The Metropolitan Ambush

Heartbroken would be an overstatement. Ambushed would probably be a more appropriate word--ambushed by a Midwest city that slid into filthy frames of landlocked residences with cluttered lawns and weathered roofs; their decimated appearance an indication of the harsh elements they've fought and succumbed to.

So I closed my eyes because I hated the poverty, because I hated Mick Jagger's nauseating oversimplifications blaring through the taxi's speakers.

I thought back to my second evening with her. She called my future plans "far out" and it just seemed so goddamn adorable. But she also had insight and she was willing to share. "Everyone around here falls into a relationship in high school and all the girls get pregnant by the time they're eighteen." She was beautiful when she said it because she was a refutation of her own generalization.

We were both drunk by the end of the night. "Don't worry, I won't stand you up tomorrow," she assured me. She was beautiful when she said it because it sounded honest.

I closed the space between us and tried to pull her aside discreetly. "When was the last time you kissed a boy?" I inquired delicately, making myself too obvious, my eyes broadcasting truth like stupid radio towers.

"I do prefer the ladies," she confessed. And my disappointment was a catapult that launched my lips towards hers.

"But I'm strangely charming," I countered, bringing my hands up to her face.

She laughed and said, "You're amazingly charming... and cute for a boy." Then my lips fell clumsily into hers and she accepted them.

Even if she was some dispossessed lie, some bullshit name that had me singing a Phish song to myself before I fell asleep, she was still memorable. She was still something to write about.

She could have been smoking pot in her parents' basement while a stripper wrapped her legs around my head. She could have been visiting her favorite bar--the one where her car was broken into--while I watched a blues band that knew nothing of sadness. Or she could have been bleeding to death in some emergency room while I dissolved into cigar smoke and twenty-dollar martinis that were, surprisingly, worth every penny.

Her tattoo said trust no one and part of me wanted to watch it disappear beneath my fingers, its inky implications staining the skin it decorated before vanishing completely. Another part of me wanted to burn it from her flesh, like that unforgettable episode of our favorite TV show where Jodi Foster's voice wreaked havoc on a man's sanity.

I tell myself she couldn't possibly be that good a liar and I couldn't possibly be that naive. I think that everything was legitimate except her name.

She knows I'm getting on a plane soon, thinking she'll never hear from me again. So I want to believe she'll be pleasantly surprised when her eyes stumble across words like drunks across company. She'll appreciate my understanding: Deceit is inevitable and tough to maintain; sometimes interactions are that much more effective when they're brief and dishonest.

Today, my mouth tastes like olives and my mind drifts back to Boston. Three cities in the span of a week and I consider throwing myself through the window of this boarding gate. I want my face to hit the runway in a cascade of broken glass while flights depart for destinations more conducive to love. My head needs to explode, my ears need a break from percussion and my body needs to be done with Indianapolis. So I tell last weekend's love affair that I hate this city more than hers. And it's true. At least Boston was honest.

"We're never coming back to Indy," I say to my coworker as we squeeze into our tight seats on the tiny airplane.

"Not if we don't have to," he replies, leaving the option a little too open for my taste.

Just Stay

Not to suck my own dick (figuratively speaking of course), but I think this is my favorite piece written recently (or even not so recently for that matter). It may not be the best, but I’d say it’s my fav.

I don’t really know why. And you guys are more than welcome to disagree. But I really enjoyed writing this and I really like the way it turned out. I think it’s a little sweeter than the stuff I typically write, but there’s nothing wrong with that, right? In fact, it’s probably a nice change of pace after a month of dead babies, psychotic little girls, chainsaw deaths and shovel bludgeoning.

Those of you who talk to me on a regular basis (you poor souls) probably know I’ve been absolutely obsessed with Kevin Devine lately (no homo), particularly his song “Just Stay.” I was also up in Boston a few weekends ago, so I guess this piece was largely inspired by both New England and Kevin Devine. Yeah, it’s almost entirely fiction, but that shouldn’t make it any less poignant!

And if you haven’t listened to Kevin Devine, particularly the aforementioned song, I STRONGLY recommend you do so.

Just Stay

I was strung out on a ferry going from New London to Orient Point. The seats were the color of calamine lotion and the walls were painted a sickly sort of teal—one so pale, it bordered on anemic. The sitting area looked weathered and abused, like the waiting room of some inner city methadone clinic. The light was artificial and unsteady, a laboring illumination that complemented the drab and tacky color scheme.

Before boarding I was a little concerned that the unavoidable motion of the boat might make for an unpleasant trip in my condition. But as I stretched out on a collection of seats, using my bunched up jacket as a pillow, the slight, almost undetectable movement of the ship actually soothed me.

It was after midnight, but I kept my sunglasses on. The fluorescent lights were excruciating. I could almost see the buzzing.

When I first decided to make myself horizontal, selfishly occupying an entire row of seats, the whole sitting area had been empty. I suppose late night ferries don’t typically attract a staggering amount of passengers and I was grateful to have Kevin Devine crooning through my iPod as my only company.

She said it’s pretty but you hate yourself, I can hear it clear as day.

As the boat drifted my mind did the same. It was pretty incredible to think that only hours earlier I was watching the dark imperfections of I-95 lead south like varicose veins.

***

“Paaawwwtucket!” Evan exclaimed as we sped past the exit sign. He was enamored with the hillbilly twang of the word. I was kind of surprised he’d never heard it before.

“Downtown Pawtucket does not look very impressive,” I said, inhaling a lump of coke off the edge of my key as I looked out the window towards the bleak façade of low brick buildings.

“Dude, when you name you’re town Pawtucket, you’re really setting yourself up for failure.”

“You want a bump?”

“Yeah.”

I positioned the key under his nose and he inhaled, knocking most of the powder on his shirt and pants.

“So that girl was really giving you a handy under the table?”

“Not really a handy. More like a really inappropriate massage.”

It was true. The petite, unassuming girl with dirty blond hair and drunk, honest eyes got pretty friendly pretty quickly. But I was less impressed with her apparent compulsion towards rubbing my nether regions beneath the table and drawn more to the simple comfort of her company. I was amazed with how good it felt to hold someone again, to feel someone else’s tongue in my mouth. It had been so long. There was the feeling that we belonged to each other, at least for a few hours.

“Did you even kiss her?” Evan asked.

“Eventually. Momentarily.”

We had only kissed once and only for a few seconds. And we took a lot of shit for our brief, sloppy makeout session—our respective group hooting and taunting, jokingly calling our outward display of affection “inappropriate” at such an early hour. But that’s what happens when you start drinking at noon. And she had decided to lightly touch my junk before our tongues ever collided—only about an hour after we met. I was mildly perplexed. She came off as kind of sweet and wholesome. Still, she moved her delicate fingers over my package while I ate my chicken sandwich and chased it with my ninth or tenth IPA of the day.

“I’m surprised she didn’t try and get you to stay,” Evan said. “You totally should have stayed, bro.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Obligations dude.”

“You’re an idiot. That girl actually liked you.”

“I gotta get home.”

That hadn’t been my initial intention. The beer convention had been planned. Heading home that same evening had not. But I felt compelled, despite the inebriation, despite the inevitable distance and despite the pretty, young girl that had been so willingly wrapped in my arms for a fair portion of the evening. Even after the convention, as we sat on a bench in some Bostonian park drinking beer out of paper-bagged cans, our reciprocating body heat kept us warm in the face of a Northeast November.

“Just stay,” she had whispered into my ear. And I thought of Kevin Devine.

“I’m okay, okay,” I replied softly, putting my free hand around her and inserting it into the side pocket of her skinny jeans.

“What?” She nuzzled in closer to me, burying her small frame in my encompassing body.

“Nothing… sorry.” I placed my cool face against hers and closed my eyes as a strong wind whipped past us, causing the few remaining leaves on the tree overhead to tremble and shift, their brittle bodies falling to the ground with a light tick.

“How would you get home anyway?” she asked.

“Evan said he’d drive me to the ferry.”

“That’ll take two hours.”

“Maybe less.”

“You’ve been drinking all day.”

I answered with silence, my face still pressed against hers, her jaw rubbing softly against my cheek as she spoke.

“You know, another girl might be offended. What’s so damn important at home anyway?”

“The Yankees.”

“You’re an asshole. I don’t think I like you anymore.” She made a weak attempt to push away from me, but I held her close.

“That’s not true. You just need to believe that I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t have a good reason.”

It was her turn to be silent.

“And I have your phone number,” I added.

“Plan on being in Boston again in the near future?”

“No, not really.”

“So just stay.”

“Let’s shake and trade and be on our way. Let’s go, go, go,” I replied, half-singing.

“What?”

“Nothing… sorry.”

“You have a girlfriend?” This was somehow simultaneously a timid inquiry and a scathing accusation.

“No… not anymore. We broke up a few months ago.”

“What happened?”

“We didn’t see eye to eye on something, so she left me.”

“She left you?”

“Well… I guess we kind of left each other.”

She nodded, potentially understanding. “So you’re just going to leave.”

“I think I should.”

“Seriously, you suck.”

“I know.”

***

Rhode Island indicated its size by the length of time we were in it.

“You might make this ferry after all,” Evan said, yanking me from my sweet recollection.

“Jesus, I fucking better.”

“Just tell me something, man, how does you getting home tonight change anything?”

“It might not change anything.”

Connecticut was a blanket of darkness with only headlights to break up the black. We were going nowhere on a road that was suspended in space, on a crash-course with oblivion.

“Hey, it’s your life, but if you ask me…”

“I appreciate the ride, Evan,” I said, cutting him off. “But not the insight.”

“You don’t hafta be a dick.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

And we sped towards exit 84, towards an aging dock and a floating vessel that would carry me closer to or farther from a place I needed to be.

***

Even with my eyes closed and my sunglasses offering additional protection, I knew the blazing overhead fluorescence of the ferry sitting area had been eclipsed.

“Are you breathing?”

“I think so. Fuck… I hope so.”

She was standing over me, examining my face. Her long wavy hair swept over the shoulders of her green military jacket and fell to the middle of her back. She was slight and plain, but attractive because of something both menacing and typical, a contradiction that’s not easy to pull off.

“Why are you wearing sunglasses?” she asked.

“The light—it’s brutal.”

“You smell like a brewery.”

“A beer fest.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I was at a beer festival, not a brewery.”

I winced as I turned and sat upright.

“You okay?” she asked.

“My ass hurts.”

“Why?”

“High-kicking contest.”

“What?”

“A high-kicking contest.”

“What’s that?”

“Honestly, it’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like. What do you think it is?”

“It sounds like you had a contest to see who could kick the highest.”

“Bingo.”

She smiled a little. “You pulled something,” she said mockingly.

“No. I slipped in a puddle of beer and fell on my ass. At least I think it was beer. It was definitely wet and it was definitely at a beer convention.”

“Did you win?”

“Win what?”

“The high-kicking contest.”

“No. Not even close. I’m pretty sure I was a solid seven or eight inches below the mark. My jeans are too tight.”

She looked down at my jeans to see if that was true. It seemed like she was satisfied with the legitimacy of the statement. “So why are you here?”

“That’s a pretty existential question.”

“I mean why are you alone on a ferry going from Connecticut to Long Island at dark-thirty?”

“Circumstances, I guess. The primary ones being alcohol and obligations.”

“Obligations for what?”

I sighed. “I don’t think I should go into that right now.”

“That’s fair, you just met me,” she said. “So you know this boat has a bar, right? Seems like you’d be better suited for that setting.”

“I don’t think I want to drink anymore.” I paused, thinking. “Maybe I do. I don’t like being that guy alone at the bar, especially on a ferry. It seems pathetic.”

“As opposed to being sprawled out on these seats, headphones covering your ears, sunglasses hiding your eyes? You kind of look like a vagrant.”

“And do you make a habit of approaching vagrants?”

“Not really,” she said. “But I’m bored and, amazingly enough, you’re one of the more approachable characters on this boat.”

“That’s pretty sad.”

“It really is.” She stopped and lowered her voice a little. “Do you have any more blow?”

“What?”

“Blow—do you have any more?”

“What would make you ask a question like that?”

She brought her hand up to her nose and made a wiping gesture.

“Oh, are you fucking serious?” I replied, wiping the minimal powder off my nostril. ‘Smoke Rings’ a friend had once called them. “That’s pretty amateur of me.”

“It definitely is. So, do you have more?”

“Maybe.”

“You should share.”

“I guess.” I looked around the empty sitting area. “You wanna just follow me into the bathroom?”

“Hey now, I’m not that kind of girl.” She took a half-step back. “If you think you’re getting any private lavatory favors out of this deal, you’re dead wrong. You just need to exhibit some selflessness.”

“I mean to do the coke… discreetly, privately.”

“Who cares? There’s like no one on this ship anyway.”

I shrugged, reached into my pocket and handed her the bag. “You have a key or something?”

“Or something.” She pulled a hair clip from her small purse and used the indented end as a tiny shovel, inserting it, along with the drug, into her nostril. She gave a quick, dainty inhalation and repeated the process two more times. “That coke kind of sucks.”

“I know. It was all I could find in Boston on short notice.”

“So the beer festival was in Boston?”

“Yeah.”

“And you drove all the way down to catch this ferry? Aren’t you wasted? That’s pretty irresponsible.”

“I’m pretty wasted, but I didn’t drive. My buddy gave me a lift.”

“Was he wasted?”

“Yeah, but not as wasted.”

“You’re awful.”

“That’s a bold statement coming from someone that just mooched blow off me. You didn’t even ask my name.”

“Should I?”

“It doesn’t really matter.”

She shifted her weight and eyed the seat next to me, apparently considering whether or not remaining in my company was a worthy investment of her time.

“So once we get into Orient Point, how are you getting home?” she asked.

“Haven’t really figured that part out yet. I’ll probably call a taxi.”

“Where do you live?”

“Riverhead.”

“That’s going to cost you. I could probably give you a ride. I’ll be driving through Riverhead anyway.”

“I’m a total stranger that’s been admittedly drinking for over twelve hours and sampling additional illicit substances. Do you really want me in your car? I could be dangerous. At the very least, I’m unsavory.”

“Well what about dangerous? Are you?”

“I could be.”

She studied me with this question in mind. “I don’t think you are,” she said after a moment.

“Yeah, I’m not very dangerous,” I agreed. “At least I have no intention of being dangerous.”

“Then we’re in good shape.”

She sat down next to me, in the chair that had previously been occupied by my feet. “So, you don’t want to know anything about me?” she asked. “Maybe I’m the dangerous one. Maybe I scout out late-night ferries for unsuspecting prey and lure them into my car with promises of a safe ride home.”

“I think I could take you.”

“What?”

“I’m tougher than I look—I could take you.”

“You’re drunk and high. If I had a weapon in my car, you’d be dead before we got two miles.” She drew out the last two words very deliberately and offered me a conniving, manic sort of smirk.

“What kind of killer would do something like that?” I replied.

“Huh?”

“If you were really a serial killer,” I elaborated. “You wouldn’t want to just kill me quickly in your car. You’d want to savor the experience. You’d probably want to knock me out and keep me locked in some kind of torture dungeon. Then you’d kill me when you could actually enjoy it.”

“I guess that makes sense,” she admitted. “Well, what if I just wanted to rob you? Maybe I just want to hold you up at gun point, take all your valuables and leave you in the middle of nowhere.”

“Not much to take.”

She scrunched her face a little. “Wow, you’re really good at refuting this sinister image I have of myself.”

“Fabricated.”

“What?”

“The fabricated sinister image you have of yourself,” I corrected.

“Well, I guess you’ll just have to wait and see how fabricated it is.” She reached into her purse, pulled out some chap stick and applied it liberally to her lips. “So why so mysterious? Why won’t you tell me what you’re trying to get home for? I mean if I spent the entirety of my day partying in Boston, I don’t think I’d be trying to get home that same night.”

“I think I’m trying to do the right thing.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.”

“You’re too young to try and do the right thing. Doing the right thing is really for people that are thirty and older. So why won’t you tell me what the right thing is?”

“I can’t. I don’t really want you to know me,” I said honestly.

“You think I’ll pass judgment.” This was a statement, not a question.

“I feel like it’s kind of impossible not to. It’s reactionary. When someone presents you with a scenario involving dubious morality, you can’t stop your mind from considering and deliberating. Even if you want to.” She stared at me blankly. “All this happens in the span of a second or two. A second or two isn’t enough time to really control your brain.”

“Point taken.” But she was still intrigued. “Well, can you tell me what prompted you to come home?”

I consider the question, like we’re playing a game. Was it against the rules? I decided it wasn’t. “I guess I can do that. It was a text message.”

“One text message encouraged you to go from Boston to Riverhead at this time of night?” She was skeptical.

I nodded. “Okay… two text messages, if you want to get technical.”

“So there’s an emergency.” Again—a statement, not a question.

“I wouldn’t really call it an emergency. The time of urgency has passed.” I said the last part sort of officially, like a newscaster or politician or despot.

“So why the hell is it important enough to leave Boston so suddenly?” She was getting a little frustrated with my elusive sort of anti-logic. “Why not just come home in the morning?”

This was a good question and one I couldn’t really answer. I gave it a moment’s thought, but was unable to really pick out a sensible response. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“Not really.”

“But you decided to make the trip anyway?”

I just shrugged. “There was very little reason involved in my decision.”

“Ohhhh.” She nodded dramatically, as if with instantaneous understanding. “Then it’s a girl,” she said simply.

I couldn’t help it, I burst out laughing. Her confidence in this assertion was pretty astounding. I conceded to its degree of accuracy. “Sort of.”

“Well there’s a girl involved somehow.”

“There is. But how do you know this?”

“You said there wasn’t much reason involved in your decision.” She smiled a little, knowingly. She was clearly very pleased with her sleuthing ability. “That tends to be the case when girls are part of the equation. It’s pretty primitive when you think about it.”

I laughed again. “Yeah, it really is.”

“So you love this girl?” The little detective had a hot lead and was pursuing with assured diligence.

“I did.”

“Not anymore?”

“I don’t know. It’s definitely a possibility.”

“A possibility?” Again, her frustration showed itself. “Most guys won’t make the decision you did for a possibility.”

I thought this girl might be my subconscious manifesting itself in some kind of physical form. She sounded too much like me. She asked questions that pushed me in a certain direction. “Who are you anyway? Where did you come from?”

She didn’t even flinch. “You definitely love her. And it sounds like I’m your ride. We’ll be docking in a few minutes.”

***

Her car was clean and smelled like strawberry bubble gum.

“I appreciate the ride,” I said.

“Just leave me the rest of your coke,” she replied, steering the car off the ferry dock and onto the main road.

“It may have been cheaper for me to take a cab.” This was a joke, but she didn’t laugh.

I took the bag of drugs out of my pocket and put it in her center console.

“You’ll probably want to be sober for whatever it is you have to do anyway.”

“Well, I think it’ll take more time than I’ve got to really sober up. I’m actually starting to feel pretty awful.” This was true. My long, heavy buzz was fading and being replaced with a pulsing headache. I started to sweat a little, so I cracked the window.

“What did the text say?” she asked.

“What?”

“You said it was a text message that made you leave. What did it say?”

“The first or the second?”

“Both.”

I closed my eyes and let the cool November air caress my moistened face. “The first one said, ‘she’s coming.’ So I texted her back with ‘what should I do?’ Her second text said, ‘just leave.’”

“Just leave?”

“Just leave.”

So we both grab hold and say no you don’t. Just stay, just stay.

“And you just left.”

“I’m here, aren’t I?”

And I’m grabbing at a feeling now that I can’t ever name. Some sign post to remind me how I wanted things this way.

“Who’s she?”

“Who?”

The girl sighed. I could feel my mind getting slower and she probably could too. The alcohol and cocaine were leaving me.

“You said the first text you got was ‘she’s coming.’ Who’s she?”

I didn’t answer. I just kept my eyes closed and my face perfectly positioned in front of the open window.

“So you’re not going to tell me?” she asked.

I remained silent for a moment then said, “I told you—I don’t want you to know me.”

She gave a little shrug. “Fine. It’s your secret.”

We drove in silence for a little while. She didn’t even turn on the radio.

“Where do you want me to drop you off?” she asked as we grew closer to Riverhead.

“You know where the hospital is?”

“Jesus… yeah.” Her voice adopted a concerned tone and she took her eyes off the road for a moment to look over towards me. “I thought you said it wasn’t an emergency.”

“It’s not really. I told you, the time of urgency has passed.”

She sighed again. “Should I just stop asking questions? I’m really not going to get the whole story here, am I?”

“I think you already kind of know the whole story,” I replied. “After all, you’re just a physical manifestation of my subconscious.”

“What the fuck?”

“Nothing… sorry.”

“I think you are doing the right thing.”

“Yeah? Even with your limited knowledge?”

“I’m pretty perceptive,” she said and smiled. I smiled too.

“I believe that,” I said, closing my eyes and letting the night air pummel my face. I think I deserved the beating.

***

The glass doors slid open and I walked, like a zombie, down the long glowing corridor.

The hospital was quiet and sterile. I spoke with some large nurse at some important looking desk and, after a brief and somewhat accusatorial interview, she pointed me in the appropriate direction after giving me a piece of gum. She didn’t like me. She could smell my alcohol and exhaustion, but I guess she was willing to offer me the benefit of the doubt; creating her own set of circumstances that might make my tardiness excusable.

I slowed my pace as I approached the room the large nurse had indicated. I had a brief moment of panic as my remaining inebriation, impending hangover and nearly overwhelming anxiety collided to form a perfect storm of awfulness. My legs felt wobbly and my head was ready to explode. I considered the option of turning around and sprinting for the door, running like a crazy person down the barren hallway, hearing the angry calls of the large nurse as I moved like a bullet past her station. “I knew you were an asshole!” I would hear her yelling as I fled from my responsibility. “A chicken-shit little asshole!”

But I steadied myself and pushed the thoughts from my mind. I took a deep breath and entered.

She was alone in the room, which was a relief. Mercifully, there were no family members or other friends. She looked beautiful. Her eyes were closed and her golden hair cascaded across the white linens beneath her head. She had such a look of accomplished exhaustion on her face, I wanted to cry and beg her forgiveness. I wanted to throw myself at her feet and tell her that the fat nurse was right; I’m a chicken-shit asshole and I don’t deserve to be here. But the girl on the ferry was also right—I love you and I wouldn’t be here right now if I didn’t. Please be with me again. Please.

Her eyes opened slowly and I could tell by the look on her face that some part of her thought I was either a dream or a hallucination. But the sense of reality came quickly and a thin, tired smile graced her lips.

“I ruined your night,” she said groggily. And I could feel myself on the verge of tears.

“You didn’t ruin anything.”

“You were in Boston?”

“Yeah.”

She didn’t lift her head from the pillow, but she looked at me with affection. “How the hell did you get down here?”

“The same way I got up there.” I moved towards the bed. “I’m sorry. I should have been here. I didn’t even realize what day it was.”

“I haven’t seen you in weeks… longer maybe.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Stop saying that.”

“Okay.”

I stood over her and traced the outline of her tired face with my finger. “You look so beautiful,” I said.

“Are you drunk?”

“A little. I was at a beer convention.”

She rolled her eyes, but the smile stayed on her lips. “I can’t believe you made it down. What time is it?”

“Late.”

She closed her eyes again and pressed her face against my hand. “So,” she said. “Are you ready?”

“For what?”

“To meet her. I think she really wants to meet you.”

“I’m really nervous.”

She gave a cute, tired little laugh. “That’s okay. I don’t think she’ll be able to tell.”

“What if she hates me?” I inquired coyly, legitimately terrified of the answer.

“What if she loves you?” She asked this question with a staggering degree of seriousness, like the fate of this world and every other world rested solely on my response.

…And I’m racing towards the one mistake that locks me in my place. The judgment call that justifies the smirk stuck on my face. My crooked life scared straight and stiff by the last wrong turn I’ll take…

I leaned down and put my mouth right next to her ear. “Then I’ll stay.”

The Brave Swine

She arrives as a piece of pop art, unaware of her obscurity at this kind of party. So I pester my artist friends for a name, asserting their worthlessness as they recall recent trips to the MoMA and draw a blank on the exhibit in question. Warhol is mentioned, but I know better. I may be uncultured, but something so obvious would be a letdown.

When technology fails, I resort to spies. They do their job but leave me feeling dirty, like I cheated. And I did cheat. So she sees through me, partly because I want her to.

“Roy Lichtenstein,” I say somewhat absently.

“Did someone tell you?” she responds, smiling. She's trying to be kind. She doesn't want to insult me, but the knowing is in her eyes. “You're full of shit,” is what she's thinking. And I don't blame her. I am full of shit. But it's well-intentioned shit and I think she can see that too.

In less than ten minutes, I'm in love. That’s the third or fourth time today... and it's still early.

Before too long I'm trying to see myself in her writing, despite never having read a word. My egotism rages and I want her to take this conversation to bed instead of me. I want her to carry it back to California and afford me the attention I crave. And I’d imagine she understands this. After all, we're both writers. We couldn’t be more transparent. We're looking for inspiration in each other’s vanity, taking mental notes and collecting the evening as a fictional and sensorial account that will appear more attractive to our respective readers.

And somehow she calls me brave, in a passive kind of way. Like she’s looking for a more appropriate word but can’t quite find it. Still, she calls me brave. Twice. So I can savor her sweet accent as the word dances off her tongue and massages the air between us like the beautiful mistake it is.

“That's really brave,” she says vaguely. And I melt like the proverbial snowball in hell. But I want her to know it's true. I want her to know that I'm not quite as intimidated by her as I seem. So I give the piece she'll never write a title: “The Brave Swine.” And I picture her smiling coyly as she writes it.

When I finally find her poems—her conditions—I want to associate them with a taste. I want to head west instead of east and rip Lichtenstein off her body. I want to show her that passion isn't just for the foreign—that Americans can lust and live and fuck like Chilean authors or Thom Yorke.

Instead, we’ll just be characters for each other to tamper with, one-dimensional compositions that fill some kind of role on a page or blog or memoir. We’re mirrored representations of love for the only thing that really matters. And it’s both sad and beautiful.

Thanks!

During October's exercise in horror, it came to my attention that Last Before Infinity has been in existence for over a year. This came as a shock to me--not because it's so hard to believe that over 365 days have elapsed since I created this blog. But during my brief period of introspective reflection, it dawned on me just how little my life has changed in the past year.

Man, I'm lame.

Anyway, in light of this mild epiphany, it may seem appropriate to stress some existential cliche about time's propensity for sneaking away or our respective struggles on a road towards emotional maturity and personal fulfillment. But let's face it; you've heard all that crap before and my perspective probably won't be any different than those you've come to know, trust and revere. Instead, I'm just going to say thanks.

There are a few people who have read every word of every post on this hit-and-miss literary experiment I call Last Before Infinity. And not every post has been gold. Not by a long shot. Nevertheless, a handful of supportive friends have managed to peruse every story, review, rant, complaint, recommendation and meandering free-write that I've puked up onto this blog. Some may call this unmitigated masochism (myself included), but these sickos keep coming back for more!

And I do appreciate when said individuals are vocal about their opinions, whether they really enjoy what I've done or absolutely loathe it. I like feedback, even if it's someone telling me I suck. Well... that's a half-truth. I don't really like when people tell me I suck. But I do love attention! So when someone acknowledges my writing exists (even if it's to tell me I'm a sloppy, no-talent hack), it makes me happy(ish). Hey... if you're creating something you're exposing yourself to subjectivity, which means there's always going to be someone that hates what you do. At least that's what I tell myself when I'm crying and carving "be a better writer" into my forearm at night.

So I'm saying 'cheers' to all those guys and girls that keep me motivated. If this blog has done nothing else, it's acted as a medium for encouragement. Just knowing there are a few people that will read and digest everything I post has made me a more productive writer this past year. And I'm really grateful. Some of my more recent life-affirming decisions probably would not have come without support from the aforementioned individuals. So there you have it.

Thanks everybody!

Much Love,
J.

P.S. If you really want an exclusive shout-out or to see your name mentioned on some explicit list, get over yourself! I'll buy you a drink or something.