pseudo lou

SOMETHING ABOUT BILLY II

“Lou!” I see Matty coming to me from the assisted weights.

I have to adjust my mental when seeing Matty. I know I love speaking to this man, as it’s been months of run-ins. Every time I’m entering the fancy gym, some silly notion of Time = Money fills my psyche cup. No matter what, drop the future plans and spend this time. I think of every degenerate I shared communion with in the dives when I was “out.” When you choose to live life, suddenly there is no time to do so. I feel lucky that, even in purification, I attract the strangest strangers.

Or maybe they are who attracts me.

“Whatsup, Matty?” Knuckles. He is so fit, it’s crazy. Cutoff Tee, worn out baseball cap, long scraggly hair. The idea of lifting high isn’t foreign, it’s Matty’s resultant thinking.

“Oh — nothin’ much. Just got back from Carolina. See my kid and my grandkid,” he sways laterally when he speaks, guided by the sculpted shoulders. “And they just got back from Australia!”

“Australia!”

“Yeahhhh man! My grandson brought me back a pair of Kangaroo testicles!”

Both of us, laughing in the entry to the locker room. Hot people trying to squeeze past.

I say what I say often to Matty: ‘What?!”

“They’re lucky. They’re like a sacred fertility ritual token. There’s more to it, but getting Kangaroo balls from my grandson is just funny to me.”

“Dude, that’s an Australian rabbit foot,” I realize. “Like the lucky Rabbit’s foot keychains?”

“Yeah man, they have them on keychains. Mine’s a bottle opener.”

“That is ridiculous.”

“I guess — but it works. I’d say it’s more ridiculous to say anything we borrow off some creature’s body is gonna give us any luck. Kangaroo nuts are luckiest when they’re still attached to the Kangaroo.”

Such a good point. “Matty, do you imagine you could fondle the balls of a Kangaroo while they’re still attached?”

“Now that’s how you get yourself some good luck.”

Es and I are finally having coffee together. It’s been a long time since we had a coffee date, with our pursuits unfolding.

We had fallen in love at a time of far less capitalism. That is to say, the world around us was capitalism. We were satisfied for the time being. I had roommates and low rent. Es had little capacity to want to care about their dismal situation around them. Time to spare. Each other to escape.

We’d disappear into the outskirts of the city for hours.

But before we’d embark, we went to Cool & Beautiful Coffee Shop where Es could order the most fascinating offering on the menu. We liked being seen and befriended by the fashionista baristas.

Our favorite shop Cool & Beautiful has since closed. The model was European — or at least it felt like what people might refer to as ‘European.’ The baristas owned little shares of the companies. They did not accept tips, but instead paid the workers an appropriate wage. Every single person that worked in the space gave the essence of being thankful and happy to work in arguably the coolest space.

Somewhere, in the background where these things occur, money wasn’t adding up. The first thing that money can’t add up to are often wages for the people who make the place money. Here’s my understanding

stock and capital to begin selling products
people to do the work the person who has stock and capital doesn’t want to do

This is my understanding from back before when we were getting Cool & Beautiful coffee. Here’s my understanding now that I’m chasing the dollar:

revenue exceeding costs to sustain operations [ profit ]
funds for growth (equipment, inventory, hiring)
cash to cover immediate expenses (rent, payroll)
emergency fund, mgmt needs
debt management

Similarly to a regular citizen, any business can be late on a payment. We can also charisma our way into bonus time & leniency. When our back is up against a wall, we can lie. We can lie out loud in song. We can lie by omission. We can lie by absence while being in the room the entire time! No dark corners, just quiet ones.

The Cool & Beautiful Shop’s management kept it to themselves that this European format was no longer meeting ends. Our enthusiastic friends working at the shop continued to provide their trademark service and glowing conversation, so faithful that the structure around them would eventually pay their wages in full after a brief lull.

The lull stretched and stretched behind the smiling silence of the workers until another rent was due. Once the C&B workers were on back-pay to their own landlords, the lull-band snapped.

They had to go back on their European design and began shyly asking for tips. An American Revolution.

A few weeks later, Cool & Beautiful’s employees designed an Instagram account and outed the management for their lack of pay. They also revealed that a silent outsider had invested and taken control of 51% of the worker owned shop. The space emptied out, and all of our most Cool and Beautiful friends had to disperse into the scene of Other Shops to get work.

They were able to ride a humble supply of crowdfunding. Nothing else came from Cool & Beautiful.

Es and I make less friends behind the counters favoring more of a turn and burn relationship to guests, rather than investing in returns.

“How’s your SproTonic?” Es asks.

“I like it.” I sort of like it. Cold brew began giving me anxiety so I’ve been forced to find a new thing.

“I miss Cool & Beautiful,” they say.

“Me too, man. I feel like that was the last place to really sit down in.”

“We barely sat down when we went there though!”

“I guess you’re right. It would kind of feel like it. They had no problem holding up the line for a chat.”

“That’s the proof that their coffee was the best: they were all on their stuff.”

Laughter. “I wonder how many of them will follow Javi & Brandon’s lead in popping up shops?”

“They’re having guest spots for everyone from Cool & Beautiful. I saw on Instagram.”

“That’s awesome. We should go there more. Where is it?”

“Inside of a cocktail bar near Grandview, I think.” Es paused. “I bet you all mom & pop shops will be like that by the time you and I are old”

“Like how?”

“They’ll be stacked on top of each other. One business will open in the morning and sell their stuff. Then they’ll fold up into the walls and out pops the afternoon business. That one turns into a bar which, after Last Call, turns into a harm reduction space.”

“Or a laundromat.”

“Yes a laundromat could be good for all the folks who do laundry between 2 AM – 7 AM.”

I see him walking toward me as I’m in between kettle bell experiments on the floor. I’ve finally conditioned myself to immediately take out the Airpods when we catch each other’s gaze.

Between the long stretches of focus in my typist job, I battle with whether or not I should be plugged in. During the typing work, it’s constantly looped music. Not that the music itself is on a loop. It’s become techno, minimal. Anything with a beat. Kompakt and anything German really.

This genre is the pulse of productivity. I convinced myself that this is the real root of its creation, instead of dance. To dance to productive music is a find bi-product. To get many things done is the true root of its design.

In techno, I cannot be distracted by another human voice. I don’t mean for this to sound coarse or menacing. However, I deal in words all day. Communicating electronically over the phone, over text and email. Where, in my contracting work from before sobriety, I could disappear into other humans’ voices — I can’t split my brain to facilitate my own words when another person, far more entertaining, is rambling on in hypnosis.

Techno clears the canvas and gives pace. I tell you this now, listening to German Techno:

Sascha Funke — “Safety First 1”

When the time comes for me to stop thinking, that battle occurs: Should I have no thoughts? versus Should I listen to someone else’s thoughts?

Eckhart Tolle would say turn it all off and shut the brains off. Our Modern Brain of Chase cannot. I’ll need to write this, I’ll need to schedule that, I’ll need to build posts, call ma, practice your craft and the house is dirty.

Let’s listen to somebody else with the same problem. Can’t even tell you how many times I’ve shared the same experience with another human. Haven’t you? Do you spend as much time as I do trying to relate embarrassingly basic experiences to a stranger?

I have never received Kangaroo Testicles from my grandson!

“What’s up big brother?” I’m an only child, so everyone is ‘big brother.’ We all love 1984 and I wish I had a sibling. The fact that Matty is in his 70s gives this pet name a fun twist.

“How you doin’, Louie?” Matty must’ve just arrived. “Haven’t seen you in a while!” I feel his fresh energy. For once, we’re meeting out of everyone’s way near the locker room. We might talk for several hours, but I’m finally on board with giving time:

“Been working a lot, and just running around my neighborhood to get a sweat.” I tell him, “What’s new with you, man?”

“Just got back from Carolina again!”

“Again?!”

“Yeahhh man. We’re working on getting me a place down there, they have Communities with crazy affordable rent for old folks.”

“Oh that’s awesome man, and you’ll be close to the family”

“That’s right. But it’s mostly that Ashville provides special housing for us in advanced age. I’ll have my own space, bedroom, kitchen, living room, yard, the whole shebang for 600 a month.”

“Wowww well deserved man. I haven’t every really thought about this, you might imagine. Is that not a thing everywhere?”

“Hell nah man, nobody’s looking out for an old fuck like me.” Matty laughs.

“You don’t strike me as needing looked out for.”

“That’s right, why you think you see me in here all the time. Were you at the No Kings Protest?”

I didn’t even know about any protest. A bad leftist. And this old man is out there doing the next right thing. I told him: “I’ve only just started to pay attention. But I’m realizing: it’s got to be pretty bad for me to even begin listening to political-anything. Busy in my own little world.

..what was it like?”

“Ohh man; everybody was out there. They keep getting bigger. This might’ve been the third one I’ve been to this year. We need to get these fuckers out.”

“It is definitely a mess. But tell me this, you’ve seen more than me. How much further along fucked are we than in any other before time?”

“How do ya mean?” He was taken aback.

“Like, when you look back on histories broadcasts, even podcasts — the cliche is always ‘it’s never been so bad —’”

“I’ll stop ya there, it’s as bad as it’s ever been and then some. You know they just pulled out the debriefing from the original studies of COVID?”

I did not.

“Well, you know that Fauci’s pack of researchers gave us the story that the world has accepted up to this point, that COVID was born in a freak accident in a fuckin’ wet market in Wuhan. So, that wasn’t a unanimous decision. There were a minority group of scientists that basically say, ‘there’s no way this virus wasn’t genetically designed.’”

“Dammmn, what?!”

“Yeah. They said this is 100% an experiment designed in the Wuhan Institute of Virology. Now, they didn’t release it on purpose. That was still a fuck up. But these guys point out that COVID was made on purpose.”

“A biological weapon?”

“A biological fuckin weapon.

…I promise you this Lou, no political leader has been as corrupt as the ones we got right now.”

I want to try more optimism. Half this man’s age, it’s my job to be naive.

“That’s a lot of what I’m hearing. But don’t you think all this mess is going to pan out in a nicer way? We suddenly have folks considering Socialism from an American vantage point. Tucker Carlson’s denouncing Republicanism. It’s so bad that everyone sees it’s bullshit.”

“That’s true, and I’ll tell you what: Tucker Carlson finally has some good points—”

“—And I’ve said that once or twice about Candace Owens recently. Things have gotten shook up so hard that people like you and me could give a fuck about partisanship.”

I continue, “I’m thinking your generation will be the last to listen to the mainstream news.”

“God willing. It’s all a buncha brainwash bullshit. More than ever. CNN is owned by Ellison. FOX News is still FOX News. I’m a Young Turks Guy.”

“I’m listenin’ to Hasan Piker right now!”

“Shit, we might be brainwashed.”

“Well, yeah. But we have our fingers on the pulse of America Matty. Couple fit young fellas like us.”

Matty laughs. I don’t know what we’re talking about but I think Matty is a wealth of knowledge filtered through an entertaining postman,

I say: “But you won’t have to worry much once your’re hanging your hat in Ashville.

“The whole country’s fucked, but it’ll be nice being so close to Beaver Lake.”

“When do you get to go?”

“I’m after two in the cue, man!”

“So how long do you think until you’re out of here?”

“Beats me man. All three of us are waitin’ on the other old folks to die.”

Laughter.

SOMETHING ABOUT BILLY

Walking into a festival. We were late in the afternoon, stepping out of the Escape far away from the music. Still welcoming a walk that would stick us to our shirts. Police stand near the entry of a space renowned for exposed breasts. There won’t be much to pat down.

Their thumbs in the armpit of tactical vests, they observe us entering. I smile at them soberly, leaving space for my partner to pass through the archway. I follow. Sub bass hums through the grasses as we approach its epicenter. Colorful mammaries, children, sweating folks beneath undersized tents selling plastic jewelry and desserts.

A man is walking opposite of us. Sinewy, scrappy, old. Contractor skin shaded beneath a flowing sleeveless T-shirt. He nods, I nod — we smile.

“Did you see that man?” I asked Es.

“No. Where?” They turned backward so I could point.

I begin to philosophize: “There’s some kind of connection between the boys.”

Es indulges me.

“I’ve just connected with That Man.”

———

More and more I become about my business. Chasing exceptional quality of my current trade. Though the trade may halt at any given moment, I work hard to further the skill. It is a fulfilling type of business that every single one of my elders has warned us against. I believe it’s impossible to have The Revelation without The Mistake.

“If youth was not wasted, how can it be youth?” Viet Thanh Nguyen, Sympathizer

Every last experience is personalized to a T, yet beneath the same wide umbrella of conquest & purpose.

I’m savoring these thoughts while waiting at a red light between the shady gas station, the tattoo shop, and the food bank. At the verge of being impressed with my own adult-ness, a boxy, rusted 1996 Ford Explorer swung a left-hand turn across my windshield. Window to window, we see each other — in the millisecond of contact, That Man and I nod again.

———

Once I had seen that chipping Explorer skipping the curb, I saw that man everywhere — whipping his ride around

“Maybe he lives in it.”

“He might!”

“I wonder what he does. He’s like a scrapper or something.”

“He is like how you’ll be when you’re older.”

“How will I be when I’m older?”

“You’ll be in a rusted Ford with burnt hair and old man muscles taking corners too sharp between the shady gas station, the tattoo shop, and the food bank.”

“Burnt hair?”

“You’ll make it work, my love.”

———

The Explorer went as many laps around my Escape as I did around this work place. Pay increased. When pay goes up, so too the quality of my life experiences — in the form of subscriptions and memberships.

From YouTube to YouTube Premium. Car Wash Memberships. Hair Appointments (it’s going to end up burnt anyway). I graduated from the YMCA to a fancier gym called Fitness Loft.

I stretch my dollars ‘til they tear and spare none, doubling down on ignorance thus lengthening youth. It is easier to live this life than it is to worry, and I have been accommodated for, for most of my time coming up. Upon uttering the phrase “comfortable debt,” a co-worker looked at me as though I had slurred. What I know is that I can easily climb up any ladder and fill every hole.

My every valley is an exciting new way to kill time toward my own glorious death. I’ll have met everyone being busy, and yet I’ll request that I have no funeral nor celebration. Even this, I’ll march toward it. Doing something benign and meaningless until someone remembers me not for the quality of the work – but for the lack of complaint.

————

I am a machine, recoupling lost 20s with a lust for life walking up the stairs to my Fitness Perch, overlooking the traffic below. Each of us are full of energy daily. Saunas lit by cell phones. Beautiful people brandishing their body of work. A melange of playlist reminding me that anyone can do it.

For the first time, I realize that anyone can. I re-evaluate my judgements, as That Man — my man of the 1996 Explorer — is walking toward me as shoulder a fresh towel.

“Man, I been seeing you around and now I’m seeing you here!” That Man holds his powerful hand out in a fascinating juxtaposition against his looking upward to meet my gaze. “My name’s Billy.”

Standing in front of the entryway to the locker rooms, I take Billy’s hand bewildered, smiling. “I’m, Lou.”

Then, I gave more: “We saw you at the festival, do you remember that?”

“Of course I do, seemed like a cool guy.”

“I thought the same of you. You drive like a crazy man.”

“I got places to be,” he laughed as two women moved around us to head into the locker room.

His voice is sprinkled with smoke, as though he may have quit at a good time. Suddenly the twisted wires beneath the skin on his arm makes sense. I do the math on scrapping vs a $70/mo gym membership and see that I was off there as well.

More gym guests nudge past us to start their workout. I transport myself into each passing member’s head, seeing what I thought I saw in this wyly man.

They are also wrong. He’s got places to be.

“How long you been coming here?” Billy asks.

“Not until recently. I got my sea legs at The Y, then started making enough to try out somewhere bigger,” I told him. “I saw the windows and was sold.”

“Fuck yeah, man. I love it here. I’ll wake up, do some meditating and get real stoned. Then I come in here and just let it all go, man” He punctuates with that shared chuckle among the medicated. I’m enamored.

Does anyone else know this guy?

I SAW A DANCING MAN

This man was dancing. You’ve probably seen dancing men — for me it’s usually men.

Maybe they are pantomiming to the performance cast from some hidden devices. I wager they have the music in their heads. Many of these men will throw their hands and stare down passing cars for a moment of drama. They await the optimal millisecond to break the tension with a twirl, as the fist flips outward, outstretched: a feminine offering to a Passerby audience.

I danced. I used to dance just like this, on the street — for strangers who I imagined would swoon over my freedom to dance like this. I thought, if only YOU could hear what I’m listening to, you might just FEEL what I’m feeling. I moved from the downtown pace: four-on-the-floor, hands shotgunned into the deep pockets of a coat designed for theft. Enough momentum to create an isosceles triangle against the wind, the rippling trip-inducing sidewalk as my base.

Take a left toward Goodale Park as the Mind Eraser mixed with my buried, uncharted emotions.

The lyrics: what I’VE always said.

And the drums: the way I’VE always meant.

this body: the way I’VE always been destined to move.

The way I can see my own grace from the outside of

The over-sized steel toe boot catches a lifted edge of one buckling panel, breaking my gait. My isosceles standard becomes two-dimensional at once. I am in line with the footpath, smashing my glasses, tearing through the knees of my jeans.

———

I am in a bush. I am in the mud. With old dirt caked beneath a fresh sheen of Earth. You can’t miss my bleach-splashed wardrobe, dazzled by nebulas of spills from cleaning the shop night after night in blatant disregard of keeping myself up to date.

Only me and the dancing men know what it is to let it go. The music is ever-changing — the music is the outfit. I see no need in reinventing my physical appearance when so much depth is procured by a Same Song On Repeat. Covered in dirt, inspired. I saw a dancing man, and I saw myself, a Dancing Man.

JULIA FROM THE VILLE II

God, I hope it’s not Jules.

He can still see that man-made pond with its pumping fountain. It’s so strange to have to run out to the suburbs for a bartending job like this in the first place. Paul is city-folk. He lucked out in having come from the ‘burbs in the first place. Comfortable beginnings like that should more commonly end up in self-sabotage and wild behavior from kids like Paul running out of 20 in at least two ways.

There’s no cigarette in Paul’s hand to burn for him to really pantomime ponderment. Do we use the water? That’s the only reason there should be a man made pond like that, taking up so much space. You wouldn’t have dug a hole like that, and fill it with estranged water with no purpose besides to admire it. Everyone’s in a car trying to get to these chain restaurants lofted on what is likely another man-made hill.

It takes something totally off-center and useless to gather innocent focus in Paulie. He’s quite apt, he’s talented, he’s a good hang — he’s aware of this — but he’s not keen on using any of those abilities for good; for others. Ask Julia.

Julia’s one of the bartenders at the other bar/restaurant located on this strip mall-atop-a-hill. Thankfully, it’s not a courtyard situation; both venues are situated on the same line, divided by a breezeway, a yoga studio, and a for lease space. It takes about 60 seconds to get from Paul’s job to this one and about 15 minutes to get back. They are always busy, and the bartenders there never ever give Paul anything for free. Paul feels like no one respects the Fucking Code any more, but there’s no where else to achieve homeostasis they way Paul does it.

At times, half of the evening’s haul goes directly to Julia, Brock, or David.

Presence makes a rare appearance within this sterile watering hole. The fountain just goes and goes. There is a faint memory about Julia as he woke up this morning. It was easily disregarded. “I will find out when I find out,” Paul said as he noted how white his tongue appeared in the mirror. “That’s probably not good.”

Easy fix.

Never the water, though. Perhaps it was the regular dehydration making this pond particularly delicious tonight. Paul’s need for quick-access pockets filled with drugs (both for sale and for Paul), cigarettes, keys, wallet, phone, sunglasses outweighed the discomfort he’d feel in this soggy summer heat. It was is if restaurant’s grease covered every clean molecule. Sweating in his black denim he admires with a white noise wonderment — so beautiful this structure of Man!

You could just dive in it?!

Give it purpose tonight??!

To be honest: It feels like Julia is working today.

He short of the window that will solve this riddle and huffs once more to the pond. Maybe he would have a cigarette and ponder this thing. He fishes once again in his pockets, this time coming up with a reward. A 100 mm cigarette, “for more thorough conversations,” he likes to say. White lighter, because people say it is bad luck. It is clever to him and that is technically what counts in this life.

He dials and holds the phone to his ear, wondering how long he’s already been gone. His shift probably started by now. He could check the time but doesn’t. Instead, he turns back to the “for lease” window and focuses away from the empty space to see his reflection waiting for a pickup.

A couple of satisfactory vessels, whaddya say. He winks but the reflection is just standing there in sunglasses and a beer belly. This appearance does 15-20%. The suburbs can take it or leave it.

The ringing halts.

“…”

“Yo, Jessie. What is up dude?”

“Paul? — everything OK?” Jessie, hesitant.

“Yeah, man. All good — you know those ponds that they used to have in Canterbury? Like all over where we would ride bikes back home?” Paul, on task. A family walking by notes the uniform, and gives Paul a feeling that he should recognize them. “Ope, go ahead … See ya in there!”

“Paul. What are you doing, where are you?” Jessie’s curiosity hollowing.

“Sorry dude, I’m at work,” Paul, re-lights his cigarette. “You know those ponds though?”

“That’s at work? At the bar?”

“Yea. Well, no,” Paul’s talking to his reflection in the “For Lease” window again. Behind him, the empty space with the grass and the fountain pond are a photogenic backdrop, but every time Paul has tried to take that selfie, the sky just looks dark and most of the photo reveals too much of the empty space inside. Some contractor tools left behind.

Jessie’s curiosity wasn’t there to begin, but Paul is sometimes slightly, briefly entertaining. Sometimes it’s easier to talk to Paul if he finds something to do. He empties his dishwasher in a different area code while he waits for more. He weighs whether or not he’ll venmo forty dollars over again like he promised he wouldn’t.

Paul’s actually not thinking about money at the moment. Got ponds’ on the mind.

“It’s across from work. There’s a Pond like those Canterbury Ponds right below the parking lot here,” Paul hears clanging through the earpiece. “What’s that?”

“I’m doing dishes,” Jessie says. “I remember the ponds. Are you calling me about ponds right now dude, what the fuck?” It sounds like it comes from a smile. Jessie surprises Paul with an audible laugh through his nose. Couldn’t help it.

“Yes I’m calling you about fucking ponds!” Paul could just drive into the sunset, hearing Jessie’s temperament lighten. Any permanent fixture that continues to laugh with Paulie is a gift.

Paul propels: “You are, you’re like a water guy — a environmental guy, right?”

“Yes, Paul, I am ‘a environmental’ guy.’ I’m an Ecologist, you drunk idiot,” Jessie jabs. “A scientist.”

“A scientist! That is even moreso impressive Jessie, amazing work. Goods for you,” Paul is now pacing the sidewalk in front of the strip, working a fantasy audience. “Good for you, and good for me also, because I just so happen to have an E-Coli-Jistical question for you. Right this moment. Just for you.”

“Wow, man. Thank you so much,” Jessie jeered, dishes clanging in concert with his sarcasm. His own audience, perhaps. “Suddenly the student debt is worth it, if only for this moment.”

“You are very welcome, Doctor,” Paul flicks the butt pondward. “So these ponds…”

“So these ponds,” Jessie’s dishwasher dishwasher closes in the background.

“…are they not just a huge waste of water?” Paul straightens up, a political mimicry. “This is white people shit, right?”

Jessie’s trying to figure out the angle, “It’s actually not wasteful, white people shit.” He allows himself to smile, shaking his head as he dries his hands. “People have figured out what naturally-occurring bodies of water do for the environment and then recreate that in places like Canterbury. Or wherever you’re talking about.

“Since the land gets disturbed by development, or doesn’t have the means to be comfortably inhabited, we figure out how to make it livable. It’s one of our more responsible efforts — even though it’s usually just to balance out the bad…”

Paul’s spelling out W-Y-P-I-P-O in his head when he hears his turn come around and lets it go by this time.

Jessie continues: “So you’ll have a place to catch rain water that naturally filters toxic attributes before it heads back into the ground. You remember the water cycle?”

“I do — I know exactly that much.” Paul has wondered completely down the parking lot, unconcerned about his visibility to either restaurant. “If a house or a shop went there, would a natural disaster strike us down?”

“Not really. Or not quickly. It might sink into itself if that’s the spot where all the rain naturally gathered in the first place —,” Jessie, literally an Ecologist, likes what he does. Paul notes this if he ever wants to hold onto Jessie’s company — or anybody for that matter.

Paul’s uncle said you could get your foot in the door just about anywhere by asking them for 30 minutes to learn about what they do. He said, People love to talk about what they do. Especially in zero-stakes. That said, Paul was also strangely interested in the ponds. It was effective use of time — though he’d likely have to mention an in-progress family emergency to account for his tardiness. Especially since he showed up on time.

Jessie continues long enough for Paul to re-rail his thought-train:” — I think they’re actually called pond experts. You exaggerate what’s naturally there, then build draining systems to redirect the auxiliary rainfall from other, distant collection spots.

That way, everything that’s supposed to be supported by the dirt around it stays put.” Jessie finished. Feels good to educate.

“I guess I figured everything was going into one big trash pipe that boils the trash water clean again,” Paul contributes.

“No.” says, Jessie. “You want trash water to remain that way. You wouldn’t bathe in toilet water.”

“Is the dirty part about toilet water not the toilet itself?” Paul advocates for toilets and The Devil.

“Well, yeah, actually that’s true,” Jessie was impressed at the hip-fire hit. “It’s all the same filtration, but the toilet water sits there in pipes, in the tank, in the bowl. Tap water is in motion, so it’s safer to drink”

Paul is satisfied, but has lit another cigarette, fairly certain someone has yelled for Paul, but he’s a safe 40 yards away somewhere in the parking lot. His move is a no-look one-second finger to the air, since, for some reason, his co-workers never take it any further than peeking out the door to yell across the cars at him while he’s on his occasional “calls.” At least I’m not at the bar, guys – work with me here.

Paul: “So are we drinkin’ pond water then? Is that comin’ out our guns?”

“Noooo, dude.”

“So we are drinking the trash water?” Paul resumes his impression of a comedian.

“I believe you are drinking the trash water, Paulie.”

Jessie laughs again as chills run across Paul’s body.

I AM BETTER / NOW

I am better now

I had to deplete my thirst for approval

I am better now

I can’t seem to approve myself anyway, any more

I am better now

Being my own disapprover

I am better now

Knowing I won’t get what I want unless I perform

I am better now

Though I might not be free of all shackle

I am better now

In the greatest shape of my life

I am better now

Knowing I struggle away from self

I am better now

Hardened, humbled by shameful memory

I am better now

By assumption that those I’ve harmed are better too

I am better now

Waking up and making purchases

I am better now

Realizing I’ve spent what I don’t own

I am better now

Though I was short with you this morning

I am better now

I overcompensate happy medium

I am better now

Presence over presents

I am better now

Seeing how much I want what I have no need

I am better now

Waking up and buying things

I am better now

Spending early all I’ve earned

I am better now

Buying things and learning about things

I am better now

With all my knowledge I picture a field of flowers

I am better now

I am a field of flowers

I am better now

Waking up and praying

I am better now

I get out of bed and cradle my lover’s pet

I am better now

Waking up and praying for my friendships

I am better now

For better can not get worse

I am better now

Buying more things, my quests to fulfill

I am better now

Thousands of milligrams, caffeine

I am better now

From chemicals, internal and manmade

I am better now

With chemicals, internal and manmade

I am better now

Waking up and looking for delivery

I am better now

Doing a soliloquy

QUANTUM THEORY CABIN KID

A child was born deep in the remote. Way out in the outskirts from all interceding presence; human, technological, natural, or otherwise. Her given name, Qia. With the soft “ch” in the beginning.

Qia is of no nationality, creed, country, or belief. She had to have parents, however she never met them. She lives in a solid concrete courtyard, where each wall is just high enough — but no ceiling, so that the outdoor elements can be witnessed. A particle shield keeps them out, and synthesises only a range of comfortable temperatures ranging from 60º F to 80º F, incredibly moderate humidity. Perfect if perfection was.

She is never lonely, for she knows no loneliness without something to compare to. Her existence is entirely monk-like. Qia is raised effectively, by no one, secured and nourished by the additional synthetic capabilities or her concrete courtyard. A hard womb of prudent living, exerting small reactions from Qia by occasional intense imagery provided by Earth’s Atmosphere. The sunset, the stars, the clouds.

It is good as it is.

This courtyard absorbs each of interstellar gifts handed to Earth; ranging from Solar Winds, to UV light, the Rain Cycle, dust and pollen, channeling these chemicals beneath the visible spectrum straight into Qia’s biochemistry. Qia has never cried, nor has she wasted. Concrete on her feet builds a strength in her soles. She feels the temperature change on her skin. Qia never bores, and her attention is equally sustained on the blank concrete wall as it is the stars on a clear evening. No pollution, nor thought of a concept: polluting. Qia is unpolluted by the things that most fill humanity’s incessant thought stream.

Filtered Sunlight leaves her pigment a fading auburn. White hair grows thick from every follicle, not one space vacant — pupils fill the dark grey iris dish presented on a clean tablecloth. She notes the stippled markings all over her body. Reminiscent of the dimples in Evening’s Sky. But she’s never seen herself. She knows only her body. Locomotion and experimentation. Testing limits within the concrete box due to knowing her own movements block to block, line to line, without any concept of measurement.

Laying on her back, she extends a leg upward and blocks out the sun with her foot. Light spills around the perimeter of her digits. Qia locks her leg and cranes it downward toward her point of view until she feels her ankle on her forehead. The resting leg behind all of this draws the foot near her fulcrum and, gently, she places pressure on this grounded foot. Her hips lift upward, arching her back. The cranial located foot holds its position until its toes make contact with the concrete below Qia’s head. The load-bearing leg asserts itself against the ground, propelling her body backward onto the inverted leg, completing a feather-like alien cartwheel.

Gravity applies to the nature burdened by it, beyond Qia’s courtyard.

“Then she’d be able to float at that point right?” I asked him.

“Yes! She can literally walk on water or through walls — molecules won’t apply to her,” Benny responded with a massive confidence. “Her understanding of how things are connected to each other is way different than ours.”

“But she’s standing on the concrete,” which is the point I was stuck on for the last 20 minutes.

“Yes but that’s her first discovery. In the experiment — you watch the particles go into the slots you shot them into. Slot 1 & Slot 2. As soon as you look away, the particles do whatever they want,” Benny recalled the cartoon they watched on YouTube.

Benny continued: “People don’t understand this because they get old and get taught limits the entire way up until they just let that be the final say. Fortunately, we’re on the inside track. We know about Quantum Theory early on… we have to be like 20 years ahead of even the scientists that made this video!”

Benny is citing a 9 year old documentary extract called Dr. Quantum Double Slit Experiment. A goateed, balding super hero flies into the first frame:

“What they taught us in school isn’t really the way it is — and, that our senses are playing tricks on us. You just gotta wonder: what is this reality that we find ourselves in?

Quantum theory says it’s just waves of information…but do I really believe this? I sure hope so!” The uncertain hero then crashes into a concrete skyscraper.

19th and 20th century scientists developed the Double Slit experiment over the space of 173 years.

Thomas Young began in 1801 England with light. To understand the nature of light, he shined it through two closely spaced slits and onto an opaque screen on the opposing side. Young observed that, once the light hit the dual-slits, it divided into new signals upon, causing an interference pattern.

On the result side of the experiment, the opaque screen exhibited multiple bands of light and dark, with the largest concentration in the middle, proving that light behaves as a wave.

Over 150 years passed before Claus Jönsson revisited the experiment in 1961 Germany with a far smaller particle, the electron. The beam shot a mass of electrons at the double-slit obstruction, under the hypothesis that the opaque screen on the other side would show two steady bands of light where the particles landed.

Jönsson’s hypothesis was proven incorrect, as the electron particles exhibited an identical multi-band pattern to that of Thomas Young’s experiment. It turns out, electrons also act as waves, baffling all scientists.

But still, the interference pattern appeared once again in the end result. What was causing this interference?

Humanity — or better put, adult humanity — does not accept the unexplainable so readily.

Instead, they make theories. Two Copenhagen quantum theorists, Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg*, tell us that the measuring of a quantum system – such as shooting electrons, or eventually photons, is enough to breakdown the chaotic nature of the previous centuries’

results.

Our intention changes the particular behavior of our smallest realizations.

*An American was involved too, popularizing this concept, but as it is said, all wisdom is plagiarised… and usually by Americans.

Not 15 years later, a crew of Italian scientists revamped the experiment — firing off a single electron at a time over the span of an hour. Perhaps the particles were bouncing off of each other in the shotgun style approach of its predecessors!

We tend to punish and scrutinize objects like objections in the way — that which we stub our toe. To brandish our firmly human response to frustration, the fellows scrutinized one of the slats. They would 100% figure out what the hell was going on at the point of chaos.

Lo and behold, every particle chose a slit and stuck to it. Monogamy!

In this teeny tiny realm, nothing is certain unless we are asking it to be. As soon as we intervene, two things cannot be true at once.

Unless they are not observed.

“Humans have to eat though!” I tell Benny.

How is Qia going to have any footing in the quantum community if we’re cutting out the limitations of our very real realities? I’m fairly certain, no matter how early on we learn about quantum theory, we’re already indoctrinated.

One of my earliest memories is walking around a hotel pool, somewhere in the South U.S. I had a red Gatorade and dripped it into the pool. The vaporwave warp of Red Dye 40 barely holding its form before dissipating to the chlorinated teal. I dripped it again and leaned in to admire the visual effects. The inspection was too close and I summersaulted into the pool, underqualified for a swim.

I sank and sank to some muffled shouts. A larger force dragged me against the current he made diving in and returned me to the concrete. Faint images of this, but nothing more memorable than the revelation that I will sink.

I don’t remember anybody ever telling me that I would sink — but it seems like that would’ve made no difference.

Still, Benny insists: “Qia doesn’t know what she cannot do. Nevermind how human photosynthesis doesn’t exist. You can’t prove that it’s impossible. Plus: you don’t need it to be possible, because we’re not even sure about reality!”

“I sank in the pool! —”

“Yeahyeahyeah, without knowing about sinking, you sank in the pool! We all sink in the pool because early in our lives we see movies. Plus our Parents already are tainted with the knowledge that they’ll sink if they go in the water; they don’t want us to drown so they make it known that the water isn’t for standing!

“Qia will be able to go across the water if she has to because she would have never been shown or told otherwise. I bet, if she saw it fit, she’d be able to walk straight through the wall to the outside world.”

I ponder that for a moment. We are doing impressive thought experiments like the great science guys from Copenhagen: “When she walks out, and it’s raining, she’s going to get an impression of water.”

“She’ll have to make a decision.”

“But all humans that ever existed have to make a decision. They see the water come down and run over their skin. They see it make puddles. An infinite amount of kids over milleniums splashing in the puddles. Do you think one of them ever jumped onto the puddle and broke their foot?”

“That’s a good point. Great point actually — but you gotta realize, we’ve got it in our DNA that we sink. That’s actually probably what made you sink when you were 4”

“I think I was 5”

“You were 4”

“You were there?”

“I think so. I definitely remember hearing about that.”

“Where were you?”

“I feel like I was swimming.”

Qia experiences a tension. Something like inspiration, but this creature has no conflict or survival instinct that generates inspiration. She presses against the ground to rise, not so effortless. Qia’s brow folds like a birds’ wings. No name for this within Qia, but she sees these floating entities across her fortress opening. She mimics their locomotion, but has felt much light on those occasions.

From pressing herself off the ground, she makes a creative movement on her trot across the concrete. Heel first. Then as much of the sole as possible. Rocking into the ball of her foot, until all that meets the solid stone is the tip of a toenail. One after the other as if in performance to the firmament. She makes her way to the opposite wall as heavenly glow slices through the clouds above. She doesn’t name any of this.

Push.

She presses against the wall with a palm, using the force from her stippled forearm. Nothing happens, so she applies more. She wants to know if it’s like the ground. She’s never felt such motivation. Her peace is disturbed as the wall remains vigilant, steadily including more force from her core, her buttocks, her thighs, feet sliding before the immense immovability of the concrete looming over her. Why does it matter?

The smallest vibration occurs, and pedals into ripple and the wall swallows her arms up to the shoulder. Qia notices her breath for the first time with its absence. Lurched forward completely, once again on the tippiest of toes, she’s halts all forward momentum at the precise moment where all the sky can see of her is calves.

She hangs there in no-man’s land. Feeling a crowded, miniscule bounce against her everything — making the backs of her calves and her heels feel numb in comparison to the submerged half. She hangs for a moment longer. A curiosity. A question that comes with the sensation of unease. Uncertainty, new, is poisonous as fear. Fear, new, is cause for alarm. What is “alarm” within an impenetrable safety?

She withdraws from wherever that was.

Qia shudders, and her mind reclaims its resting pace of clarity. She admires the raised follicles of her dimpled arms. Something is different here, and another wave of nuanced pleasure crashes seemingly beneath her skin. What is skin?

She resumes her experiment toward the other direction. Heel, sole, toe, nail. Now the next foot: heel, sole, toe, nail. And again: heel, sole, —

“Toe, then nail. Then she’d just lift right off!” I threw my arms upward as if they were wrapped around a laundry basket. “She sees the birds, she’d want to fly.”

“She needs a reason to even want to!’ Benny debated. He didn’t account for this game to require this much decisionmaking. Their concept – along with their understanding of the Double Slit experiment – is full of embellishment, plot holes, and contradictions.

“But she’s gotta be so fucking bored by now! How old is Qia?”

“I dunno – like our age?”

“No way. I feel like she can drive.”

“Why would she, she can walk through walls, she can probably figure out flying! It doesn’t even matter though, she’s ageless — there’s no age if there’s nothing to care about.”

That’s true, I can agree with that. This game is getting a little stale.

“She hasn’t walked through any walls yet.”

“Well obviously now she can. She kind of did. And she always could, based on Quantum Theory.”

“I don’t think she’s gonna even do any of that — she has no need to do anything else besides look at the Sun.”

“The best inventions are accidental…” Benny paused. “But, I guess you’re right. Maybe she’s in a log cabin now — and nobody needs to know why, we’re not starting over.”

“Fine. But, how does that change anything?”

“I dunno, let’s see.”

Qia hangs there in the air — though frightened, she can see all around her. Her arms away from her side — unfathomably weightless, they might as well not even be there. Like her beaked entities but moving up instead of forward.

She had returned to homeostasis from falling into the wall and resumed her walking experiment. Heel, sole, toe, na— when as soon as the nail scratched concrete, she lost her footing.

Up.

The pressure to push through the wall deserts Qia as she glides up and away from the concrete slabs. For the first time, she makes no contact with any of the surfaces in this realm. Her complete existence in this space, and now each corner of it brand new, never explored. Something is within every square panel.

Up.

Not even whisper of a lift, as simulated in her locomotion game, beneath her. She’d never been away from the ground, once again her brow is bird-shaped. A mixture of joy, enrapturement, frustration keep her head bent downward, watching the platform decrease.

The firmament quietly sneaks up behind her. She finally gazes toward the infinite, uncharted atmosphere. Once an ever-evolving lighting fixture to illuminate her solitude, now an overwhelming and awe-stricking impossibility. She is still, but filled with sudden want to be in control, like when she used to step upon the ground.

A sensation overtakes that one, causing another question, another curiosity: the wall is hard. What if this is the only way Toward? Qia feels an urge to continue exploring down below. This is everything to Qia, and just as endless as the expanse coming closer and closer.

She hangs there, 50 ft tall — the clarity all around her, becoming more and more comfortable with this helpless state. If she focuses on her body, the microscopic tickles and bouncing surround all of her. Distrust dissipates.

Once again, this is all for Qia.

WHAT RIDES YOUR MINDS

Didn’t even notice we had been going up the entire time. Little cowlicks of canyons arched up to take my eyes off the road. Driving for a long time takes your mind off of the worry. Mistakes can happen, why don’t we take the burden of statistics off of the next fellow who’s actually trying to get somewhere.

I suppose we’re on a schedule and we have things to get home to. I’m just saying, if I accidentally drove us off the road — and we survived — that would be an amazing story. If I drove us off the road — and we died… identical story, but we do not get to watch people reacting as we tell it. More legendary if someone else is telling that tale. So you’d have to rely on having a vantage point from Beyond to enjoy people’s remembrance.

Of course, they might not even tell the story. In which case, we’d absolutely prefer to have lived to tell it.

Do not read me as careless. This is the path my mind goes as we drive, drive, drive. I’m observing that mistakes occur. If we are that mistake, it would in a way, mean that the next guy this specific statistic was coming for would receive the gift of life! All thanks to us veering off a cliff like a tourist.

You can see why I wouldn’t have noticed that we were going up. Prune Creek, Wyoming ends up being 13,000 feet in the air. The first sign I noticed was 9,000 feet. I can measure it in thoughts.

———

Long ago I had worked with a product that required accurate measurement. Paul and Tracy were friends of mine. Mostly Tracy. Tracy became my boss at an old server gig I was fiercely neglecting at the time. Collegiate students worked along our side. Tracy and I were around the same age, faintly reconsidering if we needed this type of work. I began neglecting the work even more because I was zeroed in on Tracy. This can be considered careless.

Tracy became friendly with the fun party of the staff. We went to a neighboring bar after one shift and made out in front of coworkers. A mistake, but feels good at the time. Both Tracy and I had forgotten about Paul, her fiancee. Remembering Paul would not have stopped me. But maybe Tracy.

What I actually did for real money required accurate measurement. My accurate measurements would require that I delivered inaccurate amounts to the clientele. I, like most measurers, figure out that not everyone is looking for an accurate measurement by the time the product is in hand. They look for trust.

Perceived trustworthiness.

I was some sort of trustworthy. Tracy and I never hooked up again. But we became the closest friends. She got me a promotion. I was also able to measure for her and Paul over and over again, amassing a decent living for the first time in my young adult life. Until one night, they measured my measurements. Called me while I was in the middle of depleting measurements. I was so hurt that someone would do something like this to someone else. How could they? How could I?

I lost touch with those two. I wonder if Tracy ever let it slip about that one time. They got married a while ago, and that’s good.

———

The Tracy thing wasn’t even that big of a deal at the time. We are 1,500 miles and 8 years away, here with my own life-partner and bovine horizon. Unobstructed, high-altitude sunlight gets beneath the eyebrows of this rippling plateau. It’s littered with cows. Whose cows are these? Where do these cows belong?

These green-gold lands cannot be manicured, but appear groomed. They give fluidity to each verdant stretch that stops abruptly against well-placed rock walls. Cows look toward the road to watch humanity pass each other by. It feels desolate. But no, that’s not true. I want it to feel desolate as though it’s only us up here. If it were desolate, there wouldn’t be opposing cars coming one by over the horizon. These cars are making space so we can get a chance at seeing some Moose. Meese? You gotta get up high to see these guys.

“Oh stop, their hooves are not that big,” Gloria stopped her husband’s embellishment.

“Yes they are! They’ll stomp ya to death” Hank said stretching out his arms wide. “And they got antlers like this —” they went so wide his wrists flipped open, sprouting digits to complete the full extension.

“They do not.” Gloria, said smiling. Then turned to me: “But. If you see one. You must absolutely get the hell away from there – because they actually will stomp you to death.”

“We were out there in Montana. Or maybe it was Wyoming. We’re hiking the trails and seeing all kinds of shit. We saw Grizzly Bears and Moose in the distance. Scary,” Hank grins, enjoying our attentiveness. “And my buddy, Dave, is a ways off the trail.”

He continues: “They’re huge. But in a way, they’re so big they blend in with the fuckin’ trees. Tall strong tree legs! We realized suddenly there’s a Moose right there in the wood, splitting the difference ‘tween us and Dave!

“The moose turns toward Dave’s direction, starts moving that way. So Dave runs for the river in the opposite direction of where we were and jumps in, swimming for the other side.

“When the moose steps in the water, it’s liek the Moose is ankle deep. But Dave is completely underwater, swimming for his life. The current doesn’t do a thing to the moose. But Dave is going diagonally up and away from both us and the moose, toward the opposite shore, thank God.

“But the way that moose just stood against the current – coulda just ran in the river and fucked him up!” Hank shook his head with a syllabic chuckle. “We caught up with Dave up ahead on our trial, soaking. He was just smiling with big eyes. Said, ‘Close one!’”

We laughed.

I hope to see one of these dinosaur-sized deer. Mostly for wonder’s sake. Brings me full circle back to veering off the road. What a story, to get stomped. A better story to be able to tell yourself, like we agreed. But a good story in any scenario.

———

Shouldn’t I be more present? Maybe all humans wish this once they’re informed about Presence. Everything reminds me of something. Then there are the intrusive thoughts and negative memories meant for the evening that get set loose in my synapses all hours. It doesn’t ruin my day by any means, but it certainly takes me down a notch. Good to be humbled.

Prune Creek will have us at 13,000 feet in some cases. I’m all the way up here, thinking incessantly about down there. All my goings ons and preoccupations.

Finally I set eyes on a house. Is it a farmhouse if there’s no farm? Unless this is the farm. The entirety of Heaven’s Plateau, one of thousands or millions my eyes had never seen, and my media-drenched mind’s never dreamed. There are images on television and on the internet. But it turns out, some of those metaphors, exaggerations, and turns of phrase are true. The Grand Tetons are those Purple Mountains Majesty Upon The Fruited Plains. So suddenly the world becomes alien seeing some of these sights. And then alien all over again when seeing a familiar trace of humanity via this lonely house.

So there are locals up here. I guess why wouldn’t there be? There was a road to get us here. All the roads through all the deserts and wide open mind-bending emptiness of the Great Plains. We seem to have plenty of space and food for people. Why does this need to be restricted? My easy guess: Power. There is blatantly ample space. I look at Kansas and I think, put everything here.

Is it possible to be this simple? We’ve done it in quite a few other places.

I don’t know enough about geopolitics and city planning to even imagine a better world. I hide from the politics and revel in the road. People have laid all these roads. The way we place a path, aiming in unknown directions until they are tread so many times we make that path permanent…

Which leads me to believe: we are destined to make our mistakes. The frequency of same or similar missteps are predetermined. Once this road has been laid, we might have to traverse it one million times to reach this peak; only to realize our intended peace was not on top of the mountain but on the other side of it, near sea level.

“You are loud!” my best friend said.

“We’ve carried you out of this place before, you don’t remember?” my best friend recounted.

“Look at this picture, we fist-fought that night,” my best friend told me.

He never tells these tales in a malicious way. It’s more like, “here’s a fact you might not know.”

Peppers are spicy as a way to defend themselves from certain animals. However birds don’t taste or feel capsaicin, so they munch, digest, and shit out seeds whole in a place where more peppers might bloom. My best friend is showing me how I was digested and shit out.

In my second life, I promised my best friend that this new idea I have for us will give us the ultimate freedom of creativity, just as long as we sacrifice our autonomy for the known future. We were leaders and loose cannons would become loyal followers. We’d both learn such a severe level of productivity and self discipline, it might cause harm to our personal relationships; a social expense we were both more than happy to cover. In some ways, this is a permanent fixture.

He put his palms to his face, leaned back and let the hands slide backward through his hair, accidentally knocking the sunglasses off. “I guess we’ll just have no say from here on out.”

“We will eventually be able to give direction,” I told him, not really knowing if that was the truth.

“You might be able to do that,” he said., “But I’ll be the first to be left behind. Why can’t we do things the way we used to? Let’s build something up.”

“I can’t. I’ve fucked that all up. You know I fucked that up.”

“You didnt fuck anything up. I don’t get how you think anything was permanent. We never even left the ground.”

“The momentum is gone. The idea is gone — I let it die.”

“And you have no more ideas?”

“Why would I when this idea is so good?”

“Because you no longer get to choose.”

“Most times when I choose, we fist fight,” I said, trying to be wounded. I was simply afraid. Not ready to step into myself and take accountability. It was easier to become employed by an idea than to learn how to lead once again. “I got you.”

“I’m not even a part of it.”

“You will be, I promise.”

As I become a spicy offspring of the character I once was, the reminisced missteps seem to lean toward happier memories when I was making accurate measurements. Of course, those memories are easier to understand and swallow, knowing that the present is all I can really handle anymore. Evasive as it is.

We pull up to the campsite and I realize how wrong I was for convincing my best friend to do these things. Each of us is in the same position, except he is full of acceptance and I am the one writhing in resentment. I’ve got to get us out of this.

Other campers are celebrating around the fire, playing cornhole, imbibing, barbecuing. It takes me to the plateau’s lone house. The cows. Every out-of-view inhabitant on the verge of this peak.

I wonder: what rides your minds up here?

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heller & sons electrical

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quiet stairwell C

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raleigh municipal signal

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public access rack

tone bank idle

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frequency waiver 7B

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mesa intake tower

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public siren test

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rev. 4.3

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beacon calibration team

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platform paint worn

sump lid ajar

orthodox voltage choir

west rail slick

ticket stub drift

no signal returned

pike county signage

archived 03_03

sublevel breath slow

dispatch light steady

grain chute dark

brownout advisory

quiet stairwell dust

rev. 2.2

return ping lost

valve house damp

yard gravel cold

h. simmons

storm tone absent

aux feed whisper

rev. 3.3

static orchard trust

signal mast still

meter glass clear

dock rope wet

north spur elevator

corridor hum low

night ledger closed

obsolete paging file

archived 12_01

platform tile hollow

west door rattles

carrier drift slight

Erkki Laine

no further entries

stormwater telemetry

junction valve house

slow river authority

CCTV corridor B

modulation steward

S. Ibrahim

county siren board

mesa dust survey

long delay archive

Sapporo cable ward

vacant tone registry

Gunnar Eide

perimeter fence log

yard light custody

catwalk inspector

M. Laurent

grain terminal office

quiet platform three

utility marker team

st. rita relay

upper basin intake

r. hendricks

paper ticket bureau

forgotten service road

voltage parish annex

Brno signal exchange

afterhours dispatcher

southeast ballast shed

carrier loss notice

I. Petrov

low cloud advisory

hanger 2 custodial

public works audio

E. Kowalski

yard throat alignment

faint beacon clerk

municipal tone bank

Narita cargo corridor

driftwood calibration

county line repeater

slow scan technician

L. Mensah

weatherproof junction

archive spool return

delta pressure desk

Helena transfer point

night wind notary

sublevel stair B

carrier drift report

T. O’Donnell

sand table survey

signal mast registry

quiet flood gauge

Reykjavík harbor radio

terminal sweep unit

old freight mezzanine

tape bias ministry

A. Yamamoto

southbound weigh station

echo return ledger

third shift lineman

Riga customs corridor

transit delay choir

north lift operator

brown field intake

S. Delgado

overhead gantry team

low tone custodian

storm flag committee

K. Sato

pylon shadow record

quiet room attendant

dock seal inspector

mesa intake survey

utility paint division

H. Bergström

winter traction file

orphan channel clerk

milepost witness

C. Romero

east spur conductor

carrier wave usher

county culvert log

Tallinn packet office

twin mast alignment

slow snow register

lumen parish steward

P. Novak

yard bell mechanic

faint echo archive

district hydrant roll

Sendai service alley

transmitter hush fund

west ramp sweeper

night ledger annex

A. Rahman

silt fence registry

quiet switch operator

storm tone bursar

M. Santos

platform edge marshal

afterglow meter shop

public siren choir

Oslo cable loft

residual hum office

upper lock tender

vacant booth attendant

E. Nowak

dust abatement desk

quiet tide gauge

south line walker

Kobe signal bureau

low rail inspector

archive key return

utility lantern rack

J. Park

north apron marshal

carrier loss steward

storm door registry

Vilnius packet yard

soft start committee

drift meter reader

county bridge file

T. Hansen

quiet ballast ledger

echo stair custodian

east yard lantern

Sofia relay office

terminal hush operator

grain dust notary

substation corridor

A. Ferreira

night platform usher

signal paint locker

faint tone bursar

Lisbon harbor mast

low cloud register

north gate custody

obsolete ticket file

R. Silva

yard echo attendant

quiet room clerk

storm flag locker

Turku cable trench

afterhours tone bank

utility stair witness

third rail registry

M. Haddad

south pier lantern

carrier drift usher

county pump ledger

Amarillo intake shed

soft wind advisory

dust lane survey

terminal key return

I. Demir

northbound yard file

echo vault custodian

quiet flood register

Bergen mast office

low tide bursar

public address parish

milepost lantern

C. Nguyen

yard throat witness

carrier hush ledger

storm glass cabinet

Nagoya service loft

sublevel valve room

archive spool desk

west lift attendant

S. Duarte

quiet apron marshal

echo return clerk

utility paint witness

Odessa packet corridor

low rail bursar

north spur registry

third shift usher

M. Chen

dust intake ledger

carrier drift clerk

storm tone register

WITH NOBODY SEEING

“If I was dead, I would hope nobody would see!”

“Whaddyu mean?”

“I wouldn’t want them to have to see!” the girl whirled around. “Dying makes people sad!”

He thought about that for a minute, holding a small tree branch out of her way as she took the lead. They tested the malleability of teenage birch trees. Burnt leaves hang rigid, shimmering as a reflex to their tugging.

It’s dry, it’s crisp. It’s intentionally falling apart. She pokes a dead critter with a stick and raises her eyebrows at him.

“Ew,” he said. His contemplation bloomed: “Actually: I think I would want them to see – Well, maybe not. I would want them to come see me. After I was dead. When I was dying, though — I don’t think I’d want them to see that…” He points at the still fur. “We didn’t have to see that. That’s probably why you’re being gross – poking him with a stick.”

“He doesn’t care! How do you know he didn’t die earlier just to be dead here while we were walking by?” She commits to a seriousness, waving the stick from the critter toward the sky then back to the ground where she makes a circle around it. “He gets to stay home from school, for good.”

The girl was pushed by silence. “I think I change my mind: I would only want people to see me if I was dead—”

“—If you were dying”

“Right! If I was dying – I would oooonly want people to see it if they were okay with it, like ME!” Satisfied, she laid her stick down gently by the critter. A memorial. The boy found a stone to rest his legs considering the facts before him. He draws his fist up underneath his chin with the thumb untucked.

“What about if somebody saw you dying?” he begins, slightly bravado. “—and it makes them feel really, really bad. But they actually can stop you from dying, so they have to come and see you while you’re still alive but about to die – but they don’t like it the whole time, even though they want to save you.”

“I insist on being by myself if I was going to have to die.” This was honest-to-God.

“You don’t know when you have to die! It’s completely up to the last second — some genius doctor could bring you back to life. Or they’d have your favorite food. It’d smell so good that just the thought of not having your favorite food again would bring you back to life!” He realized all of these things as each word came out.

“That’s ridiculous!” she replied. The boy noticed a wavering as she continued, “a smell is not going to bring me back to life if I am dying, D-Y-I-N-G. I would be too busy crossing over to the great blue sky to care about food. I’d be getting cheeseburgers with angels. I could have any type of food I want. With ANGELS.”

The boy rolled his eyes and stood up. He cannot combat the supremacy of Cheeseburgers with Angels. Why would he? Way more impressive than normal, on-Earth, human-kid food. He likes steak. And Doritos, all types. She got in his head with that one.

Sunlight reaches a sacred position, overlooking the children as they reach their destination. Moments away from the clearing, the two stop and look out over the tree farm. Row after row of the trees folks chop and cherish for Christmas. They gaze out over the yellow orange and yellow greens before them, sneakers out of view beneath the frontline of tall grass. They don’t dare step one inch into that clearing. The tree farmer is known to shoot all trespassers dead, especially the little ones.

A safe distance from that forbidden pass, a huge, old tree is marked by a set of planks nailed into its trunk. Neither the boy or the girl have any idea who built this treefort, but they are grateful.

“Let’s vow to protect this fort with our lives. And welcome all wayward kids like us in need of higher places to hang out!”

The boy remembers that and asks, “Do you think we could fight off the Old Tree Farmer if he knew about this over here?”

“He wouldn’t shoot a girl.”

“He shoots all kids!”

“I haven’t seen it happen once, and I’m always here.”

“That’s cuz it’s just you and me that come here, and we run a tight ship.”

“I come here other times, too.”

“No you don’t. When?”

“Doesn’t matter. At night. And other times when you can’t come play.”

“You come outside at night??” The boy is reeling, as his bedtime is at 8 PM. He’s also afraid of the dark and coyotes. Plus, she does not go out at night… Nobody could argue so good if they were always going in the woods at night.

“That’s a sure way to end up dying with nobody seeing.” he says, thinking I gotcha!

“And I wouldn’t make anybody sad!” she says, smiling. Dark, but simpatico. “You get so riled up.” They climbed the Planky Trunk and shimmied around the second “floor.” One impressive bough extended past the threshold of the forest line, into the Tree Farmer’s territory. The children believed this was No Man’s Land, and dangled their legs freely among an element of imminent danger.

“You just think about such weird stuff,” he said.

“It’s not weird at all” she was peeling the bark off of the bough next to her. “Does it scare you?”

“I guess not,” the boy was surprised that he agreed with these words. “I just don’t really know anybody that’s died…” The boy laughed.

“What’s funny?”

“I thought about asking a dead person what they thought about it and he didn’t have much to say,” the boy whispered, suppressing more laughter.

“See?” the girl grinning. “You’re a loony freak too. But that’s kind of what I’m saying. You just are dead at some point, and everybody’s dead at some point. Maybe the best way to be dead is to help people be funny about it. Or like — get them to remember everything besides that you died. Like doing them a service! Garbage man!”

“God! You take it so far – everytime!”

OBVIOUSLY

My drug addiction counselor, Counselor 6014, in Rehab pointed to the sun and said: “If that’s not God, then what is it?”

I said, “I guess I am open to the point you’re making.”

He said, “No, seriously. How can that be so perfect?”

I said, “Obviously, it is fortunate that it’s right there. Otherwise, we wouldn’t be right here.”

He said, “Yes it is. How amazing.”

———

Later on, in Rehab — I saw an Eagle. Where I’m from, there aren’t really eagles. There are perhaps no eagles. Much later in the future, I would see an eagle in the zoo where I live. I would see two eagles at the same time, actually. Not one of those creatures took any sort of flight.

So: I’m on my third cup of coffee no later than 7 AM, looking up at the vast wingspan at work thinking to myself: OK. That is obviously pretty Godly.

Sitting in the circle with a bunch of fellow degenerates from the Great North, I share the fantastic news: I had seen an Eagle.

“There are tons of eagles here, man.”

“You’re fuckin’ high.”

“We still shoot ‘em here.”

———

Counselor 6014 handed me a packet of long-form questions. They were to guide my reflection on the thinking that got me here. It is beautiful here — and quiet. They left us our phones since the Pandemic —well I’m not sure what it had to do with anything. But I’d still receive calls from my pals. They were obviously lit; wanted me to know they were holding it down and they missed me. And they had my chain from one night.

I tried to find the questions verbatim, but the drawer I left them in some years ago stuck. I’m not 100% sure they’re even in there, so: fuck it.

They went along these lines:

Write some thoughts about your average day in the industry.

When did you start to use chemicals? Why do you think you started?

If you had to add it up, how much do you think you spent on chemicals per day? How many days a week would you average spending using that amount? Now, total that amount to figure out how much you’d spend in a year?

Describe what brings you here.

———

A myriad of ballads written in my characteristic prose. Tried to tell them by hand, but I couldn’t pinch the font size well enough. I switched to a word processor to better fill my sails.

Counselor 6014 met with me days later. Long enough for me to be annoyed, imagining which part he would comment on. Grade me! Instead, Counselor 6014 asked me if I’d heard of the band, Switchfoot, and played a song. It wasn’t the good one.

“It’s good, I like this.” I would resume rigorous honesty tomorrow.

“These guys are also on a cleaner path,” said Counselor 6014. “Rockstars with God in the message.”

“They’re Christian Rock — that’s right.”

“They are. Do you have any experience with Christianity?”

“No. I was raised agnostic, fortunately.” A practiced reflection pause. “We went to church when people were married or dead.”

Counselor 6014 kept his corners neutral & I had a memory.

“Actually… I went to one of those Wal-Mart style churches. The ones that are obviously not about religion. I was young, but not so young that I didn’t realize the peculiarity.

“I had begun playing guitar, and this kid, Miles, was an amazing musician in our class. The best guitar player, and could sing as well. He invited me to a show.

“The show was at the Church?” 6014 clarified.

“Yes. But that’s not how the information was handed to me,” I relive it any time I’ve told it. I haven’t played this number in a while: “I obviously thought it was a show. I wouldn’t go into that place otherwise, it’s like they build tanks — we were all agitated by that place.”

“Who was?” asked Counselor 6014.

“Me!” I had the old inertia back reliving this one, “That’s not a legitimate why to practice faith. Why would it be so massive? Why is the parking lot enough for a football game. That’s so crazy to me. Still!”

“Perhaps the point is to draw in a younger audience. Shouldn’t they try to share their faith with others?”

“Share, sure. But force? Manifest Destiny our neighborhood?” I wonder if he knows I’ve built this position on hearsay via well-spoken, well-opinioned pals that do cocaine with me. It will take me further years to realize I’ve manifest destiny’d every neighborhood I’ve entered.

“If you’re open to their format, it must be a wonderful resource for music, and dancing, and community. Lou, you are literally within the walls of a multi-million, maybe -billion facility, depending on how you look at it. If you find a God here, you’ll be finding it identically to the way the Tank Factory Folks.”

6014 takes a breath to register my response. I fix my alert face back to indifferent. He says, “Not everyone has to be on their knees to get their faith either.”

I clear my throat a little and reposition. “That’s fair. I’m not saying I’m special or better.” I thought and said, “ —or Godless.”

“So where do you stand on God as you define it?”

“I was given the advice to not worry about it coming here.” That was true. I was told to ignore it actually.

“Probably good advice.” Counselor 6014 adjusted to the datapad. “You sent me quite a bit of material.

This was the part I was here for. Fuck that old story, these are my real ones.

I was remembering some of what I wrote. There was enough pause for me to remember my chemical expenses.

“21K for one year was insane — I don’t think I embellished anything either!” ‘

“You say obviously too much.”

“What?”

“Yeah, you say obviously all the time — look at all these,” Counselor tipped over his pad to flip the image. There were bright red markings near every instance of obviously. A lot of bright red.

“I guess I was writing stream of conscious. Probably should’ve went through and edited — I just kinda like to go with it.” I was not being rigorously honest today. That lie won’t count against me. Since I was on the computer, I had all the power to wrote the thing over and over again. Didn’t seem to mess with the flow of things. Obviously. Why does it even matter? What a weird take-away.

“How do you think everything that goes on with you is obvious?” Counselor bringing back to now.

“I don’t.”

“But, then, it’s not obvious,” he cross examined. “You ought to try to correct that.”

“It’s a turn of phrase, or like, uh, or like, or a stutter… who cares?”

“It’s similar to that: Who cares?” Counselor is fixated, gently. “Obviously. Things that are obvious are just that. It’s more like Literally, I suppose. People say literally all the time. Usually they use it more in the paradox that it’s not literally happening.”

What are we doing here?

I say, “Yeah. For sure. I just didn’t think about it. I write how I talk and that’s always been good.”

“Always?”

For fuck’s sake. “Yes always, but not in the ‘obviously’ or ‘literally way.’” Fuck this guy!

“It’s a thing we can fall into. Speaking in assumptions, thinking that people are aware of your situation. You fancy yourself a writer and write how you speak. Has literally no one, ever, had a mark of criticism or rejected your work?”

“OK Counselor, Obvi —” I am flustered. “Not obviously. Of course, I haven’t pleased everyone with the work! But that was work! Did you not want to hear about my addictions that got me here?!”

“You’ve steamrolled the real reasons you’re here with ‘obviously.’ What you’re hopefully going to learn in recovery is everything you believe to be so obvious.”

———

I let some silence occur. I’m less shameful than I am let down by the complete absence of the audience I had promised myself. Promised without any foundational evidence. I am the problem. I figured I would also be the Great Performer on stage, twirling a multidimensional act immersed in every medium. Being diagnosed on all sides, rocketing growth is judged until judgment is exchanged for cheer. I was obviously mistaken!

———

“Everything that you’ve given here, I haven’t read all of.” Counselor 6014 resumes us.
“Gotcha.”

“But I do believe this has helped you to reflect and consider what you’ve been through, and what you can look forward to the further you work on yourself. This is one of many beginnings we’ll have together.

“Is there anything else you’d like to talk about before we end our day?”

“Don’t you wanna know what happened at the Church?” I hate not finishing my stories.
Counselor 6014 nodded, returning his attention to me — like he does all day with all kinds of addicts.

“Miles’ Mom lets us out the car, and we enter the massive space with all the pews—”

“—The sanctuary,” Counselor 6014, endless with patience.

“Right, but it’s massive. We find seats and Miles leans over saying, ‘They’re going to talk for a bit, then the music starts. It’s gonna be awesome, you’ll love it.’

“The sermon was like a real sermon. To a kid, that is much longer, I know. But imagine it was ten minutes after being told you’re going to a rock show. I read through the whole “Join Church Camp“ pamphlet thing they handed us at the door.”

Counselor’s jacket was on. I was still seated, feeling my face get warm.

“Alright, sorry. The point is, when the band finally got on, they played one song for like,

twenty minutes. All it was, was a hook. They had the words projected on all the screens hanging down off the walls. Everybody just sang over and over the same shit. Brainwishywashy!

“Honestly, 6014, it coulda been thirty minutes — I don’t know cause I walked out of there. All the way out. Miles came out after me apologizing profusely, saying ‘Dude, what’s wrong? I’m sorry, it’s done man we can just hang out now!’

“We waited in this bright food court-y area for Miles’ Mom. She was taking forever. And all these teenagers were coming over to me and introducing themselves. I find that so fuckin weird to this day. But I realize, they were recruiters for this goofy Christian Church Camp like in my pamphlet and gave—”

“—and they gave you free snack bar vouchers and friendship bracelets?” Counselor was ready to call it.

“Yeah dude! They did! ”Then I felt clever, “Like that is obviously not appropriate!?”

“Obvious only to you. Then and now. You weren’t alone — and you also didn’t mention asking these things to end. You’d be best to blame yourself for not sticking to your initial unsettled reaction.” Counsellor 6014 was blank, almost reciting. “You were not obvious. Sounds like you enjoyed the submersion for the sake of retelling this story”

“What?!”

———

That we were now walking down the hallway was a surprise to me; who was reeling through the memory trying to recall a moment I could refer to to back myself up. But the time had passed. Unless:

“Well, wait a second,” I sparked. “The band playing the same thing for five hours in a row is obviously bullshit right?”

“Yes. That is bad Christian Rock.”

“Alright. Thanks.”

“Some things are allowed to be subjective.”

We had a few moments left of shared hallway before we’d part.

“Do you guys always see eagles all the time up here?”

“Yes. I think most of them live up here where it’s safe.”

“I saw one this morning and thought it might be a blatant God shot for me, but the boys said no.”

“Do you see eagles all the time?”

“No! Never.”

“That’s obviously God.”