Unfinished Short Stories

Warning: this medium post will be nothing like the essays I’ve published in the past. I’d recommend reading on only if you have an interest in literary fiction. If you are an investor who follows me because of my writing on startups, please X this page out immediately.

Here’s six short stories, in no particular order, that I’ve (mostly) abandoned working on over the past year and a half. Some of them don’t even have endings. Some of them are very weird, and if I catch you judging me, you will be blocked, banned, banished, etc.

Morning Music (I lied, this one is finished, and it was even published. The rest are unfinished, as promised.)

Elliot lay awake, his cheeks burning as the sun crept in through the mangled curtains and came to rest on his face. “Let’s get up,” he said, “don’t you want to have a real morning?” Maxine, her eyes closed, rolled over to face the wall and squeezed the pillow over her ears. He knew what was coming next but he touched her shoulder anyway.

“Stop it,” she said, “I’m serious,” and then she pulled the covers over her shoulder and inched closer to the wall.

“Alright then,” Elliot said. He lay there for another two minutes and then he rolled out of bed. Maxine reached out, her hand brushed against his back and she made a soft sound like, Mmmwaitmmm. He paused by the foot of the bed and watched her, waited to see if she’d turn around, and then he walked to the closet. He put on a tee shirt and sweatpants and socks and gave her one last glance before heading down the long hallway, towards the kitchen. He passed the framed photo on the windowsill by the doorway: the two of them on the grass in Central Park, Elliot pointing at the sky and describing what he sees, Maxine laughing. The clouds, of course, out of frame.

Elliot walked into the kitchen and swallowed three Advil with a glass of tepid tap water. He ground enough coffee beans for five cups and poured it into the coffee maker with two cups of water. He opened the refrigerator and peered in. Milk, OJ, half & half, eggs, two and a half sticks of butter, ketchup, mustard, a bag of shredded Monterey Jack cheese, blackberry preserves, an old head of lettuce, three Brooklyn Brewery IPAs, four half-full bottles of salad dressing and endless jars with olives and sauerkraut and pickles and other relishes wedged into the shelves. He saw something unfamiliar. On the top shelf, barely visible behind the milk and the OJ, was a small, mysterious white package. Bacon. He’d picked it up at the farmer’s market last Saturday then forgotten all about it.

He pulled the package out of the refrigerator and tossed it onto the counter, then he squatted and opened the cupboard door to the left of the oven. Without looking he reached in and pulled out pots and pans. It was past eleven so Elliot felt no obligation to keep the noise down.

He found the cast iron grill pan and placed it on the stove. The pan was caked with grease. He’d heard that grease buildup on a cast iron grill pan was a good thing, it added flavor and seasoning to each vegetable and piece of meat, and he liked this idea, each meal carrying the honor and memory of past ones. But this grease was thick and it didn’t smell right so he ran the water in the sink until it was hot and then he held the pan under it. Thousands of tiny beads of water appeared on the cast iron and rolled off onto a pile of dishes in the sink, dishes Maxine had promised to wash each of the past two nights. He took a sponge to the pan, and after a minute or two of scrubbing he’d hardly made a dent in the grease, but the sponge had turned from bright yellow to a foul black and brown. He shrugged, rinsed the sponge, and put the pan on the stove.

He turned the dial on the stove and the valve opened and the gas trickled out but the igniter wouldn’t spark. He fiddled with the dial and there was a click and a spark and then a small explosion. Elliot jumped. “Whoa,” he said. He centered the pan over the flame and while the iron heated, he poured coffee into his favorite mug: A rude awakening, Steve Post’s Morning Music, WNYC/FM 93.9, with an illustration of a frowning bald man with a mustache and a party hat. He didn’t know a thing about the guy, but he’d taken the mug from his parents so it reminded him of Saturday mornings from his childhood: his mom and dad cooked breakfast together, french toast or puffy pancakes with baked cinnamon apples, while he and his brother played games at the kitchen table. He stared at the mug and he thought to himself, This mug has never been dropped, and then he took a sip of his coffee and nearly spit it out.

He opened the fridge and felt around for the half & half and while he did he googled Steve post radio on his iPhone. He poured half & half into his coffee and then he emptied two sugar packets into it. He stirred it with a teaspoon and created a small whirlpool in his mug, the coffee swirling until it was light and creamy like a caramel square. He took a sip and smiled, and then he read on his phone that just last year Steve Post died of lung cancer. “Shit,” Elliot said, and he put his phone down.

The pan was smoking so Elliot lowered the heat and unwrapped the parchment paper to reveal twenty thick, salty, glistening strips of smoked bacon. “Yes,” he said. He pinched the end of one strip between his thumb and forefinger and dangled it in front of his face and admired it, all twelve inches striped with fat and muscle and gristle, then he carefully laid it down on the grill pan perpendicular to the ridges. There was a loud hissing sound, and Elliot laid three more strips of bacon next to the first. The hissing turned into a crackling as the fat liquefied and formed a pool of hot, bubbling grease. Elliot smiled.

His phone buzzed, a text. Are you cooking bacon? Elliot put his phone down and shouted, “Yes,” and then to the microwave in front of his face, he said, “is that okay?” He lined a plate with paper towels and placed it next to the stove.

Elliot heard the toilet flush and the bathroom sink running, and then soft footsteps. He took a deep breath. Maxine walked into the kitchen in her pajamas: a long, white Morrissey shirt and a pair of Elliot’s plaid boxers. She walked behind Elliot and looked over his shoulder. “Smells good,” she said.

He didn’t turn around but he leaned back and nuzzled the side of his head against her cheek. She kissed the corner of his mouth. “Good morning,” she said. Her skin felt soft but she hadn’t brushed her teeth yet.

“Did you finish Netflix last night or what?” he said.

“Shush,” she said. She nodded towards the bacon. “Where’d this come from?”

“I bought it at the farmer’s market, forgot all about it.”

“Huh? When?”

“Last Saturday morning. You were sleeping.”

“Oh. You could have woken me.” He opened his mouth to say something but thought better of it.

She reached for the coffee pot but saw that it was empty so she picked up his mug and sipped it. “Yuck,” she said, “is this coffee or jet fuel?” Maxine touched Elliot’s back but her hand slipped off as he leaned forward to check the exhaust fan, so she walked past him and around the counter and sat down on the couch in the living room, still in plain view of the kitchen. She stretched her legs and spun her body until she was lying down, her head dangling off the couch and feet resting on the wall, scrolling and tapping on her phone, humming to herself. Elliot thought about putting music on but decided against it.

The bacon sizzled, a dog barked outside. The sounds of morning.

“Hey,” Maxine said, “wanna do yoga at noon?”

Elliot checked the time on the microwave.

“Huh?” he said.

“Yoga at noon.”

“That’s in thirty minutes,” he said, “I’m cooking breakfast.”

“Oh. So much for our new year’s resolution.”

Elliot laughed. “It’s just a weird time to ask, that’s all.”

Maxine said nothing. He turned around to face her. She’d been looking at him but she quickly drew her eyes back to her phone.

Elliot used his fingers to flip the bacon, jerking his hand back when a drop of hot grease jumped like stovetop popcorn and landed on his skin. There was black around the edges of the bacon. “Shit,” he said. He picked up the strips one at a time and laid them across the paper-toweled plate, and then he placed four new strips on the hot pan. The bacon hissed.

Elliot took a long sip of coffee. He leaned against the counter and watched the bacon quake in the pan, flipping each strip after a few minutes. He removed the four strips from the pan and placed them on the paper-toweled plate next to the rest of the cooked bacon. “Perfect,” he said.

“Huh?”

“Talking to myself.”

Maxine rose from the couch and walked back towards the stove. “Can I try?” she said. “One of the burnt ones.” Elliot picked up a strip from the first batch and handed it to her. She bit off a third of the strip and the rest of it broke into pieces which she caught with one hand against her shirt. “That’s good,” she said, and she cupped her hands and poured the remaining pieces into her mouth, leaving a spot of grease on Morrissey’s forehead.

Elliot picked up a strip of uncooked bacon and placed it on the pan while Maxine observed. “You should dump some of that grease,” she said.

He looked down at the pan and there was, in fact, a pool of grease, half an inch deep or more.

“That’s the good stuff,” he said, “you want that in there.”

“It’s too much, though,” she said. She reached for the pan but the handle was hot, so she yelped and pulled her hand back and retreated to the couch. Without turning around to face Elliot, she said, “Look at your shirt.”

He looked down. His shirt was speckled with grease stains. Maxine had bought this shirt for him two years ago in Barcelona. Elliot had booked the flights and hotels, built the itinerary, but it was Maxine’s wandering that led them into the underground theaters and the charming bodegas. It was the first part he often remembered.

“Oops,” he said. He bit his lip, and then he laughed.

Elliot sipped his coffee, which was cool now. He placed the mug in the microwave and set it to thirty seconds on high. The humming of the microwave joined the hissing and crackling of the bacon in the otherwise silent apartment. He picked up his glass and leaned his head back and emptied the last drops of water into his mouth. He placed the glass on top of the dirty dishes in the sink, but it tipped over and fell from the pile and cracked on the hard porcelain. “Shit,” he said. The humming of the microwave grew louder and a large grease bubble violently popped in the pan. Maxine sat up on the couch.

“It’s really loud in here,” she said.

The microwave beeped and the humming stopped and Maxine laid back down.

“That’s probably enough bacon, don’t you think?” she said.

Elliot shrugged.

Another minute passed. Maxine read a three-week-old issue of The New Yorker, Elliot watched the bacon cook, the fatty ends writhing in the deepening grease.

“Hey babe, can we go to Koreatown tonight? I want to try this soju stuff that everyone’s talking about,” Maxine said. “Russ and Emma went last week, they said it was really fun.”

Elliot said nothing. He never liked the suggestions from the Goings On About Town.

“Elliot,” said Maxine.

“Huh?” He was still facing the stove.

“Never mind.”

Another minute passed. “It’s really smoky in here,” she said, “and I’m kinda over the smell. Aren’t you going to cook anything else?”

Elliot didn’t respond.

“Hey Ell,” she said, “are you almost done?”

He finally turned around. “Want to help?” he said. Maxine’s eyes returned to the magazine.

Elliot picked up a piece of cooked bacon from the paper-toweled plate, and took a bite, his first, and then another, and then finished it. “Yes,” he said. He reached towards the pan to flip the bacon and a large drop of hot grease leapt from the pan and landed on his wrist. “Shit,” he said.

Maxine rolled her eyes, he sensed it.

Elliot opened the kitchen drawer next to the sink. The drawer smelled like old garlic. He reached his hand in and fished through spatulas and serving spoons and a cheese grater until he found the tongs. He pushed the tongs’ locking mechanism against his stomach to allow them to open up to their full width, and then he held them in front of his face and clicked them together three times. One by one he pinched each strip of bacon with the tongs and flipped it in the pan. He let them cook for another minute and then he picked up the four pieces of cooked bacon and placed them on the paper-toweled plate. A car alarm went off outside.

“Hey, we still need to buy plane tickets for Brianna’s wedding,” Maxine said.

Elliot was reaching for his coffee but his hand paused in midair.

“When is that again?” he said.

“Labor Day.”

He picked up his coffee and sipped it. “We’ve got like six months,” he said.

“Prices are only gonna go up.”

“We’ve got time,” he said. He was still facing the stove.

“Okay,” she said.

He looked at Maxine without turning his head. She pulled herself up by the couch’s backrest, kneeled with both knees on the cushions. She put her head to the window and watched the lonely, wailing car.

“I wish that would stop,” Elliot said.

Maxine said nothing.

Elliot opened the fridge and looked around again. He checked the date on the egg carton. They’d expired two days before. He shrugged.

“Hey Maxy,” he said, “you want some eggs? I’ll cook ’em right in the bacon fat.”

Maxine laughed, it was exaggerated. She collapsed onto the couch, horizontal again, and picked up the magazine. “I’ll pass.”

The pool of grease was now a small ocean with texture, waves, salt mounds, islands of burnt pork. Elliot looked at it and smiled, and he placed the uncooked strips of bacon over it. The bacon floated for a moment and then sank into the boiling grease. Maxine stood up. “What the fuck, Elliot?” she said. “Did you just put more on?” She walked to the kitchen and as she peered over the stove a drop of grease flew up and landed on her neck. “OW. FUCK.”

Elliot opened the freezer and squeezed an ice cube out of the tray and held it against the pink spot on her skin. Their faces were close, nearly touching. He felt the heat coming from her face but she looked at him expectantly. He looked away.

“You’re okay, it just hurts for a second,” he said.

“I told you to dump that grease.”

“Look, I thought you’d be excited about the bacon.”

She threw her hands in the air. The ice cube flew from Elliot’s hand and slid across the floor, coming to rest under the refrigerator. “WE HAVE ENOUGH BACON, ELLIOT. IT SMELLS LIKE A FUCKING BODEGA IN HERE.”

Elliot looked at Maxine and said nothing, and then he got down on all fours and stuck his hand under the fridge but his arm wouldn’t fit.

Maxine walked back to the couch and sat down. Elliot ate another piece of bacon and then he removed the four strips from the pan and placed them on the paper-toweled plate. He looked at Maxine, who watched him carefully. Her mouth was open. He picked up one of the final four strips of uncooked bacon, and Maxine stood up. “Elliot,” she said, “don’t.”

He looked at the pile of cooked bacon on the plate, and then at the parchment paper. There were just three strips left plus the one in his hand. “This is the last batch,” he said. “It’ll go bad if I don’t cook it.”

“Elliot,” she said, “do not put another piece of bacon in that fucking pan.”

A small pool of water had formed at the base of the fridge where the ice cube had melted. Elliot stepped in it. The water soaked through his sock, he cringed.

“Might as well cook all of it,” he said. “What’s the harm?”

He laid the bacon across the pan, it hissed like a snake.

Maxine picked up her phone and walked towards the bedroom. As she passed, Elliot kept his eyes on the pan but he moved from the stove and reached for her. She sidestepped his arm.

“Babe,” he said to her back, “I’m almost done.”

She kept walking towards the bedroom. “Alright then,” he said under his breath. His arm was still in the air, he waved goodbye to her back.

Elliot placed the remaining three strips of bacon on the pan and leaned back against the counter and sipped his coffee. He’d misplaced the tongs and didn’t care to look for them, so he braved the boiling grease and flipped the bacon with his fingers. The grease burned his skin. He didn’t mind. He sipped his coffee again and then he picked up each strip one by one and placed them on the paper-toweled plate. He looked towards the bedroom and shouted, “Finished.” He turned off the stove and then he pulled the paper towel out from under the heaping mound of pork and let it tumble onto the plate. He picked up the plate and walked with it around the kitchen counter to the dining area where he placed it on the middle of the table and sat down. He stared at the bacon for a moment and then he stood up and returned to the kitchen where he put two pieces of bread in the toaster, grabbed a tomato from the basket on the counter, and pulled the head of lettuce out of the fridge. He rinsed the tomato and the lettuce in the sink and he waited for the toast to pop and then he placed it all on a cutting board with a sharp knife and carried it to the table. He sat down again. He sipped his coffee and waited for Maxine while the pan cooled and the grease congealed into thick globs of pig fat. He stared at the bacon intently, unblinking.

Elliot heard something drop, he flinched and then looked up from the bacon. Maxine stood by the door. There was ten feet between them. Her eyes were red, she wore Elliot’s purple NYU sweatshirt. There was a duffel bag on the floor by her feet.

“There you are,” he said. He saw the bag and her red eyes but he pretended not to.

She stared at him and said nothing. Her eyes were wide and her mouth was just barely open. Her expression was frozen on her face, but her cheeks quivered.

“Maxy, I’m sorry I cooked too much bacon.” He turned to face the table, spoke matter-of-factly. “Come on, sit, I’m making BLTs.” He patted the chair next to his.

She said nothing but Elliot could hear her slow, heavy breathing. He turned around to face her. A swell of anger rose in her face.

“What fucking planet are you living on?” she said. Her voice shook. The anger in her face twisted into a near smile. He’d never seen her eyes this wide.

He stood up and took a step towards her.

“Maxine,” he said.

“Don’t.” She reached for the doorknob and rested her hand on it. Now her voice was calm, resolute. “Why won’t you book the plane tickets?”

“What? The wedding’s in six months! What’s the rush?”

“Bullshit. We never wait this long to book.”

“Why is this such a big deal all of a sudden?”

Maxine said nothing but her face told him that the question was his to answer. He closed his eyes, the apartment was silent. He wondered if she’d scream. If she’d berate him, call him names, if he’d scream back. He wondered if she’d cry, if he would, if they’d end up on the floor again, holding each other. He wondered what he’d say this time.

He wished he could stay in this moment. He didn’t want what was on the other side.

“Elliot,” she said. “Say something.”

He opened his eyes. Maxine was watching him, he looked down to avoid her searing gaze. His hands were trembling, he was squeezing the mug tight. He felt he’d lost something.

Another moment passed in silence.

He looked up. “Steve Post died,” he said.

Maxine looked puzzled. She opened her mouth but no words came out. Her face changed. “Oh my god,” she said. She put her face in her hands and let out a cry. She looked at Elliot through her hands, he hadn’t moved. She picked up her bag and opened the door, and then she paused and turned around to look at Elliot once more. He was still looking at her but he said nothing. “Oh my god,” she said again, and then she walked out.

Elliot watched the door close. He took one step towards it but then he stopped. He wasn’t wearing shoes plus his socks were wet. And he was tired. He could hear Maxine’s cries echo in the stairwell but they were becoming quieter. He turned back towards the table and ate a piece of bacon. He sat down. He let out a whimper but he knew it was forced so he chuckled at himself. He ate another piece of bacon. If there was a lump in his throat, this second piece cleared it. He sat up straight in his chair and took a long, deep breath.

I really need to clean that pan, he thought, and then he stood up and walked back to the kitchen.

Charlie the Cat

Mrs. Millman loved cats but Mr. Millman did not, yet he kept her precious Ragamuffin, Charlie, out of a sense of loyalty. Or so he thought that’s why he kept him. Charlie was a regal cat, he had a broad chest and a plush ivory coat and he walked with his head high and his shoulders back. During the spring and summer the Millmans, or now just Mr. Millman, left the door to their small fifth floor balcony open and each day the cat ventured outside. He climbed from balcony to fire escape to rooftop to balcony, made his rounds of the neighborhood, and returned home by five o’clock, the time when Mr. Millman put out a small bowl of wet food and another of water before he sat down with his own supper and watched the evening news. This, along with a daily changing of the litter, was a small price to pay in the service of his wife’s wishes. Mr. Millman and Charlie the cat had no relationship with one another except for the most important one of all, keeping each other alive.

Herbert Millman served in World War II as a member of the 34th Infantry Regiment. He fought in the Philippines, a theater of war that nobody seemed to remember. Before his twentieth birthday he and his best friends had run shooting through beaches and swamps in hails of returning machine gun fire. He was discharged in 1945 and he moved back into the same two-bedroom apartment in Morningside Heights that he’d grown up in with his mother and father and two sisters. He took a job in sales for a local manufacturer of refrigerator parts. He kept this job for many decades, and for many decades this job kept things comfortable. In 1947 he married a neighborhood girl, Hilda, and they moved into a two-bedroom apartment three blocks up which soon also housed two screaming babies and one large cat. Hilda was a schoolteacher. She was the cook and the host, the mother and the nurse, the one who remembered the birthdays and the one who sent the cards. She once took a train to Amherst College to bring soup to her ailing son and made it home in time to cook dinner for her husband. The Millmans lived in this two bedroom apartment for twenty years until both children were gone, at which point Mr. and Mrs. Millman moved up the street to a fifth floor apartment, the apartment where they’d live for nearly fifty years with nine different cats, the apartment where Hilda would take her final rattling breath with Mr. Millman and Mr. Millman alone by her side. The Millmans’ two children left New York decades earlier and started families of their own, one in Wisconsin, one in Nevada. Mr. Millman didn’t care much for travel these days and neither did his children, apparently.

Eleven days after the death of his wife, Mr. Millman woke up at six o’clock in the morning, looked in the mirror at a face he hardly recognized and shaved off twelve days of white stubble with a straight razor. He left behind several patches of wiry hair tucked deep inside the wrinkles of his cheeks. His upper lip was stiff but his cool blue eyes, once striking, appeared increasingly lost these days. He looked into his eyes and for a moment he felt dread, so he dropped his razor in the sink and hurried out of the bathroom. He put on slacks and a shirt and his hat and left his home for the first time in eight days.

Mr. Millman put his cane to the sidewalk and felt the sunshine on his face and muscle memory took over. He walked to the deli across the street from his home and bought a newspaper. He commented on the day’s top stories to the Arab boy in the Yankees cap behind the counter who either didn’t understand him or didn’t care to respond. Mr. Millman smiled at the boy and wished him a nice day, the boy stared at his phone. Mr. Millman looked at the boy for a moment longer and then he put the newspaper under his arm and walked to Tom’s Diner where an overweight black woman poured coffee into his mug and asked if he’d like milk or sugar. If she was like the servers of the old days, Sherrod or Angelique or Marvin, she’d have remembered that he takes his coffee black. He ordered eggs over easy with extra crispy bacon and extra crispy hash browns and white toast with butter and jam as he had thousands of times before. He ate his breakfast in silence and he imagined the conversations he’d have with his friends if they were still here. They’d talk about the weather, the war, the Yankees. They’d talk about how the neighborhood had changed, how the youth had changed, how they just don’t make ’em like they used to. He tried to imagine the conversations he’d have with his wife but he could not. He simply couldn’t remember any conversations they’d actually had. He closed his eyes and concentrated on the sound of her voice. He took a sip of his coffee, but it was bitter and slightly burnt and did nothing to jog his memory. As far as he could recall, they’d existed as a single unit for nearly seventy years, their words and their breath shared. He ate his breakfast in silence and tried to remember what his life had once been, smiling and wincing and staring blankly at the empty seat across from him.

Fifteen feet from the edge of the Millman balcony was the tip of a branch of a London planetree. The branch itself was fifteen feet long and at the point where it met the upper trunk sat a robin’s nest with four shiny blue eggs, and today those eggs hatched into four screaming baby birds. Charlie had eyed these eggs since they appeared two weeks earlier. Fifteen feet was a long way for a Ragamuffin to jump, and the eggs, tempting as they were, did not drive him to an attempt. Still, those eggs left a mark on Charlie, he was certainly primed. Maybe it was the lack of stimuli in the Millman home. Maybe Charlie missed the games he played with Mrs. Millman and her yarn and her knitting needles — even the most intelligent kids turn into rascals with too little challenge. Or maybe Charlie was just a cat, a cat who saw four baby birds and heard their helpless cries, a feeling impossible to describe in human terms.

While Mr. Millman watched the minute hand on the clock at Tom’s Diner, Charlie watched the baby birds from their shared balcony. It’s unclear what Charlie was waiting for, but at 11:07 a.m., at the exact moment Mr. Millman sighed and took the final sip of his black coffee, Charlie hopped up onto the railing, took three quick steps towards the branch and leapt for the heavens. His jump was a good one, he traveled six feet in height and twelve feet in length, but he came up three feet short of the branch, which meant he had fifty feet down to the earth left to travel. Perhaps he could have righted himself and landed on his feet the way cats are famous for, and surely he could have tried, but Charlie kept his eyes on those baby birds the whole way down. In the instant before he struck the decomposed granite around the base of the tree he was already planning his next attempt at those birds, and then he hit the ground with a thud and a meow, his fourth rib snapped like a twig and pierced his beating heart, and just like that he was dead.

Mr. Millman left Tom’s Diner at 11:45 a.m. and walked to Sakura Park where he sat on a bench and looked at the cherry trees and read his newspaper. He hoped somebody would sit down next to him and at one point somebody did, a young woman reading Slaughterhouse Five. He waited for his moment and then he looked at the woman and said, “Vonnegut, he was 106th Infantry.” The woman looked up and smiled. Her head tilted back towards her book but her eyes surveyed the park, and then she stood up and walked across the grass to another bench. Mr. Millman watched her the whole way. He read his paper until 1:30 p.m. and then he walked back to Tom’s Diner where he stood in the entryway before his server gave him a funny look and he realized that he’d meant to head home.

Mr. Millman returned to his apartment and took off his hat and lowered himself onto the couch. The home was all cherry wood and dim lighting and vermillion red rugs. His military decorations were encased in dusty glass, hanging on the wall. He liked to know they were there but hadn’t taken a close look in many years. He turned on the television and in five minutes he was snoring. At 4:30 p.m. he woke with a start and looked at his watch. He opened a can of wet tuna and gravy and scooped it into Charlie’s bowl, and he refilled the other bowl with fresh water. Charlie usually came running when he heard the lid peeled off the can, but not today. Mr. Millman sat back down on the couch and turned on the local news and watched a report about a family of four that died in a Queens fire, the third deadly city fire in as many weeks by his count. At 5:30 p.m. he returned to the kitchen where he opened another can of wet tuna and gravy and dumped its contents on top of the first. Mr. Millman had been sitting at home for several hours now and he just wasn’t hungry yet, so he decided to stretch his legs. He made his way to the building’s courtyard and started around the loop when he heard what he thought to be baby birds chirping. He walked to the London planetree and before he had a chance to look for the birds, something caught his eye.

Mr. Millman approached the dead cat and poked it with his cane. He rolled it over and saw a patch of orange on the center-left of its ivory chest. “Charlie,” he said. He looked up at the sky and then at his building and he counted the balconies inward from its northwestern edge, “One. Two. Three. Four. Five.” He pointed his cane towards his own balcony and he closed one eye, and with the tip of his cane he traced the route that Charlie took to the ground. Mr. Millman leaned down and scooped the broken cat into his bony arms and he carried him into his building, into the elevator, and back into their home. He placed Charlie on the scarlet rug between the old vinyl couch and the coffee table and then he sat down on his couch and looked at him, and then he left the cat right there on his floor while he boiled two small potatoes and a hot dog. After supper he returned to the living room and looked at Charlie some more.

The next morning at six o’clock Mr. Millman left Charlie hardening on his living room floor and walked to the deli across the street to buy a newspaper. The boy in the Yankees cap was playing a game on his phone. He looked up and saw Mr. Millman, sighed, and drew his eyes back to his phone. Mr. Millman stooped his head and tried to see the boy’s eyes, and then he cleared his throat. As the boy handed over fifty cents change, Mr. Millman said, “Now what do you make of this?” and the boy didn’t budge. “My cat fell from the balcony yesterday.” Now the boy looked up at Mr. Millman and this time his gaze remained fixed on the old man. Mr. Millman shuddered and took one step backwards and nearly lost his balance.

“What you say?”

“My cat. Fell to his death.”

“He jump?”

“Well, no. He fell.”

“No mister, cats land on their feet. He jump.”

Mr. Millman said nothing.

“Your cat kill himself.”

Mr. Millman left the deli and rather than taking his usual route through Tom’s Diner and Sakura Park, he hurried home and sat down on his couch and looked at Charlie. He passed much of the day like this.

The next morning at six o’clock a.m. Mr. Millman returned to the deli across the street to buy a newspaper.

“Mister! Mister!” said the boy behind the counter. “Tell again about your cat.”

The boy was with a friend, the two were working on their math homework before Mr. Millman walked in. “Mister,” the other boy said, “did your cat really kill himself?”

“That’s right he did. Leapt off the balcony to his death.”

The first boy shook the other boy’s shoulder and nearly jumped up. “You see?” he said.

“How high he jump from?” said the other boy.

“Fifty feet, landed right on his side.”

“Was he all fucked up?”

“No,” he said, and as the boys seemed to lose interest, Mr. Millman corrected himself. “I mean yes, yes. He sure was.”

“Damn yo.” They looked back down at their worksheets.

Mr. Millman smiled and he leaned in towards the boys. “Ah, arithmetic, always my favorite subject.” The boys said nothing. “Have a good day now, boys.”

He picked up his paper and walked over to Tom’s Diner where he took the same table he had countless times before. The server came to take his order.

“The usual,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“The usual.”

The server’s eyes lifted from her pad, she looked at Mr. Millman like she’d never seen him before. “I’m sorry honey, remind me what the usual is.”

Mr. Millman placed his usual order, black coffee, eggs over easy with extra crispy bacon and extra crispy hash browns and white toast with butter and jam. “Is that all?” said the server, and she was on her way to the next table before she finished asking the question.

“Well,” said Mr. Millman, “no.”

The server turned around to face Mr. Millman. “What else, honey?” she said, and her eyes were back on her pad.

He cleared his throat, something was stuck, he tried again and then he took a sip of his coffee. “My cat took his own life yesterday.”

Now the server dropped both arms to her side, holding her pad by her leg. Mr. Millman had her attention. “What now?”

“My cat. He jumped off the balcony.”

“He did?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know.”

The server opened her mouth, she seemed to have something else to say, and then she closed it. A moment later she said, “You’re in here often, what’s your name?”

“Millman. Herbert Millman.” The server stuck out her hand and Mr. Millman stared at it for a moment before meeting the gesture. Her hand was full and warm, it engulfed him, the feeling was familiar but distant. He ate his breakfast and then he ordered two more slices of white toast, which he used to mop up the egg yolk that had pooled on his plate. After breakfast he walked to Sakura Park and sat down on a bench next to an old man with a small blind terrier.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Millman.

“Good morning,” said the old man.

“Some weather today.”

“Yes.”

Mr. Millman looked down at his paper and then he looked back up. “My cat jumped to his death yesterday. Now what do you make of that?”

The old man next to Mr. Millman shivered. “Excuse me?”

“My cat, Charlie. Took his own life.”

The old man shook his head. “You know, I’ve always said, cats, dogs, their inner lives are every bit as rich as ours.”

Mr. Millman had gone ninety years without considering this notion, but he nodded in agreement and said, “That’s right they are.”

The next morning Mr. Millman walked to the deli across from his apartment where he was met with a loud, “My friend!” from the boy behind the counter. “I tell my dad your story, he tell me his dog jump off a cliff in Yemen.”

“You know,” said Mr. Millman. “Animals, their inner lives are every bit as rich as ours.”

“Okay mister,” said the boy. Mr. Millman bought his paper and walked to Tom’s Diner and sat down at his usual table. The server came by to take his order.

“Good morning, Mr. Millman. The usual?”

He smiled. “Yes, the usual.”

The server poured coffee into his mug and then she sat down across from him. Mr. Millman fumbled with his newspaper and straightened his posture. “I don’t mean to pry,” she said, “but I can’t stop thinking about what you said yesterday.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Millman.

“That don’ just happen. Why did your cat do that?”

Mr. Millman brought his left hand to his chin, he looked above the server, and then down at his coffee. “I just couldn’t tell you,” he said. “Charlie is my wife’s cat.”

“So what’s she say?”

“Well, she’s dead. Died just the other week.”

“Oh my lord,” said the server. “I’m so sorry to hear, that Mr. Millman.” She paused, and then said, “Your cat died of a broken heart.”

Mr. Millman was silent. He looked up and met the server’s eyes.

“Yes,” he said. “Yes, that’s right. Charlie died of a broken heart.”

The server reached across the table and touched his wrist. He flinched, and then he settled. “Actually, Mr. Millman,” she said. “It’s beautiful.”

Mr. Millman ate his usual breakfast plus two extra slices of white bread for the egg yolk, and then he walked to Sakura Park where he sat down on the same bench next to the same old man and his blind terrier.

“Good morning,” said Mr. Millman.

“Good morning,” said the old man.

“Beautiful day.”

“That’s right, beautiful day.”

“A day like this reminds me of my wife, Hilda. Hilda loved a beautiful day like this.”

“Yes, yes,” said the old man. “Don’t we all.”

“She passed just the other week. Lung cancer, never smoked a day in her life,” said Mr. Millman.

“Oh dear,” said the old man. “I lost my wife five years ago.”

“You know,” said Mr. Millman. “That’s why my Charlie took his own life. Hilda was his caretaker. He’s been mourning her death. We both have.”

“Charlie. Now was that your son?”

“No, Charlie my cat. Leapt from the balcony just the other day.”

“Oh sure, we understand that. Lester here hasn’t been the same since we lost Gloria.” The man pointed to his glassy-eyed terrier who was vigorously chewing on its own tail.

“Breaks your heart,” said Mr. Millman.

He walked back to his home and sat on his couch. Charlie lay on the same spot on the scarlet rug. He was beginning to decay, but Mr. Millman was no stranger to such things. He’d lay with his dead wife for a full day before making a call, and besides, the dead cat’s odor had nothing on wet bodies baking in the sun. He looked at the cat for some time, five minutes or maybe fifteen or even thirty. “We’ve missed her, haven’t we Charlie?” he said, and then he walked to the linen closet and eyed the stack of dusty photo albums on the floor. He reached down and picked up the album on top of the stack and opened it. It was a scrapbook Hilda made for his time in the service. He quickly closed it and picked up another, this one from their 1978 Cape May trip. He walked back to the couch and sat by Charlie. There was Hilda on a bicycle in her red one-piece bathing suit, waving for the camera. There they were together at Rico’s Bar & Grille, holding up margaritas. There she was in her lavender bathrobe, smiling, holding a coffee in one hand and shielding herself from the camera with the other. He laughed. “Oh Hilda,” he said to the photograph, “It’s a new camera, let me use the darn thing.” He looked down at the dead cat and said, “Have a look, Charlie,” and then he held the photograph to the cat’s eyes. Mr. Millman looked through the album and then he walked back to the linen closet and picked up another.

The next morning Mr. Millman walked to the deli across the street to buy a newspaper. “Quite a game last night,” said Mr. Millman. “Yankees sure did pull one out, didn’t they?”

The boy looked up from his phone, looked back down, and said, “Mister, did you see Babe Ruth?”

Mr. Millman laughed. “No, not quite. But I’ll tell you who I did see, the ’61 Yankees. Now that was a team.”

“You watch them play?”

“Oh yes, many times. My father-in-law worked for the Yankees for some time, we went to games every season.”

“Wow,” said the boy. “Mickey Mantle. I read about him.”

“Mickey Mantle, yes,” Mr. Millman said. He stared at the boy and said nothing. His face twitched, and then he said, “She was a saint, my Hilda. Her death drove poor Charlie right off the balcony, you know.” The boy was on his phone again.

Mr. Millman took his newspaper and walked to Tom’s Diner where he sat down at his usual table. Before he could place his order the server brought him eggs over easy with extra crispy bacon and extra crispy hash browns and white toast with butter and jam. “You know,” Mr. Millman said to the server, “Hilda used to order chocolate chip pancakes every Thursday. It was a tradition, I suppose.”

“Chocolate chip pancakes? I didn’t even know we made those!” she said.

“That’s right,” he said. “My Hilda was famous for her sweet tooth, the dentist still sends us Christmas cards.”

The server laughed, Mr. Millman smiled and watched her closely.

“She was a saint,” he said. “Nearly seventy years we were married.” He shook his head. “And poor Charlie, every day I’ve said, ‘that cat just hasn’t been the same since we lost Hilda.’”

After he finished his breakfast the server placed a short stack of chocolate chip pancakes in front of him. He gestured towards the empty seat and laughed. “Chocolate chip pancakes, how do you like that?” He looked back to where the server had been and said, “My Hilda was famous for her sweet too — ,” and then he realized she’d gone, and his eyes returned to the empty seat. He left the diner without eating the pancakes and then he walked to Sakura Park where he sat down next to the old man with the blind terrier and pulled a stack of photographs out of his shirt pocket. He showed the man the photos of his wife, and then the man suggested that they walk to his apartment across the park so he could show him pictures of his own. They each looked at their own photographs and they spoke largely to themselves. As it turned out they’d lived rather parallel lives, but this fact was almost certainly lost on Mr. Millman. At 4:45 p.m. Mr. Millman woke up on the old man’s couch with drool on his chin and the terrier chewing on his shoe. He looked around in a daze and said, “He was grieving, we both were!” and then he stood up and left without saying another word.

Tonight was to be the third date between Peter Yoo and Kyra Mason. The two were in the same Columbia Business School cluster, he’d asked her out one day after accounting class. Their first date was one week earlier, they’d gone to a jazz club and had three martinis apiece and kissed for two hours until they shut down the bar. Their second date started at Rocco’s Italian and ended with more kissing at a sweaty dive bar. He invited her to his apartment but she’d said no, she’d go home, but she had a really nice time and would like to see him again soon. In Warren Hall the next day he invited her over for dinner on Thursday evening. Both Peter and Kyra were quite excited for the date, they’d each told several friends as much.

At 4:50 Peter returned from Whole Foods with eighteen ounces of skirt steak, a bag of fingerling potatoes, a head of broccoli, a small container of chimichurri sauce, a bar of extra dark chocolate and two bottles of Italian red wine. He spread the food and drink on the kitchen counter and then he sat down on his couch and counted down the minutes until five o’clock.

At 4:55 Mr. Millman walked down Claremont Avenue and then across 122nd Street towards his apartment. He stopped at the crosswalk on Broadway and as the light turned a car backfired directly behind Mr. Millman, he gasped and lifted his arms and crossed them over his face, and when he collected himself he turned to look at the car and smacked its bumper with his cane. The driver stepped out of the car and glared at the old man but said nothing. Mr. Millman continued on his way.

At 5:03 Kyra texted Peter that she was downstairs, she was buzzing his apartment. Buzzer might be broken, I’ll come down and get you, he said. He hit play on the speaker and put a mint in his mouth and walked to the elevator.

As he passed the fifth floor, Peter received a text from Kyra that said, Nvmd someone let me in. The elevator doors opened on the first floor where Kyra was in conversation with an old man who lived in his building.

“Come to think of it, you have the same nose as her,” the old man said. “Let me have a look at you,” and he reached for Kyra’s face.

Peter interrupted, “Hi there.” He hugged Kyra. She was tense but she smiled at Peter.

“This is Mr. Millman,” Kyra said. “We just met in the lobby, he let me in.”

Mr. Millman looked at Peter. “Hello there,” he said.

“Hi Mr. Millman.”

“And where are you from?”

“Where am I from? Uh, New York,” Peter said.

“And your mother and father?”

Peter ignored the question. He looked at Kyra. “Ready to head up? Hope you’re hungry.”

Mr. Millman spoke again to Peter before Kyra could respond. “You knew my cat, Charlie.” He waited several seconds for Peter to nod before looking back at Kyra and saying, “You see? Charlie was quite the cat.”

Peter looked to the elevator and then back at Mr. Millman. “Yeah, Charlie. Great cat.”

“He took his own life. Just the other day.”

“What?” said Peter. He pinched his palms with his fingernails. Kyra sent him a knowing glance.

“We’ve both been mourning the death of Hilda, my wife, you remember her.” He looked at Peter and again waited for a nod.

Now Peter dropped his shoulders and stopped looking towards the elevator, he settled and a tenderness came over his voice. “Of course, she was lovely,” he said. “I am so sorry to hear that she passed.”

“It’s been hard on both of us,” Mr. Millman said. His tone was practiced. “Charlie couldn’t take it anymore. He jumped to his death.”

Peter looked at Kyra for guidance, she was still. “I’m sure he didn’t do it on purpose,” he said.

“What? Sure he did. I’ve just told you, he jumped off the balcony.”

“It must have been an accident. You were a fantastic owner, Mr. Millman, I’m sure of it.” Peter was unsettled again, he turned towards the elevator. He gestured for Kyra to follow him.

“Excuse me,” said Mr. Millman. “Can’t you see I’m speaking to you?” He closed his eyelids halfway and pursed his lips. He pointed at Peter with his cane. “I’ve just told you that my cat and I have been mourning the death of my wife, Hilda.”

Peter opened his mouth and began to say something but was interrupted. “She was a saint, we were married nearly seventy years. Her death was too much for Charlie to bear, he leapt from the balcony to his death.”

Peter looked towards Kyra with his eyebrows raised. He mouthed, I don’t know. He looked back towards Mr. Millman. “You were a fantastic owner. It must have been an accident. I’m sure Charlie was a happy cat.” He paused. “But I am so sorry for your loss, Mr. Millman.” He paused again. “Both of them.”

Mr. Millman stared at Peter. “He died for Hilda,” he said. “For our grief.” He took a deep breath and some mucus from his throat came loose and slid down his airway, he coughed it up and his breathing resumed with a light rattle. He looked beyond Peter, he saw a reflection of his own eyes in the elevator door and then he lost his balance and nearly fell forward before he caught himself with his cane. He closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breath. He finally remembered his wife’s voice, words of comfort, You’re a good man, Herb, you did what your country asked of you. He opened his eyes, he noticed Kyra’s nose again, and he remembered how Hilda’s nostrils had spasmed violently as she gasped for breath. He thought of how she’d asked for Charlie in her final hours but the cat simply wouldn’t come, a dying request he couldn’t fulfill. He thought of the Philippines. Peter had taken a step towards Mr. Millman and held onto his shoulder, worried that the old man was going to fall. Mr. Millman noticed the hand and then he saw Peter’s face and he shuddered and his lips trembled. He switched his cane to his left hand and turned his body to the right. He straightened his right arm and reached it directly behind him, and then he swung his arm one hundred and eighty degrees across his body, his open palm connecting with Peter’s face with the force of ninety years on this earth, one extended tour of combat in World War II, six Japanese dead at his own hands, hundreds of dead comrades and friends, two children who rarely called, and the simmering grief of losing his wife of seventy years and their cat of six.

Kyra screamed. “Oh my god.”

The agitation left Mr. Millman’s face. His mouth opened wide, his eyes too, his pupils wobbled and darted around the room. He patted his pockets with his hands, he reached out for someone that wasn’t there. He turned his head to his left, his right, and then he limped past Peter and into the elevator.

“Are you okay?” said Kyra.

The old man’s hand was outlined against Peter’s face. He was still. “I,” he said, “I was trying to make him feel better.”

Kyra said nothing.

“I thought he’d feel better if he knew his cat was happy. I was trying to help. I don’t even know him. I — I — should I — oh my god. What the fuck was that? Oh my god.” He was sniffling, holding back tears, cursing.

“I’m so sorry, that was so weird,” Kyra said. “You did nothing wrong.” She touched his shoulder, he flinched. “He didn’t mean it, Peter. He’s old.”

“That motherfucker,” Peter said. He was looking in the direction of the elevator.

“Um, maybe we should reschedule to another night.”

“That motherfucker,” he said again. “I hope I die before I get that old.” His face was bright red. He walked towards the elevator, Kyra’s hand slid off his shoulder.

“Hey,” she said. “I think I’m gonna leave.”

Mr. Millman was wheezing as he entered his apartment. He took off his hat and with his sore right hand he brushed what remained of his white hair. He looked around the room that he’d inhabited for fifty years. On the couch and coffee table that sandwiched Charlie lay a dozen photo albums, many of them open, and stacks of photographs that Mr. Millman had pulled from the albums in the last day. He picked up a photo. It was from his fiftieth wedding anniversary, he and his wife each held a champagne flute in the air. Hilda wore a blue dress and he a blue three-piece suit, they always matched at formal events. In the background were their friends Nate and Marianne. Nate wore his 34th Infantry hat, he wore it everywhere. Everyone smiled.

He dropped the photo and when he reached for it his body felt tired to its bones. He lowered his hands and knees to the old rug where he found himself face to face with Charlie. The cat’s eyes were open and its tongue hung out of its mouth, dry as sandpaper. A strange sound came from Mr. Millman’s throat, and then another, and suddenly he was crying out, gasping, weeping. He rolled onto his side, next to Charlie. The smell nearly made him vomit.

Outside, a cat stalked and killed a robin. Four chicks were dying in their nest.

Cousins

Luke was fifteen and lanky and insecure and often sad, and he looked up to his cousin Mason who was twenty-three and strong and handsome and charismatic. Mason was actually insecure and sad too, but unlike his younger cousin, he wore it as confidence. At their grandfather’s funeral Luke cried into Mason’s chest and their relatives commented on what a wonderful relationship the two had, what a role model Mason was, and so strong, too. Mason wasn’t crying. In fact he rarely cried, or he certainly hadn’t since Sara broke up with him at least. It’s like I don’t even know you, she’d said, and in the weeks that followed he hadn’t said much about it beyond It was mutual which was untrue and It was for the best which he certainly didn’t believe to be true. Holding on to his cousin, his relatives’ comments nourished him and he squeezed Luke even tighter. Back at their grandma’s house the cousins went down to the basement and they did pushups and pullups and situps together and they took pictures of themselves and posted them to Instagram.

Nine months later the two families met again for a wedding in Cape Cod. Mason spent most of his childhood at his mom’s home, but this wedding was on his father’s side and it was him who met Mason at the airport by leaning into the horn and saying I’ve had to make three loops. On the ride to the hotel he said So you’re single, huh? and Mason laughed and said Have been for like a year. After a pause, his father said, I know that Mason, and Mason said nothing, and then his father said Sara was great but there’ll be plenty of that at the wedding anyway. The rest of the ride was silent and Mason savored this.

In the hotel lobby the two cousins and their fathers bumped into one another. Luke’s dad was recently divorced, and it’s not that he expected to hear from his brother during this time, but perhaps he’d hoped for a warmer greeting than On a call which Mason’s dad mouthed while pointing to his headphones. Their sons embraced. Luke’s first thought on seeing Mason was I’ll never be as cool as Mason and Mason’s first thought on seeing Luke was Luke might never be cool. Mason took Luke by the shoulders and held him at arm’s length and said Damn dude you’ve been working out! Luke smiled and he flexed his arm muscles which lacked the hardness that he hoped puberty would bring. He had come to the wedding straight from summer camp where every boy in his bunk hooked up but him. At the final night’s bonfire one of the other boys asked Luke So which boy — I mean girl — do you think is the hottest in our year? and everyone laughed and it was obvious they’d talked about this before. Luke was smart and funny and kind but he was too young to realize that these were the things that mattered.

Mason hadn’t been to a wedding without Sara in years and leading up to this one he told anybody who’d listen that he couldn’t wait to go stag. He was stiff at the ceremony, and during the vows his grandma put a hand on his back and he shivered. He leaned in towards her to make a joke but said nothing when he realized he had no voice. At the cocktail hour he drank three gin and tonics and loosened his tie. He sat with Luke at dinner and the two watched the Clemson football game on his phone under the table. During the maid of honor’s speech Clemson scored a long touchdown and the two cousins cheered and everybody looked over, and they pretended to be coughing and then they leaned into each other and laughed so hard that tears streamed down their cheeks. Mason asked Luke who he had his eye on and Luke said he wasn’t really sure, and then Mason pointed at a girl in a yellow dress and said How about her? and Luke hardly looked over before he said Yeah she’s hot. Then Mason pointed at a tall brunette girl in a floral dress and said I like her. Mason took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves and dragged Luke onto the dance floor. They danced together, Luke following Mason’s every move, and within a minute Mason asked the girl in the floral dress if she wanted to dance. She said yes and that her name was Maggie, and then Luke was bobbing up and down by himself, slowly backing away and off the dance floor. Mason spotted Luke leaving and while he twirled Maggie with one hand he reached out with the other and ruffled Luke’s hair and said Love ya bud. Luke smiled and turned red. Mason stepped off the dance floor and said Where’s your girl? and Luke said I can’t find her! but actually he knew exactly where she was, and then Mason noticed his father heading towards Maggie and he said Jesus Christ and hurried back to the dance floor. And then Luke was alone again and he went out to the bathroom for the fourth time even though he didn’t have to go. He never took off his jacket or even so much as unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, it didn’t occur to him that this was okay to do.

When the reception ended the twenty-somethings walked down to the beach. Luke said his goodbyes and Mason said Oh hell no you’re coming with us and Luke asked his dad who started to say no but was interrupted by his brother who said Yeah Luke you can go. Luke’s dad knew better than to take his brother’s bait. He looked back at his son and said Stick by your cousin. At the beach somebody built a bonfire and beers and champagne and bottles of liquor were passed around. Mason flirted with Maggie while Luke hovered around him saying nothing, only smiling when Mason reached back to ruffle his hair or squeeze his shoulder. Mason stumbled and Maggie laughed and said You’re pretty drunk aren’t you? and Mason shrugged and then Maggie said I should probably head back to my room. Mason said Already? and he felt a tightness in his chest but then he turned and saw that there were still plenty of people around. He took Luke by the shoulder and walked him up to the girl in the yellow dress and said This is my cousin Luke, you two should meet. The girl laughed and she gave Luke a funny look and Mason gave him a little shove and said Introduce yourself bud. Luke did what his cousin said and then he froze up and Mason got bored and walked away. Luke followed close behind and told Mason I wasn’t really into it which was disingenuous but not entirely untrue.

It was past midnight on the beach and Mason took a long sip from a bottle of tequila and announced that he was going to strip down and go for a swim. Luke, you’re coming with me he said. Luke pretended that he didn’t hear but then Mason looked right at him and said C’mon bud. Luke looked at the black ocean and a fast shooting pain traveled down his spine, through his legs and into his toes. His whole body quivered and he nearly let out a yelp. He wasn’t a great swimmer and there was no lifeguard on duty and didn’t sharks feed at night and what would his dad think when he came back to the hotel room with his brand new suit all wet? It was his first suit, they’d just gone out to buy it last weekend during his first stay at his dad’s new apartment. Dude it’s probably so cold Luke said and Mason looked at him and said Luke, everyone’s watching now, you wanna be part of this story or not? Luke laughed and after a pause he shook his head no. Mason looked at his cousin and he said Whatever, and it was a tone that Luke had never heard from him before, and Mason had that tired and hostile look in his eyes that comes after six hours of drinking. Luke turned and saw the group at the bonfire watching and then he closed his eyes and said Okay I’ll do it, and they stripped down to their underwear together which was exhilarating for Luke and he looked at his cousin’s body and he wondered if he’d look like that one day. Mason slapped Luke on his bare back and Luke recoiled and then he laughed and said Let’s do this. They ran towards the ocean and as they did Luke heard the crashing waves and he saw the white foam exploding on the shore. His legs became weak and they felt heavy like he was in a dream, and a few feet from the water he stepped on a shell and he cried out What was that? Mason ignored him and then Luke said I can’t and he stopped in his tracks. Mason again said nothing and then he left his cousin behind, and Luke bent over and put his hands on his knees and thought that he was going to vomit.

Mason was out of the water moments later and he walked back to the bonfire in his underwear, soaking wet and glistening in the moonlight. Luke said Sorry as his cousin passed and Mason said nothing. He watched Mason and he noticed the way his muscles changed as he moved through the crowd and mimed diving under waves, and a feeling of paralyzing shame washed over him. Mason finished his round and put his clothes back on, and the crowd’s attention turned to a friend of the groom’s who was telling stories from their high school days. Some time later, to Luke it could have been ten minutes or an hour, Mason tapped Luke on the shoulder and said Let’s go, and they walked back to the hotel with a small group. Once inside there was no goodbye from Mason who was dragging his jacket across the floor and scrolling through Sara’s Instagram on his phone.

When Luke walked into his hotel room his dad was still in his suit and his shoes and he was sleeping on top of the covers. He woke with a start and said Have you heard from Mom? and then he came to his senses and he sat up and said Your mom, I mean. Nevermind. Luke shook his head no and his dad said Did you have fun at the beach? and Luke said Yeah Dad I had a great time. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower and stared at himself in the mirror. He opened his mouth to scream and then he jerked his head forward towards the mirror and stopped with his face an inch short of it, and then he buried his face into a towel and cried.

Mason was outside of his door fumbling with his keycard when he heard a familiar voice behind him. Hey, Mason right? It was the groom’s high school friend who’d been telling stories at the bonfire. Is your cousin okay? Mason looked at him with suspicion. He’s fine, why? As he said this he slid the keycard into the slot and turned the door handle, but then paused to wait for a response. Did you see his face on the walk back from the beach? Mason again said He’s fine, and he pushed the door open and walked into his room where the television was on and his father was snoring.

Mason went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror and he was startled to see his father’s look flicker through his eyes. His skin was pale and his eyes were red and sunken. He had a thick, sour taste in his mouth. He tried to remember the last thing Luke had said to him. It was Sorry, and Mason had said nothing in return. He flipped off the lights so he could only see his silhouette and for a moment he felt better. Goddamnit he said and then he turned the lights back on and he splashed cold water on his face. He picked up his phone and texted Luke. Hey that was a stupid idea of me to go for a swim, I’m glad you didn’t join. See you at brunch tomorrow? We’re gonna feast. Love ya bud.

But Luke didn’t have his phone because he’d left it in his room along with his wallet and the sand dollar he’d found earlier. The text woke up his dad who saw his phone but not Luke and got out of bed with his suit still on. Luke passed by the bonfire where a small group of the bride and groom’s friends sat around smoking cigarettes and weed and drinking the last of the alcohol. He announced to the group I’m going in the ocean and he stripped off his clothes while they all watched and not a single one of them tried to stop him. He got down to his underwear and he folded up his suit and placed it on the ground. His skinny body shook in the cold. What Mason hadn’t mentioned was that he’d cut his swim short because the waves were bigger than they’d looked and there was a rip current. He had actually lost his footing and crawled back to the beach wild-eyed and coughing up seawater. But Mason had played it cool as he was adept at doing and he acted like swimming in the ocean at midnight was the type of thing he did all the time. Luke got down to the water and again there was terror but this time he was floating above his body because the shame had become too much for him to bear. He waded into waist-deep water and he looked back and the group was gone and the bonfire was out and now he was alone and suddenly he was no longer out of his body but very much in it and experiencing everything that was happening, the back of his head hitting the sand, the cold water and salt rushing into his eyes and then his nose and mouth, his panicked father calling his name from the shore, an invisible force pulling him away from everything he wanted. Mason was drifting off to sleep, his world turning black too, hearing calls of Luke, Luke in his dreams.

Boys Will Be Boys (an attempt at absurdism after reading nothing but George Saunders for 3 months)

Chapter 1: Going to the video store

I am going into the sectioned-off room off the video store today. I’ve only ever seen men go in there, and only a certain type of man. The kind that’s always in the store by himself, beady eyes, looking around to make sure no one is watching. The kind that smokes — I know these men smoke even though I’ve never seen them smoke. The kind of man that makes my mom grip me tighter when he walks by. I will go in there today.

I’m browsing the kids movies so as to not arouse suspicion. Billy is guarding the outside of the store. If a parent approaches, he will “sprain his ankle” and shriek, warning me and creating a distraction.

I push past the beaded curtain. I step in. I see… naked women. Everywhere. My first tits.

I hesitate, and then I reach for a VHS called Busty Public School Teachers IV. I make contact and an alarm sounds. The curtain falls, the tapes slide into an underground hatch, and a glass dome drops down around me. I am exposed to the store, like a fish in a fishbowl. The alarm has attracted the attention of passersby and they see me, a 12-year old boy trapped in a glass dome, busted for trying to see the busty teachers. I scream. “ I didn’t know! Help! Let me out of here!”

My parents walk in. They are disappointed, and they won’t make eye contact with me. I call out. “Mom! Dad!” If they can hear me, they pretend they cannot. They exchange a few words with the clerk, and walk out.

Three hours pass. The crowd has dissipated, but I am still in the glass dome. The clerk slides my lunch in through a slot. Baloney sandwich and a small cup of water. No sides, no soda, no dessert.

Two years pass. I spend my days pacing around Glass Dome. I’ve grown stronger from puberty and doing wall sits. I still speak English but I also growl.

Five years pass. I am animal now. I have gnawed off left foot. I no like busty teachers no more.

Ten years pass. Big Bank Man come in and talk to Clerk. Clerk down on knees begging, crying. Big Bank Man walk out shaking head. Clerk put sign on door — Store Closed, For Good.

Clerk throw cash register through Glass Dome. “Run away! You’re free!” he say. I no want to leave. I like Dome. “Don’t make this even harder!” Clerk kick me. I crawl out of store, dragging my stump. Clerk crying louder, “I’m sorry,” he say. I cry now too. Light blinds my eyes.

Six more months pass. Do I miss Clerk? Sure, sometimes. But I am very lucky. My family has taken me back, my community has taken me in. My leg was reattached, and I have been fully reintegrated into society. I have my own apartment and I have a job and I have My Boys. I am a Normal Twenty Two Year Old Boy, now.

Chapter 2: Going to the gym

One morning I wake up with my friend Chad pounding on my door.

“Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Bro. Wake up.”

I rise from bed and answer the door

“We’re going to the gym,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. I get dressed and we go to the gym.

Chad puts two 45-pound plates on either side of a 45-pound bar, for a total of 225 pounds. “Let’s bench,” he says.

“Let’s bench,” I say in return.

“Warm up set,” he says.”

“Yes, warm up,” I say.

Chad lies down on the bench and completes twenty five repetitions. It’s my turn next. I’ve never lifted weights before but I haven’t told this to Chad. Chad helps me lift the bar off the rack. He removes his hands and 225 pounds of steel drops onto my chest. The breath leaves my body and I feel my heart skip a beat. Chad has wandered off and is attempting to speak to a woman sprinting on a treadmill. I shift my weight and the two 45-pound plates on the left side of the bar fall to the ground with a loud crash. The sudden imbalance causes the right side of the bar to drop and the left side to swing upwards. I will not let go. The right end of the bar hits the ground and the bar finally comes to rest standing straight up like a flagpole. My body rolls off the bench with the bar. I am now parallel to the ground and balancing three feet above it, my body a perfect straight line. I am committed to this new position, a human flag.

Chad has wandered back and he is alarmed. “Dude, are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “Doing a human flag.”

“Let go,” he says.

“One more minute,” I say. Inside I cry out in pain. A raging wildfire spreads through my body.

“Dude, let go. It’s my turn.”

“Chad,” I say. I pause and catch my breath. “Please let me finish.” Thirty more seconds, I tell myself. Thirty, twenty nine, twenty eight.

“Bro,” he says, increasingly agitated.

A crowd has gathered around, admiring the human flag. “Check out this human flag. This guy’s a beast,” a hulking man in a singlet says. I’m doing it, I think, they like me.

Chad nudges in front of the hulking man. “I’m next,” he says.

I close my eyes. Nineteen, eighteen, seventeen.

“He’s awake!” I hear. I am in a hospital bed. Three days have passed. I have pain, but I must get back to My Boys. I pull the wires off of my chest and leave.

Chapter 3: Night out with the boys

Tonight is boys’ night out. There’s nine of us boys, we’ll be looking for chicks tonight. We each wear a button down shirt and jeans. We start with a pregame at Billy’s place. He has teed up a playlist. Lil Jon’s voice carries through the apartment. “Shots, shots, shots shots shots.”

The boys join in. “Shots, shots, shots shots shots.” We gather in a huddle in the middle of the living room, eyes closed, chanting. “Shots, shots, shots shots shots.” Billy exits the huddle and returns with a bottle of Captain Morgan’s Rum from the kitchen. The song has ended and the boys have sat back down in silence . Billy replays the song and pours a shot for each guest. We repeat this sequence six more times. Jackson sucks on his Juul with such force that his exhale sends a cucumber breeze through the room. We head out for Brother Tommy’s Bar and Grill.

We congregate around a group of three women. In perfect unison, we say: “Would you ladies like something to drink?” Our group of nine heads to the bar and returns with forty five total drinks.

“What am I supposed to do with nine drinks?” one of the ladies says. Charlie drops his drinks, lets out a high-pitched shriek, and runs out of the bar.

“More chicks for the rest of us,” says Jacobs. We all high five. The ladies have left the bar.

Mike has peeled off from the group and is talking with a woman in the far corner. Chad says “Time to go razz Mike,” and he walks up to Mike and razzes him with three swift punches to the gut. Chad is a trained MMA fighter and Mike is now writhing in pain on the ground. Chad removes his shirt and the lady leaves. I high five Chad. He turns to me and says “You ready to be razzed?” Before I am able to respond Chad has wrapped two arms and two legs around my body in such a way that the blood has ceased traveling to my brain. As my vision fades and turns black, I hear faint calls of “Tap out!” which I do before being forced to take a shot of Captain Morgan’s off of Chad’s abdomen.

Three of the boys are urinating into a pitcher. Smitty has jumped the bar and hijacked the iPad controlling the music. “Shots, shots, shots shots shots.”

The boys are gathering again when the music stops. The manager has pulled the plug on the speakers.

“What do you boys want?”

“Chicks!” we say.

“The chicks are all gone. You’ve scared them off.”

“The amulet,” we say.

“The what?”

“The amulet,” we say, louder this time.

“I don’t want any trouble. Why don’t you boys go find somewhere else to hang out?”

Jared locks the door. “You’ve known this day was coming,” he says to the manager. “The amulet, now.”

I turn to Billy. “What is the amulet?”

“The amulet,” he says, “an ornament thought to give protection against evil, danger, or disease.”

“Oh,” I say. “Amulet is chicks?”

“Yes,” Billy says.

Jared has moved in on the manager. “Okay, okay,” the manager says. “Let me text my friend, he knows a ton of chicks.”

One hour later several chicks enter the bar. The boys gather round.

Chapter 4: Talking about work

I’m getting brunch with the boys and we’re talking about work. Jared surveys the room. “Which of you boys Rose and Ground this morning?”

“What?” I say.

“Did you Rise and Grind today?”

“I do not understand the question,” I say.

“I Rose and Ground,” says Devin. Jared reaches across the table and high fives Jared.

“Stack that paper,” says Jared.

“Stack that paper is right,” says Devin.

“That’s right,” I say. “Paper stack, paper stack, hoo haa hoo,” I chant.

“My bonus check came in yesterday,” says Jared. “I made $750,000 this year.”

The boys are silent.

Austin speaks up. “I made $28,000.”

Jared laughs. We all laugh.

“You ol’ ninnyhammer,” I say. The boys solemnly shake their heads at me.

Jared stands. “You’re not working hard enough,” he says.

“I work in a plant. I work very hard.”

Jared laughs. “Did you even Rise and Grind today?”

“I came straight to brunch from the plant.”

Jared brings a large fist down on the table and then points at Austin. “My firm could buy your plant and lay you off in a second,” he says. “It would be nothing.”

“Okay,” says Austin. “Please don’t do that.”

“What University did your mother and father go to?” Jared says.

“My mother didn’t go to University. She’s a nanny. She was your nanny. She still is.”

Jared laughs. “Lazy ass.”

“And my father went to community college. Now he’s dead,” says Austin.

“Lazy ass,” says Jared.

The check has arrived, we all take out our cards. Jared frisbees his card across the table in the direction of the check. His card is built from tungsten steel. The throw is an errant one and the card hits Austin in the right eye.

“My eye!” he screams.

We all laugh. Austin loses his eye and is bankrupted by medical bills. He is no longer one of The Boys.

Chapter 5: Going on a Tinder Date

Tonight I’m going on a date with a woman I met on Tinder. I arrive at Casa Royale fifty two minutes early. I text her. Here a bit early. Got a table in the back. Tall guy in the grey shirt. She responds. Fifty two minutes early? WTF? Also how tall are you? The server comes, I order a jalapeño margarita. The server tells me the drink is spicy, I ignore her. I respond to my date, I’m five ten. Oh, she says. The waiter arrives with my drink. I take a sip.

I cannot feel my tongue. I begin sweating profusely. Soon I am hallucinating. I can’t see anything but I hear loud cheering and I smell birdfeed.

“Hello? Hello?” A pretty girl is seated across from me, snapping in my face. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say. “You must be Jane.” We hug.

“Ew,” she says, “you’ve sweat through your shirt.”

She’s wearing a black tanktop and white pants. Her hair is reddish brown and it falls below her shoulders. Her eyes are green. “You are lovely,” I say.

“Thanks. You sure you’re okay?”

I take another sip from my drink. I hear cheering again. Fuck, totally forgot. This time I can see. The air is smoky. Throngs of crazy-eyed people wave dollar bills. I’m at a cockfight. No, I’m in a cockfight. I am a rooster and my name is Francisco. I see my opponent, John-Paul. I know what I need to do. I run at John-Paul and when I’m close I spring off of my hocks, lifting off the ground and raising my talons towards his throat.

“What the fuck is wrong with you dude?” Jane says.

“What?”

“You just lunged at me.”

“No I didn’t.”

“You’re on the ground and you’ve scrunched up your hands like claws.”

“Oh yeah. No that was something else,” I say. I wave the server down. “Can I please have a plain margarita?” I climb into my seat and look into Jane’s green eyes. “So what do you do?” I say.

“I’m going to leave,” she says.

On my way out I exchange a look with a man in a plaid blazer. I know those eyes. It’s John-Paul. He makes a run for it. I chase after him but I run straight into a wall.

Chapter 6: Ballgame with Dad

Dad and I are heading to the ballgame today. We’ve got great seats: first row, upper deck, behind home plate. We buy beers and dogs. Dad’s wearing a beat up Yankees cap, there’s a scorecard in his breast pocket . His eyesight is bad so I provide the play-by-play while he keeps score.

“Let’s hope Sabathia brings it today,” he says.

“Brings what?” I say.

“The heat,” he says.

“Ah yes, the heat. The high cheese. The cheddar. The camembert. The neufchatel,” I say. Dad pats me on the head.

The game begins, and the first pitch is fouled back towards us. I lunge for the ball and tumble off of the upper deck, landing ten feet below on the protective netting. I am now lying face down on the netting, like Spiderman, fifty feet above the field. I was mistaken, the ball was dribbled to the second basemen for an easy out. I clap. “One up, one down,” I say.

I have a good view of the field from up here but the game has stopped. “Let’s go blue, get this game movin’,” I shout at the umpires. “We don’t got all day here, kid,” I say.

The outfielders have congregated in centerfield and are pointing at me. A woman screams in the distance. A message appears on the jumbotron. “WAVE YOUR ARMS IF YOUR OKAY.” Who are they talking to? I wonder. Another message appears. “SON ARE YOU OKAY? ITS ME DAD.” Now I’m confused. I look back towards Dad and see him talking to two men wearing suits and headsets. He appears worried.

I wave my arms. “What’s the holdup now boys? Batter up!” I say. “We don’t got all day here, kid,” I say again.

A fire truck has made its way onto the field and a cherry picker rises in my direction. A beefy man with a mustache calls out to me. “Don’t move,” he says. He passes a harness through a hole in the netting and instructs me to fasten it around my waist. It’s difficult from my position but I manage. He then hands me a carabiner and asks me to attach it to my harness. Once I’ve done that, the man cuts a hole in the netting. I tumble through the hole and fall into his muscular arms. He cradles me like a baby. I nuzzle the man’s bosom. The crowd goes wild as the cherry picker is lowered to the ground. They’re cheering for me.

“Thank you,” I say to the crowd. “Thank you,” I say again, louder this time.

“Shut the hell up,” says the beefy man with the mustache.

We reach the ground where I am immediately met by stadium security. The players high five me as I am led off of the field. Dad is waiting for me by the exit.

“Pops,” I say. He looks up at me, there are tears streaming down his face. “4–3 ground out.”

Chapter 7: Road trip

My friends and I have embarked on a road trip!

“What’s that sound?” Mike says.

“Shit. Sounds like we’ve got a flat,” says Trevor.

I listen but hear nothing. “Yes, that’s a flat alright,” I say.

Mike pulls over to the side of the road. I get out of the car and see that the front left tire has no air. “Woah Nelly, this tire has no air!”

Mike looks at Trevor. “I’ve got this,” he says.

“No,” says Trevor, “I’ve got this.”

I raise both of my arms into the air. “No,” I say, “I must insist! I’ve got this!”

Mike and Trevor look relieved. Mike opens up his trunk and pulls out a box of tools and a spare tire. “This tire is tiny,” I say. “It’s far too small.”

“It’s a spare,” he says.

I don’t understand. I open the box of tools. Suddenly I am overwhelmed and I become lightheaded. “Why don’t you two go grab a bite to eat? I’ll call you when it’s done.”

“We’re in the middle of the highway. There’s no exit for miles,” Trevor says.

I pick up a tool. It’s covered in grease. “Ew, this tool is slimy,” I say, and I drop the tool.

“You sure you know what you’re doing?” says Mike.

I take two steps towards him and raise my fist. “Ask me that again, Mike. I dare you.”

“Let’s go for a walk,” Mike says to Trevor.

I head back to the trunk and pick up a tire iron. I know this from the movies. Might need this later, I think. I also find a coloring book and a set of Magic Markers. I open to a random page and find the outline of a unicorn.

I decide to color the unicorn’s body purple with blue shading around its joints to indicate movement. I make its horn yellow, its mane rainbow. As I’m filling in the mane I begin to feel regret. This unicorn should be white, I think. White would bring out the colors of the mane, I think. Negative space, I think. I flip through the book but there are no more unicorns. I’m becoming upset when I hear a voice.

“What the fuck? Is that my sister’s coloring book?” It’s Mike, he’s returned with Trevor.

“What? No,” I say. “I was looking for more tools.”

“You’ve got marker all over your hands. You’ve been coloring.”

“What’s that over there?” I say. As Mike looks away, I drive the tire iron into his kneecap.

Chapter 8: Going to work

“Ugh, drats, dang it all to hell, it’s Monday. Time for work,” I say to myself. I get dressed and head out for work.

I am stepping inside of my office building when I hear something in the distance. I silence the crowd of people in the building lobby. “Quiet,” I say. I use my hands to block the sun and I look out towards the horizon where I see a familiar silhouette. I reach for my binoculars to get a better look, and I see the shape of a woman.

Based on her pace and approximate distance from the building, she is forty five seconds away. I check my watch — fortunately I arrive early every morning for just this reason, and I’ve brought a bag of trail mix. I will hold the door.

Fifteen seconds pass. She stops, squints, and looks in my direction. She is now waving her arms above her head, trying to send a signal of sorts, most likely a ‘thank you.’ She starts walking again, having picked up her pace. She is now shouting something towards me. I cannot make out her words but most likely another ‘thank you.’ She stops again. She puts her hands on her thighs and appears to be panting. She reaches into her purse. The lobby telephone rings and my attention is diverted. The security guard walks in my direction, phone in hand. “It’s for you,” he says.

I put the phone to my ear. “Let it go,” says a voice on the other end.

“Pardon?”

“You are inconveniencing both of us. Let it go.”

I hand the phone back to the guard. “Wrong number,” I say. I smile and I look around and I say, “Awkward!”

At one hundred feet away the woman has broken into a light jog. She pauses for a breather at fifty feet, and then resumes her journey in a power walk. I see that it’s Nancy from Accounting. From four feet away Nancy desperately reaches out for the door. “I’ve got it,” I say. I pull the door just out of her reach and her momentum takes her forward so she stumbles and falls to the ground.

I reach down to help her up. “Don’t touch me,” Nancy says. She is sweating profusely, mascara dripping down her face. Her tights have ripped at the knee and she appears to be bleeding. I keep my hand out.

And then I hear something. I look out in the distance and see another woman approaching the building entrance. I look down at Nancy, and then back towards the door. The new entrant is only feet away now, I must act fast. I reach down and grab Nancy’s shawl and drag her towards the door when the security guard performs a perfect form tackle on me. He pushes my face into the ground with all of his might, but I am still facing the door, and I can see that Lola from Sales is only feet away. I reach out for the door, and Nancy, now on her feet, stomps on my hand, crushing three fingers. I reach out with my other hand. I am tasered and everything goes black.

I wake up. “Is Lola okay?” I say.

Chapter 9: Rekindling with my ex

My ex-girlfriend has walked into the bar. “Well, well, well, look who it is!” I say. I smash my bottle of Bud Light over the head of her male companion.

“Oh my god,” Jane screams. “What did you do?”

“Well Jane,” I say. “I’ve done quite a lot since our relationship. Just — .”

She interrupts me. “You’re that guy from Casa Royale. Oh Jesus.”

I continue. “Just got promoted. Bought six new pairs of jeans. Quit Juuling. Psoriasis has cleared.”

“What’s that on your elbow?”

“Poison ivy.”

Jane has a look of shock on her face. She is shocked to hear how well I’m doing. “I’d better take Martin to the hospital now,” she says.

“Wait.” I say. She looks back at me expectantly. We make eye contact and for a moment things are how they used to be.

“Martin owes me a Bud Light.”

“You broke it over his head.”

“It was two thirds full.”

The bartender chimes in. “Rules are rules.”

Martin is lying on the ground in a pool of blood. I kneel down next to him. “I’ll take that Bud Light anytime you’re ready.” He moans and makes a gurgling sound. “Nerd,” I say. I stand back up. “Looks like this one’s on you, Jane!”

Jane looks around. Her shock has turned to fear. Fear of feelings for me returning. “Okay,” she says. She buys two Bud Lights and sits down at the stool next to mine. We spend the next hour catching up. I tell her about my new job, that I’ve started writing poetry, that I do Capoeira now. I show her my new tattoo and explain its meaning to her: Eat, Pray, Love, Death, Art, Book. Her hand brushes against mine and I feel a warmth that I haven’t felt in years.

After an hour, she stands up. “Alright, I’d better take Martin to the hospital, for real, this time. He hasn’t made a sound in ages.”

“Jane, this was really nice. I’m glad I ran into you,” I say. I hug her. She is emotional and fails to reciprocate the hug. Martin is helped to his feet by Jane and another bar patron, and they make their way into a taxi.

I hurry outside and call out to Jane. “Wait.” She looks back at me. “Unblock me on Instagram.”

Chapter 10: Camping with my friend

I’ve gone on a camping trip with my friend, Jesse. On the first night, he strikes me in the face with a cactus. As I brace for impact, I close my eyes and see a starry night. Everything is peaceful. I hear a light, ambient chanting in my head. I think about my mother. I think about the universe and nature and how grateful I am. And then the cactus makes contact and all of those feelings go away. The cactus is rather soft, so the impact itself feels a bit like being hit with a wet roll of paper towels, but the spines hurt. The cactus splits in half and a cool, gooey nectar drips down my face. I taste it on my lips and it is sweet.

All in all I’m okay, but I am angry at him for doing this — he had no idea it wouldn’t be so bad. “You hit me with a cactus!” I say.

“You shouldn’t have done what you did!” he says.

“What did I do?”

“You slayed my ex!”

“I did what?”

“I said you slayed my ex.”

“Huh?”

“You slayed her. You shouldn’t have!”

“I did not.”

He hesitates. “Well, somebody did!”

I am very confused. “You hit me with a cactus,” I remind him.

He sees blood dripping from several dozen pin-sized holes in my cheek, and he appears to feel guilt. “So I did,” he says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. “I am sorry.”

We light a fire. We sit in silence for fifteen, maybe thirty minutes. Jesse is deep in thought, and then he speaks.

“I understand that you are upset with me,” he says, “on account of what I did with the cactus.”

“Yes,” I say, “that is accurate.”

“But can I really be blamed for my violent conduct?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Or are there extraneous sources responsible for my behavior?” he says.

“No,” I say. He seems to not be listening.

“We came of age in a patriarchal society,” he says, “surrounded by toxic masculinity. Of course we’d turn out like this.”

“What?” I say.

“Was it even me that swung the cactus?”

“Yes.”

“Or were there invisible forces driving my hand?”

“No. It was you.”

“We are steeped in a culture that glorifies violence and sexual conquest,” he says. “Come to think of it, I suppose I can’t be upset with whoever slayed my ex. You see, with regard to free will — -.”

“What does slay your ex mean?” He stands up and begins pacing back and forth.

“With regard to free will, or the lack thereof, we call this ‘determinism,’ a philosophy contending — .”

“Okay, I think I’m bored of this conversation.”

He continues, “A philosophy contending that human behavior is caused by biological and psychological factors and/or the structural factors that comprise one’s environment, as opposed to free will.”

“Dude, bro,” I say. “Jesse,” I say. “Are you mansplaining determinism to me?”

“If we refer back to Stephen Schafer’s seminal collection of essays, Problem of Free Will in Criminology, perhaps the cactus — .”

I’ve had enough of this, I think to myself. I note that we’re in a desert, and that nobody else knows we’re out here. I will kill Jesse, I decide. I discreetly remove my right sock and fill it with coins, and then I pause. Am I being irrational? I think to myself. No, I think. Am I even in control here? I take five deep breaths, Jesse is still talking. Yes, I am in control, I think. I am acting on my own volition. I spin the sock over my head like a lasso and then swing it directly into the side of Jesse’s head. The blow kills him instantly, leaving a mess of coins and brains all over the sand.

Chapter 11: The end

I am in the desert by myself. I do not know how to read a map nor how to use a compass, so I pick a direction at random and begin walking. I walk for one full day and then I run out of water and I collapse from exhaustion and dehydration.

When I wake up a pair of kit foxes are licking my face. They have brought me a dead kangaroo rat and two moist tomatoes to eat. “Thank you,” I say. The tomatoes cool my throat.

Three hours pass. The two foxes are still here, watching me.

Two years pass. Today I caught my first jackrabbit. I shared my kill with Felix Fox, Finnegan Fox, Franklin Fox and Fabian Fox. Finnegan Fox licked the blood from my lips after we finished.

Five years pass. I talk Fox now. I often scream a sound like Ralphhhh Ralph Ralphhh in a high pitch. I also call out Rerrrrruurrr with a soft raspiness in my throat to attract Female Foxes.

Ten years pass. Ralphhhh. I have been caught by Park Ranger. He shot my beautiful wife Fabrizia Fox and he put me in pickup truck and drive me to Human Town. Ralphhhh.

Six more months pass. Of course I miss Fabrizia Fox, but I am very lucky. My family has taken me back, my community has taken me in. I have been given a good wash and shave and been fully reintegrated into society. I have my own apartment and I have a job and I have My Boys again. I am a Normal Thirty Two Year Old Boy, now.

Disappeared (trigger warning: ICE raids)

March 6th, 2021, 8:05 a.m. @realdonaldtrump: TO ICE AGENT JARED BOWEN. WE HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN ABOUT YOU. I HAVE SENT OUR MOST ELITE UNITES TO NEW YORK CITY AND AUTHORIZED THEM TO KEEP SEARCHING UNTIL YOU ARE FOUND AND RESCUED. THE SAVAGES WHO DID THIS WILL PAY FOR IT GRAVELY.

Craig was one of my oldest friends. Our moms were actually close in the 60s, they’d even marched together, but his parents spoiled him rotten and my mom thought it turned him into a brat. He means well, but he’s never known any boundaries, she’d said. Now at twenty eight he lived in a Brownstone that he’d had all to himself since his parents bought it a few years earlier.

He’d been all fired up about the ICE raids but then he said his anxiety was acting up and I hadn’t heard from him for the past week. The shelter-in-place order, which had only applied to the non-immune for the past nine months, had been fully reinstated by executive order after the agent went missing. Craig and I had both been immune for months though and we didn’t really give a fuck about this bullshit with ICE so he invited me over for drinks anyway.

When he met me at the door he was all pale and jittery and could barely look me in the eyes. For as long as I’d known Craig he’d been one of those guys that always looked supremely comfortable in his own body. Years ago he’d been a statewide wrestling champ, even wrestled D1 in college, but now he looked like shit. He dropped two garbage bags outside by the curb and then we went inside. I sat down on the couch in the living room and he walked to the kitchen. There was music on. Something electronic and loud. His place was insanely clean, I’d never seen it like this. There were cans of Campbell’s Soup stacked in the corner. This was unusual for Craig, even in these times.

“When did you become so OCD?” I said.

“Sometime in the last year, I guess,” he said from the kitchen.

He came out with two glasses of whiskey and joined me on the couch.

I made a show of looking at my phone — it was only two o’clock. “I think I’ll wait a bit,” I said.

“Come on, have a drink with me.”

“No, really,” I said. “I’ll have one later.”

He held the glass in front of me. I sighed and took the glass from his hand.

“Do you have ice?” I said.

He gave me a funny look, and then he walked back to the kitchen and came back with a single ice cube which he dropped into my glass.

“Thanks,” I said. “So what have you been up to besides cleaning?”

“I don’t know, man. I just haven’t felt right all week.”

“Like, general anxiety?”

His head darted towards me. “No, from the raids, obviously. I’m pretty fucked up over what happened.”

“Gotcha,” I said.

“Aren’t you?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I mean, yeah, of course. This whole thing is awful.”

He laughed. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I took a sip of whiskey and shivered.

“Hey, can we turn the music down a bit?” I said.

He walked to the speaker and pressed some buttons but the music didn’t seem to get any quieter, and then he came back to the couch.

“So have you been working?” I said.

“They’ve been pretty cool about it,” he said. “Took the first few days off entirely and have been sort of back to working from home since then.”

He stood up again and walked towards the window and peeked out. He wouldn’t sit still.

“You want to go for a walk or something?” I said.

“I ordered a pizza, let’s just chill here.”

Something was wrong. He was acting weird. Craig was never the type to just sit around, even during the shelter-in-place. But in fairness to him, the past week had been dark as hell.

First there were the raids themselves. ICE agents had been operating covertly in New York for years but out of nowhere a huge platoon showed up like gangbusters and started kicking down doors. They took over a thousand people in two nights, at least two hundred of them children. It’s not even clear where they all are now. Locked up somewhere. And six people were killed. Four men shot in the back as they ran from a crowded apartment in Bushwick. One run over by an ICE truck in the South Bronx. And a white guy from Westchester was shot six times after punching an agent in the face. In the East Village. The agent had broken in and was coming for his roommate. A dreamer, sophomore at NYU. Obviously they got him, too.

And then there’s the missing agent: Jared Bowen. He was part of a team in Crown Heights that broke into individual foot chases after raiding a crowded apartment complex. In the chaos of the moment he just disappeared, nobody saw what happened. So since then the full shelter-in-place had been reinstated and the elite police force or military or whatever they are had been roving Brooklyn day and night looking for him. I guess he’s got diabetes so it’s been even more urgent to find him.

“Have you heard Rachel’s story?” Craig said.

“No,” I said.

“She had a whole family of immigrants living in her building,” he said. “On the first night of raids she watched them all get dragged out.”

“Holy shit.”

“They lined the kids up against the outside of the building in their pajamas. Didn’t even let them get their jackets.”

He pulled out his phone and showed me a video that Rachel had sent him. There was one girl, probably four years old, in a Peppa Pig onesie. Then there was a boy around seven or eight holding an infant. And they were all shivering and crying.

He continued. “Rachel tried to bring them blankets and the agents yelled at her to ‘get the fuck inside.’ She could hear their mom screaming and banging on the inside of the van.”

“Jesus,” I said.

“Apparently the dad was at work, they got him too. That’s what The Post said, at least. You could see Rachel in the background of the picture on the front page.”

“Brutal,” I said. “You know Cherry Hill was raided, right?”

“You’re kidding,” he said. “I was there like two weeks ago.”

“Yeah. Grant said they arrested basically the whole kitchen. One of his chefs was thrown up against the side of a hot stove. Scalded his hand, the whole place smelled like burnt flesh.”

Craig shook his head and finished his glass of whiskey, and then he walked into the kitchen and came back with the whole bottle. He poured another glass for himself and then topped mine off before I could stop him.

“Grant said they’re toast,” I said. “All these restaurants were already hanging on by a thread after the past year. And now their workers are gone, too. They’re all fucked.”

“They got my building super,” Craig said.

“Wait, holy shit,” I said. “I haven’t been able to get a hold of my super all week. My heating’s been fucked up.”

Craig interrupted. “I remember him. He came over to fix the toilet when I was there once.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Manny. He’s usually so reliable.”

“Yeah,” Craig said. “Well, they got my guy, so maybe they took him too. It’s pretty likely.”

“Fuck,” I said.

We sat in silence and drank our whiskey. After a few minutes Craig stood up and looked out the window again. He walked back to the couch and sat down. “What’s it been like out there since the raids?” he said. “I’ve obviously been following the coverage but I haven’t really left my place.”

I thought for a second. “I mean, it sort of feels like the beginning of the quarantine again. These past few weeks I’d started to see soccer games and quinceañeras and barbecues returning to McCarren Park. But I walked by today and it was basically empty.”

“Aren’t there protests?” he said. “Against the raids? And now this door-to-door shit? I’ve heard some civil rights groups calling on immunes to hit the streets.”

“Oh, right,” I said. “I think I saw a protest on the way over here.”

Craig nodded. “And what’s the search for the missing agent like?” he said. “Haven’t seen much of it yet.”

“Pretty fucking menacing to be honest. These guys wear full tactical gear, goggles, the whole thing. And they carry these big-ass assault rifles and drive around in armored trucks.”

I paused and sipped my whiskey, but he stared at me, waiting for me to continue.

“You saw the press conference with Barr and Trump, I assume?” I said.

He nodded.

“So yeah, they have a blanket warrant to go door-to-door in Brooklyn searching every home for the missing agent,” I said.

“It’s fucking illegal what they’re doing,” he said.

“Who knows,” I said. “It’s in the courts, but that hasn’t stopped them. And the NYPD is cooperating.”

“It’s illegal,” he repeated. “Have they been by your place?”

“Yup, on Wednesday. Two military guys and an ICE agent. It was quick but they weren’t exactly friendly.”

“Yo, real talk,” he said. He stood up. “They’re not coming in here.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out this card from the ACLU that listed out your rights during a home search.

I shook my head. “I don’t think it’s worth it, dude. The search was pretty painless anyway.”

“It’s a matter of principle,” he said. “They’re not coming in here.”

“Okay,” I said. That was typical Craig right there.

He sat back down. “How long do you think they’re going to keep looking for this guy?”

“I really don’t know, man,” I said. “I mean, term two, I guess there’s no rules anymore. And Trump’s taking it personally, too. The agent’s a big MAGA guy. You’ve seen this right?”

I pulled up the Buzzfeed article about the agent on my phone. He certainly looked the part. Pretty big guy, buzzcut, Oakley sunglasses, vaguely tribal tattoos or barbed wire on his arms. But what I’d wanted to show Craig was the Facebook post that had been dug up. He’d shared that picture of the drowned migrant father and daughter that washed up on the shore of the Rio Grande with the caption, “YALL I HAVE NEVER SEEN FLOATERS LIKE THIS.”

“Put it away,” Craig said. Suddenly he was deadly serious. His moods always changed fast. He was unpredictable.

I put my phone back in my pocket.

“I saw this clip online,” Craig said. “Made me fucking sick. The agent’s wife was on Fox & Friends pleading for him to be returned home safely. Their kids just want their daddy back. A real sob story.”

“I mean, it is kind of sad,” I said.

He stood up again. “Are you fucking kidding me? All those fucking kids in cages, and you want me to feel sorry for that pig’s family?”

“Alright, alright,” I said. “Fair point. Look, I don’t give a fuck about the guy either. Fuck him and fuck ICE.”

Craig exhaled deeply. He brushed his hand through his hair and sat back down.

“But yeah,” I said. “The media coverage has been terrible. You’d hardly even know about the ICE raids. You know they’re still happening all over the country, right? Mostly blue states, of course.”

He nodded.

“But all they’re talking about is the search for the missing agent. And there’s all these threats of vigilante justice, too. They stopped a Texas militia on their way to New York. Strapped to the teeth.”

“Good,” he said. “Fucking bring it.”

I laughed. “Hard pass,” I said.

He stood up again.

“This is it, man,” he said. “The shit we all feared. 1984 shit. We’re living it now.”

“Alright buddy,” I said. “Can we take it down a notch, please? I thought I was coming over here to chill.”

“Really?” He gestured towards the window. “You want me to take it down a notch with this shit happening outside?”

I put my head in my hands and took a deep breath.

“And with ICE planning their next fucking ambush?” he said.

“Look,” I said. “Maybe a little perspective would help?”

“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

“It means I know that it’s awful what’s happening. But it’s not like we’re the ones they’re going after. We’re not in any trouble here.”

“That’s the whole fucking point,” he said. “We’re the ones that need to step up. For the ones that can’t.”

I leaned back on the couch and looked up at him with my eyebrows raised. None of this actually surprised me. Craig was a passionate guy and he’d always been a bit of a hothead. Junior year of high school he beat the crap out of this freshman who called our friend Ray the n-word, but he’d dragged me along with him and forced me to film it so we were both suspended for a month.

“Pretty sure I’ve been to more protests than you,” I said. Truth is I’d passed by a few but had never really participated in one. For more than a few minutes at least. I’d been super busy with work.

I continued. “Look man, I know you’re sick of your mom calling you a slacktivist, but maybe, just, like, stop yelling at me?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say something else then he sat back down. “My bad,” he said.

We drank a few whiskeys. He put on better music, and we stopped looking at the news. We smoked cigarettes out his window. The pizza came, we switched to beers and ate the whole pie. By 3:30 we were wasted.

“Can we get the fuck out of here, please?” I said.

“What, and risk getting arrested?” he said.

I laughed. “You’re a trip, man,” I said. “First you’re preaching about stepping up, on your social justice warrior shit, shaming me for not being obsessed enough. And now you’re too scared to go outside.”

“Can you just cut me some slack?” he said. “It’s been a weird week, I just don’t feel like doing much today.”

“Alright,” I said. “But just so you know, it’s not that bad. I mean, I’m kind of used to it. It’s like seeing the guys with the giant guns at the airport. They mostly leave you alone, you sort of stop noticing.”

I stood up and walked to the window.

“There’s nobody out there now, anyway,” I said.

When I turned back around he looked at me all serious again. “Don’t stop noticing. This shit isn’t normal,” he said.

I sat back down on the couch. I was starting to get fed up with his sanctimonious shit but it wasn’t worth it to argue with him. I’d probably leave soon anyway.

He lit a joint and offered it to me. I shook my head no but once again he held out his hand until I obliged. I brought it to my lips and pulled. I wasn’t ready for the hot smoke entering my lungs, I broke into a coughing fit and my eyes began to water. I closed my eyes, tears streamed down my face, and I swear I could see my alveoli turning black and crispy. My lungs felt like they were on fire.

“Jesus dude,” Craig said.

“What is this shit?” I said between coughs.

“Um, weed,” he said.

“I guess it’s been a little while,” I said. Without thinking I took another hit and broke into coughs again. I handed the joint to him, he took one hit and then stubbed it out.

He finished his beer and stood up to get a new one. He was wobbly. He lit a cigarette in the middle of his living room. I stared at the ember and watched it burn.

“Yo,” he said. “I can trust you, right?”

I’d been zoning out, his words surprised me.

“Sure,” I said.

“I’ve got to get some shit off my chest,” he said.

“Okay.”

“And I might need your help.”

His tone made me anxious, but I guess I was too stoned to object. Plus I’d never been good at saying ‘no’ to Craig.

“Sure man, what’s up?” I said. I was doing my best to sound in control, but my heart was racing. I was staring at the burning ember, trying to imagine what time it could possibly be, to remember if I had anything else I was supposed to be doing. I was dreading the next time Craig would speak.

He looked out the window again, and then he lit another cigarette with the ember of the last one.

“You remember when you helped move me in here a few years ago?”
“Yeah.”

“You remember I had that creepy-ass basement? With the old storage lockers?”

“Yeah,” I said. My chest was tightening.

“You joked that they were big enough to rent out. That they were like studio apartments. But in cages.”

His face had turned all red. He was about to speak again but I felt like my heart might beat out of my chest so I stood up, interrupted him.

“Hold on,” I said.

He ignored me. He had this incredibly intense look in his eyes. Like something from a movie. I’d known Craig my whole life but suddenly his face looked completely different to me. It was menacing.

“So on the second night of the raids — ,” he said, but I interrupted him again.

“Craig, shut the fuck up.” I was shouting. “Stop talking or I’ll leave.”

He was silent. I should have just left at that point but I really had to take a piss.

“I’m going to the bathroom,” I said, “and when I come out, whatever the fuck you’re talking about, drop it. I’m too stoned for this.”

I went to the bathroom. Pissing felt amazing, like I’d been waiting my whole life to do it. I looked up at the ceiling and told myself it was probably nothing. When I reached to flush the toilet I noticed a small package sitting on the floor in the corner. It was from a Canadian pharmacy and it had an Expedited Shipping label on it. I looked inside and immediately wished I hadn’t. There were vials of insulin and a bag of syringes. I felt a sudden and intense wave of nausea. When I came out I picked up my coat and started towards the door.

He stepped in front of me and started pleading.

“Please, dude,” he said. “I need your help.”

I pushed him, he fell onto the couch. He could have kicked my ass if he wanted to but he let me push him. “Don’t say another fucking word,” I said. He stood up and I pushed him again but this time he didn’t go down and he grabbed my shirt. The whole thing is blurry but I remember for a second imagining what he could do to me if he really wanted to. I must’ve looked terrified because he let go right away.

I walked to the door.

“He’s alive, just so you know,” he said.

I ran outside. It was cold and there was nobody on the street. I got on the subway and went home.

When I opened the door to my apartment there was no burst of warm air. It was cold there, too. The heating had been finicky for weeks but now it seemed to be completely broken. The room started spinning so I sat down on the couch with a blanket and fell asleep.

Three hours later my phone buzzed and woke me up. I had a splitting headache. It was a text from an unknown number.

I’m sorry it’s got to be like this, I thought you were with the cause. But now you’re in it either way.

I swear I nearly threw my phone across the room. And then, another: Time to put your money where your mouth is.

I texted back. Delete my fucking number. And then I shouted Fuck since I knew I shouldn’t have responded at all. My head was pounding. I knew the only way to make it stop was with more booze, so I poured a shot of tequila, drank it, and then poured another.

I got another text.

Don’t worry, it’s a burner phone.

I could have blocked his number but for some reason I didn’t.

A few minutes later he texted again.

I’ve got a plan. It’s straightforward. Just need another body.

He quickly added, Everybody walks away unscathed. But the message is sent.

I responded. Don’t know what you’re talking about. You must have the wrong number.

I got nothing for an hour. Now it was freezing outside but I needed something to drink so I went out for a walk. The moment I stepped outside I realized I was wasted again. I walked to the 24/7 bodega on my corner but a gate was up over the door and windows. I’d never seen it like this before. They’d survived the past year but I realized I hadn’t been there since the raids. I walked to another bodega two blocks away, this one was open. I picked up a Gatorade. The guy behind the counter eyed me with suspicion, but I tried to nod and let him know I was with him. “You know what happened to the bodega on South 4th?” I said.

“What you think?” he said coldly. I paid for the Gatorade and left.

I started walking back and I got another long text, this one from Craig’s actual number.

Hey man, great catching up. So we’re gonna shoot this short film tomorrow night. Really appreciate you offering to help out. Can you come by in the morning? We’ve got to link up early to talk about the game plan. If I don’t hear from you I’ll just come by your place, it’s no problem.

I remembered how his face looked right before I left and I felt a chill. I put my phone back in my pocket and walked towards my place. Tributes to the kidnapped immigrants were taped to every lamppost. I’d come to recognize a few of the faces, the kids mostly. An armored police car drove slowly down my street. They shined the spotlight on me and a cop in a black helmet stuck his head out the window and told me to go home.

My apartment was even colder than it had been when I’d left. I kept my jacket on, took another shot of tequila and then boiled water to make tea. I responded to Craig.

I’ll come by tomorrow morning.

By the time I crawled into bed some hours later the room was spinning.

I had a really vivid dream that night. A nightmare. My building was on fire. I was running through each apartment one by one, looking for people to rescue, but all of the doors were locked. I could hear them snoring but I couldn’t get in. Everybody would perish. Suddenly I realized I had a book of matches in my hand so I started running from the building, I was being chased by the cops. I was halfway across the Williamsburg Bridge when the ground fell out from under me. I was falling and I had that roller coaster feeling in my stomach but I kept running through the air trying to fight it. But I knew I was going to hit the water and die. It felt like it lasted forever and then I woke up breathless and with my heart racing at four in the morning. I didn’t fall back to sleep.

At 6:30 in the morning I received a text from the unknown number with a link to a Daily Beast article: Coronavirus Spreads in Detention Center for Newly-Detained Immigrants. The text said, Check out the second picture.

I stayed in bed under the warm covers and scrolled through the article. The first picture showed a cell with a group of about a dozen children sleeping on the cement floor with mylar blankets. The second picture showed a group of men standing against the bars of an overpacked cell. Nobody had a mask on. I zoomed in and noticed a familiar face.

“Manny,” I said. His beard had grown out, I’m sure he hadn’t had a shower in days. He was reaching through the bars of the cell and his mouth was open like he was asking the camera for help. Christ. How could this be my country? How could I let it?

I rolled out of bed and got dressed and was on my way to Craig’s place by 6:45. I was exhausted but I was also still a bit drunk and I’d picked up a large coffee so my whole body was buzzing like I’d done coke or something. I walked fast as hell and Rage Against The Machine was blasting through my headphones and into my ears. Every time I passed a cop car I said Fuck you in my head.

I followed Craig back into the living room. There was a bowl of cereal and a coffee mug on the small table in front of the couch. We both paused in front of the television. CNN was on. Anderson Cooper walked down Nostrand Ave, about a mile from where we were. The street was closed and there were at least five police vans parked behind him. We’ve never seen anything like this in New York, he said. It’s unprecedented, the biggest mobilization of federal forces in the city’s history. A handful of Crown Heights residents danced and made faces in the background. Someone held an Abolish ICE sign.

“See, we’re part of a movement,” Craig said. He hit the power button on the TV. “There’s coffee by the fridge, help yourself.” He was in a better mood than yesterday.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and sat down on the couch.

“So, what changed?” he said.

I didn’t understand the question at first and then I remembered that Craig and I had just been fighting. I’d pushed him and he’d sent me vaguely threatening text messages, and now I was back here. I really didn’t know the answer to his question so I just said what I thought we both wanted to hear.

“It’s like you keep saying. Time to step up.”

He leaned over and gave me a hug. It was corny but I knew he really meant it. I pulled away. My buzz was starting to wear off and I was thinking I’d need another drink soon.

“So, you want to hear what happened?” he said.

“Huh?” I said.

“Um, the reason I called you back over here.” He said it like he was asking me a question.

“Oh, right,” I said. “So what happened?”

He stood up and walked to the window to look out. “Let me start by saying that none of this was planned. It was more of a spur of the moment thing.”

He paused and waited for me to say something, but I just let him keep going.

“I was losing my mind on the second night of raids. Sunday I guess. Rachel had sent me that video and I just needed to blow off steam so I went out for a walk.”

He again looked at me expectantly. I nodded for him to continue.

“And then I saw one of the raids happening a few blocks away. All these people were scattering from a building. This one guy ran right by me, he was being chased. I could see his face. He was fucking terrified.”

He was pacing again.

“And I think I recognized him. We go to the same bodega in the morning. He’s friendly with the guys so they know his order and have it ready for him when he walks in. Coffee and some sort of a roll. He’s a construction worker I think. I don’t know exactly. I don’t really know him.”

He ran his hand through his hair.

“And like I said, I just sort of acted,” he said. “And I got a bit carried away.”

He stopped pacing and sat back down on the couch next to me.

“Wait, so what happened?” I said.

“Don’t worry about that part. There was a confrontation. And the agent’s here now.”

My whole body shivered. “Holy shit,” I said.

He looked confused. “Wait, you knew that, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I guess,” I said. “But still. This is crazy.” I stood up and looked towards the door. “Jesus Christ.”

“Listen,” he said. “Here’s the thing. The most important thing. The guy’s never seen my face.”

“What? How?” I said.

“It was dark,” he said.

He stood up and walked to the kitchen and came back holding a black ski mask. “And I wear this every time I go down there,” he said.

I stared at the mask with my mouth wide.

“Tonight we’ll release him and he won’t have a fucking clue where he’s been. Don’t worry, I’ve got a plan,” he said. “Oh, wait, hang on.”

He walked back to the kitchen and came back holding a second mask, which he tossed to me. “Try it on,” he said with a smirk. “Time for you to meet our guy.”

I can’t remember what I was thinking. Probably nothing. But like so many times before in my life, I did as he told me.

All the lights in the basement were off except for a single standing lamp against the far left wall. I couldn’t see much but I recognized the low ceiling and the smell of mildew from when I’d moved Craig in. Next to the lamp there were three white noise machines.

A voice cut through the static. “There you are, motherfucker.” In the far corner of one of the storage lockers I could see the silhouette of the missing agent. He was lying on his stomach on a small mattress, propped up on his elbows. His voice was raspy, and higher than I expected. “I’ve had to shit for an hour. I been callin’ you.”

“Goddamnit,” Craig said.

The cage was probably twelve by twelve, the light only reached its front left corner where there was a placemat with a neatly arranged diabetes kit: vials of insulin, syringes, and one of those finger prick blood glucose monitors. I recognized the setup, my freshman year roommate was diabetic and he’d kept one just like this on his night table. Next to the placemat was a box of Clif Bars, a twelve-pack of Poland Spring water bottles, and an empty can of Campbell’s Soup with a spoon in it. There was also a pile of what looked like bloody paper towels.

“And who the fuck is this?” the agent said. He stood up and walked to the illuminated corner of the cage. The lamp’s rays passed through the cage and created a checkered pattern of light and darkness across his face. He looked towards me and squinted. The skin around his eyes was swollen and discolored. His eyes looked like little black holes. His lips were puffy too and it looked like there was a cut across them. He was shorter than he looked on television and he looked older, his beard was coming in grey. He was wearing grey sweats head to toe. “Look man, if you let me out right now I won’t say a damn thing. I’ll just be on my way and I’ll say I don’t know where I been. It’s the truth anyway.”

I nearly opened my mouth to speak but Craig beat me to it. “Man, you are such a whiny little bitch,” he said. I don’t know what I was going to say.

“Well let me take a shit, would ya?” the agent said.

Craig looked at me. “This is the worst part. I swear this guy shits five times a day.”

“Motherfucker you ain’t feedin’ me enough to shit five times.”

“You’re eating better than all those people you’ve been kidnapping,” Craig said. “Back of the cage.”

Craig pulled a small black gun out of his waistband. My jaw dropped, but then he looked at me and said, “It’s just a taser.”

The agent retreated to the back of the cage and curled up on his mattress. Craig used a key to open a padlock and then he uncoiled a chain that secured the cage’s door shut. He swung the door open. He pointed the taser at the agent and flicked it upwards. “Up,” he said. The agent stood up and walked towards us again. As he exited the cage he paused and looked at me. I looked at the floor, and he kept walking. Craig walked with him to the bathroom in the far corner of the basement.

“Don’t make me taze you again,” Craig said. “This is the last pair of pants you’re getting.”

The agent went into the bathroom and I heard what sounded like severe diarrhea. Craig stood outside the door pinching his nose with one hand and pointing the taser at the agent with the other.

The agent called out from the bathroom. “Ya know we did y’all a favor, right? Those animals are ruinin’ this country.”

Craig seemed to pay him no attention.

“Ruinin’ your city too. Y’all don’t know, but I deal with ’em everyday. Animals is what they are,” the agent said.

There were more sounds of diarrhea splashing against toilet water.

The agent continued. “We’re on the same team is all I’m sayin’.”

Craig finally bit. “Shut the fuck up,” he said.

My eyes were adjusting to the darkness. I looked around the basement but I still couldn’t see much else beyond the silhouettes of the three cages and the one illuminated spot with the diabetes kit.

The agent called out again. “Hey skinny. What’s Trump sayin’ about me?”

“Don’t fucking talk to him,” Craig said. “And hurry it up.”

The room was silent for a minute, and then the agent interrupted it again.

“Worst fuckin’ toilet paper I ever used. They’ll add on ten years for that,” he said.

The toilet flushed and the sink ran and then the agent walked out from the bathroom and back towards the cage, he didn’t even need to be told what to do this time. I realized I hadn’t moved since we’d first gotten downstairs. Craig swung the door of the cage shut and secured the lock and chain in place.

“I need a shower, man,” the agent said.

“Later,” Craig said.

We walked towards the basement stairs, and the agent called out to me again.

“Hey skinny, you see what your friend did to my face?” he said. “I’m a human bein’ too, ya know?”

As we climbed the stairs, he started whimpering. “I got kids, man. Tucker and Molly, seven and twelve. Please, man, help me!”

He became hysterical. “Please man, have a heart! I miss my kids!” And then he screamed so loud my heart skipped a beat and my jaw literally dropped, “I don’t wanna die down here! I’m begging you, help me!”

I’d never heard anything like it.

Craig slammed the basement door shut. Suddenly I was overheating and I felt sick. I ran into the bathroom and tore the ski mask off. I had soaked through it with sweat. I kneeled in front of the toilet and my breath got thick and hot and my mouth started watering, and then I puked up about a gallon of brown liquid. For the first time in a day, I felt sober. What the fuck was I thinking coming back here? I took a few deep breaths and then I rolled over so I was sitting down. I pulled my phone from my pocket and thought about who I could call to get out of this.

Craig opened the door to the bathroom and stepped in. He saw me sitting on the floor staring at my phone. “We good here?” he said. He towered over me.

“Fuck you,” I said.

“What?”

“What the fuck did you do to him?”

“I told you there was a confrontation,” he said.

“Bullshit,” I said. “Those bruises are three days old max.”

Craig stared at me. Something dangerous flickered in his eyes.

“Don’t fucking lie to me again,” I said.

Craig turned his back to me and took a step out of the bathroom.

“You’re fucking insane,” I said. I used the toilet to help myself up. Craig turned around to face me again.

“I’m insane? No, those raids were fucking insane. Thousands of immigrants locked in cages is insane,” he said. “We’re just fighting back.”

I laughed. “Fighting back? How the fuck is this fighting back?”

“Man, are you serious? Everything that this administration does is violent. Taking away our healthcare is violence. Letting oil companies run roughshod on the earth is violence. Stripping abortion rights is violence. Literally chasing an innocent man down his own street, trying to capture him and lock him up and then deport him from his own country, what the fuck do you call that? It’s fucking violence, and it happened right in front of my face. I did what any decent person would’ve done.”

“Great speech, dude,” I said. “How many times did you rehearse that before today?”

“Fuck you,” he said. “You heard what he said down there. Animals. He called them animals.”

“You’re completely missing the point,” I said. “I agree with every word you just said. The guy is a scumbag. The administration is violent. Yes, all of the above. But what the fuck does that have to do with anything?” I pointed over his shoulder, towards the basement door. “What is this accomplishing?”

“Ever heard of John Brown?” he said.

I laughed again.

“Oh, okay, I see,” I said. “You’re a modern day John Brown. You should have said so earlier, that changes everything.”

I walked past him, out of the bathroom and into the living room. He followed behind but said nothing.

“John Brown hiding out in his parents’ million dollar brownstone,” I said. “John Brown the gentrifier.” I turned around to face him again. “I hope this whole thing is making you feel better about yourself. Easing your fucking burden. Cause that’s about all it’s doing.”

He took a step towards me. “Listen you fucking asshole,” he said. “It’s about taking action. Letting them know there’s an opposition. Next time ICE might think twice before coming to New York.”

“Oh my god,” I said. “You don’t actually believe that, do you?”

He looked at the floor and then back up at me. “What, you think your fucking protests are doing anything?” he said.

“Really?” I said. “Try telling that to your mom.”

He scoffed. “You been tear gassed yet? Fire hosed? Taken a nightstick to the head?”

I said nothing.

“That’s what I thought,” he said. “You’re not doing shit.”

“It doesn’t matter!” I said. “Don’t you get it? There’s nothing we can do. There is no fighting back. It’s all pointless!”

Craig’s whole body was trembling. He was taking slow, deep breaths, trying to calm himself.

“And now you’ve got a fucking redneck locked in your basement,” I said. “You’re looking at life in prison. For what?”

He looked at the floor again. I walked to the couch and picked up my coat.

“Where the fuck are you going?” he said. He walked to the door and stood blocking it.

“I’m leaving,” I said.

“Good idea,” he said sarcastically. “I’ve got a plan to get out of this. It’s a two-man job, but don’t worry, man, I’ll just take care of it myself.”

He stepped away from the door and gestured towards it, offering me a chance to leave. I took a step towards it, and then he continued.

“Would be a real shame, though, if I got caught. Because you’re fucking in it now, too,” he said. I took another step towards the door. “He’ll say there was a second guy, and they’ll track it to you in a second.”

I pulled my phone out of my pocket. “And what if I call the cops right now?” I said.

“You waited too long, we’ll both go to prison,” he said. “But only one of us will be known as a rat and a traitor to the cause.”

“Let’s just be clear,” I said. “You’ve been threatening me this whole time.” I pointed a finger at his chest. “You created this mess, you dragged me into it, and now you won’t let me out,” I said.

“It’s funny,” he said. “I could’ve sworn like an hour ago you were down with the cause. I think you said ‘It’s time to step up.’ But I guess you were full of shit and you’re actually just a fucking pussy.”

He paused and took a deep breath, and then he spoke again. A tenderness came over his voice. “Look, none of that matters now. Let’s work together on this, and we’ll both walk away from it.”

My arm slowly lowered to my side. Suddenly I was exhausted. I closed my eyes and tried to concentrate on my breathing, but the room started spinning. My breath was short and I could hear my own heartbeat. Whatever buzz I’d felt earlier had collapsed into an intense nervous energy. The sobriety I’d felt on the bathroom floor was gone, now I couldn’t even think straight.

“Think of Manny,” he said.

I sat down on the couch.

Craig walked into the kitchen and came back with the bottle of whiskey and two shot glasses. He sat down next to me. “Just getting us back to neutral,” he said. He poured us each a shot, we took them, and then he lit the roach from the day before and handed it to me. I took a hit, and then he told me his plan.

That night he’d sprinkle crushed Ambien into the agent’s soup. At three a.m., we’d bring the agent out to an unmarked van and we’d tie him up and drive to a distant empty lot. We’d drop him off, and then we’d drive across the city and abandon the van in another lot.

He’d found a van on Craigslist, a 1998 Ford Econoline with three hundred thousand miles on it. He’d arranged the transaction with his burner phone and was picking it up later that day for two thousand dollars. He’d already withdrawn the cash and was planning on wearing a jacket with the hood and a hat pulled over his face just in case the van was found and tracked to the agent and then tracked back to the seller, which he was sure it wouldn’t be. He’d also identified both lots — the one where we’d abandon the agent, in Sheepshead Bay, and the van, in Bayside, both of which we could get to using side roads where there’d be no cameras.

When he finished explaining, I said nothing, and then he jumped to his feet.

“You want some soup?” he said.

I shook my head, and then I drifted off to sleep.

In my dream I had hit the East River. I’d survived, but now I was sinking, freezing cold water was slowly enveloping my body. I knew what I had to do, I just had to move my arms a bit and kick my legs, I’d drown if I didn’t, but I couldn’t, my body felt too heavy, I couldn’t move.

I woke to Craig lightly tapping my shoulder. It was dark out. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep.

“I just gave him dinner,” he said. “He’ll be out cold within an hour.”

I sat up and he handed me a glass of cold water.

“Thank you,” I said. “What time is it?”

“Ten. You’ve been out for awhile. I picked up the van, too, by the way. Guy who sold it to me was less interested in chatting than I was.”

I drank the full glass of water. He took it from my hand and ran back to the kitchen, then came back with the refilled glass and handed it to me.

“It’s parked right outside,” he said.

He was eager for conversation.

“By the way, I figured we’d just use duct tape instead of rope,” he said. “I already have a few rolls, and it probably wouldn’t be smart to go and buy rope at a hardware store right now.”

“Okay,” I said.

There were alarm bells going off in my head, my heart was pounding, but I felt paralyzed.

“You should be proud,” he said. “We both stepped up when no one else would.”

“Yeah, you’ve mentioned that,” I said.

He winced, but then he put his hand gently on my shoulder. “Honestly, dude, we’re going to be fine,” he said. “This’ll all be over in just a few hours.”

He picked up the remote and turned on the television. College basketball was on. I looked at the score and then I was sleeping again in an instant.

My face was slowly submerging, water seeped into my nose and mouth, I could taste it. My eyes opened, I was lucid, I could see the ceiling. I knew it was a dream, I’d be fine if I could just lift my head up and take a breath of fresh air. But I couldn’t, I was too sleepy, my head was too heavy, my whole body was. I saw my neighbors burning in their beds. There was nowhere to breathe.

Again I woke up breathless. It was 2:30 in the morning and Craig was sitting on the couch next to me. The television was off.

He smiled. “Weird, I was just about to wake you,” he said. I rubbed my eyes and stared at him. “Time to get moving.” Now I was completely disoriented and even more delirious. It felt like I’d been drifting between drunkenness and sleep for days.

“Drink this,” he said, and he handed me a Red Bull. I sipped it. “Come on,” he said, “up.” I stood up. He handed me my mask and a pair of surgical gloves. “Put these on.” I had a flashback to being six years old, woken by my dad at five in the morning to go skiing.

“I’m going to tape his mouth shut and blindfold him, and then we’re going to walk him to the van, and we’ll tape his arms and legs in there,” he said. “Just follow my lead.”

We crept quietly down the stairs towards the basement. I could hear loud snores.

Craig opened the lock and uncoiled the chain and swung the door to the cage open. He walked in. I stood outside and watched him, he gestured for me to follow. He knelt down and shook the agent’s shoulder.

“Wake up, sweet angel,” he said.

The agent groaned and then resumed snoring.

He shook the agent again, harder this time. “Wake up.”

The agent gasped and sat up quickly. The blanket fell off of him. He mumbled something incomprehensible. His eyes were glossy.

“Listen,” Craig said. “Are you listening?” He was holding the agent up by his collar and looking directly into his eyes.

“Mhm,” the agent said. He was breathing fast and he seemed panicked but his body was heavy and he could barely speak.

“We’re setting you free tonight,” Craig said. “If you try anything, I’ll kill you. Just do what we say and you’ll be free in a few hours. This’ll be a lot easier if you cooperate. Got it?”
The agent’s eyes were closed again. Craig let go of his shoulder and he fell back onto the mattress. I saw the taser sticking out of Craig’s back pocket.

“How much Ambien did you give him?” I said.

“Enough,” Craig said. “Fuck it, let’s get started.”

Craig rolled on top of the agent so his legs were on either side of him, his full weight on top of his chest, his legs pinning the agent’s arms against his body. He put a strip of tape over the agent’s mouth. His eyes shot open and nearly burst out of his head. He was writhing, and making sounds from behind the tape.

“Fuck,” Craig said. He grabbed the agent’s shoulders and held him still with extended arms. “Chill out, man. We’re setting you free, I promise!” It did nothing to calm him, so Craig leaned down and whispered softly into his ear. “Shhhh, shhh. You’ll be free soon.”

The agent stopped writhing. His eyes were fluttering and his breathing was thick through his nose. Craig spoke to him slowly. “We’re going to walk together out to the van. If you run, I’ll kill you. You try anything, I’ll kill you. Keep it together and you’ll be free in a few hours. Okay?”

The agent groaned.

Craig pulled a black bandana out of his pocket and tied it around the agent’s head, covering his eyes. He started panicking, and Craig whispered into his ear again. “Shhhh. You’re going home. Shhh.” He quieted.

Craig turned around and looked at me. “Let’s get him up.” We each grabbed one arm and helped him to his feet. He was making sounds from behind the tape and his legs were weak but he obeyed Craig’s orders. We both did.

We walked him slowly out of the cage, up the stairs, stopping at the front door. “Van is right outside the door, we have like ten feet to walk him,” Craig said. “Go outside and look up and down the block. Make sure we’re clear.”
It was quiet outside, and one of the streetlamps was out so there wasn’t much light. I walked back inside.

“We’re good,” I said.

Craig pulled the agent’s hood over his head, and then he reached for the door.

“Wait,” I said. “His insulin.”

“Fuck,” Craig said. “Okay. Hurry.”

I hurried into the bathroom and checked the box but it was empty, so I ran down the stairs, and then I walked slowly into the cage. I picked up a full vial of insulin and a clean syringe and put them in my pocket. I saw the Clif Bars and realized I was starving so I picked one up and put it in my other pocket. As I started out of the cage I looked up and saw that the basement door had closed on its own. Everything was black but the one corner of the cage and the light coming in from under the door. The white noise machines made it so you couldn’t hear a thing. I imagined the cage door slamming shut. I ran out as fast as I could and sprinted up the stairs to meet Craig.

“You good?” he said.

“Yeah.”

Craig was standing behind the agent, holding his wrists together. “He’s basically asleep but he keeps trying to reach for the blindfold,” he said. “He can barely lift his arms.” I put the insulin and the syringe in the agent’s pants pocket. His legs were wobbly, Craig was supporting most of his weight.

“Time to go,” Craig said into his ear. “You try anything, I kill you. You’re good, you live. Got it?”

The agent groaned. Craig gestured for me to check outside again.

I stepped outside and looked around, nothing had changed. I came back inside and took one of the agent’s arms, Craig pivoted to his other side. We walked slowly outside and down the pathway to the van. Craig slid the side door open. The seats were down, and the agent obediently climbed in and lay down. Craig climbed in after him and I followed and slid the door shut. He was sleeping again right away.

“Hold his wrists together,” Craig said.

I picked up the agent’s hands and held them while Craig taped his wrists. I was surprised by how warm they were. He murmured something and squeezed my thumbs. When Craig finished he crawled towards the back of the van and taped the agent’s ankles together.

“I think we’re good,” he said. “Stay back here and watch him. Drive should be around thirty minutes at this hour.”

There weren’t many cars on the road. Craig drove slowly. We passed by a few cops but nothing out of the ordinary happened. Everything was quiet and calm in the van, and at one point I nearly fell asleep myself.

“Yo,” Craig said. “Stay awake.”

At 3:30 in the morning we pulled into a vacant lot. It was pitch black, I couldn’t see any cars or signs of life. “I’m telling you,” Craig said. “It’s completely abandoned. I did my research.” He opened the driver door and walked around to the other side of the van and slid the door open. “Let’s try not to wake him,” he said. He pulled the agent’s shoulders out towards him, I picked up his legs and then climbed out of the van. We carried him about five feet away and then placed him gently on the ground. He was snoring loudly. “Let’s go,” Craig said.

“We’ve gotta undo his hands,” I said. “So he can get to his insulin.”

Craig sighed and then he felt around the agent’s wrist until he found the end of the tape, and then he slowly unwrapped it.

When he finished he started towards the van. I stayed back and looked at the sleeping agent.

“I think I should give him a dose now,” I said. “To be safe.”

“Are you sure?” Craig said.

“I think so. Marcus always did it before he went to sleep.”

“Who?”

“My college roommate. He was diabetic.”

“Okay,” Craig said. “You know what you’re doing?”

“I watched him do it a million times,” I said. “It’s not rocket science.”

I knelt down and reached into the agent’s pocket for the vial and syringe. Craig stood above us and held his phone out for light. The agent’s face looked ghostly. I pulled the plastic cap off of the needle, and then I stuck it into the rubber top of the vial and pulled the plunger out until the clear liquid filled the barrel up to the black line. I pulled the agent’s sweatshirt up above his belly button and stuck the needle into his stomach. He jolted and made a panicked sound and then settled into sleep again. I pushed the plunger and watched the seal move down the barrel and force the insulin into the agent’s body. When I finished I put the cap on the needle and stuffed everything back into the agent’s pocket.

I got into the passenger seat of the van. Craig stayed back for a minute and appeared to say something to the agent, and then he walked around and took the driver’s seat.

We started to drive off, but as we were pulling out of the lot, I stopped him.

“Wait,” I said. “He needs something sugary. In case he gets low blood sugar.”

“What the fuck, man?” Craig said. “This is like the third time you’ve forgotten something.”

“Seriously?” I snapped. I looked over at Craig. He was staring at his hands on the steering wheel. He had deep bags under his eyes. I realized he must have been more tired than I was. “Hang on. I’ve got a Clif Bar in my pocket.” He nodded.

I opened the door of the van and ran back towards the agent and placed the Clif Bar on his chest. I watched the bar rise and fall through two cycles of breath, and then I ran back to the van.

The drive took an hour and we were silent the entire time. At 4:45 in the morning we pulled into another lot, this one every bit as empty as the last. Craig poured a yellowish liquid onto a rag and wiped down the steering wheel and the inside of the van.

“Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll walk for awhile and then we’ll get on the subway before it’s light out. We’ll be far enough from the van by then.”

We walked in silence for over an hour and then got on a subway somewhere in Queens. Nobody paid us any attention.

I was sinking down to the bottom of the East River. I looked up, everything was dark except for a cone of light opening to the surface. Through the cone I could see the blurry faces of the people on the bridge looking down at me, pointing, reaching out. I could hear the faint murmurs of their voices calling out. I hit the bottom. My body came to a rest, the cone of light shrank into nothing. I tried to lift myself but I couldn’t. Everything went black.

Craig shook me awake. I gasped for air. “One stop away,” he said.

As we stepped out of the station and into the daylight there was a handful of people heading down the stairs. I checked my phone and realized that it was Monday morning. I had completely lost track of time.

I was too tired to make my way home so I went back over to Craig’s and sent an email to my boss saying I’d come down with something and wouldn’t be able to work. Craig flipped on the television. Nothing new to report. I lay down on the couch and fell asleep right away. I don’t think I had any dreams at all.

I woke up with the sun shining into my eyes through the window. I checked the time on my phone, it was ten o’clock. I turned the television on. There was breaking news highlighted in bright red at the bottom of the screen.

ICE AGENT JARED BOWEN FOUND DEAD IN QUEENS LOT, HYPOGLYCEMIA SUSPECTED.

Craig must have seen the news on his phone because he came running out into the living room. He stopped in front of the television. His hands were over his mouth and his eyes were wide.

“Oh my god,” he said.

There was a news anchor standing in the lot we’d dropped the agent off in. Behind him was police tape and a swarm of ambulances and police cars. According to the anchor, a homeless man had found Bowen’s unresponsive body at eight a.m. Authorities arrived thirty minutes later and tried to resuscitate him, but he was pronounced dead at 8:37.

“But we gave him his meds,” Craig said. “How could this happen?”

I ignored Craig and kept watching the report.

“Hello!” Craig was shouting at me. “I’m fucking talking to you!” he said. “How the fuck could this happen?”

“Hypoglycemia is low blood sugar,” I said. “Too much insulin.”

“Holy shit,” Craig said. “You killed him.”

“I left him a Clif Bar,” I said. “He should’ve woken up. But he couldn’t.”

Craig’s face twitched and then he looked back to the television.

“Maybe it’s for the bes — ,” he started, but I interrupted him.

“I’m going home,” I said. “Don’t text me. Don’t call me. Don’t ever contact me again. I haven’t been here in weeks. I had nothing to do with this.”

March 8th, 2021, 10:05 a.m. @realdonaldtrump: ICE AGENT JARED BOWEN FOUND DEAD.

March 8th, 2021, 10:19 a.m. @realdonaldtrump: I HAVE ORDERED MY JUSTICE DEPARTMENT TO OPEN A MURDER INVESTIGATION INTO THE DEATH OF ICE AGENT JARED BOWEN.

March 8th, 2021, 10:42 a.m. @realdonaldtrump: EARLY REPORTS STATE THAT ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS MAY BE RESPONSIBLE FOR THE BRUTAL MURDER OF HERO ICE AGENT JARAD BOWEN. THEY WILL BE BROUGHT TO JUSTICE.

March 8th, 2021, 11:50 a.m. @realdonaldtrump: I HAVE ORDERED ICE TO RETURN TO NEW YORK FOR ADDITIONAL RAIDS ON ILLEGAL IMMIGRANTS. THEY WILL BE BACK “WITH A VENGEANCE”

The Writer’s Desk (if you’ve made it this far, there is perhaps something wrong with you, but I will still warn you that this story is particularly weird and sexual)

When people asked Beau how the writing was going, when he couldn’t dodge the question or bring himself to lie, he’d say, Banging my head against my desk, and it was this idiomatic expression that gave birth to the fantasy of actually doing it, banging his head against his desk, the words coming before the conscious thought, which was something his words once did when his writing was going well, which at this current moment it was not.

Three months earlier, Beau had quit his job at a prestigious ad agency to write his Great American Novel. He’d dreamt about doing this for the past decade and had saved enough money to spend a full year working on it. On his commute home after his final day of work, buzzed from his going away party, whiskey coating his insides like warm butter, he peered into the window of the dusty furniture store that he’d passed countless times before. His eye was drawn to a stunning piece of craftsmanship, and his whole body trembled.

That’s what I need, he thought, a new desk, a writer’s desk.

The desk was oak, reclaimed and rebuilt by a builder in Brooklyn, out of oak, from Oakville, Ontario (the oak being from Oakville, the builder from Salem, Mass.). The builder, a short, stocky man with catcher’s mitts for hands, told him, This thing’s sturdy as hell, and Beau said, I’m only writing on it, and the builder looked at him funny and said, Don’t matter, this desk is where the magic happens. Beau looked up at the builder, silver-haired, straightfaced, one green eye and one blue, and he was so taken aback that he nearly staggered backwards. The builder was unmoved, You’ll see, he said. The desk was four hundred bucks and for an extra fifty the builder agreed to put the desk in his pickup and deliver it to Beau’s apartment first thing the next morning. Beau was all worked up when he got home. He called his girlfriend Jasmine and told her about the desk.

“It’s just a desk though, right?” she said.

“It’s a writer’s desk,” he replied, and then he took a cold shower and went to sleep with wet hair.

That night, in his dreams, Beau’s doors of perception opened, the wood fibers of the desk spiraling across its surface, down its legs, through Beau’s chair and into his bloodstream, dazzling words swirling through his fingertips, onto the page, a nocturnal emission left his body and gushed down his own legs. He woke at eight o’clock to the builder buzzing up to his apartment. “Be right there,” Beau said through the intercom, and he ran down the stairs, with no memory of his dreams, dried semen falling in flakes from his body.

Together, they carried the desk up three flights of stairs, surely the greatest physical feat of Beau’s life. He paid the builder in cash, even tipping him an extra fifty, and then he pulled five of his favorite books from the bookshelf and stacked them on his new desk next to his laptop. He slid a dining chair in front of the desk and as he prepared to sit down he felt the magnitude of the moment, the first day of the rest of his life, there were pins and needles dancing in his arms, legs, hands and feet. He opened Microsoft Word and stared into the page, a depth of blankness he’d never seen before, his smile becoming heavier at its corners, the pins and needles traveling through his extremities and into his chest where he felt something like a barbed hiccup, a sharp, jarring pain that made his breath short.

He shuddered, and then he typed his first words: I have nothing to say.

Beau’s father was a writer. A drunk, dead since Beau was twelve, he’d run out on his family after proving to be financially nonviable, a self-loathing atheist who searched for meaning in his life through elegiac and often nonsensical writing. He never found commercial success, but he’d created a small body of work that was known in the dispersed but passionate remnants of the metaphysical poetry movement. But Beau, for a brief moment as an undergraduate, appeared to be a proper writing sensation. With three short stories published by a distinguished local quarterly, he was named one of Southwestern Massachusetts’ Most Promising Young Writers. But he graduated during the Great Recession and, panic-stricken, he leapt at the first job he could find. His finest work since then had lived in internet advertisements.

Nine years later, it was still his dream of becoming a writer, a real writer, that kept him going, secured his identity and prevented him from succumbing to a particularly vicious strain of existential dread common to people in the ad world. He wasn’t known to be arrogant and he was generally an introvert, but he liked to drink, too, and when he drank he spoke with a degree of certainty he often came to regret. And so he’d been speaking of his dreams for many years, telling people that he’d write a novel of his own one day, and in his heart feeling that his very survival depended on it.

On this day, the first day of the rest of his life, he cut himself a break. He made a pot of coffee and he sat down on his couch with a book, an old Russian he’d hardly put a dent in, his reading distracted by the recurring thought, I’m reading on a Thursday morning! At one p.m. he took a yoga class and he smiled and nodded at his classmates: We the people who don’t hold traditional jobs. He went to a coffee shop with his book, he read its full Wikipedia entry and didn’t turn an actual page. He watched a frumpy man in a tweed coat write ferociously in a notebook, his shoulders dusted with thick flakes of dandruff. Is that guy a writer? Beau wondered. He walked along the river, he browsed a record store, he shopped at Whole Foods and checked out in no time, faster than he would’ve liked, he did everything he could to avoid going home. When he finally arrived back at his apartment the sun was going down so he fixed a whiskey neat and settled onto his couch to watch Netflix. Jasmine offered to come over and he replied, Heads down writing, let’s hang tmrw!

The next morning he slept until ten o’clock and made a pot of coffee and a toasted English muffin with butter and apricot jam, and by ten thirty he was back at his desk with his laptop open and the blank page in front of him and again, that sharp pain. A shiver went through his body and he instinctively reached for his phone and opened Instagram and scrolled through dozens of photos that he’d seen dozens of times already. He continued scrolling until he arrived at the photos from the day before the day before, dogs and babies and sunsets that had aged two days since their Likes ran out, and the further he scrolled, the more the world around his phone faded. He kept going, wondering how far his finger might take him. He scrolled past his going away party, he eventually lost track of time, he couldn’t remember how many days had passed since his new life had started.

Beau met Jasmine for drinks that night, but she’d surprised him by inviting several of his friends to celebrate his new life. She proposed a toast: “To Beau,” she said, “the next great American writer,” and they all raised their glasses, all but Beau.

“Come on, guys,” he said, “it’s not that big a deal.”

“Oh please,” Simon said, “it is too a big deal, you’ve been talking about this for like your whole life.” He put his arm around Beau and clinked his glass into his. Cold, foamy beer spilled from the top of Beau’s glass and dripped down his knuckles. He shrank under Simon’s arm, and then he excused himself.

As he exited the restroom and took a step towards his friends, he spotted a flaming white object within the circle of bodies. Cake, he thought, for me. He made a quick U-turn, found the fire exit, and hurried home. He texted Jasmine, Not feeling so hot, gonna head home, and then he ignored three of her calls.

He scoured his apartment for booze and finally he found a bottle of champagne in the crisper drawer of his refrigerator. He popped the cork and poured the sweet, sparkling wine straight into his mouth, polished off the whole bottle in under thirty minutes. He had, in fact, bought the bottle to celebrate his new life, but when the time came it was simply all he had left.

The next day he was too hungover to write. The day after that his thoughts were dry, too.

Days passed.

Days became weeks.

“Do you know the last time we had sex?” Jasmine said to him over the phone one night.

“Um.”

“The day before your last day of work. How about the last time we saw each other?”

“Um.”

“It’s been eleven days.”

“Yeah, look,” he said. “I just need to focus on my writing right now.”

She laughed. “Right. Take care, Beau.” she said, and that was that.

He cut down on seeing friends, too. He didn’t want to talk about the book, found it was easier to just stay at home. But memories of past conversations still flickered through his mind and made him nauseous, the weight of finally going after his dream smothered him.

Day after day, Beau sat at his desk, and he failed to write.

One morning, Beau woke with a sharp headache, a terribly dry mouth, and cheap whiskey emanating from his pores. His throat was scorched. He stumbled to the toilet to relieve himself.

Beau had never been considered particularly handsome, but he had a sort of dazed confidence, something disorienting about him, that attracted people. He’d been told this many times, and he’d internalized it, but he’d always felt there was a slippery slope from this affect to one of pure disarray: this, how he remembered his father. And this is what he saw when he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. His skin was sallow, dehydrated, it was yellow like a desert sand. He had deep blue bags under his sunken grey eyes. His lips were inflamed, there was a sour taste in his mouth, bits of white foam at its corners. He had a patchy three-day stubble, the density of hairs highest under his nose, an unwanted mustache. His hair had been thinning for several years but today this seemed more apparent than ever, his white scalp glowing through the winding valleys of his dark curly hair.

And so, on this particular day, when Beau’s own face had turned on him, when the sharp pain in his chest had dulled and tightened and become a fully-realized sense of dread, when he sat at his desk and realized, truly, I hate myself, the headbanging fantasies began: an escape from his impotence, and an imagined punishment for the crime of being an imposter.

Now, regarding where to bang, bang his head, his mind initially went to the space in front of his eyes: the window above his desk, or the brick wall surrounding it. The window was clean, clear, you could see right through it, and yet, Beau had begun to see the window, too, as its own entity, independent from what he saw through the window: a tree, a house, two small dogs on a patio, chasing each other in circles, threatening to leap. He understood the window’s substance and its girth, he envisioned how it would explode into spiderwebs while maintaining its structural integrity if he planted his head into it with just the right amount of force. But he couldn’t quite work this out in his head, meaning, he risked the window exploding into crystals, too, many of which would surely become implanted in his head, a head he needed for banging, and, later, he hoped, for writing. And the brick wall, well, the brick was just too hard, dense, solid, rocksolid. He knew the brick might kill him, and to be clear, this is not what Beau wanted, in fact, what he really wanted was the opposite: simply to feel alive, so he could write this feeling.

And so it was the desk, which, for all he knew, was itself to blame for his severe drought of words; Fuck this desk, he thought. And this desk, hard as it might be, was also the most forgiving surface, presenting the most favorable ratio of banging force to bodily harm. Sometimes, after such desk banging fantasies, he laid his head down, depleted, he looked at the books he’d stacked there, at the authors’ names on the bindings, and he felt sorry for himself. On more than one occasion in the past three days he’d put his forehead against the desk and given it a few light test-knocks: Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3.

On one such occasion of test knocks, Beau’s sister called.

“Hi bud,” Adrienne said.

“Hi.”

“How are you?”

“You know.”

“I don’t! That’s why I’m calling.”

Beau’s eyes followed the circling dogs.

“Hey, listen, I’m in the neighborhood,” she said.

“Where?”

“Around the corner, actually.”

He brewed a pot of coffee and waited for his sister to arrive.

They hugged. Beau went to the kitchen to pour the coffee, Adrienne stood in front of the couch. She was tall and fit with sharp brown eyes. She wore earth tone blazers.

“You’re not looking so good,” she said.

“Oh, thank you.”

“I heard you and Jasmine broke up,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

He stared into the cabinet for several moments, he felt his sister watching him.

“How’s the writing going?” she said. Her voice was soft.

“Fine.” He filled two plain white mugs with coffee and brought them to the end table next to the couch. They both sat down. Adrienne looked at the side of Beau’s face.

“Okay, no, yeah, not so good,” he said. “Banging my head against my desk.”

“I see.”

“It’s bad.”

She touched Beau’s shoulder. He shivered.

“I haven’t written a single word,” he said.

“Beau, fuck.” She stood, clapped her hands. “Okay, so you’ve got to shake things up.”

Beau looked to the writer’s desk. He imagined banging his head into it, putting a clean, head-shaped hole right through it. “I think it’s the desk,” he said.

“What?” Adrienne said. She saw his drifting eyes. He was picking at his cuticles, the skin below his fingernails was raw. “Beau, when’s the last time you left your apartment?”

He thought for a moment, he didn’t know, had no idea whatsoever. “Monday.”

“Beau, fuck.”

“Please stop saying ‘Beau, fuck.’”

She took a sip of coffee, she looked at his unmade bed, his sleep mask on the floor, the empty bottles. Beau followed her eyes, the whole place looked dried up.

“Okay, look, we know you’ve got this in you,” Adrienne said, speaking with tenderness, now. “Those stories you wrote in college, I mean, wow.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

“You’ve still got it. How many awards did you win for those Mercedes ads? What were they called? The Road Not Taken!”

“Three. Three awards.”

“See? You’re a writer, through and through.” She was pacing, and then she stopped in front of Beau. “But how the hell do you expect to write anything if you’re trapped in this apartment all day?”

He winced. The tenderness in Adrienne’s voice was now gone. He saw where this was going, he didn’t like it.

“Faulkner, Salinger, Proust, they were all reclusive,” he said. “Pynchon’s never even had his picture taken.”

“Jesus Christ Beau, you sound like Dad,” she said.

He tipped over on the couch, buried his head between the cushions, saw coins and spent Juul pods and faded Skittles.

“What if I’m an imposter?” he said.

She sat down, put her hand on his back. ”Why don’t you leave the city for a bit?”

His eyes widened, still between cushions, the view was bleak.

Adrienne stood up again. “Beau, you need to get the hell out of here. Go see something outside of this damn city, meet some new people.”

“Where would I even go?” he said. He had no defenses left.

“How about the Berkshires? Jake and I were there last weekend, it was gorgeous. You can even stay at the same Airbnb. Go this weekend, you can borrow our car.”

He lifted his head, sat up, there was dirt stuck to the side of his face. “Why does it feel like this isn’t a spontaneous idea?” He walked to his desk and picked up his laptop, brought it to the couch. He held it in his lap and stared at the wall.

“I spoke to Jasmine, she told me you’d become a hermit,” she said. “But there’s nothing calculated here, I just think you need a change of pace.” She took the laptop from his hands and pulled up the listing. Cozy Timber Garden Cottage with 4.67 stars in Stockbridge. Woods, creeks, rabbits, close to the lake, close to town. She spun the laptop around. “And I didn’t want to let you overthink it, figured I’d do the work for you.”

“I’m not saying it’s a good idea,” he said. He grabbed the laptop from his sister. “I just don’t have the energy to argue with you.”

“Book it, Beau. I’m excited!”

“Good, good, I’m glad you’re excited.” His finger hovered above the mouse. With a heavy exhale he clicked Book.

“Woo!” she said. Her face changed again, it changed often. “Beau, you cannot stay cooped up in that cabin all weekend. Play in the woods. Go for a swim. Hit the bars. Get laid.”

His head hit the cushions again.

After Adrienne left, Beau logged back into Airbnb and listed his own place as Available. Two hours later he received an inquiry from Richie in Jacksonville, a large shirtless man next to a busty woman in a yellow bikini: Hey man! Me and my girl are coming to ny for wwe smackdown at madson square garden. Youre place looks great. Can u drop the price to $70 per night? Then ill book.

“No chance,” Beau said to the image of Richie and his girl, but then he stared at it for a moment longer, and for reasons he couldn’t explain he changed his mind. He dropped the price to $70 per night, Richie booked.

“It’s over here!” said Molly. She found the lockbox, locked to the gate, in front of the old brick building with the large windows. Molly had a blowout, she wore a lavish black dress, unclear to even her for which occasion exactly. Her lips were pink, she was tanned, desirable to many, but she’d spent too much time in the sun. She had an uneven scar down the back of her neck that she was self-conscious about. “Babe, what’s the code?”

Richie stood at the end of the block, he hacked at his phone with his thumbs, cursed at it. He wore a new button-down shirt and old cargo shorts, wallets and keys and other items flowing from the pockets, his calves like cantaloupes, a duffel on each shoulder. He was six foot two and had hard muscle under a growing layer of fat, an ex-lineman with bursitis in his left knee, he was husky. The skin on his hands was thick with calluses, most things about him tough, but he had soft green eyes.

“Richie! The code!”

He didn’t look up from his phone. “Hang on a sec! My boss is givin’ me shit. First weekend off in six fuckin’ months, I knew he’d pull this shit.”

“That can wait. What’s the code?”

“Alright, alright, I’m looking. Uh, it’s 1234.”

Molly typed in the code and out popped the cartridge which held the key. “It worked!”

She hurried through the door, up the stairs, into the apartment. Richie followed.

“Fuck, Richie, it’s kind of small,” she said.

“Shit, it is small. Fuck me.” said Richie. He dropped the bags. He was out of breath.

“It looked bigger in the pictures, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“Richie, fuck, the bed is tiny.”

“Fuck. Fucking hell. I’m sorry, I fucked up.”

Molly sighed, and then she shrugged. She walked to the writer’s desk and looked out the window. “Aw shit, look at those little dogs chasing each other. So cute. Okay, my attitude is officially changing in three, two, one, now.”

“The couch ain’t too comfy.” Richie was sitting on the couch.

Beau was in his Cozy Timber Garden Cottage, cozy, for sure, timber, it would seem, and with a small garden out back. He unplugged the internet modem and stuck it in the back of the hall closet. He put his bag on the bed and his laptop on the kitchen table and walked out to the yard. There was a pile of wood next to a tree stump with a small axe resting on it. He picked up the axe and placed a log on the stump. He held the glistening blade up to his eyes, he nearly smiled, lifted it over his head. With his arms fully outstretched he suddenly felt weak, he brought the axe down with barely more than the force of gravity. The blade glanced the side of the log, a tiny sliver of wood leapt up and landed in his eye. He dropped the axe and returned inside where he studied his quivering eye in the bathroom mirror until tears streamed down his face and carried the splinter with it.

Hemingway would be proud, he thought.

He sat down in front of his laptop, opened it, saw the blank page waiting for him and then stood back up. He walked outside. Might as well explore a bit, he thought, might as well. He walked through the trees and the logs, along the edge of a dried-up creek, he stepped on a salamander, crushed it under his shoe, and then he realized his pants were getting dirty so he turned around. He was assaulted by mosquitos, he saw no rabbits to tend. He went back inside, he fished out the internet modem from the closet and plugged it in. He googled things to do in the berkshires, browsed the museums, the Normal Rockwell Museum, and then he found himself on Norman Rockwell’s Wikipedia page and then reading the reviews of Lana Del Rey’s new album, Norman Fucking Rockwell! He drove to the lake, the highest rated lake in the area, 9.4 out of 10, he looked at it through the window, and then he drove to the local tavern. He wanted a whiskey but he heard Adrienne’s voice saying Shake things up, so he asked for vodka with a splash of olive juice, she didn’t have any. He ordered a pint of something local, a sour, he ate a few nuts. He hated his beer, it was awful, too sour, the nuts were oversalted. He scrolled through Twitter, Instagram. He imagined what would happen if he drank all the alcohol in the bar. If he picked a fight and got his ass kicked by all the local drunks. The bartender asked where he was from, who was he, was he visiting? He told her just passing through, and then he left for the bathroom, he didn’t have to go, he stood in front of the urinal and studied the event calendar until another patron walked in. He flushed with his elbow and ran the water in the sink and walked out. Three old men looked for a fourth to play billiards, he told them shit, he’d love to, but he had somewhere to be. He paid his tab, drove to the general store in town where he bought some beef jerky and a bottle of whiskey and three Lean Cuisines. He drove back to his cottage and sat down in front of his laptop and then his head fell forward and hit the keyboard.

Richie and Molly were fucking in Beau’s bed, Richie on top, Molly below, distracted, preoccupied, in pain. Richie thrusted hard, he was giving his best effort, he was grunting, Fuck baby, fuck yeah, and Molly, the springs digging into her, said, “The springs are digging into me.”

“Huh?” Richie continued thrusting, really going at it, he put a finger in her mouth.

“Tha spwings,” she said, mouth full of finger, probing her, fish hooking, “Thew hooting my back.” Richie removed his finger from her mouth, moved his hand to her right nipple, twisted it like he was adjusting the volume. “Ow, Richie, fuck.” She pushed him back, he was still thrusting. “I’m not into this.”

Richie sighed, he gave an exasperated thrust. He stayed in there, he paused deep inside her, and he said, “What happened to the positive attitude?”

“Let’s try the couch,” she said.

Richie rolled off of Molly, nearly taking her with him, his erect penis pointed at the ceiling. “Look how hard I am,” he said. “This shit really works.” He was enamored with his erection, he had good reason to be.

“Bring that hog over to the couch, I’ll be right there.” Molly walked to the bathroom and looked at her back in the mirror, indented, checked her scar, put her hair down. Richie moved to the couch.

“I took twenty milligrams,” he said, staring at his penis, still. “They call it the weekend pill, lasts thirty six hours.” His chest was shaved two days ago, prickly, his skin bright red.

“I don’t get why you took that,” Molly said.

“First weekend off in six fuckin’ months. Figured we should make some magic happen.”

Molly joined Richie on the couch, sat down on top of him, straddled him. She used both her hands, her left hand reaching behind, right hand in front steadying herself, to put Richie’s penis inside of her. She bit her lower lip. Her knees rested on either side of Richie’s thighs, two thick birch logs, her calves and ankles dangled off the couch. She moved up and down. She moaned. She was leaning into him, her breasts, large and with plastic, were crowding Richie’s face, smothering him. He turned his face to the left, to the right, to the left, he was struggling for breath. He pushed her back, she nearly tipped over.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

“You’re crowding me. Lean back.”

“I can’t, I’ll fall off if I lean back.”

“This goddamn couch,” Richie said. “It’s too fucking shallow. I hate shallow couches.”

Molly climbed off of him, Richie held his erection with both hands and stared at it, smiling, craning his neck, viewing it from different angles. Molly paced around the apartment.

“Richie, what do you think of this desk?”

Richie was rubbing his penis, jerking himself, he looked up and said, “Nice desk.”

“For fucking, Richie.”

Richie stood up and walked to the desk. He tapped it with his knuckle, he put some weight into it, gave the legs a few light kicks and pretended to know something. “She’s sturdy as hell.” He lifted his hard penis and let it drop onto the desk, the sound was wet. “Snakewood, I believe.” He laughed.

Molly looked out the window, it was dusk. Her lip quivered, nostrils flared, she touched herself. “This is kinda hot. Everyone can see us.” She grabbed her breasts with her hands and wriggled her body. There was a small heart where her pubic hair would be. “My psychic told me this trip would be special. Fuck this is hot.” She blew a kiss out the window, she was aroused. Richie put both hands around his penis and made a figure eight with it. He thrusted westward.

“Hello, New York!” Richie said.

He slid the chair out of the way, swiped the books off the desk, they scattered across the floor. He picked Molly up and placed her on top of the desk, her buttocks atop the oak, her back to the window. He opened Molly’s legs, stood in between them. He licked the index and middle finger of his right hand and put them inside of her, with his thumb he found her clitoris.

“Mmm, she said. “That feels good.”

He brought her close to climax with his fingers and then he stopped. He hawked spit into his left hand and slathered it on his penis, slid inside of her. She made a cooing sound. He moved his hips forward and back, forward and back. He was squatting, his quads bulging, cheeks clenched, vibrating.

“This desk is the perfect height,” he said. He grabbed her hips, pulled her body into his in rhythm with his thrusts. “A perfect fucking desk.” He laughed. “A fucking desk.”

“Like that,” she said. “Don’t stop.” She slapped his chest, let her hand slide down his body. She closed her eyes.

“Your pussy feels so fuckin’ good, baby.”

“How good, Richie?”

“I could fuckin’ live in here.”

“I want you to live in here, Richie.”

“I think this is — ,” he said.

“The best ever,” she said.

He looked out the window and flexed his muscles, he snarled, he was close. He looked back at Molly. “I fuckin’ love you, baby.”

“I love you, Richie.”

She came. He came. The moon was full.

On Sunday morning, Beau took three Advil and three Tylenol and packed his bag. He slammed his laptop shut, inside was the written word he had to show for the weekend: You’ve got nothing to say. You’re a fraud. All work and no play makes fuck fuckkk uuu fjdslkfjsdkl

He walked out to the car. From the driver’s seat, he messaged Richie: Hey, hope you had a wonderful weekend, I’ll be home at 1. Thanks.

Richie woke up with another strong erection, he’d had one nearly all weekend. He’d been dreaming of Nikki Bella. Last night Nikki Bella slammed Becky Lynch, The Dudley Boyz took care of Big E and Kingston, and John Cena tossed Rollins from the top of the cage like a sack of genetically modified potatoes. He checked his phone. “Shit, gotta be out in an hour.”

They packed their bags, cleaned the place. Richie had an axe to grind.

“I shoulda kicked that guy’s ass last night,” he said.

“I’m proud of you, Richie.” Molly collected the empties and put them in a trash bag. “You were the bigger man.”

“Ain’t nothin’ fake about what those guys do.”

“You’re right, Richie.”

“Why even show up if you’re just gonna sit on your high horse? Stay at home and read a fuckin’ book.” He wiped the kitchen counter with a paper towel.

“He was there to see the show like everyone else, that’s why, baby. That man’s not better than us,” she said.

“Ain’t nothin’ fake about all that blood and sweat,” he said.

They met by the writer’s desk. Molly brushed her fingers across Richie’s forehead, behind his ear, down his neck. He held her waist. They kissed. “That’s as real as it gets, Richie.”

Beau was driving down I-95, dead insects drying on the windshield. He listened to NPR, an interview with the winner of the Pen/Hemingway Award came on. He turned the radio off. When he looked back up he was veering into the left lane, he swerved hard to the right and nearly went off the highway. His stomach dropped, he gasped, for a split second his eyes lit up like they hadn’t in months, and then he regained control of the car.

Richie’s erection went nowhere. At 12:40 Molly hopped onto the desk for the fifth time, Richie got on his knees, put both hands on the desk, and put his face into her vagina. At 12:44 Molly screamed, she came, nearly strangled him with her legs, her head hit the window. At 12:45 Richie entered her. He wore his new Rey Mysterio shirt, didn’t want to take it off. At 12:49 he let out a war cry and pounded on the window with his fist, he came, he was done, they both were.

“Wow.”

“Holy shit.”

“That was — ”

“Woah.”

“Yeah.”

Richie had collapsed onto the floor, the side of his face rested against the desk, his lips barely touching Molly’s damp, dangling thigh. They were both panting.

“I feel so close to you,” she said.

“Me too.”

The desk was dripping.

They finished packing, stripped the bed and put the used sheets and towels in a pile on the floor. Molly wiped down the desk and put the chair back in place. “What if he knows?”

“How the hell would he know?”

“What if we left something? Some fluids or hairs or some shit?”

“We’re fine, this ain’t CSI.” He met Molly by the desk, gave it a once-over. “It’s fine babe, let’s go.”

“Wait,” Molly said, “the books.” She picked up the books and stacked them on the desk.

At 12:59 they left the apartment. Richie was flaccid.

At 1:08 Beau unlocked the door to his apartment and walked in. The couch looked fine. The bed was stripped, trash taken out, it even looked like the counters had been wiped.

He approached the writer’s desk, paused in front of it, tilted his head. He put his chin in his hand. Took another step towards the desk.

My books are out of order, he thought.

He shrugged, They must be readers, he thought, how nice.

He corrected the order of the books, took a step back and nodded his head.

He placed his laptop on the desk and sat down.

His face changed. He felt a sharp pain in his chest. His phone buzzed, Adrienne was calling, he declined. His legs felt weak, his heart raced.

It’s over, he thought. He saw his reflection in the window, a disgrace. I’m a fraud.

He cried out. No, no, no. Tears welled in his eyes. They streamed down his face, onto the desk, mucus bubbled from his nose and dripped down his lips. He grabbed fistfuls of his hair and pulled, he dug his nails into his scalp and face, he wailed, moaned, growled. He pounded on the desk with his fists.

I have nothing left.

He sensed dread, doom, holy terror.

His heart rate slowed. Suddenly he was short of breath, dizzy. His wailing turned to a quiet whimper, the whimper echoed in his ears and sounded farther and farther away. He tried to focus on the circling dogs but the world around them turned blurry, and then black, he felt the earth spinning, an old man opened the patio door and the dogs ran inside. It began raining outside, storming, it wasn’t in the forecast. His body slumped forward, his head dropped and banged against the desk. His skull and teeth vibrated, his whole body did, he had a metallic taste in his mouth. Lightning struck, an explosion of thunder. The lights went out.

And then, a word. Like a raindrop in the desert, a word came to his head. He opened his eyes and lifted his body off the desk. He typed the word. Another word came, he typed that too. The words kept coming. His muscles all fired at once, neurons fired, they were crackling, his calves seized up, he couldn’t type fast enough. He lost control of his body, expelled words onto the page. He was hard, erect, he swiped the books off the desk. He was panting. He pulled the curtains down, and then his pants, his underwear, he masturbated frantically with his right hand, he opened an internet browser and typed filthy keywords with his left. He felt an orgasm coming, he lunged for something to cum on, anything, he grabbed a piece of printer paper, he came.

He switched back to his document, heaving, his pants still down, still coming, aftershocks still coming, another burst of words, a downpour, dopamine rained down. He moaned. He typed and typed, he mashed his keyboard, smashed it, he couldn’t believe it, rain and wind and branches pounded the window, a biblical storm, he typed until the sun went down and then the sun came back up, nearly sixteen hours he typed, and then he crawled into bed and passed out.

“Beau?” said Adrienne.

“Hi,” said Beau. He put the phone on speaker and sat up in bed.

“Were you sleeping?”

“Uh.”

“It’s four p.m.”

“I was up all night writing. I sent it to you.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m calling about. Did you really write this?”

“What? Yes, of course. What’d you think?”

Beau climbed out of bed. He walked to the windows and opened the curtains. The dogs were still inside. The rain had stopped but the trees were shimmering.

“I guess, um, I’m still processing it.”

Beau said nothing. He scratched his crotch, it was sore.

“Well, I’m really glad to see you’re writing,” she said.

“Yeah, thanks. But what did you think?”

“It’s not what I expected.”

“Sure, I get that.”

“I mean, it’s kind of shocking, you know?”

“So you don’t like it?”

“No! I’m not saying that at all. I really don’t know yet, still trying to process.”

“Okay.” He walked from the bedroom to the kitchen, filled up a glass with tap water.

“I’ll need to read it again. I mean, I might love it. Really not sure yet”

“Okay.” He drank the glass in two large sips, felt the cool water traveling down his throat and into his veins.

“It’s just so unexpected,” she said.

He drank another glass, splashed cold water on his face, made his way back to the writer’s desk and opened his laptop.

“How’d you even come up with this?” she said. “Like, where’d it come from?”

He was typing, typing like mad, masticating the keys, hardly listening to Adrienne.

“You had some weekend in the Berkshires, didn’t you?”

“Huh? Look, I’ve got to go,” he said.

Five Years and Nine Months Later

“Richie, hurry up! We’re gonna be late!”

Richie ran around the house looking for his wallet and keys. The babysitter stood idly by the door, two identical five-year-old boys by her side, screaming, clawing, biting, one hanging off of each leg.

“Wallet’s on the counter,” she said, “Molly’s got the keys.”

“Thanks, Carrie. You’re the fuckin’ best.” He kissed each boy on the head, grabbed his wallet and ran out, he tore the late rent notice from the door and tossed it in the dumpster by the curb. Molly was waiting in the car. He sat in the driver’s seat and stuck the key in the ignition, the engine coughed up gas and hot air, the car kicked into gear and they were on their way.

“So what is this movie anyway?” he said.

“For the fiftieth time,” she said, “The Snakewood Diaries.” She shimmied in her seat.

“Ah, right.” He smirked. “From those sex books you love so much.”

“Richie! They’re not sex books, seriously, they’re so much more. I love those books.”

“So what’s so great about ‘em?”

“I don’t really know how to describe it. It’s like, they really spoke to me, Richie, made me feel things, feel alive. Like, connected.”

Richie stopped at a red light and said nothing.

She leaned over and kissed below his ear. “But the movie is gonna be sexy as hell.”

Richie smiled. He had an erection.

Back in New York, the writer’s desk creaked. The circling dogs were both dead.

Beau was alive.

That’s it. If you’ve actually reached this point, I’d love to hear from you: jasper.nathaniel@gmail.com