Internet cafe

Today is boxing day, monday, wednesday, and friday after our short run we box. Our short run is about forty minutes long. The long morning run takes about an hour. I've gotten used to the conditions and the training so the afternoon run actually does seem short. Right after I get to the gym I'll put on my hand wraps and mouth piece then start sparring. There's a new Japanese guy, named Akida, who I've been sparring with a lot. He's not as good as me, but is my size. Its pretty fun. I gave him a bloody nose the first time we spar, and our subsequent sessions together hasn't made his nose less leaky. On wednesday he made my head ring though, and I punched incorrectly so my right index finger feels slightly sprained. My fist wasn't curled in enough I think. Besides my head ringing he also made my earing dulled, I think he boxed my bears. By cupping your opponents ears you can dizzy them, and dull their hearing. Dee Pooler showed it to me once.

The training life is pretty routine. Get up at 6am go to the gym. Find food. Nap. Read. Write. Go to the gym. Find food. Explore. Go to sleep. Its harder doing shit over here though. Everything takes more effort to accomplish. Being in the states is really comfortable. Not being able to fluently speak the language is like being a fish out of water. It has made being vegan pretty difficult.

Back in Bangkok

I decided to come back to bangkok after spending six days in pattaya. I trained about twice a day at Sityodtong for five days. I would wake up at six in the morning to run the three or four miles to the camp. After doing a few laps around the camp I did light pad work. Pon, or one of the other trainers would hold pads for me. Next it was twenty minutes of knee sparring with this kid named Bpee. One of the instructors jokingly told me that he jerks off a lot. Bpee had bad acne but was pretty good at muay thai. After knee sparring I'd do some sit ups and push ups then go home to eat and sleep. The afternoon session was a bit longer but basically the same. Instead of knee sparring right away I'd hit the bag for a little while. The pad holding is the same pretty much everywhere, although I did like this one trainer at Sityodtong named Geek. He really emphasized working on my power and technique. However, the actual work took up about half the round, the rest of the time Geek would be talking to other people, looking outside the ring, or otherwise distracted. When doing bag work i noticed Pon answering his cell phone a lot. I guess he's got a lot of girlfriends. The trainers at Sityodtong seemed pretty burnt out on all the vacationers and transitory tourists. The prices were expensive and the attention level low. Mike Regnier told me that they'd be pretty jaded by the tourism but I didn't think it would be that bad. I decided I didn't want to stick it out and wait as I wasn't super impressed with the training of their fighters (like Bpee). A lot of the time the fighters (mainly thai teenagers) would be hanging out waiting for the instructors to do pad work with them. So here I am back in bangkok and back training at Ingram's.

Ingrams

Ingram's gym is located a short distance away from the Asok BTS (sky strain) stop. After walking east past the sukumvit hospital with its advertisements for liposuction and the usual street side food venders you'll turn left down a short side street. The large metallic gate will be open and at 3 o'clock Bokpuu will be sweeping up the mats while Nine will be rolling the handwraps. To the immediate right is a mid sized raised ring. In front of me is three ring size sections. The first section is for heavy bag work. Three worn down bags hang off of a blue contraption. The frame for the heavy bags looks like it was homemade. Its base is made of a tire with concrete inside of it. The next area is bordered by shin pads and gloves. To the left of the 2nd area is a large mirror used to inspect facial blemishes and for shadow boxing. The third area has another set of heavy bags and more matted space. To the right of the three areas is the main building. There are several bedrooms, a washing machine, a kitchen area, a bathroom (with both thai and western facilities) and an office. My exploration of the building was pretty limited, as I thought it would be pretty impolite to go searching around. The initial entry area is lobby like and has pictures of the various Ingram star fighters. While Samkor, Buakaw, and Neungsiam have all been there I didn't see their pictures (but I also didn't really look). There is a small glass case that has a few different styles of Ingram shorts. The gym has an introductory cost of 900 baht, individual sessions after that are 300 baht (about $28, and about $9). A short form is filled out and then you're told to start jumping rope.

Since I didn't bring my running shoes I ended up skipping rope for twenty minutes. The rope is thai style, a little thicker and heavier than american boxing ropes that I'm used to at Pacific Ring Sports. Skipping rope for that long is tiring and boring. The rope weighs down the biceps. On monday I trained at both Ingram's and a falang camp called Jitti. Doing both trainings made my calves really sore so I walked funny for a few days. After twenty minutes of jumping rope I put on handwraps and shadow box for one round. The rounds are longer than in the states, four minutes instead of three. There is a one minute break between the rounds.

Bokpuu and I do three or four rounds of muay thai pad work and then one round of boxing/elbow work. The round will start off with ten alternating kicks, first a right kick (1), and then a left kick (2). All kicks and knees are down twice. So if Bokpuu holds the pads up for me to kick I kick twice, if he holds for the right knee I right knee twice. A common combination was: jab, cross, right knee, right knee, left knee, left knee, right elbow, right kick, right kick. The pad work felt similiar to doing pad work with Coke, or with another fighter at Pacific Ring Sports so I liked it. Interspersed with the combinations would be more singular activites. Four straight punches, left uppercut elbow, right elbow, jab followed by a spinning back elbow. Knowing a little thai helped when Bokpuu made corrections, knowing muay thai pretty well helped a lot. I was able to follow his body movements and do the corrections myself. In order to demonstrate my understanding I would usually do what I was doing wrong and say "mai tham" then do what I was supposed to followed by "tham dii." Like Coke Bokpuu told me to keep my chin down, unlike coke he seemed to want me to widen my stance and to point my foot downwards when blocking. The round would end with ten right kicks, and ten left kicks. During the one minute break I would drink water, pour a little on my head (which would make me shiver) and spit a mouthful of water all over my torso. The last round which was boxing orientated was a welcome relief. I'm a bit fat from a month of eating a lot, drinking a lot, and not training so I consider myself to be out of shape. We didn't do a lot of hooks, or uppercuts, mainly straight punches and elbows.

After the pad work was complete I would do three or four rounds of bag work. Bag work is the same everywhere. Kick, punch, kick, blah blah blah. Next came sparring. Unlike in the states sparring in thailand is done very lightly. The point isn't to bang but to work on timing, technique, and accuracy. I assume that a lot of the reason for the hard sparring in the states is the egos of many of the people who train out there. That or they just don't know. I've sparred with a handful of people. I sparred with Nine once. It was both fun and fustrating. He toyed with me a lot. He would hold out his glove for me to knock it and then would kick me right away, pretty dirty. It reminded me of Coke sparring with Kenyan at the gym. I sparred with three or four novice falang. All of them were bigger than me, and less skilled, so it was light hearted fun. Sparring with the two young thai guys was more of a learning experience. Both of them were younger than me by 9 or 10 years but weren't out of sight better than me. They also took sparring a little more seriously than Nine. After sparring would be four rounds of knee sparring. Again knee sparring with the falang was fun, although usually they would just use their weight to out muscle me while knee sparring with the thai guys was more of a learning experience. Their technique was better than mine. They also used slightly different locks which was both interesting and fustrating.

Immediately after sparring would be twenty right kicks and twenty left kicks then some calethenstics. I only had to do 50 sit ups and 20 push ups, light fare. I was lazy so I acquiesced to the low repetitions. The whole training from start to finish would take a little over two hours, sometimes two and a half hours. After training I would go behind the building to shower. The shower was ghetto thai style. There was a bug waste bucket full of water. A hose would go into the bucket to put more water in it. A large bowl was used to dump water on oneself then you would use a bar of soap to clean yourself off.

I like going to ingram's the three times I did. If I was staying in bangkok I would consider going to Ingrams. I'd probably get a place off the BTS somewhere down the line and would go there twice a day. I'm going to pattaya tomorrow to check out sityodtong. Its the camp that Mike Regnier went to and he recommended it. I'm excited to go there and settle down into a pattern of life. Bangkok can be pretty distracting. There are bars, and friends. I suppose that's just like anywhere else. Its up to me to stay focused. I'm pretty sure that I'll be able to.

MD Place

The complex is composed of three buildings. The apartment building in which Mike Wong has his decent sized studio, a small run of shops (including a club for girls) and another apartment building. The second apartment building has a restaraunt which services the apartments, and a pool hall. The pool hall is called the snooker room. In between the run of shops, and Wong's building are washing machines, and two food stands. One offers some sort of thai corner food and the other will produce you with pineapple, mango, guava, etc. for 20 baht. The restaraunt which I attend at least once a day dishes out cheap thai food for about 45 baht a plate.

Mike pays a little over 200 baht for his apartment with utilities. Included in the room is a small table, a tv stand, and a desk with a mirror attached to it. The toilet has the western amenity of a toilet roll holder along with the thai amenity of a water spout to shoot water into your ass after a mean shotgun shit. The shower is large and has a big ass drain in the corner of the tiled area. The small sink on the patio that pours out tainted water and is next to the small clothesline (there are no dryers in thailand). There is no kitchen area, this is due to the plethora of cheap food stalls. Many people in bangkok eat out all the time and don't make their own meals. The room has a hotel feel to it.

The restaraunt is called the Red Chaba. Its usually empty when I go in. Most of their business is to the residents in the complex. The workers take turns running dishes up to the apartment rooms. It seems that the workers do long hours. When I've gone in the morning the same people will be there as at night. There are two nice ladies and a hipster looking boy who do the front of the house work. One of the women is about 35, the other looks like she's my age. The older women has been telling me lately that the younger girl thinks I'm cute. Every time I go in to eat while the younger woman is there she gets flustered and embarassed. Mike said that she was constantly telling him that he missed her and loves him. When Mike brought in a female friend she quit making declarations of love. She's always in there working. I assume that she works close to 11 hours a day along with most other thais.

Leaving

With hopes I'll be able to write about my stay in Thailand on here. My assumption is that I'll be by myself which will mean a highter output of letters and I'll finally get around to finishing up letters to regular correspondents.

Philly Crunk was written on my sisters' couch in the suburbs of philadelphia. James and I were bored and so we started to write together.

Fragments was a writing excercise that my friend Leona was talking about. You make a sentence or two depiction. Its a way to try to make your writing more aesthetic.

The story "I'd like a place I could call my own" which is a line from a depeche mode song will probably be left unfinished. After the couple had sex the man was going to tell the woman a tale. I got the idea from a Murakami short story.

"Reach Out and Touch Faith," again titled after a depeche mode song is a cathartic piece about an affair. Sometimes I wish I was one of my characters.

Philly crunk

"James is always trying to write. When we were younger he would steal the crayons from my hands and write all over my placemat. As our family was broke all the time this would usually happen on our extravagant nights out on the town... at chuck e cheese. Whenever I'd look at the big stuffed mouse singing the latest beach boys cover he'd snatched my crayons from me. I was a little more concerned with eating them then with using them for creative purposes so I didn't mind that he had them in his possession. What irked me was his act of stealing. Little shit bag. No one steals from me!"

James: "First and foremost, I'd like to mention that during one of our rendevous with the electronic muppets of Chuckie Cheese, Matt and I, in a great collobrative effort, beat the arcade X-Men game: Sentinel Attack. It cost over twenty dollars in quarters, stolen from our parents over the course of six months. I was Wolverine. Matt was a lame ass chick-maybe Storm or Jean Grey, neither of who could fight well, they just bitched slap the robots unlike Wolverine who DESTROYED his opponents. Other than the obvious bullshit in Matt's story, the rest of his lies are true."

Matt: "As a natural leader I've always carved the path for the two of us. James has always lagged behind in my shadow, his nose drowning in the sweat puddles that I've left behind. I can understand his feelings, his therapist says that he has an inferiority complex. Well she said that its a complex, but its also justified because he is inferior."

James: "The pyschologist bills Matt."


To see more of James' crap writing click here

Fragments

I crumbled up the piece of paper and threw it on the windowsill. I wish that the window had opened, that the writing would escape my world falling out into the open air.

The beer bottles sat on the desk empty, their effects were lingering in my dulled brain.

The book's spine pointed to the ceiling, the pages open spread out like wings.

The box was slightly open, crammed with letters from the past.

The dance floor had just two or three couples moving to the salsa music. The band was on its last number, the dancers were moving more sluggishly; taken over by the late night, the alcohol, and their lust.

I still can't remember what she looks like and it was only yesterday that I saw her last, that's why I keep a picture of her close to my person.

Scissor Sisters

pt. 3

We laid on my bed. We stripped the clothes off each other. I put a condom on and guided myself into her. Her breathing was slow and relaxed. My breath eventually matched hers. The feeling between us was one of quiet, not hurried, or loud, but not dispassionate either. It seemed like such a familiar feeling. Afterwards I threw away the condom and got some water from the kitchen. When I arrived back in the room she was ruffling through my books by my bedside.

"Will you read to me," she asked.
"Do you want some water," I replied.
She took a glass of water from my hand and looked over the novels once more.
"No one's read to me in such a long time."
"Are you sleepy?"
"Not really, Murakami is good, but you only have 'Norweigan Wood.' There's this short story in Blind Woman Sleeping Willow. The main characters abandon their busy lives in Tokoyo to have an extended affair in Greece. Everyday the man would read to the woman. That's what she wanted. When I was in college I used to have a boyfriend who would read to me. He was into bizarre stuff, he'd always be reading passages from Lautremont, or Artaud. Still his voice was somewhat soothing. There's something about being spoken to that I like. That's why I sat next to you tonight, I thought you'd have a nice voice."
She sighed softly and patted the bed next to her. I set my water glass down on the bed side and got into bed next to her. She was still warm from the sex. Her face was slightly flushed. A light blanket lay over her legs. I moved the blanket over my lower torso slightly embarrassed by my nakedness.
"Read to me," she asked.
"What do you want me to read?"
"I don't know. To tell you the truth I don't really like any of these books that you have here. Well, Norweigan Wood is good but I don't think it will be very enthralling to have read to me. If you tell me a good enough tale I'll make it worth your while. Sort of like the woman in the Arabian nights." She sat up a little straighter and poked me in the ribs.

"I have nothing to read," I said slowly. I was embarrassed by my voice. My lower jaw jutted out slightly causing an under bite. My cro magnon facial features created a lisp that I'd had my entire life. My parents, particularly my mother had wanted it fixed when I was younger but we'd never had the money to do so. Instead I was put through speech therapy. Endlessly I'd pronounce the 'th' sound, the 'sh' sound and 's.' Every time would be the same soft slight slur. I hated hearing my voice recorded and never sang. I sat there staring at the ceiling for a while trying to figure out some form of respectable escape.

"Well why don't you just make up a story," she said.
"Make one up?"
"Yeah, how about; 'Once about a time in Cleveland,' or maybe 'On the edges of a small rural town, there was a farm, and there lived a boy on that farm...' I've got you started already."
"Your imagination works much quicker than mine."
"I think its more about getting the ball rolling. Once you start the story will take you along wherever it wants to go."
"You think so?"
"Sure, and what do you have to lose? I've already seen the worst of you." She giggled and pulled up the sheets. She grabbed my cock giving it a squeeze. She laughed again then kissed my cheek.

A Lesson from Life's Military School

"You should put on a sweater Tong," I said as we waited for the announcer to say my name. Tong had fought fifteen minutes before and was still wearing his shorts. Fresno is warm but there was a slight fall breeze in the air. I could feel it brush against my skin.

"Focus on your fight," Mike Regnier, my trainer said. I looked forward. The announcer, with a rolling voice, belted out Norman's name; Norman "The Storm" Valencerina. My calling card came next and my feet followed Coke's. We walked out into the small baseball stadium in Chukchanski park, home of the Grizzlies. The ring was set up close to first base. General admission tickets gave you a seat in the stands while a slightly pricier ticket gave you a seat in a folding seat near the ring. We walked to the red corner.

"Don't step on the first step," Coke, my fearless trainer, said to me.

I followed his movements. He held down the rope for me and I went to my corner. I knocked the post three times and followed the rope around the ring. By the time I'd reached the second post the ram muay music had begun. I knocked each post corner three times, circled the center of the ring three times and then bowed down to begin the ram muay. My body was tense, its been hard for me to relax my body. In the locker room I'd been trying to fine tune my positioning. Alex from Cheetah's Muay Thai in Oakland gave me some friendly advice, and a laotian trainer had said in regards to ram muay "It looks easy, but really its not." I couldn't agree more. My eyes saw Fuller Espiritu my last opponent in the folding chairs by the ring. We'd fought just three weeks before. He nodded his head encouragingly. I wanted to smile but thought it wouldn't be so good for my tough guy image. My ram muay was conducted with as much grace and care as I could muster.

The referee brought us to the center of the ring. Norman stood an inch or two taller than me and two pounds lighter. I'm tall for fighting at 140 lbs, and at 5'9" he's extremely tall. Prior to the fight I'd imagined him teeping me, using his reach against me. In my mind I parried his push kicks to the side and landed heavy right crosses against his face. The bell rang and the third man in the ring told us to begin to fight. We touched gloves, paused respectfully and then the fight began. The entire fight was action packed. There was little resting, feinting, or down time. He caught one of my right leg kicks and in a terrible move I turned over falling. I got up right away and we started to engage again. We clinched for at least two thirds of the fight. He had excellent technique and his knees slammed into me with precision. I could finally understand why my opponents got gassed so quickly when I kneed them. I body kicked him a few times and leg kicked him from too close. During the second round I thought to myself "This is a close fight." We were both throwing as much as we could into each other. Norman had an aggressive technical style that relied on more hands and knees while I relied more on a persistent will that drove my kicks and knees. During the second round a feeling of deja vu came over me. It was if the punches Norman threw had landed before, in some mirror world. Everything was happening once again.

When the bell rang Mike told me to use my hands more as the california judges are boxing judges. They look for hands. Coke told me to use more power in my knees. "Hidt Hawd!" Coke said. I looked at Norman and he was gassed. The third round was much like the previous two, a blur. Sometimes two minutes is so long, sometimes its just not long enough. We were both time bound, time was both an adversary and ally. I wished for nothing more every time that Norman's knee struck my ribs that time would quicken, that my pain would end. Yet during the third round as he began to tire I wished for nothing more than for time to elongate so that I could strike more, strike harder, strike with all my heart. When the bell rung I was both tired, and glad. The pain, the physical pain was over. I had no idea who would win. I thought maybe, just maybe I would win, yet also I knew that he had done his damage as well. My body felt his six minutes of effort. My lungs felt like they were going to burst. My ribs were sore, my heart was fading. I thought that I was going to cough up blood.

The announcer called out a split decision. "29-28 for Norman Valencerina, 30-27 for Matt Lucas 29-28 for the winner Norman 'The Storm' Valencerina." I went over to Norman and said a quick word. I think; "That was close," or "that was a good fight." I stepped out of the ring and made my way to the dressing room. The adrenaline was still pumping through me so I didn't feel the pain. It wasn't until later in the evening that the physical pain would set in. It wasn't until later that the emotional pain would set in.

pt. 2

My apartment was furnished minimally. A small brown circular table sat just outside of the kitchen area. Two mismatched chairs were tucked under the table. Behind the table was a map of Las Vegas, next to the general map of the region was a map of Last Vegas Boulevard (the Strip) and some of the surrounding area. I'd looked for topographical maps of the area, but never seemed to find any. The living room had a black futon that had seen better days. A friend's uncle had given it to me, he hadn't wanted it and told me to keep it for "storage." In front of the futon was my entertainment system. A Television sat on top of a crate stolen from the local 7-11. On top of the television the dvd/vcr player. A few tapes and dvds lay next to the crate: "The Croupier," "Resident Evil 3," "Casino," "The Set Up," "Somebody Up There Must Like Me..." were visible in the pile.

"Nice place. I like the fengshui," she said to me. "You could use a houseplant. A cactus would spruce things up and require little effort."
I grunt as a reply.

"Would you like something to drink? I have Kahlua, vodka, and soy milk if you want a vegan white Russian, I have some beer, and a bottle of trader joe's Merlot. The drunk from the Merlot is nice, heady, but will leave you with a nasty hang over tomorrow."
"A vegan white Russian? You're vegan?"
"Yeah, for four years now. I watched some PETA movie and became vegan. The pathetic plight and slavery of animals was too disgusting. Animals shouldn't be used so. I can't stand the sight of it. Its visually repulsive."
"You don't care about them?"
"Not really. You can only care about animals so fucking much. Its hard enough to care about oneself."
"You pay your bills though right? And you're not living with your parents."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence. Now what would you like to drink?"
"I'll just have a beer."

I open a beer for both of us. We sit on the futon in silence for a while, slowly nursing our beers. These moments are always awkward for me. There's the expectation of kissing, but one of us has to move. Always the fear of rejection creeps up with this paralysis.

"Oh do you want to watch a movie?" I asked.
"Sure, what do you have?"
"You can look at the pile over there." She set down her beer and began to rummage through the small pile of tapes and dvds.
"Before Sunrise?" Is this the one you watch when girls come over?"
"What? Celine is reading "The Story of the Eye" by George Bataille. Do you understand the eroticism of that? Its like flashing your erection everywhere you go."
"Don't be crass. Listen why don't we just save ourselves some time. I have to work in the morning." She said to me. She turned around and faced me. She moved close to me and as her face drew closer to mine I tilted my head. My lips brushed hers. We began to kiss, softly at first then with more passion.
"Let's go into my bedroom," I said.
She nodded slowly and followed me her hand in mine.

I'd like a place I can call my own

I met her at a bar. It was a hipster dive off of Charleston st. in Las Vegas. The bar, called the Noble, used to swarm with old men alcoholics. One of the bartenders who was young and with it started to have rockabilly shows. The music was tolerable. Most of the bands sounded like Tiger Army, or the Stray Cats.

The night we met the Bad Boys of Blue were playing. They were a spoof band mocking the blue man group. The band dressed in blue coveralls and painted their faces blue. Their music was messy, discordant. They played for ten minutes before the bartender cut them off. I was sitting next to a window when she came up to talk to me.

"Hey," she said.
"Hey," I replied.
"What are you doing?"
"Drowning."
"Can I join you?"
"Sure."

We had a few cheap beers together, mainly in silence. When she wasn't looking in my direction I'd glance at her. I wondered why she'd sat down next to me. She was wearing blue jeans, white and black converse and a white shirt. Her hair was long and blonde. Her name was Jennifer. When we did talk, we chatted about our jobs. She worked as a waitress at a Irish pub in the downtown area of Vegas. Like all towns Vegas is divided spatially by class. The strip with its glamorous spectacles draws the middle to upper class while the downtown area with its cheap tinsel and budget prices brings in a lower class crowd. She talked about how the tourist clientele were awful tippers. Bad tippers are a constant topic amongst waiters around the world. It got later and at about twelve thirty I mustered up the courage to aske her back to my place.

"What are you doing tonight? You interested in watching a movie? I live a few blocks away from here." I said to her.
"Yeah that might be nice. Why don't we drive? I don't want to leave my car here."
"Okay."

She had a small four door car. She talked about it the entire three block drive to my house. I zoned the conversation out. I'd never been interested in cars. I had a small motorcycle that I used for transportation. The only times it became inconvenient was when it rained, or when I was drunk. Like most other Vegas residents I'd already had one DUI strike against me in the last two years.

My apartment was in a housing complex. It was indescribable from the outside. The only way to recognize it from all the others was to know the building number and letter on the apartment door. I lived alone in the one bedroom apartment. The rent was reasonable, five hundred dollars a month. It was a bit far from the grocery store but I usually ate at work anyways. I'd moved into this small apartment to focus on my writing. I'd been living in San Francisco for a while, happily, until I broke up with my girlfriend. It was her apartment so I had no place to go when the relationship ended. My decision to move out here was influenced by John O'Brien's "Leaving Las Vegas." The novel follows an alcoholic who loses his job. He takes his severance pay to Vegas and drinks himself to death. While in his stupor he meets a whore. They fall in love. I didn't expect of find love when I moved, but the image of decay grabbed me.

I thought that maybe the decadent ambiance would seep into my stories. Secretly I longed to be the next Bret Easton Ellis, Hubert Selby Jr. or Jean Genet. I had a bad case of writer's block by the time that I'd actually gotten settled enough to start writing regularly. Half of my stories were bad romantic love tales. They were fantastical visions of my time spent with my ex girlfriend, Amy. The other half of my stories were bad break up stories again about Amy. I decided that I wouldn't write one more story until my feelings for Amy were gone. Whenever I sat down at my desk to write images of Amy came to my mind. I'd sit and stare at the computer screen for a while. Eventually I'd get up and leave to the bar having little else to do.

Its a no man's land

At two o'clock when all the customers were gone both Jared and Kurt lit up cigarettes. Jared sat at the bar counter counting his drawer while Kurt stood behind the bar. Kurt took the remaining glasses and put them in the dishwasher. I put on latex gloves and started to pull the bar mats. Every night the bar mats are taken outside to be washed by the cleaning crew. The aisle long bar is washed down as well. The night's booze and broken glass cleaned away.

"Jared can I have a cigarette?" Tania asked. She was waiting for Jared to leave. They'd been dating for four or five months and had met at the restaraunt. She started to light her cigarette.

"I'm outta here before this place becomes a cloud of smoke." I said. I took my bike and walked out the door. The ride home was chilly but short. My house is only ten blocks away from the restaurant so it only takes me seven minutes to arrive to work. That small amount of time doesn't prevent me from being five minutes late to work consistently though.

I brushed and flossed my teeth took off my clothes and went to bed. Sleep came quickly to me due to my exhaustion. I'd worked out earlier in the day and would go to the gym at eleven in the morning to help out with the kids class. My sleep was dreamless.

Untitled

My hands slapped on the pavement absorbing some of the shock from the one story fall. My body rolled forward into a wheel barrel roll. My legs pushed me off the ground and into a lunge down the dark alleyway. The street was numbed by the night. The stars no longer shined in the sky, they had been replaced a long time ago by a polluted smog. The sounds of the city was replaced by the mania in my heart. Getting caught once more would be the end. My wallet wasn't lined enough to hire a competent lawyer, my youth no longer protected me from being tried as an adult, and my record already had two strikes. The pace of my running was based on fear, a fear of capture. I tried to maintain deep long regular breaths.

"Breathe in, run, run, breathe out, run, run, run," I thought to myself. I tried to focus on my route rather than be bogged down with images of police officers entrapping me. At the end of the alleyway was a small brick wall. It was about eight feet tall. As I neared it my body exploded. I leaped up towards the ledge using my left foot to push downward on the wall at an angle. The effect of my foot gave me the little boost I needed to gain a hold on the ledge. My right foot kicked out behind me as my upper body pulled me up. As my waist rose above the ledge my legs swung to my left side and over the small ledge. I turned my upper body to where I'd come from. My eyes saw nothing but darkness. I sighed and then let myself fall off the wall.

I looked around to see where I was. I'd familiarized myself with a general lay out of the city a long time ago. The major streets and their physical geography was mapped in my mind. These small streets though were tiny scratches that never made it on the paper. I walked forward. The police would probably spend a few minutes at the site. They would call for back up or would need to do some sort of bureaucratic activity then would begin a slow casual sweep for me. Escaping immediate danger was always much easier than surviving the long boredom of self-protection. The police don't often catch people who commit premeditated crimes like mine, rather they rely on informants. The law is more a manager of information than a cat catching a mouse. The law induced people to rat on each other or for the criminals to let their guards down and blab on themselves.

Reach out touch Faith

The diner was dimly lit. The small overhanging light was dim, due to the lack of light bulbs. Of the four bulbs in the faux chandelier only one actively worked. That one bit of glass and wiring provided us with light. The darkness sat well on my companion, although I wish it had sat a little more heavily. She waited for me to speak.

We used to come to this diner all the time. We met while she was in art school. I should have known better than to date some art fag. I'd been sitting in on a human anatomy class when I first spotted her. She had long brown hair and large open eyes, like she was straight out of a Japanese manga. After two weeks of classes she moved her seat next to mine. Two weeks after that we were making dinner and going on bike rides. She was pleasant, cute, and young. Having recently moved back to the area and being unsure of my plans it seemed appropriate to take things slowly, easily.

The lackadaisical approach to the relationship meant that most things went unsaid. The transition from hooking up to dating was unclear and while I assumed she wanted to be in some sort of relationship with me neither of us came out and said anything. The lack of clarity ended up being our downfall. Not knowing that I was interested in having a an ongoing thing with her she had started to date someone else on the side. Her inability to say what she wanted was peculiar to me while my inability to talk was just classical male stoicism. I found it difficult to think that someone could want a "relationship." A relationship with anyone. Just as long as it was a "relationship." It reminded me of craigslist ads:

"SWF iso that Special Someone"

I'm blonde, medium height and build, with big blue eyes and a killer smile (so I've been told). I enjoy shopping, working out, nice restaurants, and spending time with the people who mean the most to me. I am educated with a BA in Communications. I enjoy reading and writing and am currently formulating ideas for a book. I am looking for a ltr with a man who knows how to please me. My last boyfriend was afraid of commmitment. I want a man who knows what he wants and won't play games....

The waitress came over and asked for our order. I ordered a vegan black bean burger with some fries and a root beer, she said that she'd share my fries and got a vegan blueberry banana milkshake. One of the good things about being in a progressive area is that even shit hole dives like the diner have vegan options. It adds to the allure and ambiance in a way that the bad chandelier did not.

We sat in silence for a while. I was a little surprised with myself that we were even talking. I'd never been this impulsive before. After two months of no communication I had picked up the phone and called her. Half an hour later we were at the diner.

"How are you doing," I asked her.

"I'm okay."

"What have you been doing lately?"

"Not much really. The things I used to do, well I still do but they don't have the same appeal. I'm still attending my classes, doing my assignments, I go for walks in the park occasionally but everything seems to have lost its luster."

"I saw this movie last night it reminded me of you..."

"What movie?"

"It was 'Control.'"

"Oh that movie about Joy Division?"

"Yeah, you know how much I love Joy Division. Have you seen it yet?"

"No. I want to though. Is it good?"

"Yeah. Its short but I enjoyed it."

"Why did you think of me."

"I guess I thought about our situation. Curtis married at a very young age, 19, to his high school sweet heart. Impulsively they have a child. At the tender age of 21 he's living the nuclear family wet dream. When the band begins to take off he realizes he's unhappy and becomes involved with a belgian reporter. Eventually his dutiful wife finds out and confronts him. She screams at him demanding answers from him.
'Why Ian? Why? Do you love her Ian? Where are you going Ian?'
Ian stands there in silence. Its as if his wife is smashing her hands against a brick wall. Her fists batter this emotional structure and become bloody. She looks so fustratingly impotent. Ian is unable to reply. The words won't come out of his mouth. He tears up a little and then walks away. He goes to a pub and gets shitfaced."

We sit in silence for a while longer. I push at my food with my fork and then eat some of my burger. Its greasy. She takes a long drink of her milkshake.

"It seems as though everything that happened between us was a lie. While my empathy goes out to Curtis, I know how his wife feels. Why couldn't Curtis have just told her the truth. Sure they would have gotten divorced but things would have healed, there wouldn't be a big tear in her heart. Why didn't you just say something to me?"

"I was going to. I wanted to leave Bryan but things got so fucked up. I was happy with you."

"But it was such a compartmentalized happiness. It was a happiness that ignored other things. It was like a child's soap bubble. It floated in the air beautifully and then popped. I hate that our relationship was so easily replaced. I feel so fucking cheap. No doubt I've already been switched with someone who will cater to your needs on demand. Your insistent victim hood, your constant cravings for attention. It angers me that the relationship was always about you. It never was a relationship, it was a one sided affair in which I was a prop for your insecurities. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you."

I got out my wallet and put twenty dollars down, more than enough for the meal and her shake. I took my coat and walked out the door. A feeling of lightness came over me. Perhaps it was a fleeting feeling but I lingered in it for the moment. When I arrived back home I got out my sketch pad and started to draw. After I finished a small sketch I put on a Joy Division record. I put on "She's lost Control" and stared at the lyrics. They read:



Confusion in her eyes that says it all.
She's lost control.
And she's clinging to the nearest passer by,
She's lost control.
And she gave away the secrets of her past,
And said I've lost control again,
And a voice that told her when and where to act,
She said I've lost control again.

And she turned around and took me by the hand and said,
I've lost control again.
And how I'll never know just why or understand,
She said I've lost control again.
And she screamed out kicking on her side and said,
I've lost control again.
And seized up on the floor, I thought she'd die.
She said I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.

Well I had to 'phone her friend to state my case,
And say she's lost control again.
And she showed up all the errors and mistakes,
And said I've lost control again.
But she expressed herself in many different ways,
Until she lost control again.
And walked upon the edge of no escape,
And laughed I've lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.
She's lost control again.
She's lost control.

The stoop

Micky sat on the stoop watching the street. His right hand still throbbed from the fight. His coach, a tall irishman, had tightened the glove on his hand so tight that it numbed. In the ring the dead hand seemed alive, invincible even. His opponent's face seemed to split open when the right hand smashed into it. Now it throbbed. Micky had iced it after the fight and was considering grabbing another bucket of ice.

"Hey Micky, How'd the fight go? You win or what," shouted the bodaga store clerk from outside his shop. The little bodaga sold small processed food, cigarettes, beer, and milk. A fair amount of the clientele were school children who picked up candy after school. The shop owner would always complain about the children destroying his store.

Micky squinted his eyes and looked out across the street. Seeing the bodaga, and the outline of the shop owner wasn't usually difficult but the sun was in his eyes. In the morning Micky would become light sensitive. The light would curse his blue eyes making him slightly dizzy. As a child he would become nauseous if he was forced to go outdoors too abruptly after waking.

Micky looked down at his right hand. It was a little swollen. He thought that maybe he'd broken a knuckle or two on his opponent's cement head. He sighed and looked down the street. Lined with brownstones the residential area was usually buzzing with activity. At certain hours a calmness would sweep over it. The adults at work, the children at school, the hour still too early for most of the bums to have started loitering in the area.

Contrary to what others think Micky knew that boxing has always been about being hurt, not giving hurt. To move through the pain to triumph - or some sembalance of triumph is the route to real victory. The fight was over but the pain continued. The sensation in his right hand was acute but Micky could feel the other injuries, the bruise on his left rib, the slight laceration under his eye, his swollen nose.

The sky was clear up above and Micky thought about going inside to get another bucket of ice.

Amateur Record

The smoke machine started to pour out its chemical clouds. My barefeet moved across the stage floor. Coke moved in front of me. He pulled the ropes down and I swung over them. The music wasn't on so I waited for a moment. Fuller came out and entered the ring. The Ram Muay music began on so I started to seal the ring. After knocking each corner three times and circling the center of the ring , I kneeled down. My body moved to the erratic music. Ding, Ding, Ding, Ding, pause, Ding, Ding, ding. My mind was focused on elegance.

"Remember Matt, beautiful, beautiful," Coke had said in the days preceeding the fight.

The dance came to an end and the referee brought us together.

"I want a clean fight, blah blah blah."

The bell rang and we moved into the center of the large ring. Fuller extended his gloved hand and I knocked it. We waited a moment and the fight began. Fuller was evasive the entire fight. He rarely initiated the action and ran almost literally around the ring. He would occassionally throw punches which I blocked. The bell rang and we moved to our corners.

"You need to step out with your kicks. Step out Matt," Coke said.

"He keeps running. Fuck him. Punk him Matt. Next time he starts running taunt him," Mike said. "You won this round. Keep it up."

The second round was similiar to the first. Fuller jogged around the ring avoiding confrontation and so I taunted him. It was a bizarre experience and it seemed a little unsportsmanlike at the time, but in retrospect I should have taunted him more. At the end of the second round I straight kneed him which made me happy.

The final round had him cut kick me twice. He threw a few super man punches which I blocked and the fight ended. I was pretty sure that I had won. I held up my hands and went to my corner. Coke and Mike helped me take off my gloves. The referee brought us to the center and the verdict came in. Fuller won by split decision. The crowd started to boo.

Bang, da Bang, da Bang

I've never learned real self defense, but then again I've never had to deal with some shit bag talking smack about my lady. In order to prepare for that moment I've begun to watch Bas Rutten's self defense course.

Walking away

We were walking down the street The fall wind blew leaves lightly across our path. When my siblings and I were younger we made large piles of leaves and dove into them. The natural crash pads were imaginative walls to slam into during our epic battles with each other. The mounds of slow decay were forts, hiding spots, impromptu playgrounds. The leaves on the street were piled by the curb. No child would play with them.

"What have you been thinking about lately?" she asked me.

Our conversations start this way. First a very vague question then more pointed. She will inquire into the most troubling aspects of my personal life, ex girlfriends, friends with whom I'm on the outs, or other sources of drama. Its often like undergoing an interrogation, a brutal questioning session mixed with an underlying theraputeic affect.

"I've been thinking about leaving," is my reply. "I've been thinking about how long I've lived here, how my desire to get away for a while is increasing. My worry is that by staying here for a long time that life will stagnate. Slowly my daily activities will become more and more mediocre."

Its not often that there is a pause in our conversations. Now there is one. She probably has run out of gatling gun queries. She takes off her sweater.

"Its hot. No hooker comments."

After a half a block my eyes catch sight of her tiger print shirt. My lungs fill with air. The exhale comes slow to avoid the laughter.

Why do I want to leave so bad? Is it my relationship? Or the lack thereof? Is it the desire to break from the routine? Is it the rain and cold that will come soon? Maybe I'm tired of being myself.

I want to go.

Thoughts on "You're going to Get Hit"

Unlike some of my other stories I rewrote each entry rather than create a separate part for each one. So instead of having Billy's letter part 1, 2, and 3, I just kept Billy's letter and amended it as I went along.

A week or so ago I was sitting in the tub. Its not often that I bathe, take in a full bath full of hot water and let my skin soak. Recently having been bitten by a spider a tub full of boiling liquid seemed to be in order. As my body sat steaming I looked at my wound. It slowly leaked out blood. The seeping red liquid reminded me of those who choose to commit suicide in bath tubs. Certainly they should be applauded for their consideration of the aftermath mess.

Suicide is an inevitability. For many people its a way out, a form of escape. There is absolutely nothing wrong with suicide. It is a way to walk off the field of a rigged game. I hope that one day I will be able to commit suicide, when I so desire.

All these morbid thoughts of suicide and death reminded me of when I was younger. Burdened with mindless labor on a farm I would often think of what my funeral would be like. I suppose reading Tom Sawyer had gotten my mind going. As I grew older I would think of committing suicide as a way of punishing the people who would survive me. My death would be their guilt. Countless hours would be spent picturing the weeping, the crying, the sobbing, and the sadness of having never said "I love you Matt," enough or with adequate earnest.

I don't think about such things as much anymore. Yet as the water in the tub cooled I thought about my own death. Who would preside over it? Would I be cremated? Why would I die? What would people say?

This story is a reaction to those questions. I don't think that it is fully representative of what people would say or do after my death. I'm somewhat satisfied with it. I feel like the last piece is a little rushed and the romantic reasons for the death of Marc are a bit hockey. Silly, juvenile, but far more realistic than Marc finding out he has cancer and going out to gun down cops. Who does that? A young person is more likely to throw themselves before a train than go out with a bang.

The suicidal urge seems to be dying out though. People don't have the same amount of passion as they did. Passion has been replaced by obsession, or worse detachment. An eventual compromise is made with everyday life and the mill stone continues to grind on.

You're going to get hit

Billy's letter

Dear Mark,

I know it doesn't matter to you, well... not anymore but Lanna won't make it. She's been sulking for a long time. She's almost as upset as when that old basset hound of hers, Ricardo died. She cried the first two days, then fell back into her work. Sewing, setting the print for the paper, cleaning the house, doing all the things that she normally does. Her tasks are dominated with a despondent air. She could make charcoal look like a light bulb her soul seems so dark. Of course she won't talk about things. I'm sure she'll stop by at some point to pay her respects. Maybe one day while walking the dogs.

As for me, well these things happen. They've happened before. They will happen again. Did I ever tell you about my boyhood pal, Micky? Micky and I would go stealing apples from the nearby orchard, candy from the store, we would nick his old man's girlie magazines. When we were twelve Micky and I went to the waterfront late at night. The wharf was deserted except for the boats that bobbed on the ocean water. He bravely pronounced that he could touch the anchor of one of the boats. He shrugged off his shirt and dove in. As he was coming up his head smacked the edge of one of the boats. The impact cracked his head open. I dove in and dragged him ashore. He wasn't breathing by the time I had gotten someone to help.

You lose friends. They die. At some point I'll die. A few people will mourn my death. I thought you'd be one of them.

I've been trying to keep myself busy. We're still putting out the paper, of course. We've recently got a few Italians to lend some help with the writing. Much of it is poetic calls to action. Destroy the State, The priests must rot, hack up the bureaucrats, and do it now! That's what it comes down to. Its beautiful though. My own writing is coming along. The newest addition of the paper will have a central article by me about capitalism. The essay depicts the changing structure of the economy. Capitalism has come a long way since the feudal mercantilism of the medieval days. Its international, and with the expansion of railroads, its becoming even easier to ship goods all over. Adam Smith would be happy, you can be sure that I am not.

This is a weak letter. Its filled with mundane things about my life. I find it hard to say something relevant. Do I write about my memories of you? Do I write about our first meeting in the gym halls? I was too old to be a boxer but loved the action. You were so awful when you came in. Your persistence paid though. Laughing our comrades would compare you to the Mexican in Jack London's short story. You did donate a little of your purse, not that much but enough to make us all laugh.

Its hard for me to figure out what to write. We'll write up an obituary for you in the paper. Perhaps something a little more thrilling. "Comrade Gunned Down by Faciscts," "Slaughtered by the State," something less saddening and disappointing than the actual events.

I'll put this in as we put the dirt in on top of you.
Sincerely,

Billy Boke


Jimmy's Speech

"Looking out, I see a sea of black," Jimmy shuffled from one foot to another. He was a little nervous in front of the funeral crowd. He had presented academic papers in front of larger groups but this was more daunting. His words seemed more important, more final.

"Marc would appreciate your presence. I will start from the beginning. Marc and I grew up in a rural town north of here. We spent most of our boyhoods herding cows, birthing calves, milking cows, and slaughtering cows. On our days off our pious parents would bring us to the local church for moralistic diatribes from the preacher. Those days were tiresome additions to the daily sermons we got from the old man. As we hit the years where every boy thinks he is much more man than boy and most men think he is more boy than man, Marc began his troublesome career. He began to steal some of the milk and cheese. He stole little bits of the market money. He would drink the moonshine that our father brewed. He would get into fights with other local boys. To say that I was an innocent during these days would be ignoring the horns on my head but my involvement wasn't as outrageous. He was arrested a few times. My mother wept and went to the priest. When the priest spoke to Marc, Marc spat in his face. That night Marc and our father got into a brawl. Our father is a much larger man but Marc had a fire in him, perhaps it was some of the moonshine.

The next time he was arrested he was sent to a boys reformatory in the city. While Marc may have acted the street tough he was still intelligent. He could read, and write more than competently as was evidenced in his weekly letters home to me. His letters during his stay were formulaic.
'Dear Jimmy,
Things here are okay. This week only one black eye. From one of the guards not another one of the boys. My fist went deep into the depths of his belly despite his girdle. I've been bored though as they've kept me segregated. They've disallowed me books, and the small privileges afforded to those of us lucky enough to be society's outcasts. Most of the other boys are from poverty and are meek, petty thugs.... I am engulfed in ennui...'

So his letters went. His daily interactions in the reformatory were a condemnation of the Bastille of boredom. I never have fully agreed with Marc's politics, nor have I fully disagreed. I've always been empathetic though. When you live so close to someone that happens. No matter how strongly you may disagree with them you still see them as human. They are still your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, lovers, neighbors, they still retain that human connection.

His departure from the reformatory also marked a departure from our home town. No longer would he milk cows, attend church, honor and obey our parents. He moved towards the city where he could survive. The next few years were spent avoiding the law and engaging in petty criminal activities. In hindsight his earlier activity foreshadowed this later activity. The scale merely increased. Along came the scaled repercussions. He spent more time in prison.

There he might others who called themselves Anarchists. Women and men who rejected God, the State, Capital. Men who sought the violent overthrow of the reign of things. It was the anarchists who would influence him the most during his later years. The years that most of you know him from. After his last stint in prison he went to work as a bricklayer. One of the Italian Anarchists had helped him gain the job.

He worked for a while as a bricklayer but was let go after he failed to show to work one night. That was the night after his first bout. Believing in the armed overthrow of the state Marc went out to train as a boxer. He was too poor to buy a firearm so he had to create his own guns. His first bout was a disaster. He danced around the ring. His opponent moved in flailing. Marc was caught with a right cross to the face that not only broke his nose but knocked him out. When he finally came to in the dressing room he asked for a bottle of whiskey. He drank half the bottle of whiskey and said that next time he would; "get that son of a bitch."

He refused to work a regular gig after that fight. He stayed on my floor. He slept when he could, ate when he could, and trained all the rest of the time. I'd never seen him so possessed. He'd rise early in the morning and run then would go to the boxing gym. He'd spend several hours there, come home, eat all my stores of food, sleep, then go back to the gym. When he came back in the evening he would gush about his failures.

"Today I was working my jab. I butterfly it too much Jimmy. You can see it coming a mile away. I don't shoot it straight out, I bring it out.... Agh, my infighting is awful. One good shot to my skinny rail of a body and its 7,8,9,10. Ah Jimmy what am I gonna do? For every little thing I do right, there are a million things I do wrong, wrong, wrong."

Despite his hours of training and picking up the occasional dock work to keep himself fed, Marc was still social. He was a lively participant in the local anarchist group. I've never attended those meetings, as I stated before I'm empathetic but not in agreement with Marc's anarchist views. All the same he would pour fourth with the same amount of zeal about the discussions that went on there.

"Fucking Sasha, both Audrey and I agree. You can't allow the market into a post revolutionary society. Albeit planning out a future society is like attempting to count the clouds in tomorrow's sky, but one thing I know if we exchange goods, if we engage in even the most petty of mercantilism, the beast of capital will rise again. Bah! The future economy must be one based on the gift."

Marc's amateur boxing career didn't go far, mainly due to his untimely demise. His career record was 9-1-3. He knocked out five opponents with his right cross.

The last time I saw Marc was the evening before he died. He came in with a worn face. He said little. He read for a while then went to bed. After putting in hours at the gym Marc was hit by a bus on his walk home. He was killed on impact.

Thank you all for coming. If you'd like to say anything you have five minutes each. Please come forward according to your seating placement."

Slipping in the back

She slid into a chair in the back. She had dressed with care, although her garments were a size too large for her. The clothing that she was able to procure was from her over sized cousin. She didn't have a large stock of black clothing on hand. How many people died so young?
As she sat in the back she was overcome with guilt and emotion. She hoped that she wouldn't be recognized but had decided to attend the funeral out of obligation. Her love for Marc was not in doubt. What she did with that love was circumspect.

Marc had met her in the small cafe down the street from the gym. He'd come in occasionally after the gym covered in sweat and would eat an enormous amount of food. After a month or two of coy smiles and ever so slight "accidental" brushing of hands Marc had suggested that he walk her home.

She lived about four miles from the cafe. Normally she would take a local to get home and back. It was a pleasant October evening though and so they walked. They walked down by the water, chatting nonchalantly. Discussing nothing of importance but the flower of youthful desire grew.

Marc began to walk her home nearly every evening after her shift had ended. She could remember the first time they had kissed. It was on a bench by the ocean water.
"My mother can recognize the stars. I can't," she had said.
"I think, I think that's the milky way there," Marc mentioned as he pointed to a white streak in the sky.
"My mother used to be able to locate the big dipper, and then from there would be able to tell me about all the different constellations."
"Uh, I think that might be the big dipper."
They had fallen into silence. The light crashing of waves on the shore seemed to speak for them. She put her head on his shoulder. He put his on top of hers. He had inhaled her scent. He took his arm and put it around her. She looked to him and they had kissed. It was the first of many.

Marc's life had taken a sudden change when he found out that she was engaged to be married. She was engaged to a middle class merchant down the street from the cafe. Marc had seen the man before. Suited, bearded, and walking like a flaneur. Marc had dismissed him as exactly the sort of mediocre filth that an adequate revolution would take care of.

She had never told him of the engagement. When Marc confronted her about the news she meekly lied. Marc nodded slowly. He hugged her and walked out of the cafe where they had met to talk.

Marc showed up for the gym that day. He boxed no better, no worse, than any other day. The trainers had noted nothing distinctive. After his work out was done Marc walked past the cafe. He came to the corner of the intersection and strode across. He didn't bother to look either way as he crossed the street.

At the funeral she cried for the young Werther.

You're going to get hit - Slipping in the back

She slid into a chair in the back. She had dressed with care, although her garments were a size too large for her. The clothing that she was able to procure was from her over sized cousin. She didn't have a large stock of black clothing on hand. How many people died so young?
As she sat in the back she was overcome with guilt and emotion. She hoped that she wouldn't be recognized but had decided to attend the funeral out of obligation. Her love for Marc was not in doubt. What she did with that love was circumspect.
Marc had met her in the small cafe down the street from the gym. He'd come in occasionally after the gym covered in sweat and would eat an enormous amount of food. After a month or two of coy smiles and ever so slight "accidental" brushing of hands Marc had suggested that he walk her home.
She lived about four miles from the cafe. Normally she would take a local to get home and back. It was a pleasant October evening though and so they walked. They walked down by the water, chatting nonchalantly. Discussing nothing of importance but the flower of youthful desire grew.
Marc began to walk her home nearly every evening after her shift had ended. She could remember the first time they had kissed. It was on a bench by the ocean water.
"My mother can recognize the stars. I can't," she had said.
"I think, I think that's the milky way there," Marc mentioned as he pointed to a white streak in the sky.
"My mother used to be able to locate the big dipper, and then from there would be able to tell me about all the different constellations."
"Uh, I think that might be the big dipper."
They had fallen into silence. The light crashing of waves on the shore seemed to speak for them. She put her head on his shoulder. He put his on top of hers. He had inhaled her scent. He took his arm and put it around her. She looked to him and they had kissed. It was the first of many.

Marc's life had taken a sudden change when he found out that she was engaged to be married. She was engaged to a middle class merchant down the street from the cafe. Marc had seen the man before. Suited, bearded, and walking like a flaneur. Marc had dismissed him as exactly the sort of mediocre filth that an adequate revolution would take care of.
She had never told him of the engagement. When Marc confronted her about the news she meekly lied. Marc nodded slowly. He hugged her and walked out of the cafe where they had met to talk.
Marc showed up for the gym that day. He boxed no better, no worse, than any other day. The trainers had noted no thing distinctive. After his work out was done Marc walked past the cafe. She wasn't there as she was arranging things for the upcoming wedding. He didn't bother to look either way as he crossed the street.
At the funeral she cried in the back for her young Werther.

War of the Contenders

Friday October 19th I will be fighting Team USA member Fuller Espiritu. Fuller and I recently had a short bout at the Fight and Fitness smoker in September.
You can get tickets at the door or online here.

Tuk Tuk Thai Pat Thai

Tuk Tuk is located right around the corner from me. Their late night hours and cheap prices certainly makes this place appealing. The downside is that the rest of the crowd tends to be awful. Berkeley seems to be home to many boorish college students.
My pat thai was run of the mill. It had not spicy zest. It came with no appetizers, or side dishes. Nothing but pat thai and water for $8. The bean sprouts were a nice and essential addition. I'd previously overlooked the sprouts in my past pat thai. The tofu was okay. It was chunky and semi- fried. Not fried enough for my taste buds though! The noodles were lightly seasoned (bland for the falangs) but were otherwise unmentionable.

You're going to get hit -Jimmy's speech

"Looking out, I see a sea of black," Jimmy shuffled from one foot to another. He was a little nervous in front of the funeral crowd. He had presented academic papers in front of larger groups but this was more daunting. His words seemed more important, more final.

"Marc would appreciate your presence. I will start from the beginning. Marc and I grew up in a rural town north of here. We spent most of our boyhoods herding cows, birthing calves, milking cows, and slaughtering cows. On our days off our pious parents would bring us to the local church for moralistic diatribes from the preacher. Those days were tiresome additions to the daily sermons we got from the old man. As we hit the years where every boy thinks he is much more man than boy and most men think he is more boy than man, Marc began his troublesome career. He began to steal some of the milk and cheese. He stole little bits of the market money. He would drink the moonshine that our father brewed. He would get into fights with other local boys. To say that I was an innocent during these days would be ignoring the horns on my head but my involvement wasn't as outrageous. He was arrested a few times. My mother wept and went to the priest. When the priest spoke to Marc, Marc spat in his face. That night Marc and our father got into a brawl. Our father is a much larger man but Marc had a fire in him, perhaps it was some of the moonshine.

The next time he was arrested he was sent to a boys reformatory in the city. While Marc may have acted the street tough he was still intelligent. He could read, and write more than competently as was evidenced in his weekly letters home to me. His letters during his stay were formulaic.
'Dear Jimmy,
Things here are okay. This week only one black eye. From one of the guards not another one of the boys. My fist went deep into the depths of his belly despite his girdle. I've been bored though as they've kept me segregated. They've disallowed me books, and the small privileges afforded to those of us lucky enough to be society's outcasts. Most of the other boys are from poverty and are meek, petty thugs.... I am engulfed in ennui...'

So his letters went. His daily interactions in the reformatory were a condemnation of the Bastille of boredom. I never have fully agreed with Marc's politics, nor have I fully disagreed. I've always been empathetic though. When you live so close to someone that happens. No matter how strongly you may disagree with them you still see them as human. They are still your brothers, your sisters, your cousins, lovers, neighbors, they still retain that human connection.

His departure from the reformatory also marked a departure from our home town. No longer would he milk cows, attend church, honor and obey our parents. He moved towards the city where he could survive. The next few years were spent avoiding the law and engaging in petty criminal activities. In hindsight his earlier activity foreshadowed this later activity. The scale merely increased. Along came the scaled repercussions. He spent more time in prison.

There he might others who called themselves Anarchists. Women and men who rejected God, the State, Capital. Men who sought the violent overthrow of the reign of things. It was the anarchists who would influence him the most during his later years. The years that most of you know him from. After his last stint in prison he went to work as a bricklayer. One of the Italian Anarchists had helped him gain the job.

He worked for a while as a bricklayer but was let go after he failed to show to work one night. That was the night after his first bout. Believing in the armed overthrow of the state Marc went out to train as a boxer. He was too poor to buy a firearm so he had to create his own guns. His first bout was a disaster. He danced around the ring. His opponent moved in flailing. Marc was caught with a right cross to the face that not only broke his nose but knocked him out. When he finally came to in the dressing room he asked for a bottle of whiskey. He drank half the bottle of whiskey and said that next time he would; "get that son of a bitch."

He refused to work a regular gig after that fight. He stayed on my floor. He slept when he could, ate when he could, and trained all the rest of the time. I'd never seen him so possessed. He'd rise early in the morning and run then would go to the boxing gym. He'd spend several hours there, come home, eat all my stores of food, sleep, then go back to the gym. When he came back in the evening he would gush about his failures.

"Today I was working my jab. I butterfly it too much Jimmy. You can see it coming a mile away. I don't shoot it straight out, I bring it out.... Agh, my infighting is awful. One good shot to my skinny rail of a body and its 7,8,9,10. Ah Jimmy what am I gonna do? For every little thing I do right, there are a million things I do wrong, wrong, wrong."

Despite his hours of training and picking up the occasional dock work to keep himself fed, Marc was still social. He was a lively participant in the local anarchist group. I've never attended those meetings, as I stated before I'm empathetic but not in agreement with Marc's anarchist views. All the same he would pour fourth with the same amount of zeal about the discussions that went on there.

"Fucking Sasha, both Audrey and I agree. You can't allow the market into a post revolutionary society. Albeit planning out a future society is like attempting to count the clouds in tomorrow's sky, but one thing I know if we exchange goods, if we engage in even the most petty of mercantilism, the beast of capital will rise again. Bah! The future economy must be one based on the gift."

Marc's amateur boxing career didn't go far, mainly due to his untimely demise. His career record was 9-1-3. He knocked out five opponents with his right cross.

The last time I saw Marc was the evening before he died. He came in with a worn face. He said little. He read for a while then went to bed. After putting in hours at the gym Marc was hit by a bus on his walk home. He was killed on impact.

Thank you all for coming. If you'd like to say anything you have five minutes each. Please come forward according to your seating placement.

You're going to get hit -William's letter

Dear Mark,

I know it doesn't matter to you, well... not anymore but Lanna won't make it. She's been sulking for a long time. She's almost as upset as when that old basset hound of hers, Ricardo died. She cried the first two days, then fell back into her work. Sewing, setting the print for the paper, cleaning the house, doing all the things that she normally does. Her tasks are dominated with a despondent air. She could make charcoal look like a light bulb her soul seems so dark. Of course she won't talk about things. I'm sure she'll stop by at some point to pay her respects. Maybe one day while walking the dogs.

As for me, well these things happen. They've happened before. They will happen again. Did I ever tell you about my boyhood pal, Micky? Micky and I would go stealing apples from the nearby orchard, candy from the store, we would nick his old man's girlie magazines. When we were twelve Micky and I went to the waterfront late at night. The wharf was deserted except for the boats that bobbed on the ocean water. He bravely pronounced that he could touch the anchor of one of the boats. He shrugged off his shirt and dove in. As he was coming up his head smacked the edge of one of the boats. The impact cracked his head open. I dove in and dragged him ashore. He wasn't breathing by the time I had gotten someone to help.

You lose friends. They die. At some point I'll die. A few people will mourn my death. I thought you'd be one of them.

I've been trying to keep myself busy. We're still putting out the paper, of course. We've recently got a few Italians to lend some help with the writing. Much of it is poetic calls to action. Destroy the State, The priests must rot, hack up the bureaucrats, and do it now! That's what it comes down to. Its beautiful though. My own writing is coming along. The newest addition of the paper will have a central article by me about capitalism. The essay depicts the changing structure of the economy. Capitalism has come a long way since the feudal mercantilism of the medieval days. Its international, and with the expansion of railroads, its becoming even easier to ship goods all over. Adam Smith would be happy, you can be sure that I am not.

This is a weak letter. Its filled with mundane things about my life. I find it hard to say something relevant. Do I write about my memories of you? Do I write about our first meeting in the gym halls? I was too old to be a boxer but loved the action. You were so awful when you came in. Your persistence paid though. Laughing our comrades would compare you to the Mexican in Jack London's short story. You did donate a little of your purse, not that much but enough to make us all laugh.

Its hard for me to figure out what to write. We'll write up an obituary for you in the paper. Perhaps something a little more thrilling. "Comrade Gunned Down by Faciscts," "Slaughtered by the State," something less saddening and disappointing than the actual events.

I'll put this in as we put the dirt in on top of you.
Sincerely,

Billy Boke

Portrait Of A crappy Artist As Morrissey Fan

My friend Vi and I arrived a little after 6pm. There was already a line of fifty people when we got to the area outside of the Fillmore. We all stood a bit behind the venue entrance near the post office. A slightly bearded guy walked up and down the line nervously looking at the those who had tickets already.

"Tickets? Anyone got extra tickets? Tickets?" he said non stop.
"I have an extra one," said a guy in front of us.
"How much?"
"One hundred," the ticket holder replied.
"Shit. I don't have that much. I have to buy four tickets. I lost them... The show hasn't even sold out," the buyer said with anxiety in his eyes.
"Sorry but its a hundred dollars."

A few minutes later another person came by and the ticket holder got his hundred dollars. The guy in front of Vi and I went and got a taco, we held his place in line.

"Ah ha! One step closer to Morrissey," I exclaimed as he walked away. "Sucker." When he came back we let him back in line.

The minutes passed slowly as Vi and I talked about the upcoming K-1 Max (a world muay thai tournament). When the conversation petered out we quizzed each other, impressing each other with our Morrissey factoids. My ability to keep track of these things isn't that good. The only thing I remembered was that the guitarist was in the polecats (but that was only because Vi talked about it on Monday night).

We were let in at 7 o'clock and we quickly made our way to the front of the stage. Facing the stage itself we were one person behind the security gate on the left. Certainly a modest position but one we had to guard through out Kristeen Young's set. The crowd for the most part was pretty mellow and surprisingly I wasn't tossed about or smashed up against the gate. Then again Morrissey isn't “System of a Down,” or “Rage against the Machine.” The violence he invokes is a bit more sophisticated.

Kristeen Young musically is a cross between Bjork and Tori Amos. Like Bjork she has a penchant for unusual wardrobe. Last night she wore a dress that looked like it was made of paper dollies. Streaking down the right side was red ribbon with a small heart pinned on her chest. Her upper left shoulder was covered in plastic and her left hand looked like it was wrapped in medical tape. She's a talented musician but most people seemed to find her music vaguely irritating. When the crowd doesn't show proper enthusiasm she's prone to state clever witticisms or sarcastic comments. Its an admirable trait. Her set lasted about forty minutes.

After the stage was cleared the prelude videos came on. The videos began with a pompous French gent wooing women from around the world. The New York dolls were shown playing “Just looking for a kiss” and we got to see David Johansen's bare midriff as he bounced with punkish enthusiasm.

“Are you excited?” asked a young woman standing next to us.
“Yeah.” I replied.
“Me too. I am soooo excited.”

Morrissey came on stage around nine o'clock and immediately went into his set. I enjoyed the show last night much more than on Monday. The set list was better and the visceral experience of being right up front made things more exciting.


Towards the end of the show Morrissey came over and asked a couple skin heads how they afforded coming out to see him so often.
“I really can't say,” the skinhead replied with his cockney accent.
I thought it was silly that they couldn't just admit that they were drug dealers, or petty thugs. I could imagine them lurking in a dark alleyway across the street from an atm machine.
“One more mate and we can buy the tickets to see Morrissey,” the one in the polo would say.
“This cunt better have taken out more than a bill. I'd like to pick up that Cocksparrer album that that whore stole from me too when she left me. Ah fuck it, as long as we get to see Morrissey croon to us,” the other skin head thug would reply.

I'd brought a small stenciled portrait of Morrissey and attempted to give it to him through out the evening. I spent a fair amount of my time during the show attempting to bestow my gift to Morrissey yet I was denied. I imagine it can be quite taxing to have all these people giving you various rubbish. Early in the show he received an Oscar Wilde action figure. My jealousy smoldered for quite a bit. My picture was made with love and care, something you certainly can't buy for ten dollars at a comic book store. In the end my persistence paid off. He came over to stage left during 'First of the Gang to Die.' I reached out with the canvased piece of art yearning to lavish upon him my object of devotion.
“For me?” Morrissey mouthed with a respectful air.
I nodded dumbly and he took it from my hands. Morrissey looked at the stencil and then held it in front of his face as he continued to sing. After a bit he set it next to the action figure in front of the drum set. It toppled over during the song but I didn't care. The glory is in the giving, well that and having my artistic work being paraded in front of hundreds of people by a handsome devil. I was congratulated by the other fans around me for my tenacity. I smiled pensively for the rest of the show.

The show let out around 10:30 after 20 songs or so. I saw a few kids I knew from the bay area and talked to one woman about my upcoming fight. We got another copy of the Fillmore produced poster then Vi and I rode home contented.

Thoughts on "Where will it end"

A friend just recently asked me how I go about writing these short stories, I think "Where will it end" is the third or fourth. I don't ever plan the stories out. I usually have a vague idea about what I want to write about, maybe a scene or just an item. In "Where will it end" I wanted to write about a young kid working at a department store. Later I wanted to include a scene with the father. That's it.

I usually sit down when I have time and the desire and try to write about a page or so. It takes me about an hour or so. I don't get writer's block (knock on wood) as I feel I am "just practicing." I'm not too concerned with a poignant moral, nor aesthetics. I like to try to work on small points, descriptions of things, dialogue and having real, believable characters. While I am still just dicking around with my writing I still enjoy reading my stories. Its the kind of writing I like to read.

I'd like more feedback on my writing but I know how rare that is.

Where will it end

The aisle is lit by fluorescent lights. The glowing bulbs are turned on at 9 in the morning and shut off at 10 in the evening. My skin seemed a little radiant under the light, but my skin is pale so I glow all the time. The children's section of the pharmacy needed to be reorganized again. At about 5 or 6 pm every night a bunch of little kids storm into the store grabbing every single cheap toy we have. Their parents get their various needs, diapers, advil, douches, milk, and cheap wonder bread, before heading home for dinner. After the little kids have torn the store apart I'm set to work facing product. I spend an hour lining up all the products on the shelves. The diapers must be straightened, the advil must be flush against the shelf, the douches must be dusted, the milk must be restocked, and the old wonder bread pulled off the shelf. I checked the time and cursed myself. The key to these service jobs is to somehow beat the clock. We all have our ways. I try to ignore it, the girl at the cash register, Rachel, in between customers writes poetry on scrap receipts, and Billy, the other stock boy, he pours forth his soul into his labor. He meticulously organizes the diapers, alphabetizes the advil, dusts, and redusts the douches, and keeps careful track of the stock being placed on the shelf.

The thing about living in a rural town is that you have to drive everywhere. My cousin said that LA is the same, but the distances are smaller and the traffic greater. Either way the neccissity for an automobile remains the same, especially in the cold, snowy winters. My father is a carpenter, my mother is a front desk manager at the town's best western (that's the classy chain motel at the top of the hill). Neither of them make much money, and they're split up so I'm forced to take care of some of my own necessities. My father worked on a porch addition on the side during the summer so he could front me money to buy a car.

"Now that you have a car you can get a job," my father said to me.
"Thanks Dad, I'll repay you, I swear," I had promised.
It took me two weeks to find this job. I applied for a position working at the motel, but they didn't need anyone and Mother never really liked having me underfoot. I thought about trying to do some construction like my father but I didn't want to break my back like the old man. I applied at the video store, the art store, the grocery store, burger king's, mcdonald's... I even got up the nerve to walk into the local bar by the town square to see if I could get a job bussing tables or barbacking.

As the clock came closer and closer to ten o'clock I felt more and more bound to the store. Time seemed to slow as my release came near. Minutes became hours, seconds minutes. When the manager finally let me go, a wave of relaxation swept through my body.

"Hey Michael what are you doing tonight," Rachel asked me.
"Uh, I guess I was going to stop by my friend Tom's for a little while and then I was going home. I have a twelve o'clock curfew," I replied.
"Do you think you could give me a ride home?"
"Uh, yeah, I guess that wouldn't be a problem."
"Thanks. I'll just be a minute. Let me grab my coat."
"Okay I'll be out front."

I stood outside of the store peering out into the darkness. The fall nights were getting darker sooner and at this time of night it was pitch black. The advantage of the dark was that the stars were out more clearly. My uncle had taught me all the constellations when I was younger. I could accurately identify the big dipper, the little dipper, mars, venus, and a couple other planets. I looked up and could see the light white mar across the sky that was the milky way. A cold wind blew and I tightened my coat around me.

Rachel had been asking me for rides home for the past few weeks. She didn't live far away and we would talk for a little while on the ride back to her house about school, about the manager at work, about Billy, and about the woes of or poor skin. Rachel usually made me listen to various mopey music on the way back to her house. I'd grown to having ambiguous feelings about Morrissey, The Smiths, Joy Division, and The Cure. I preferred Cocksparrer and the Buzzcocks so much more.

"Last night I saw the most interesting movie," Rachel said as she stepped out of the store and towards my car. "It was all about Tony Wilson. Do you know who he is?"
"Isn't he a freshman at school?"
"No, not that Tony Wilson," Rachel gave a small giggle and then went on. "This Tony Wilson built a night club in Manchester London called the Hacienda. He was single handily responsible for the rise of Joy Division, the Happy Mondays, he even televised the Sex Pistols."
"I like the Sex Pistols."

We got in the car and I pulled out of the parking lot. Rachel's house was about a ten minute drive out of my way but I had nowhere to go. Tom and I would spend the next hour or two smoking pot and playing Grand Theft Auto or some other video game until I had to go home. I had school in the morning and Tom would have to get up at noon to smoke more pot and play more video games. Tom had dropped out of school last year and had recently gotten his GED. He'd begun taking community college classes which he said were as dumb as high school. His mother had been pressuring him to do something with his time and he gave way after weeks of nagging.

"The movie is so great. You get to see live performances of Joy Division. I almost cried. I watched it twice already and I just got it in from netflix last night. I think I might watch it again tonight before I go to bed..." Rachel's gaze drifted off into space. She's probably thinking of twiggy english boys dancing around to sappy love songs I mused.

"I really appreciate you giving me these rides. My mother hates picking me up. All she ever does is sit in the house and watch soap opera reruns. She tapes them and the watches them later in the evening. I hate that we have Tivo. She comes home from work and if I'm lucky makes macaroni and cheese with hot dogs for dinner. I hate the taste of boxed cheese now, I think when I move out, when I graduate, when I'm all done with school I'll never eat boxed food again."
"Yeah I hate that shit, even with velveeta cheese or something on it."
"Oh I'm so glad you understand how I feel, it seems so rare.

We pulled into the drive way as Morrissey was mid way through another ambiguous love song. The ranch style house had a one car garage on the east side. Further east was another almost identical house. To the west was a vast field of corn. In the spring Rachel complained about the smell of manure from the field drifting into her house. I sat with my hands on the steering wheel staring at her garage door, it was brown, but in the dark it looked almost black. Through a window in the western part of the house came the glow of a television. Rachel coughed lightly. I turned my head to face her. She was looking down at her shoes.

"Do you want to come in? Last week I got my older cousin to buy me a bottle of wine and I haven't opened it yet. Its just some cheap merlot. Its better than carlos rossi... You drink wine don't you? I bet you don't. You look like a guy who just drinks beer all the time. You drink, like, PBR, or Hams or some other hip thing like that right? I bet my mother is passed out now, its not even eleven and she'll be passed out in front of the tv in her room the day's soap operas running. I mean if you don't want to you don't have to, it just seems like it might be nice. Maybe we could watch that Tony Wilson Movie, or have you ever seen "Sixteen Candles." Its the best movie ever, well next to Twenty-Four Hour Party people..." she looked nervously at me and then at the door. "Well, I guess I'm gonna go. Thank you for the ride again. When are you working next? Well I'll probably see you at school in the morning."

"I'll come in. I've never had merlot before. Does it stain your teeth?"
"We'll see won't we," she replied giggling.

I got out of the car and the brisk night air brushed against my face. My skin was soon covered in goose bumps. I looked up at the night sky and noted Orion. My uncle told me that in some regions where the seasons weren't so divided knowing the constellations was away of determining the seasons. With a knowledge of the seasons the farmers were able to plant at opportune times. When another constellation showed up in the sky the farmers knew that they had to reap their crops.

"I'll unlock the front door and then let you in through the garage door on the side." Rachel scurried up to the front door, fumbled with her keys for a moment and then quickly came out on the east side of the house. "Come on in. You've never been here have you? I don't really invite that many people over. Sometimes my cousins are here, when they're in town and for like dropping by, but really that's not that often. Most of the family has drifted apart ever since my grandmother died. She was the one who kept the family tied together. Everyone in the family thought she was crazy but she really kept us close. My older cousin, Rebecca, she was the one who bought the wine for me, she said that isn't anything quite like a common enemy, or common burden to keep people together. Isn't that clever? She's in college, a state school near the city. Well here it is, this is my room. You can have a seat wherever, on the bed, or on the floor, really wherever. I'll be right back I'm going to grab the bottle opener and then we can watch a movie or something. Okay I'll be right back."

Her room was neat but empty feeling. A television set resided in the corner of the room next to a small writing desk. I moved over to inspect the desk and saw several poetry books including Percy Shelly's "Promethus Unbound." Her bed was covered by a white quilt that matched the drapes. The room was marked only slightly by feminity. On her dresser resided a few hairclips and a very worn looking copy of Elle magazine. A picture of Morrissey decorated the walls.

"I don't have any wine glasses, and drinking straight out of the bottle is pretty ghetto. Anyways I got these two coffee cups from the kitchen. Which would you like? 'Gone fishin' or 'You should see me when I'm on the Rag?' My preference is for the one about PMS. My Aunt gave it to my mother as a gag gift for her birthday. When my parents split up, my father called my mother 'The queen bitch of the Universe.' She slapped him and then cried for two days. When my aunt gave her this mug she hid it in the back of the cupboard. I like to drink wine from it because it reminds me of how my mother isn't some nine to fiver who falls asleep in front of soap operas but rather is someone who can at least make someone mad."
"I guess I'll take 'Gone Fishin.'"
"Good choice, although I guess you didn't really have too much of a choice. Anyways do you want to watch that movie. Or maybe we could listen to some records. I have the collected works of Joy Division. Its a four cd set that I got from the mall last week..."

Rachel kept talking but I wasn't paying attention to what she was saying. Instead I stared at the Morrissey poster. Morrissey's youthful face is turned upwards. The shadow of his chin covers his chest. His red shirt contrasts with the blue background. He looks angelic. I took a big gulp of my wine. Its bitter and leaves a funny after taste. I don't drink much wine. One time Tom and I got pretty shitfaced off of boxed wine. I think we were playing Halo that night. His mother had had a small dinner party and we drank the left over wine. The next day hung over as shit Tom and I got yelled at. Tom said that he had to listen to his mother whine about how awful of a child was for a week. Whenever I go over there I always hear her complain about Tom so I don't really see what the big deal is.

"So what will it be? New Order? Joy Division? The Happy Mondays?" Rachel said. She was nervously tapping her front while diddling with her cd player. "I wish they would pay us a little more at work. I'm saving up for college but if I got an extra dollar or two per hour I could buy an ipod already. Its so stupid that we get minimum wage. Actually excuse me, we get $6 per hour, a quarter more than minimum wage. If I'm lucky I'll get an extra dime an hour in a month or two after my next evaluation. Hopefully Mr. Brokenberg won't try to hit on me during the evaluation. One of the girls in the pharmacy said that he asked her out like 5 times when she was doing her 90 day review. He is so fucking gross. I bet he has more hair on his back than on his head."
"He does seem like a pretty big loser. I don't understand why he drives from Albany to our shit hole town. You'd think that he could get a better job in Albany."
"He's also been working at the store for like a million years. How long have you worked there? I've been there nine months now, god what a fucking long nine months."
"I think its been eleven months, almost a year now."
"Oh god I've completely forgotten the music. Well if you have no objections I'm putting on New Order. Its good for the ambiance. Ambiance is an SAT word, that's what my english teacher Mr. Tulin said. Whenever someone says a word with more than two syllables its an 'SAT word.' Its a good thing I learned all this vocabulary, it helped me score well on the SAT. Now I can go to a decent college and not get stuck in this town. I don't know where I want to go yet. My mother doesn't really have the money to support me anywhere that's private. I want to go towards the city I think. Maybe I'll go to NYU. That will be soooo expensive though. I think I'm a cosmopolitan girl though. I read every issue of cosmo when it comes out. Sometimes I reread it when its slow at the store. Shit I'm babbling again. What are you going to do when you get out of school?"

Rachel looked at me and and then looked away. She took a long drink from her cup and then looked at the bottle nervously. Taking it she pulled off the cork and refilled her cup. My cup was empty as well. I'd been taking drinks from it during her soliloquy. Soliloquy that's an SAT word I thought to myself. She poured some wine into my cup. We'd already gone through half a bottle already. My head felt a little light. I'd have to stay here for a while if I was going to try and drive home. I looked at the clock on her stereo. It said 10:45. I could probably be okay to drive around one in the morning. The old man would be asleep already. He gave me a curfew but doesn't strictly enforce it. He probably gave it to me because one of the other guys on the crew gave their kid a curfew and so it seemed normal to give me one.

"I don't know what I want to do after school," I said after taking another drink from my cup. I felt drunk. "I don't want to stay here, in this town. I don't want to end up like my old man, breaking my back everyday doing construction. Going to college sounds like an alright idea. Most people don't do anything with their degrees though."
"Yeah, I know what you mean," Rachel agreed. She nodded her head with an excessive vigor. She must be drunk I thought. "I was out eating at this restaurant with my cousin in Albany. She's so nice, my cousin. Anyways the waitress went to University with my cousin. They talked about how they couldn't get jobs after graduating. The waitress laughed about how she was '40,000 in the hole to that bitch Sallie Mae for a piece of paper that would ensure her working in this crappy restaurant for another five years.' Going to school is a way out of here though. Even if its not far, where I end up going to school, at least its not here."
"Yeah anywhere but here."

Getting up from the floor where we'd been sitting cross legged Rachel went to her bed. She sat down and leaned against the wall. She patted the bed beside her. I got up and sat next to her.

"You like girls don't you?"
"Uh, yeah, why?"
"I don't know. I guess I was just wondering."

I stared at the Morrissey picture again. I followed his eyes up into the corner of the room. I thought I could make out a small cobweb. I wondered if that's what he was looking at. Rachel put down her cup on her bedstand and back against the wall. I looked at the clock it was 12:15. I still felt drunk. Rachel put her hand on mine and then leaned her head on my shoulder. I could smell her. She smelled like shampoo, not the cheap anti-dandruff shit that my father got but a more scented kind. I wondered if they ground up flowers for the shampoo. Her breath evened out and slowed down. I moved my hand a little and nothing happened. I was pretty sure she had passed out. I looked at the clock and willed myself to wake up at one am as I sank down onto her bed. As my body shifted horizontally Rachel's body followed.

My eyes hurt when they opened. The contacts were new and I hadn't gotten used to falling asleep with them on. Mentally chastising myself, my eyes looked over to my cell phone. 1:30am.
"Shit."
Rachel grumbled a little. She had stripped down to her underwear at some point. I looked at her body. I'd never thought I'd see her so naked. She rolled over on the bed. With a little momentum I got up. The short note that I wrote on a receipt I had in my wallet was sparse.
"Sorry had to go. See you tomorrow at school, or work."

I grabbed my cell phone and hurried out the door. I never got any calls on the damn thing but my mother had got it for me. It was on her plan. She said that every respectable kid these days had a cell phone. The only times I ever talked to her were when she was stuck in traffic and rang me up.

My dad would be pissed if he caught me up. Pissed but wouldn't do anything. The old man would be asleep anyways. It was Thursday and he'd have to finish up his work week by going in early. As my car started up and pulled out the driveway my eyes caught the light in Rachel's mother's room. Still watching soaps.

My eyes started to get a little water on the drive home. I'd saved for a few months to start getting contacts. They made me look less dorky and I was able to take a punch in the face without major damage to my ego from my glasses getting broken. I didn't have much trouble with bullies in school. I was too anti-social to be bothered by them but I still liked the thought of not having anymore of my glasses broken.

Before I could get to my bedroom I'd have to walk through the den. The lights were in the living room. My old man was sitting in front of the television watching a light night HBO movie. It looked like some Vin Deisel sci fi flick. He grunted as I walked in.
"You're late. You're curfew is at 12."
"Yeah, uh Sorry," I said. I looked around the room. He had an open twelve pack of cheap beer sitting next to him. "What are you doing up this late?"
He lifted up his right arm. His hand was bandaged. I sighed.
"Fucking guard on the saw broke off while I was working on it. Piece of shit machine damn near ate my hand. Got sent to the hospital. Stitched up my hand and here I am. Probably get workman's comp for a while. The crew wasn't that big and the guy's insurance probably won't go that far... Try not to think of it for too long."
"I'm sorry, Dad."
"Yeah, me too. Looks like the diet might be back to macaroni and cheese with hot dogs, instead of our special taco night." He chuckled slightly. After a moment he looked off to the side of the room and finished off his beer. He leaned over in his chair and grabbed another bear. He cracked it open. The hiss of the beer sounded so much louder than the screaming gunfire from the television.
"So where were you tonight? Hanging out with Tommy again?"
"No. I dropped this girl from work off. We watched a movie. It went later than I thought. I thought you'd be asleep by the time I got home so I didn't want to wake you with a call."
"You didn't fuck her did you? Better use a condom. Don't be a dumb ass like your father. Knock some girl up, marry her cause she's got a kid on the way and find out a year later that well.... you know the story."
"Uh, no we didn't do anything." I shuffled through the den moving towards my bedroom.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight dad."
I went to the bathroom and took out my contacts. They made a slight sucking noise as I pulled them off. I rubbed my eyes and put on my glasses. I brushed my teeth and flossed then went into my room. After pulling off my clothes I laid down and went to sleep.