Grinding Gears

Since the science fiction novel has been put on hiatus - I simply can't seem to get into it right now - I began another work which concerns a rather peculiar friendship. I wrote about this subject a few entries ago. Below is the rough draft. Since this first chapter was written all in one sitting, I realize it needs major work and revision. However, it is a good start and I am pleased with the prose so far, even though I am dubious of the outcome. Novels are like that. Beginning in larval states, ready to hatch out and become their own monstrous entity unleashing unspeakable horrors onto the world.

I do know one thing, it will be about friendship and sacrifices of morals under dire circumstances. And it will be a comedy.

Chapter One

The yellow sun exploded over the skyscrapers on a cloudless, Wednesday morning. Kyle lay wrapped in a matted, pink blanket which he had found lying discarded next to a trashcan. It still held that funky reek of vomit and beer, but not as overpowering as the smell of dried feces and stale urine which permeated the alleyway that he had slept the previous night.

Kyle silently squinted, the sun rays bathed his face. He looked up into the sky above and it glowed a bright blue. The distant sounds of the city coming to life drifted down the trash littered alley. The whispering of cars, the pounding of air-hammers from construction sites, the wailing of ambulances. Kyle fell into a coughing fit and vainly attempted to shrink back under the blanket. He did not want to face whatever insidious shit the world was preparing to throw at him today.

Kyle was twenty-three. Fair skinned and ruggedly handsome. Thick, black eyelashes enveloped steel-blue eyes. His shaggy, blond hair was tucked under a red baseball cap. It was summer and he wore his regular seasonal uniform of white tank top and blue basketball shorts with sneakers. He had a lean and athletic build. Not tall, in fact, he was rather short. Which was commented on repeatedly, but Kyle kept a confidence air about him.

At first look, one might think that he held a high position of a clean jock in any major college sports team. A closer inspection unveiled the fine layer of dirt and grease on his face and arms. The dirty teeth, chapped lips and black grime under the fingernails, fingernails which had been chewed raw. The smudged clothes emitted a waft of unclean genitals and rectum. His sneakers, once white, were now smeared in black dirt and mud and stank from odor.

Moans of the living dead. The thirty or so others who shared the alley began to stir. Followed by a orchestra of coughing, sniffing, hawking, intermittent yawns. Kyle didn't want to see them. To look at those poor souls who shared his destitution. But, he had to wake up and grab his gear. Soon the police would cruise by and herd everyone off.

He flung the blanket off and began prodding a lumpy form next to him hidden under a dingy blue comforter.

“Billy!” Kyle croaked. “Billy time to get up.”

The form did not move. Did not make a sound. Kyle shook the lump more aggressively.

“C'mon, Billy. Get your fuckin' ass up before the cops get here.”

The person under the comforter grunted. Stirred. Then continued to snore softly. Kyle pulled the comforter down to reveal the ravaged head of an elderly black man. His face was twisted into a grimace as if he was suffering nightmares. Continuous nightmares.

Kyle lightly patted the creased forehead of his friend, “Wake up, stupid. They gonna be serving breakfast soon. Let's go get in line. Get your gear and let's go.”

Billy grunted, “Leave me alone, motherfucker. Let me fuckin' sleep!”

Kyle sniffed. Sat up and adjusted a loose lace on his weathered sneaker. “Fine. Fuck you. I'm getting ready.”

Kyle stood and began rolling up his blanket. He snatched a grimy plastic water bottle next to his backpack, took a swig, and then placed it in the over encumbered bag. The green and white bag was marked in crude graffiti, frayed with busted zippers. Kyle looked down at the prostate form of his friend and frowned.

“C'mon, ya old fucker. I'm not playing around. We gotta go.” Kyle stated.

“Where my shit? Find my shit for me. I gotta take a hit before we go.” Billy mumbled.

As the other homeless began filing out of the alley, Kyle stooped down next to Billy's comforter and began fishing under the folds. He pulled out a lighter, an empty beer can, and several waded tissues.

“Where'd you lose the fucking thing?” Kyle asked as he continued searching. “You got tore up last night. Keeping everyone up with your stupid shit. Everyone was yelling for you to shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck those motherfuckers!” Billy snapped. “I don't giva fuck 'bout them assholes.”

“Here it is.” Kyle said as he pulled a scorched meth pipe out from under the comforter. It was a glass stem with a bulb on one end. Silver streaks of residue lined the inside of the scorched glass.

Billy wiggled from out under the blanket. With difficulty, he sat up. Billy was fifty-four. Slightly shorter than Kyle, his dark skin was ashy and splotched with dust. A bulbous head, his hair was clipped short and unkempt. Lint and flakes of debris sat lodged in the curls. He wore a wrinkled, blue t-shirt draped over a frail body. Black jeans covered stumpy, bowed legs. The one striking attribute of Billy was that he possessed no arms, not even stubs. The birth defect ended right at the shoulder. When shirtless, he resembled a store mannequin with the arms removed.

Billy's face was a mask of perpetual disgust. A scowl that wouldn't quit greeted the world without hesitation. He always seemed pissed and to be honest, he always was. The hatred he held for his miserable existence consumed him into a twisted, despicable man.

“Gimme my shit, Kyle.” Billy said.

The blond reached into his pocket and removed a small plastic baggie of bluish, powdery methamphetamine. With thumb and forefinger, he took a pinch of the dope and placed it casually into a small opening at the bulbous end of the pipe. The remaining film of meth left on his finger he slid across his red gums.

“C'mon, boy, light that shit up!” Billy pleaded in annoyed frustration.

Kyle chuckled, “Gimme a minute, you fucking junky.” He placed the stem end of the pipe up to his friends chapped and discolored lips.

“Fuck you!” Billy snapped as he hungrily sucked on the stem like it was a cock.

As others nonchalantly passed to go about their daily drudgery, Kyle flicked a lighter under the already charred bulb and slowly rotated it. The crystals inside melted into a mercury-like consistency as the gray smoke swirled around the bulb and into the stem. Billy inhaled greedily, twitching and fidgeting in robotic spasms of addiction. His very cells tingled in anticipation. He glanced across the alley. There was a lone drag queen squatting against the brick wall. Smeared in vomit and urine, the drag held a look of utter desperation on his makeup streaked face.

“Hey, baby doll, can I have a hit?” The drag queen croaked in a voice roughened from years of cigarette smoke.

“Naw!” Billy spat. “I ain't got enough for you faggoty-ass mooches!”

The drag queen clopped away muttering obscenities under his breath leaving a reek of foul smells in his wake.

Billy's bloodshot and crusted eyes lit up. He threw his head back and exhaled a great plume of smoke up into the bright, blue sky.

“Good morning, America!” He howled, laughing.

Kyle chuckled and took a hit himself, “Crazy ass motherfucker.”

They passed the pipe back and forth between them ritualistically until the dope in the pipe was depleted.

Silently and with rapid movements, Kyle snatched up Billy's comforter, rolled it up, grabbed the various bags and bottles, shoveling them into an already over stuffed duffel bag and slung it over his shoulder. He took his smaller back pack and placed it onto Billy's back. The ordeal was quick and well rehearsed as they had performed the same routine countless times in countless towns.

Kyle wobbled, adjusting to the weight of the duffel, “You hungry? They serving breakfast soon. We best go get in line.”

Billy began marching down the alley in his usual duck like gait. He had the habit of remaining bent over and walking with barely bending his knees. At first, Kyle thought it was comical and reminded him of the old Felix the Cat cartoons and how that character strutted.

The two friends exited the alley and made their way through congested streets of early morning commuters. The pristine towers of downtown San Diego swallowed them up. Clean people in neatly pressed clothes darted past them, making a wide berth as if not to catch any virus or the chance the occasional tick would leap off the ratty two and nestle in their expensive attire.

Kyle did not make eye contact. He loathed those assholes who held a job, had an apartment, friends, loves. What kind of existence was there in forcing yourself to get up every morning at 5:30am, forcing yourself to shit, shower, and shave then fighting your way to a job where not only did you have to pretend to enjoy it, but remark on the fact of how pleased you were to be employed every time your asshole of a manager was within earshot. Kyle knew if he was ever forced to attain employment, he would purposely do the minimum amount required and constantly complain on how bitter he was. And why not? Why drudge through a damn job which paid next to nothing only to make others rich?

Billy and Kyle continued their way down a side street. To their right lay the shimmering skyscrapers of downtown where the rich frolicked and sipped their over-priced cappuccinos and walked their well groomed dogs, caring only on sports figures and social standing. Not on this street, though. The sidewalks were cracked, the houses sagged and were covered in graffiti with bars on the windows and doors. Garbage and dried feces mingled with bums who lay against light posts next to shopping carts over filled with memories and lost hopes.

The desolate angels of skid row howled and moaned towards the unforgiving sky. The reek of stale piss and unwashed linens overpowered the warm breeze which blew in from the nearby sea giving the putrid smell a salty tang. A bloated woman scavenged through an over-flowing trash can as a black man faced a wall rapidly masturbating under stained sweat pants.

Kyle and Billy approached an ancient wooden building which appeared to be a shop or market in it's heyday. Now it was a church and soup kitchen. Above the door, scrawled in amateurish paint read God's Extended Hand. A malevolent paw reached down from a cartoonish cloud to a group of stick figures in a flower field. In Kyle's mind, he referred to the place as God's Extended Finger.

Outside, lined along it's peeling, slatted, wooden walls, loitered a hundred men and women smoking, sniffing, and hacking phlegm onto the already plastered sidewalk. Most stood somber and vacant, staring out into a life of maudlin bring downs and disappointments while a few chatted or complained or outright yelled into the world. Hip blacks congregated in knots slinging dope and drinking from brown paper bags as their women cackled and screeched sexual innuendos towards one another. Mexicans stood silent, red eyes glaring from sad brown faces and flicked towards bearded, white hobos who guffawed and leaned, smoking rolled cigarettes.

Kyle and Billy took their place at the end of the meandering line. Billy wheezed and grunted as he propped himself against the wall, the high was wearing off and the discomfort creeped across his already scowling face.

“Fuck it.” Billy mumbled. “Boxcar selling some weak shit. That motherfucker better step up his game.” He paused, pursed his gummy lips. “Shit, I gotta take a shit.”

Kyle glanced over to a graffiti splattered, blue port-a-pottie stationed at the side of the building. He turned to a wizened, old coot who stood right behind him.

“Hey, man, excuse me. Can you hold our place. I gotta help my friend use the bathroom.” Kyle stated with open palm towards Billy.

The old hobo glanced at Billy's lack of arms and grunted, exhaling a plume of gray smoke from a rolled cigarette. “Yeah. Go on, I'll watch yer spot.”

Kyle jerked his head towards the portable toilet, “C'mon, Billy.”

The two friends made their way to the toilet. The door read occupied, so silently they stood in the gravel next to a foul smelling dumpster cascading with tattered trash bags. The smell of rotting garbage and the stink from the toilet made it unbearable. Billy arrogantly kicked the plastic door to the booth.

“Hurry the fuck up in there! There're people waitin'!” He hollered.

A muffled female voice stated from within, “Hold your fucking horses!”

“Just hurry the fuck up! I gotta take a motherfuckin' shit!” Billy spat.

The door flung open and a squat woman burst out. Hispanic, her black hair was teased into a high rats nest. Worry lines creased a face heavily made up. She wore a dirty blue halter top and yellow, spandex stirrups. Her chaffed feet were adorned in frayed sandals exposing cracked and molded toenails painted a vivid red. Though she was in her early twenties, her face and lumpy body made her seem older. Much older.

“Fucking old asshole.” She glared at Billy as she exited the toilet. “I should kick you wrinkled old ass in front of all these...” She halted when she noticed Kyle standing there. Her volumous red lips parted into a smile of large, discolored teeth. “Oh...hey, Kyle. How you doin' this morning?”

The blond youth looked down onto the oil blackened gravel. Shifting uncomfortably in his sneakers. “Hey, Gracie. I'm good. Helping out Billy use the bathroom.”

She shot a disdainful glance towards the stooped, old man. “Why you helpin' this fuck? He can't shit for himself?”

“I ain't got no fuckin' arms!” Billy barked.

“Sucks to be you.” Gracie arrogantly stated. She smiled at Kyle, “Look, baby-doll, why don't you meet me up at Balboa Park this afternoon? We can have some drinks, maybe fuck a little?”

Kyle flushed crimson and mumbled, “Maybe. I might have other things to do.”

She stepped up to him and layed a dirty, brown palm on his chest, “I'll ride the gay right out of you, baby boy. Make that dick feel all kinda good in this pussy.”

Billy began stepping into the toilet, “I got a STD just hearing that shit!”

Gracie whirled and screeched into the open door, “Fuck you, you worthless piece of shit! My ass is cleaner than your whole nigger body!”

Billy turned to her and smirked, “Bitch, my nigger dick would rip your nasty cunt in half.” He stepped forward, “C'mon, baby, let me stick this in ya?” He began making little thrusts with his pelvis.

Gracie rolled her overly-mascaraed eyes, “Oh, fuck no! I'd eat my own fuckin' flesh first!”

Kyle, fed up with this dialog, stepped in the doorway of the toilet between Gracie and Billy, “I'll talk to you later, Gracie. They gonna serve breakfast soon.”

As Kyle shut the door, Gracie chirped, “Okay, see ya at the park.”

The inside of the port-a-potty was a biological hazard. Shit stained toilet paper lay scattered around the urine soaked floor. In the cramped space, Kyle made the mistake of glancing into the toilet hole. Mounds of feces, soda cans, toilet paper, and cigarette butts piled up almost to the rim of the seat. In the morning heat, flies buzzed and the wafting aroma almost caused him to projectile vomit.

“Help me with my pants.” Billy mumbled.

Kyle reached down and unbuttoned Billy's jeans. He jerked his friends pants and soiled underwear down to the ashy knees. Billy plopped onto the damp toilet seat and used the shitter loudly and abundantly. Billy sat and grunted and wheezed.

“Fuckin' shits all clogged up. Feels like I'm passing rocks.”

“No need for a commentary. Just hurry.” Kyle sighed.

“Don't fuckin' hurry me, kid. One of man's greatest pleasures is that long, good shit first thing in the morning. Life's taken everything else from me, don't deprive me of this simple enjoyment.”

“Now your getting all philosophical and shit.” Kyle grinned.

“Best ideas of mankind occurred while sitting on the toilet. Fact of life. Never forget that.” Billy grunted.

They remained silent momentarily amid the fetid stench of Billy's tortured grunting and raspy farting. The dankness of the toilet booth had become mind-dizzingly unbearable.

“Okay, that's it.” Billy mumbled.

Kyle glanced at the toilet paper dispenser. It was empty. He reached behind Billy, unzipped the backpack, and removed a used roll of tissue. Billy silently stood up and bent over. Silently, Kyle used several sheets to wipe the dark matter from his friends buttocks. Tossing the stained paper into the pile of shit in the hole, Kyle stooped and yanked up Billy's underwear and jeans, fastening and zipping up the front.

“That it?” Kyle said.

“Yeah. I'm good.” Billy stated. “Let's get in that line.”

Around the front of the building, the line had grown progressively longer. Deranged tramps and bent elderly chatted. Kyle and Billy returned to their place in the que. The metal door at the entrance clicked and swung open. A frail elderly woman popped her head out and smiled at anyone who would meet her gaze.

“Good morning.” She rasped. “What a blessed day the Lord has given us.”

“Good morning, Sarah!” Several derelicts squawked.

“Hey, Sarah!”

“'Bout time you opened, I'm starving!”

“What's for breakfast this morning?”

“Sure smells good!”

“Ya got coffee this morning?”

“I'm so tired.”

“Better be better than yesterday's slop.”

“Show a little respect. The shit's free.”

“My ass itches.”

Kyle glanced around at the bums and his gaze unfortunately fell on Gracie who stood leaning against the wall of the building staring at him. When their eyes met, she flashed a lascivious grin, reached down to her blouse and exposed her tattoo covered and stretch mark lined breast. She jiggled the floppy orb at him while mouthing, I love you.

Kyle smirked and looked away, shaking his head humorously.

Slowly, the group shuffled inside. In a large room there was a row of metal chairs and plastic, folding tables. The chairs were dented and the tables were covered in grime and scratches. The dark, wood paneled walls were plastered with religious posters and icons. Towards an opposite door lay a small stage and podium. The transients morosely seated. The area became so cramp that their elbows touched as they sat. Momentarily, a withered, old man made his way to the podium and a hush washed over the weary throng.

The old man opened a well-worn bible and said, “I am reminded of a verse this morning taken from Matthew 6:25-27 'For this reason I say to you, do not be worried about your life, as to what you will eat or what you will drink; nor for your body, as to what you will put on. Is not life more than food? And the body more than clothing?' And in Luke 12:6-7 we read: 'Are not five sparrows sold for two pennies? Yet not one of them is forgotten in God’s sight. But even the hairs of your head are all counted. Do not be afraid; you are of more value than many sparrows'.”

Kyle drifted into a stupor. The man's voice droned on and on. His stomach growled as the people around him coughed and sniffed patiently for the sermon to end. No one cared. No one wanted to listen. The souls who sat captive only wished to eat and continue on their daily routines of addiction, alcoholism, and madness. What was there to live for anymore? What reason did anyone have. The world had went to shit and Kyle knew, you had to remain a deviant in this country of false promises and ideals or die of boredom.

The old man continued, his voice attaining that of a bleating sheep, “I have never been addicted to drugs or alcohol and I have always believed in doing unto others as you would have them do unto you. I do not like people stealing from me, so I do not steal. I do not like people cheating me, so I do not cheat others. Simple. Just because I’m homeless doesn’t make me a hopeless sinner, doomed to hellfire. One of my favorite scriptures is Matthew 7:1-5, 'Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged and with what measure ye mete, it shall be measured to you again. And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye? Or how wilt thou say to thy brother, Let me pull out the mote out of thine eye; and, behold, a beam is in thine own eye? Thou hypocrite, first cast out the beam out of thine own eye; and then shalt thou see clearly to cast out the mote out of thy brother’s eye'.”

Kyle glanced over to Billy who looked as if he was about to doze off. In fact, a few of the men in the room had fallen asleep and began to snore loudly. The old pastor on the stage ignored the obnoxious snores and continued as if he was the only person in the room.

Finally, the sermon ended and the throng stood and lined up at a small, rectangular hole in the wall to be served luke-warm oatmeal, a greasy sausage, and bitter coffee. The men and women coughed and hacked as they retrieved their meager breakfast in tiny styrofoam bowls and cups only to sit in depressed finality back at the rickety tables. The room was morosely quiet as they slurped and gagged at the meal.

Whispers and side remarks issued through the still, tangy-smelling air.

“This shit's cold.”

“The coffee tastes burnt. It tastes burnt to you?”

“I could caulk a wall with this oatmeal.”

“Is that what it is?”

“Show some respect, the shit's free.”

“Free or not, it's still shit.”

Kyle sat next to Billy, spooning the mess into Billy's slavering mouth with a plastic spoon. Intermittently, Kyle would wipe a glop of sticky mush from his friend's face. More oatmeal dribbled onto Billy's stained shirt than would remain in his mouth.

“You're making a mess.” Kyle said.

Billy just grunted and slurped. “Coffee.”

Kyle placed the cup to Billy's mouth. He slurped. “Damn, shit got no sugar.”

An old hag who sat across from them reached into he large, tattered purse and removed two packets of saccharine. She handed them to Kyle.

“Here, sweetie, I got some you can have.” She said to Billy.

They both mumbled gratitude as Kyle ripped open the packets and dropped the contents of each into their coffee cups. He stirred the sweetener with the spoon he assisted Billy with.

The old woman smiled a row of discolored teeth, “That's mighty nice of you to take care of him like that. That is kind.”

“Thank you.” Kyle said as he shoveled another scoop into Billy's mouth. “He's my buddy. Known Billy for years.”

“How did you two meet?” She asked, kindness beamed from her wrinkled face.

“What are you the fuckin' cub reporter for the Daily Asshole askin' so many fuckin' questions?” Billy snapped. “Bitch, mind your own goddamn business.”

She scowled, “You don't have to be so rude.”

“Fuck you, bitch!” Billy snapped. “Just eat your shit and let me eat mine without sitting here listening to your annoying ass voice.”

In a flurry of tattered rags, the old woman stood up, grabbed her bags, and stormed out, “You are a worthless piece of shit! You deserve all the horrible that happens to you! Both of you!”

“Does that include smelling your stanky pussy?” Billy barked. “That stench is enough to gag the Holy Ghost!”

The room busted into guffaws and snickers as the woman stormed out. One of the women servers popped their head out from the hole in the wall and looked around.

“We'll have no foul language in the Lord's house!” The woman from the kitchen commanded.

“That fuckin' bitch needs to shut her fuckin' hole!” Billy stated.

The woman glared at him, “Sir, you need to leave.”

“I ain't goin' no where, you old cunt!” Billy snapped.

The crowd began mumbling as the tension rose. They knew what was going to happen. Two large, old men marched into the room and stood behind Kyle and Billy. Kyle knew the outcome. Experienced it countless times.

One of the men, pink faced, gray haired, in khaki pants and a white shirt, rumbled, “Sir, you and your friend have to leave.”

“I ain't done eatin'!” Billy stated.

“We aren't doing anything.” Kyle pleaded. “We're just sitting here.”

The other man of equal size scorned from beneath a bush of curly, red hair, “You both need to leave, now.”

Kyle quietly rose and began to gather his things. Billy on the other hand was not going out before leaving a mark.

“Ya'll motherfuckers are racist! Some white bitch starts talking shit and y’all gotta throw the black man out? You christian fuckers always talk about being good to your fellow man. Ya'll only good when your fellow man is either rich or white!”

The woman from the kitchen stood at the entrance, fists firmly on hips, “You both are barred permanently! You no longer are allowed here!”

Billy wobbled to his feet, “You pinch faced cunt! You white motherfuckers been saying that same shit to black people for too long! You think we're not used to hearing that? I don't want to be seen in this racist shithole anyway!”

“If you don't leave now, I'll shut the whole place down.” The old woman said.

“I'll burn the whole fucking place down.” Billy spat.

“How? Ya got no arms.” Yelled a hobo in the corner followed by an uproar of guffaws and cackles from the transients.

Billy whirled in the direction of the remark, “Fuck you! You racist, too!”

A large, burly man in a red plaid shirt looked at Kyle, “C'mon, man, best leave. You gonna ruin it for every body.”

Kyle looked resignedly at the man and put a hand on Billy's shoulder. The place was turning nasty and Kyle knew he didn't need the entire homeless population of San Diego turning against him.

“Let's go, Billy.” Kyle said as he placed the fastened the backpack onto his friend.

“Shit! I just want these motherfuckers to show a little respect.” Billy mumbled.

“You got no respect for yourself.” Stated someone. “Start there.”

The two friends quickly strode out the door into the bright, early morning sun. They stood on the cracked sidewalk adjusting their various bundles. Kyle reached into his shorts pocket and retrieved a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He removed the sole cigarette and lit up, tossing the empty packet onto the ground.

“Gimme a smoke.” Billy said.

“Last one. We can share.”

“How much money we got left?”

Kyle pursed his lips, grimaced, “Two and some change.”

“Fuck! That it?” Billy exclaimed. “How we gonna score my shit?”

“Guess I'll go out and hustle up some cash.” Kyle sighed.

He put the cigarette up to Billy's mouth. The old man took two great puffs which resulted in a hacking fit. Billy bent over and hawked a yellow glob of phlegm onto the pavement. Kyle stood there watching his dilapidated friend.

“You going to be okay?” Kyle asked.

“Yeah, don't worry about me. I'll get Bruce to front me some shit.” Billy rasped. “Just go on and handle your business.”

“All right. I'll meet you for dinner at the shelter.”

Kyle turned and quickly strode towards the row of gay bars at the edge of downtown.

Jumpin' Jupiter!

I designed you a cover. Now you have to finish it!

- reader from Spain

I Remember

Alone in the back of a taxi, the lights of the city flickered across my face as the driver did a kamikaze race back to my flat. With the window down, I leaned my head out and grinned behind screwed up eyes. As the cold nigh played in my hair, I gazed up towards the navy blanket of twinkling stars. It was at that moment that I knew I wanted to die.

Under The Milky Way Tonight

Thursday: 2:38am - 

He stared at me, unsteady, from across the room. His face was stern but not grim, almost questioning but agitated instead of curious. His short dark hair looked black but I knew that if it were to grow out it’d probably look a little more brown. I wondered what he was reading because I could see him looking up from the pages of his book as I caught his eye. It was like he could see me, was watching me. His cup of coffee steamed from the table next to him, black, no other color to it.

He had headphones in and I wondered if he obsessed over music like I do. Lately I’ve been on a huge kick that somehow involves pop-punk, house, bebop jazz from the early 20's, and plenty of songs that make me want to smoke cigarettes like the ones that taste the way William Burroughs' voice sounds. I was just trying to pass another day, bent over my own notebook, but this guy was the only guy in the café and I was tiring of writing, my eyes hurting from getting distracted by the same line over and over.

He looked at me again, so I glanced back down for a second, but when I looked back over there again he caught my eye. I wonder if he was battling his demons as uselessly as I was too, every time I looked he seemed so preoccupied. But he always looked back.

I didn’t recognize he wore the same shirt as me until a little later, after I stuck my nose in my notebooks for another hour and he was still there.

I was afraid at how easily I could lie to myself and believe it.

I was surprised that I could see my own reflection, and not recognize it.

Hustler Dark

His true nature is insectile. But somewhere in his web work, he has managed to don a different skin. The beautiful dark kind. The cruelly passionate. The Byronic. This is especially useful when he is lonely and needs to go hunting. Moth to a flame. That's his principle for feeding.

He waits patiently in the blackness for unwitting prey. When they come along, he over whelms them with flattery and lip-service intimacy. They always end up helplessly seduced. He makes them believe he is vulnerable; weak against his desire for them. He gives them all his lust and hunger until they think he cannot exist without them. He makes them feel beautiful and important while he secretly laughs at their gullibility.

Sooner or later, they will enter his weave of silk. They will do so on their own violation. He has never lost. He has grown so good at this, to wield his instruments with expertise, that when they see what's really inside, what he really is, they can't look at him for guilt. Instead they impugn themselves. He has given no promises. Therefore, he remains blameless.

There are skeletons around his home, a thousand discarded bones to design it. My spine is there somewhere. We are the tokens from the countless victories he has reaped. He continues to adorn his weaving, nonchalantly and haughty. Waiting for the next victim to knock on his door. Another soul to hand himself over. Poor, damned, yet very sweet. And so very willing.

Tucson Trepidations

I have been writing that science fiction novel for two months now. I utterly loathe it. So entirely mired in cliche and schlock that I read the pages I have penned and recoil in horror and embarrassment. So, I filed it away and began a new story more in common in the type of work I am comfortable in.

The new work - which at this writing remains without a title - is concerning the mishap friendship of two individuals who I once knew when I was living in the streets of downtown San Diego. One was a twenty-something blond hustler named Kyle who - between selling dope and his dick - was taking care of a shriveled and ancient black man named Billy. Billy was born with no arms. He was a mean, foul-mouthed old fuck, but funny as shit. I am going to attempt to make it a quirky comedy of errors laced with life morals and opinions of the state of today's American culture. I have written several pages and am quite pleased with the results.

So, here I am in Tucson. For one month more. I have decided to relocate to Tijuana and live a little. I realized I had droned on about this before, but there is nothing here for me now. This town is not very simpatico with my lifestyle. Lifestyle. Ha! That's funny. Me and the like minded seem to have become extinct, even among today's gay culture. Gone are the risk takers, the strivers, the sexually ambivalent, the independent man.

Anyway, the brutal romance in which I harbored for one of the locals came to an abrupt and sinister end. No surprise there. And, staying true to form, I simply no longer wish to reside here. I was going to leave yesterday, but thought another month of wrapping up loose ends wound be prudent.

The good thing is, I'll arrive in TJ with a good chunk of change. I really need a good beer and a willing rentboy right now....

Time Is the Fire in Which We all Burn

There’s a certain moment I live for. The moment after the seduction is complete, and I have him panting, naked, on my bed sheets. The moment before we fuck.

I can’t have real relationships anymore, I don’t need them. I found a substitute for a lasting relationship. To be specific, it’s the length of time, about twenty seconds - give or take - starting when his back hits the mattress and I hover over him, breathing, drinking in his flushed skin and looking past his eyes into his hidden, primal, nature. It ends, as it always does, with a questioning glance. He asks me if I will continue, and I will tell him “no” and ask him to leave. The disappointment. The attraction that bore hints of a promising relationship, or at the very least, gives one a reason to stay away from their own bed tonight. I love watching their reaction. I love how it varies between each man. I love the moment when they realize they hate me.

I don’t think I’m a masochist. And I highly doubt that I’m a sadist. There’s just this overwhelming euphoria, this absolute ecstasy, that lies behind letting someone down. It’s a drug that I crave, that I need. I tie the tourniquet as I enter the bar and press down on the plunger each and every time I hear them ask, “Why’d you stop?”

Sometimes they get angry. Sometimes they slap me. Sometimes they cry. My favorite, however, is when they stay silent. The unsaid words, the muffled curses, my imagination runs wild wondering what thoughts are coursing through their mind. Who do they blame? Is it me? Do they shoulder the burden of responsibility themselves? There are so many questions that I wish I could have the answer to as I see the quiet ones leave my apartment, almost as silent as they had entered. Their receding backs act like a peephole into society. If I strain my eyes, I can see how a normal relationship begins. I can see how they would have smiled at me, how we could have enjoyed the table for two I have perpetually on reserve at some nameless restaurant. But they will never know that. They will never know what I have to offer. And I will never give them the chance to find out.

Because you see, there’s a rush of endorphins at that moment. That moment between lust and love. Between first kiss and first fuck. It surges and overrides everything in my brain and I can’t see and I can’t think and he’ll walk out the door and I’ll wonder to myself: maybe he was the one who could have set me straight.

And then I’ll laugh and go to sleep.

The suits in my closet are always expertly pressed. I’m leaving for the bar tonight. I’m searching for the moment between human connection.

For you see, I can switch my polarity at will, and I can attract and repel whoever it is that I desire.

Happy Halloween

Pink Narcissus

Depression is such a cruel punishment. There are no fevers, no rashes, no blood tests to send people scurrying in concern. Just the slow erosion of the self, as insidious as any cancer. And, like cancer, it is essentially a solitary experience. A room in hell with only your name on the door.

Empty Platitudes

Empty platitudes scribbled on a bar napkin by some poor guy who was probably just trying to get them out of his system. The kind of stuff printed on posters and shipped across the country to schools and office buildings, the words that promise an impossible future. The handwriting is sloppy, but this makes sense given the number of napkins that feature a ring of condensation, the only memory of the drinks consumed, beyond any regrets this guy has tomorrow.

The bartender is flirting with a young man who is waiting for his friends to arrive. The young man is handsome, but in a conceivable kind of way and the bartender acknowledges this with both his wondering eyes and steady, affected voice. The young man laughs politely at a joke the bartender told, but his smile is strained and empty. The bartender does not seem to notice this and walks away with a look on his face that shows his belief that the young man made up his friends as an excuse to stay at the bar and talk to him. Minutes later, the unimagined friends arrive and them and the young man leave. The bartender does not betray his previous, silent burst of pride. He cleans a glass and asks if I'd like another drink.

I collect the napkins and sort through them, rolling my eyes periodically to assure those around me that I find no comfort in such shallow banality. I pause at one napkin that reads, There is no time like the present. This is a very stupid thing to believe. The moments which predate the current time are identical to the present. They were created and lived through, ten swallowed by the chasm of time which is currently working to collect this very moment and consider it the past. The future will likely work the same way, though, as another napkin dictates, The future is unwritten.

I try not to check my phone and am unsuccessful for a matter of minutes. Then I see that he has not responded to my messages and I place my phone back into my pocket and stabilize my collapsing head on the palms of my hands, leaning towards the bar, beckoning for someone that does not exist. I sigh, finish my drink, and eye the bartender. I do this somewhat flirtatiously, now that I know his loneliness. The method is effective.

The bartender gives me my drink and asks what a guy like me is doing alone and I am granted a sudden understanding of that man's false laughter. The man is more closely related to the series of napkins than someone like myself. But I am too alone to be judgemental and tell him that I have been stood up. He tells me that my drink is on the house and gives me a patronizing frown that costs me more than the rum and coke ever would.

An hour later and the bar is nearly empty. The bartender breaks the tragic news that it is last call to us and I pay my tab and consider the door. I turn to the bartender and ask him what he is doing now that his work is done. He flashes me a cheesy smile and, after all the patrons have gone, pours us both shots.

We have been talking for around thirty minutes but he has not left his side of the bar or invited me to join him. So, I sit and he stands, a barrier between us that insists on classifications that no longer apply at this time of night. By this time I have grown sick of his voice and either want to move this thing along or depart. He has only spoken of his friends or work. These are both dull topics, for his work seems to consist mainly striking out with guys and his friends have names like 'Danger Dan' and 'Big T'. I consider kissing him to shut him up, but then he excuses himself out the back exit for a cigarette and I'm bored of the taste of cigarettes. He makes me promise to wait for his return. I don't.

At this point of night, the street is mostly clear of the herd of obnoxious 30-something drunks, but the young drunks are still collected in packs, hoping at this time the 4am bars will deliver forgetful experiences. Such a bar does not exist, which leads to the existence of the 30-somethings that are only now returning home.

I forgot to turn the heat on before I left so my apartment is as cold as the night surrounding it. I turn up the thermostat and grab three heavy blankets and resign to the couch. I flip through a novel that drips with pretension and then I flip through channels that hold nothing but infomercials and reruns of shows I didn't care about the first time around.

After a while the heat is functioning and I shed my blankets and stare at the ceiling. I began to whistle the shitty pop song that was blaring from a cab's radio outside the bar. I stop whistling and think of the bartender. He was likely sad when I left, for both the lack of conversation and the physical aftermath he considered implied. He likely picked up the stack of napkins, sorting through them and finding some solace in their simple words. Perhaps he will finally be capable of appreciating the journey in lieu of the destination, or realize the percentage of untaken shots he will miss.I suppose there are worse things than empty platitudes scribbled onto napkins. I suppose there is the bar with the missing guy without napkins that reveal the lives you could be leading.

Someday.

I asked myself a long time ago where I'd thought I'd be in five years. Or I should say, the question was posed to me and I had no answer and I went home and thought about it over Lord of the Flies, a fresh pack of smokes, and a pot of coffee. What I decided was this: I would still be myself in those five long years from now. Not to say I'd thought they'd be long, but more that they would go slow until it was time to look back on them.

I didn't see the point on trying to change. Sure, change can be good, but I thought I was doing okay: some money, a place to live, and some friends to drink with. Some music, the internet, a typewriter and a laptop. Clothes. Happiness, however that is measured (I found out from others that I was happy, I guess I'd never realized it) I moved from day to day in the monotony but contented. I spent the nights carelessly. I made love recklessly. I kissed the stars and found his lips like silvered spoons. They were beautiful and I was stuck on the ground.

We'll see what tomorrow or next week or two months from now or my deathbed has for me. I guess I'm anxious to find out, but not enough to see a psychic so I know. I don't like conjecture about the future. I like to live it. I like to take each sip of coffee like the Egyptian artifacts they are. Rarities meant to be found in the future by people who weren't me. My life a mystery I'll write in small sentences until it ends. Maybe someone will publish it, someday. Maybe I'll sink beneath the waves and I'll find peace. Someday.

Fear the Inevitable

There are some things that are meant to be seen, but never felt.

Sensations we understand come first by knowing their presence lurking in alleyways like forgotten trash left to dwell in between those triumphant, tall buildings. We understand their necessity, yet we ignore them. The human impulse to understand gets thrown aside and we accept the things we see, the gutter people, the litter, the signs of life we don’t even look down to see.

The way raindrops skip against puddles. The way smoke from fall cigarettes mingles with clouds as its welcomed to stay.

The way a ten foot piece of rope can be used to disguise our understanding of each other. To create chattel, to hang the people we refuse to understand.

To pull each foot tighter and tighter around a thin, slender throat, feeling the rough fibers coming undone and creating friction against skin, the veins and tendons clamoring for understanding and growing at their upset, the rope clinging to rope, the fibers clinging to skin, the pressure widening eyes.

And for once you understand what death feels like. Sudden, gruesome death. Both its inception and its aftermath, its beginning and its end.

Death knocks on the door and by the time you’ve let it in it’s already left. Finished. Moving on.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen it stare at me from across the street, or linger in my cup of coffee, breathing its promise to find me in thin, wispy smoke. I can’t tell you why we’ve never met. I can’t tell you why I hold my breath.

But I’ve seen him laugh, and I fear for the day that rope is around my neck. Because I always fear the inevitable, I just wish I knew when.

Insidious Wreck

I gave it everything I had. My chest heaved and my body rocked. The tears flowed faster than I knew was possible. I threw everything I had into that cry. All the rage, all the frustration, all the pain. I threw the loneliness too. And the disappointment. I threw happiness in there as well, what little bit of it had managed to pierce the veil of my life these past few months. I put it in there because thinking of it, thinking of how foreign it seemed to me, threw everything else into sharper focus.

It was exhausting, crying like this, but I kept going. I needed this. I needed it out of me, because if I kept it inside of me any longer I was going to implode. The sadness was going to swallow me whole, and there would be nothing left. Nothing at all. This was me fighting against that nothing. I had been starting to go numb inside, and that’s not what I wanted. No matter what happened, I didn’t want to disappear from the world. There was always collateral damage when someone did that. I knew from experience, and I refused to do that to anyone. Ever.

So I cried. It was harder than I thought. I felt every moment of sadness from the past few months as it came back up. I felt as though I was living it all again, in sharp succession. But it was okay. I had survived it all the first time, so I knew I could make it through again. There had to be something else on the other side of this cry. So I kept going. I cried past the point of tears. I cried past the violent, heaving sobs into a softer, murmured cry. Then, eventually, it stopped.

I was proud of myself for making it through. I felt empty now. Not numb, but empty. Empty was good. I could fill the emptiness with something. This time, I'll try to fill it with better things.

a simple progression

I stood outside the shop thinking.

In my mind I pictured a simple progression: a smoldering cigarette catches the floor on fire, the fire spreads through the house, eventually reaching him, who would be too drunk to notice.

“Hey bitch, what are you waiting for?”

I looked up, but he was already walking away.

I hate his smug walk. I hate how he took up too much of the sidewalk. How his hands were always fists.

I stubbed out my cigarette and followed, wondering if tonight was the night.

A Mirror Darkly

I think the best thing about it was that you thought you’d gotten away with it.

You just appeared pretty much out of nowhere (and trust me I’m not exaggerating here because everyone was shocked) and then tried to act so naturally like it wasn’t strange that you’d said goodbye forty-five minutes ago and yet somehow here you were again.

That’s probably the greatest part about the whole thing actually.

Your casual reappearance; a stumbling fool emerging from the shadows wearing a grin I just wanted to smack off. You were so smug with yourself, swanning around with your false sense of achievement. It was wonderful to watch because everything about you was a dead giveaway - the sway, the slump, the slur, the stench - and yet you tried so desperately to maintain some semblance of coordination. We watched as you spat out a beer-soaked monologue no one could make sense of. We all shook our heads at you and laughed under our breath and tittered to each other and you didn’t even notice. Either that or you were too far gone to give a shit.

It got better when you followed us to the next bar and trapped someone in a confusing and illogical string of words and sentences too jumbled to be even called a conversation. Especially seeing as the other party did nothing but look distressed and attempt to retreat. You kept talking and talking in his face. I literally heard you say the words “he rips her arm off and beats her with it” and I’m pretty sure that’s when I choked on my drink.

I couldn’t stop staring. It was like one of those horrific car crashes that is so spectacularly bad that you can’t look away. I think I was just so mesmerised by the whole thing after all the jokes we’d made. To have someone finally embody the ridiculous enigma we’d all created in our minds. This concept that existed purely for our amusement.

If I really think about it, I’m kind of jealous that you got to be the one to strip me of my title but to be fair, it’s so befitting it would be selfish of me not to relinquish it. I dunno, maybe I’m still shocked I got to experience it. A run in with an imaginary idea; the real surprise trashbag.

Why him?

Thursday night: I’m sad sometimes, but it doesn’t rev up and swallow me like it used to. It sort of sneaks up on me at inopportune moments and leaps out from under me. It goes slow.

Slow like your movements in the tavern booth. The smooth steady pulsing of your temple as you tell your sixth beer how it all began to fall apart. You don’t blink. My fingers follow the water droplets on the table as I hear you, and I hear me too.

You weren’t enough for me.

For a moment we’re friends again, like being almost lovers never happened. Like we’re two lonely people, coincidentally sad and drunk.

You’re bold and concise with your words, but I know you’re hurt. I do the same with mine because it hurts that he wasn’t enough for me. And when I tell you, you smile and slowly shake your head. you tell me I’m difficult and I know that you of all people know. I start to shake as you remind me.

We’re drinking like a sleepy summer’s just starting, words slurring and heat rising. You have the same stupid jokes. you put your mouth to my ear, fighting ambient sound. I do the same with mine because I know what it used to mean to you. You haven’t changed, and you pretend like I haven’t either, ordering me bottles of sol like it’s 2010 all over again.

Outside the streetlights and new autumn night remind me I’m alone, even though you’re walking beside me. You put your mouth to my ear, fighting ambient 1am silence.

"I’ll just never understand — why him?"

If You're Gone

If you’re gone the days will go by faster, since the minutes won’t be so tied up with waiting for you to come home. If you’re gone, the skyline that has become my fortress will shine like heaven, will clog the black hole you left in my confidence. It won’t be until I lock myself into my bed for sleep that the independence, the invincibility I feel at having rebuilt my life will vanish.

If you’re gone I’ll feel small and disposable, I’ll start walking with my head down and singing songs about clinging to lost love. My morning shower will take fifteen minutes longer, because I had to stand under the hot water to sing the words to one more song you would never have understood the meaning of. My morning coffee will be drunk with my fictitious companions who visit me in the form of old 90’s sitcoms. I will sit back and laugh at the way life’s many obstacles dissolve with ‘I’m sorry’ or a martini and a muffin.

If you’re gone you’ll free up space in the soul of my existence to turn you into something that you’re not. You will give birth to a new self, and I will be the one to own this new you. This new man you’ll create will smoke cigarettes that don’t make me think of cancer and death. His willful ignorance about the world around him will be charming instead of the catalyst to another fight. When he refuses to hold my hand, I’ll believe it’s because he was trying to protect me from something, maybe himself. And instead of asking him about it, I’ll thank him by not resisting his desire to make love one more time.

If you’re gone I’ll forget you. But you won’t leave.

Scribbling Holes

I slam my head against the pages
hoping that the words will bleed out.
Crying because the Muse doesn’t return
and I have these emotions swelling in my brain.
There’s no release, no way out.
No getting rid of this feeling.
Scribbling holes into notebook paper,
trying to sling together how I feel
but there is no relief for those who try.
My eyes burning with each second I stare
and I’ve already dried my tears.
The lines on paper pulsing like veins,
taunting me with every beat.
Oh word, oh word, just take me now.