, and I picked up the remnants of my sandwich, and changed the channel.

The rain began to fall, so I opened the window.

I love the smell of rain. There’s something cleansing about the smell of fresh rain.

nowhere, again.

nowhere, again.

I sometimes wish that I did not
like alcohol so much.

I get angry at it, but it does,
it doesn't do any good.
At some point, I come back.
And alcohol forgives.

Forgives me for my absence -- all is forgiven,
after the second drink.

We work well together,
alcohol and I.
I prefer morphine,
but they don't sell that,
at my liquor store.

I get up every morning,
before the sun comes up, and make my way.
To another room, for other things,
and eye the gun, sitting, waiting,
For what it thinks it's gonna say.

I pour a cup of coffee,
and step into the yard.
Watch my dog chase,
those nasty squirrels and birds away.

He gets his just reward,
back inside the house.
It's been over two years now,
and neither of us have seen a single mouse.

We work well together,
alcohol and I.
I prefer morphine,
but they don't offer that,
at my liquor store.

I sometimes wish that I did not
like living quite so much.

I get angry at it, but it does,
It does me no good.
At some point, I come back.
And life forgives.

Forgives me for my absence -- all is forgiven,
once I begin to think.

Even the road to nowhere,
must lead to somewhere.
Hopefully, it leads,
far away from here.

I sometimes wish that I did not
like nightime, oh so much.

I like walking in it, but it does,
it doesn't do much good.
At some point, I come back.
And the darkness must forgive.

The darkness always forgives.
Even in the light,
the darkness is waiting for me,
and I know what it will say:

Darkness forgives.

Until the last goodbye

Until the last goodbye

We both know you love me.
So, why do you make it
so hard on yourself?

We both know you're crazy.
And, as if
that is not enough.

You continue to
kill yourself.
Each and every day.
You're killing yourself.
And in doing that,

You're killing me too.

We both know,
things, they have to change.
Else you will lose me.
And I'll miss you too.

Go ahead. Drive away.
But don't think that,
You can come back.
You're killing yourself.
And in doing that,

You're killing me too.

Are you killing me,
'Cause you have to?
Are you killing me,
'Cause you need to?
Are you killing me,
'Cause I don't want to go?
Are you killing me,
'Cause you got nothing else to do?

We both know,
Things have got to change.
You know, and I know,
It's our life, to rearrange.
We both know you love me.
So, why do you stop?
We both know I love you,
But it's time that I should go...

Maintenance Required

Garages always smell of used oil. That is a fact.

After a while, it might become a comforting smell.

I used to know this guy, whose parents named him "jesus." That’s with a little "j" in the front. They usually called him "boy." I'd hear them calling him, "Get home, boy." And man, that kid would run home. Didn't matter much. They'd beat the crap out of him anyway. His parents would be trashed from the booze and drugs long before he walked in the door. Still, he ran home. Every time.

I used to watch them from my perch, from the attic of my house. I could look out of the side vents and see his whole compound. His dad repaired farm equipment, and had all sorts of tools and torches. And hammers. And jesus would do his father's bidding, fetching this and that. They at least seemed to feed him. And let him keep his fish. He had an amazing aquarium in his room, which I could see with the aid of binoculars. Colorful fish. Elegant animals.

I felt lucky. My father only kicked my ass every once in a while, and in private. On the other hand, I would watch jesus' dad wipe the back yard with his ass. And then, jesus would go in and feed his fish. I felt a kinship.

Then, this one afternoon, I watched as jesus was dragged to the alley, where they burned weekly their trash in a 55 gallon oil drum, and his father was prodding him with a big ass stick. I watched, and listened, as the old fart told his son to "do it." I watched as jesus opened the box, like a shoebox or something, and pulled out, one by one, tiny kittens, and placed them in the near empty oil drum.

I watched as the father poured in some liquid from a gas canister, on top of the kittens. Then, he handed jesus a zippo lighter. I heard him, from the distance, demand that jesus set fire to the barrel of kittens.

When it became evident that jesus couldn't pull it off by himself, I watched as his father grasped his hand, holding the lighter, and forced jesus to strike the lighter and throw it into the barrel.

The barrel practically exploded. I think it burned jesus' father's eyebrows off of his face.

I could also hear the kittens screaming. Even from the attic.

And there was a look in his father's eyes, a look of satisfied glee, that haunts me to this day.

As they walked away from the smoke, I saw jesus' father place his arm around his son, and say, "Good boy."

I had never taken a drink in my life, being 12 years old and all, but I crept down from the attic and opened a bottle of Gin that my parents kept on hand, and poured myself several glasses. It burned going down, but it was a good burn.

I don't typically believe in "souls," but if souls exist, I witnessed the breaking of at least one that day. At least one.

The smell of oil is now familiar to me. It is an unforgiving smell. 'Tis neither here nor there. It's just a smell. Burning oil has a distinct odor.

When I get out of my car these days, after I pull into my garage following a long drive, that smell of burning oil takes me back.

Maybe it's time to get my oil changed.