#39 A Conversation in Reno

You tattoo your failures on, on to your length of arm; they may run wrist to shoulderblade.

            -Matt Pryor

He sat at the table, a can of PBR in his right hand. –All this skin took years to finish. Crazy, man. I would have it lazered off but I like to keep it as a reminder.

            -Of what?

            He points to the arc and the great flood, the dove with branch, the three crosses atop Golgatha. –I keep it as a reminder of man’s penchant for belief in just about anything, no matter how terrible the consequences. I’m not sure it all happens like I was told.

            -Then what happens?

            He points to the pitbull staring out the window. –If I treated her like she was born bad and would never be goodnatured, guess what, she’d be one of those dogs you hear about on the news, eating kids and shit. Aggressive breeds? Look at her. I don’t think it’s the dog’s fault. Maybe the master is to blame.

-For AJ

#38 Socially Obese

He eats the same meal six times a day. Cooks them all on Sunday nights and packs them up in his freezer and fridge. 42 matching tupperwares stacked like airplane dinners. 4 ounces chicken breast. 4 ounces spinach. 1 gram salt. 1 gram pepper.

Pre and post workout shakes for Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays. Days off consist of tanning and shopping for shirts cut low enough to show off his chest, and jeans cut wide enough to fit his thighs.

His colleagues at work call him The deTerminedator. But they don’t call him for beers on Friday night. Not anymore.

He says he’s doing this as much for himself as for some lucky lady, but when he does find a date he brings his own meals to the restaurant. He wonders why they all expect him to pick up the tab. He wonders why they never call him back. 

#37 The Run-On

He can never run far enough to make him feel like it’s time to turn around, like he’s free and his return is only optional, that he's choosing to come back by the same route or another untested and stand sweatsoaked and gasping at the frontsteps and feel like this is home, like the child inside is really his although he raised him as son since he was still on the tit and the little mulatto calls him daddy and looks at him like he doesn’t comprehend the man’s staggering whiteness contrasted against his own chestnut hue when they hold hands at the park or wait up for mommy who is working late again then coming in like a hurricane to breastfeed the new all-white baby who’s been screaming since she woke and the man now laces-up his sneakers and slips out for another run, maybe this time far enough.

#36 Waiting

A full section. 32 faces looking for him, all wanting something. But he isn’t on the floor, scrambling to regain control of his section. Instead he stands on the line while the Chef berates him because a dish he served wasn’t cooked right.

He apologizes like he’s been trained and walks out of the kitchen. His busser is slow tonight, and nothing he can say will inspire a shift in gears. He’s in the weeds. The manager sits at the bar, watching the sinking ship as if from the bridge of the titanic. Except Cpt. Smith never sipped on gin and tonics.

A long night over, he walks with 9%. Fucking Asians, fucking Germans, fucking everybody. It’s 103° at a quarter past midnight. This fucking town.

Then home. He peeks in to see his boy. Sleeping. Breathing. Healthy. Safe. And the job, the desert, all seem to disappear. Until tomorrow.

#35 Sanctuary

Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable. He can hear his father’s voice trembling in his mind. The stairs leading to the baptistery are dark. He hears footsteps behind him, knows who it is and what he'll do so he starts to shudder. His small shoulders shrug with guilt.

If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman, they must be put to death; their blood will be on their own heads. He tries to imagine other things but the Miller boy’s hand are in his shirt and moving down. Does he like the way it feels?

The boy wants to call for his father, but the preacher is alone again with Mrs. Miller. And when the rectory door is closed he is not to be a bother. And so the two boys continue up the sanctuary steps.