circa 2000
Take that big house. The one that did not belong to us, yet we were flicking cigarettes into the rocks under the deck, stomping our feet to a live version of Morrison’s Moondance like we owned the place, the street, the planet. Oh and then E. disappeared to sit in his car with the door open, guitar in hands, singing out something that had just come to mind. He seemed to be gone forever. We were turning off Curtis, pouring more rounds when E. finally came back into the kitchen, tears in his eyes. Happily creating enough to cry.
The leather couch I had trouble sleeping on, the ghost of the big screen tv seeming to keep to its shout in the dark. Trying to drift, listening to my roommate obnoxiously screwing my good friend in the next room. They were better friends(or so obviously it seemed). In the morning there were omelets for everyone, records and bare feet.
19 felt so stupid and perfect. I had reason to run, and if said reason couldn’t be found well then I just made up one. Headed north with a thief, drew myself into a world hyphened by backgrounds. Going through what I never imagined, things still stuck to the ribs. Sliding notebooks through condensation rings at the bar, scribbling conversations. I spent a lot of time being the designated driver, drinking Cokes and playing the juke box. There was a night at the Century Bar when I played Ring of Fire and everyone in the place sang or mouthed along. The bar had a backing of dark wood, carved sirens, a large mirror. This is how I watched the vets sing along with Cash, clap each other on the back as they extracted proof from wallets and waved them at us. I remember briefly thinking: oh god I’ll never know anything. We had cold to contend with. When a glass hit the floor it was time to go home. I kept the napkins filled with poems never finished.
I could write that home into fire. I learned everything from this. The day I waited patient on a porch swing rehearsing matter-of-fact words(“stop drinking or you will die//stop drinking or you will die”). Here comes a cabbie bobbing along the tops of the hedge, and the conversation happened—not a sound, not a nod. Afternoons soaked in whiskey all around me. Matt with the postal worker pants, the sweat that never left the front of his hair, the way we walked into the grocery store with a snorkel, towels wrapped like turbans on wet heads, pruned hands. Bought a sandwich and shared it on the hill overlooking Wayne. Fell asleep waiting again. One then two then three. A black eye walks through the door(hidden key in the plant pot hanging, found). The new bruise could not be placed. We had 5am fruit, sucked our knuckles clean of red and grime. I had to get up and scrape paint off houses. Lead paint, flecks that took two baths to properly get rid of. There were phone calls false, and back rooms without doors. Then move. Then Vodka Collins and mixed tapes, being broke. The best sort of fools, the bad sort of way.