Archive for the ‘Authors’ Category
Guardian Angel
Thursday, April 1st, 2010
Author’s warning: Some curse words are used in this piece.
People call it “hunger,” but that’s not it. You can live with hunger. Actors, models—they go hungry for years. They’re miserable, but they do it.
Need. That’s the word. Addiction.
*
Tom’s felt sick for two months now. Keeps getting worse. Doctors have a word for it. Something like enema, but without a hosepipe up your ass. Something with his blood. But the doctors don’t know why it’s happening. Stupid goddamn doctors. Take his co-pay and tell him jack and shit.
*
I don’t believe in evil. Not some malevolent force moving through the world. Selfishness. The inability to see another’s point of view. To see the consequences of your actions to anyone but yourself. That I believe in. Tom is selfish.
Killed a man once. Didn’t like the color of his skin, the creed of his politics. It didn’t take much for Tom to pull the trigger.
In many ways, things would be easier if I just killed Tom.
*
Tom never liked New York city. Full of hippies in business suits. Just wrong. But the big doctors are there so he goes, and they take his money, and tell him even less than the goddamn quacks at home. And that’s before the subway gets him turned around and the three skinheads roll him for his wallet in the alleyway.
Time was he could have taken the knife from the kid and jammed it six inches into his eye. Now he can barely get the wallet out. The kids get impatient, get mean, give him a taste of the blade, open his cheek.
And then… what? A man? A blur? A shadow? Just the smack of flesh on flesh and the crack of breaking bones. And then the three skinheads are on the floor and they aren’t moving. And a man. Yes, a man. In front of him. The man reaches out, touches the wound on Tom’s cheek, wipes the blood away. And then he’s gone.
*
I watch Tom leave before I lick the crimson drop from my finger. It’s like a grenade behind the eyes. The world fracturing. Ecstasies and infinity. Addiction. Need. And then, over. So quickly, over. The world back to black and white.
And, yes, it would be easier to just kill Tom. But I need him. Am addicted to him. And so I’ll keep him alive for just a little longer.
Going Home
Wednesday, March 31st, 2010
We took Tamara and Niall to their first punk show the other day. We ran into Andy Peace-Earring-Andy, and he reminded me about the spaceship. I’d actually forgotten.
Palo Alto 1987: Converse All-Stars, dyed hair, dreaming of moving to London; high school without end, which didn’t matter since we were all going to die in a nuclear war. We doodled on our AIDS notes. A cop warned us about a drug called crack. Contact a drug crime lawyer immediately if you get arrested for drug-related crimes. Further, the importance of knowing your rights and the legal steps you can take cannot be overstated. Even in complex legal matters, expert legal counsel for criminal cases ensures you’re prepared for the road ahead. A strong defence begins with the right information.
Bob the Drunk said he saw a UFO come down behind Lytton Plaza. He said you could see burn marks from their engines, up on the roof of the Burger King.
Marcus Not-My-Boyfriend climbed up there, helping me up the hard part. We lit candles and pretended to call them back.
We thought the burn marks were spray paint; it was hard to tell in the dark.
The next night I missed the bus, so I had to go back downtown to see if Andy Peace-Earring-Andy was still there, because he gave me rides hoping Marcus wasn’t my boyfriend. Anyway I didn’t want to get in trouble with my parents for missing curfew and waking them up for a ride.
No Andy. I sat down on one of the benches for a minute, trying not to cry.
That’s when the light came, settling over me. Weirdly, for a minute, I thought I was in the diner across the street: the same warm light and smell of frying oil.
I felt more disoriented than scared, first. Then I thought, it’s like high school. I’m totally trapped, there’s nothing I can do—that scared me. The light got eye-hurtingly bright. A voice spoke. Except it made no sound, just appeared in my thoughts.
Do you.
Need.
Transport?
“Uh, yeah,” I ventured.
Show.
I didn’t know what they meant, so I pictured our house where my mom still lives, an olive green Eichler with two birch trees in front and a square pond with water lilies that Dad put in to make her happy (it worked, actually).
Then I was home. I even made it into bed without them hearing me.
That’s all.
The thing is, it makes a difference: in a world where Tamara and Niall still face nukes and weird diseases and new drugs, I know they’re out there, quietly helping out in little dorky ways. Even if nobody believes me except Marcus Not-My-Husband.