Giving Shit

For the rest of the week, Edward Julian Watson did not take phone calls from Amy, and Becki did not make phone calls to him. Edward Julian Watson avoided as many phone calls as he could from his mother. But he knew he could not let that go on forever. He would have to call her tomorrow.
Or his mother might get back on the plane. And then get to his apartment and have the landlord let her inside. "Well, I see you're not dead!" she had accused him. And then she had stayed with him for the next three days and nights and had slept in his bed. And he knew he would have to get a new one after she left or he knew he would never be able to have sex in his room again. When his mother was back home, Edward Julian Watson decided to switch bedrooms too. Just in case.
He did not want to go through that again. He did not feel like moving entirely. Yes, Edward Julian Watson would call his mother tomorrow.
But today he was going to call Amy.
"I was back home at my mother's," he told her.
"Is everything okay?" she asked.
"It is now," he replied.
And they made plans to eat sushi.
And then committed to who-knows-what-else? after that.
Becki couldn't help but wonder about that, when she tried to call Edward Julian Watson that night.

Punks

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. When Daddy came home drunk again on Friday night, she waited in the kitchen playing Solitaire, until she could hear him snoring.
Creeping through the house and then into her parent's bedroom, Minnie knew she would find her father's pants on the floor beside the bed. The glow from the hallway bathroom provided the light for seeing into her his wallet.
Shit. There were no tens.
Oh, well. She took a twenty.

When Tommy saw Minnie on the other side of the glass, his heart leapt into his throat and he was so happy he wanted to cry. He put his hand on the glass and waited for her to put her hand up against his, and when she did not, he sat down.
He picked-up the phone and said to her, "Why haven't you come? Have you been getting my letters?"
She shrugged. Brushed her hair from her eyes and for the first time really looked into his.
"Oh, Minnie. I'm so glad you're here..."
Her eyes were empty of emotion.
"Aren't you happy to see me?" he asked, and then he whisper rushed into her ears, "...Minnie, I love you..."
But nothing changed. Her eyes stayed blank.
"Oh my God, you think I killed her! Please, don’t do that…”" Tommy cried.
And she charged him, "I saw you with her, Tommy. I saw you with her."

Scars Are Souvenirs You Never Lose

Punks

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. But stoned or not; even asleep, Tommy's words would come back to haunt her.

Dear Minnie,
How could you leave me here to rot? How could you not come see me? You must think I did it too. Well, fuck you, Minnie. FUCK YOU!!!!!!
Tommy

She cried and cried everytime she read the letter; and she could do almost nothing else but. She wanted to go see him, but she was too scared.
Climbing through her bedroom window late, Minnie walked the all-night over and over again.
And waited for the next visit from Officer Rialian. He stopped by every other day.

She did not go to school. She stayed in her room and her mother never came down the stairs to notice. She erased the school's messages from the answering machine every day, before her father came home, until the one day, Daddy stayed home and Minnie had to go prentend going to class. And when she came home Daddy was waiting for her, with an envelope in his hand from the school. Thirty days missing. One more day and she would be expelled.
And he hit her.
He hit her.
He hit her.

Her return to school was the news of the week.

in excelsis Deo.

It's winter here again and I don't like it. I should have headed back home years ago; back to the sunny days and the warm basking bodies, but I just stay here year after year instead. I lie to my mother. "Yeah, Mom! I love it here! You should see the polar bears…" and all that other bullshit. Fuck. I really thought it would be cool; that I would get to see some penguins and shit. Well, I haven’t seen a fucking penguin yet. How did I end up here? I mean, what kind of guy just up and says, "Hey! I am gonna move to Canada!" And not just to Canada, but way fucking up north Canada? I am an idiot. I swear it snows eight months of the year up here...

So, I sit at home a lot and there is nothing ever on television anymore. Flick. Flick. Flick. Flick the channels. That’s what I do until I want to swear and yell and throw the remote against the wall. But if I did that I would break the fucking thing and then I would have to stand in front of the TV to flick, flick, flick the fucking channels...And fuck that. It’s bad enough I have to clean the satellite of snow almost every day. At least I do not pay for all this bullshit: reality TV craze and Oprah Winfrey and fucking Anderson Cooper, I steal my satellite signal. Too many bad things are happening. On the TV. In books. In the paper. No one wants to hear about anything else but the bad and then we all sit around bitchin’ and maonin’ and fucking wondering why we aren't happy. Fuck. I am guilty of it too. And then we will all smile at each other, when we would rather scream; never genuine. Yeah. Everybody wants to get good on everybody, but nobody wants to do any of it. Upward and onward, my friends...

Hell. It's like that up here in Canada too. Sure, these good ole boys would take their shirt off their back for you, but no one is paying Peter to feed Paul. Everybody’s greedy everywhere. Even I came up here because they offered me fifty thousand dollars more a year than what I could make anywhere back home. Fifty thousands dollars. I can do a lot with that, I thought. Stupid scholarship student who had forgotten every word they taught him, except the promise of wealth. Fifty thousand dollars more a year don't mean shit. It means even less up here. What the fuck am I gonna spend it on? The fucking bowling alley? No thanks, I'd rather drink alone...

Yeah. So, I stay here. I don't go home for holidays. "I am needed here, Mom! People are fucking freezing to death! A lot of Indians like killing themselves around this time of year!" Happy cheer and a Ho-Ho-Ho. I send her a check for ten thousand dollars every Christmas and I think she would rather have that instead of me home anyway. It pays for her hair and her nails and all that other useless shit my mother likes to do with herself. None of it helps her find a husband...

Up here, there is two kinds of women. Those empty-headed fatties who wear their tops too tight showing off their giant stomach rolls and...it's gross. I know there is nothing better to do but sit around this fucking place, but still...I have standards. The other half are skinny, pale and soulless. Be Marilyn. Be Farrah. Be fucking Paris Hilton. Anyone but yourself. Fake blonde is even dumber than natural blonde, but who the fuck is gonna tell them that? I spent the first five years up here wanting to smack every single one of them; wanting to watch their heads shatter like glass…until I forgave them for doing nothing about who they are; for living the way they do. Realistically, who the fuck wants to be Canadian? Of course, they have to pretend to be something else…

Probably over half of the people up here are on some sort of welfare. It barely covers their rent. Barely gets them that case of beer. No one can afford electricity. So two years back, I am in bed one night, when I start to feel bad that I have all this extra money just sitting around and there are all these sad Canadian people and their pathetic children going without and I start thinking of myself as a would-be hero. I devised a plan. I was gonna be fuckin’ Boogie Woogie Santa Claus! Goddammit. I was going to give-away that extra fifty thousand dollars a year! And it’s the first time I can jerk-off in over a year and a half. And then I go through the records the very next day and I decide that the nine families that have lost a parent to murder or suicide are going to be the recipients of my money. Five thousand, five hundred, fifty-five dollars and fifty five cents. Five is my favorite number…

And I did it too. I gave away all that money away. On Christmas Eve, almost four o’clock in the morning, I was parking my truck on the outskirts of town, so no one would see me sneaking around. I hummed Christmas carols when I could get away with it and went through a few windows to put my envelopes under the tree when I could get away with that too. I felt all the joy forgiveness promises to bring. But with forgiveness also comes sacrifice. I could see her walking into town from half a mile up and I think that I should hide. No one is allowed to see Santa Claus. She doesn’t see me...

And Ang and I are the first on the scene that morning and we are there late into the afternoon before anyone else shows up. Ang brings a thermos of hot chocolate and a thermos of coffee and some Christmas cookies. And I realize that I have brought nothing. I realize she is the only one who ever brings something. I tell her I am sorry for being selfish-Merry Christmas- and she laughs and says, “What? Are you kidding me? You do all the driving”. And I feel better about myself because yes, yes I do do all the driving, even though we’re suppose to take turns. We only look at the girl once when we get there. And we both gag. And then cover up our honesty with lopsided smiles and jokes: “It’s was Kris Kringle,” Ang says. And I tell her, “No, one of Santa’s reindeer.” We laugh, as we head back to sit in the truck. And when the coroner finally comes, he gave us a quarter bottle of his special bourbon and burps out, "Merry Christmas, folks…", and then he clutches his chest when he sees her, straight through to his heart. “Jesus Christ…” He thanks the Lord he is alive…
And you know, I thank Him everyday too. I thank Him for the food on my plate and for the fact I’m alive and the fact some others aren’t…

I tell her all this on the drive into town. A little plump Indian with large brown eyes. I tell her, “This year I gave the money to nine woman who had are being abused by their partners. Maybe they will move away.” She nods her head, “That is a good thing.” And she nods her head again when I tell her, “You know I’m gonna kill you.”

Punks

Dear Minnie,

You didn't come. I wonder why. Maybe because you thought I was going to get out on Tuesday anyway. Is your Mom sick again? I guess by now you know I didn't get out. The judge did't show-up for court and the other one was on vacation or something. My lawyer was freaking mad. He was jumping up and down and stuff. He said "We'll get those fuckers! We're gonna fucking sue!" He's a crazy guy. He gets so excited I swear he is gonna have a heart attack. But he also says for sure I will get out for Monday. They only have proof I was drunk. I want you to come see me on Saturday even though I am getting out on Monday--no matter what. Promise? The guys are cool here and all but I really want to see someone from home. I want to see you.
Did you go to the funeral?

Love,
Tommy

Comfort and Joy

And now it's thirty years later; she's almost 40 and she is lonely and sometimes she shakes her head and she wonders, Why, why, why am I so lonely? And then she remembers why.
It's Daddy. She buried him five years a go. And good.
She showed-up early in the morning and asked the diggers, if she could help. And they let her.
She took off her heels and shoveled dirt till the end.

Back when the summer shone everyday, she would run around or ride her bike, or swim in the lake with her friends, or run into the bush and meet up with Tyler Johnson and she would let him kiss her and she would let his tongue slide around all inside her mouth, or sometimes, she would just hang-out with her brother.
However, he was mean, as brothers can be, and he would do mean things to her- like hold her head under the lake’s water too long or practice his karate moves on her-and she would cry to her Mom, "Make him stop." But she never would.
No one ever listened to her. That's what she thought.

Into the middle of the night, the Christmas lights that covered the Johnson's trailer would shine too, and she could see them from her bunk, at bedtime. She would watch them blink on and off, and sometimes she would squint her eyes, so all the colors would blur together. She loved the lights.
She loved the Johnson's trailer. It was shiny in the daylight too. Mr. Johnson had spray-painted it bright green and yellow and he called it his John Deere. And that would make Daddy snort. He said the only thing Mr. Johnson ever farmed was pot.
But she knew that wasn't true. Drugs were not something good people did.

On Independence Day, there would be a street party and the park would light up, everyone was merry and red. Dancing and laughing. To Bruce Springsteen. The Doors. Duran Duran. Olivia Newton-John.
She thought it was the best time.
Until the year Daddy punched Mr. Johnson in the mouth. It was late, like 10 o'clock and she was tired and she almost did not believe it. But her Daddy did it.
And some of the folks even clapped.

Tyler met her in the woods the next day anyway.
"I'm sorry 'bout what my Daddy did." She did not even say hi.
"It's not your fault," he said. "Your Daddy knocked out one my Daddy's teeth."
And she could feel her body fill with shame. She was gonna cry.
"No-no," he said, grabbing her shoulders. "Don't worry, Emmie. Look at me. He's all excited about gettin' a gold one."
He hugged her.
And that's when they heard, "Get your filthy hands off my daughter.
It happened so fast.
Tyler let go and Daddy rushed him.
And Tyler fell. His head cracked open on a rock
And she couldn't or wouldn't scream.
He grabbed her by the arm, "We gotta walk outta here."
And they did.
And no one ever blamed Daddy.
Not even Mr. Johnson.

Punks

Thursday Afternoon

Dear Minnie,

I have been here for three full days now. The lawyer says he’ll get me out Monday. He’s a pretty cool guy. He goes on about how the cops are the real rats and they’re all corrupt and he tells me we will nail those bastards to the wall. He makes me laugh. It's fucking great. Most of the time I spend playing cards with some of the guys or drawing tats in my cell here. I have given some of my flash to some of the guys here. A few already have some tattoos. Mostly stuff they have done to themselves here. Mostly without color. Mostly terrible. But that's okay. A whole bunch of the them said they would come see me to have them covered up when I set up shop. If they all show-up, I have figured out I’ll make 6000 dollars so far. That's fucking awesome. I can't wait until I am old enough to apprentice. Birdie says she'll teach me, but she doesn't think I will want to do it for very long. Says I will probably give up. Don't you think she's crazy? Old people forget about destiny, I think. I do not know why I am writing about all the stuff I’ll just be telling you on Saturday. Just excited about it, I guess. It's not too bad here in the joint really. Someone cooks me three meals a day. And I get a clean jump suit everyday. They are orange. You would probably love them. The guys told me not to drink the coffee here cuz the guards like to piss in it, but I do not like the shit anyway. I'd rather be drinking something else. The worst thing is I can't smoke in here. I want one all the time. I will probably tug out all my hair before I get out. I'm not joking. There is some weird Mormon kid with big ears in here. Some of the guys says he's here for fucking a sheep. I am not sure I believe that. But the kid is pretty creepy. All pale and stuff. There's two black kids with AIDS here too. I wish you could see them, Minnie. But this is no place for a girl. I never want to see you here. No, that is not true. I DO want to see you on Saturday. I just mean I never want you to have to come here as a prisoner. I am not gonna be coming back here either. I miss outside. They do not let us out here. I guess I miss that even more than i do a smoke.
They're starting to let kids outta their cells for supper so I gotta go.
I meant what I said in the park that night.

Tommy

Giving Shit

Edward Julian Watson was feeling rather numb. It had been a long, rainy drive home from his mother's house. The night before had been long, lying awake, in his old room. And Edward Julian Watson also had not eaten anything, since shoving his face full of Double Big Macs from McDonalds the evening before, an hour after getting out of jail.
And now it was evening again.
All of this combined contributed greatly to the numbness Edward Julian Watson was feeling. But his brain was contributing more.
He made grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, but even standing over the hot stove did not take the numbness out of his bones, let alone his mind.

Becki was feeling rather numb too. It was not her mother's mention, during dinner, of, "You look pale tonight, dear. Are you coming down with something?" that made her aware of the numbness she was experiencing, but it was not happening because she was becoming ill.
She knew that putting Edward Julian Watson in jail had been too much.
And she was also feeling terribly frozen because Edward Julian Watson had found her last night, after she left her mother’s house and he had followed behind her, in his car, almost all the way back to her home. Screaming at her. Becki was starting to wonder if Edward Julian Watson was the ill one.
Becki hoped that he would call her. She did not have enough nerve to call him.
Passed-out drunk from Ms. Johnson’s rum, Becki stopped feeling numb around 7 o'clock Tuesday morning. The headache was terrible.

He called her three days later.
"Well, do you have something to say?" He said, not even bothering with hello.
She countered, "Like what, Edward?"
"Like how about I'm sooooory..." Indignation rose in Edward Julian Watson's voice.
It was the wrong thing to say.
"What do you want me to be sorry about, Edward?"
"You know what, Becki. I could have been having an emergency. A car-accident or something-"
"It could have been the case, Edward" Becki was agreeable, "but we both know it was not."
"I have you figured out, Becki. I understand you.. You're jealous. I know you want to marry me and-"
"I want to marry you? I am jealous of…-?" Becki asked
"Yes, you want to marry-"
The calmness of her voice suddenly surprised them both. "I want to marry you, Edward?.....Are you fucking kidding me ?"
When Edward Julian Watson did not answer her quick enough, Becki hung-up the phone on him.


And Edward Julian Watson knew a few minutes later that he had approached the conversation in completely the wrong manner. But because she had not said sorry to him, he was not going to call her back after she had hung-up on him.
So then Edward Julian Watson got back on to thinking, ’Well, what if there had been a car accident... or something?’, until he caught Orange looking at him. The kitten was sitting inside one of his running shoes. That's when Edward Julian Watson realized he wasn't feeling numb anymore. Because that’s when Edward Julian Watson simultaneously realized that Becki probably wouldn't care if he died in an accident...or something and that Orange was not sitting in his shoe, he was pissing in it.

The Slush-Pile Reader

Daryl wanted to touch Marissa's boobs. “I am gonna have to let him soon,” she told Miguel. “I have been his girlfriend for 2 months now.”
Miguel told her, “I think that’s gross.”
But Marissa did not care much about what Miguel thought. She stuffed her training bra with socks and she made him lay down on the bed beside her anyway. And he obeyed his older sister because knew she could kick the shit outta him and no one was home to save him.
“Touch my boobs,” she demanded. And when he did, his sister started making low moaning sounds. Miguel did not know why she was doing that, but it made his penis hard, and although his penis had been hard lots of times before, this was infinitely more exciting.
After that, whenever the parents were not home, it would always be time to ‘practice’. It was not long before Marissa was making him touch and lick her real boobies. It felt good to press himself against her body, while she was writhed her own beneath him. It lasted for half a year, but then it was done, his sister never made him touch her again. And Miguel missed touching her terribly. But he never told her that.

Every now and then, Miguel's father would let him come downstairs to hideout. They would watch wrestling, on the television, without any of the women yapping around them. Sometimes they would play a few games of pool, and sometimes, Miguel's father would let him have a beer. Or two.
Miguel liked it when his father would go upstairs, to use the washroom, because Miguel could play with the ashtray that sat on the bar and not get caught. It was the image of a man; a Budweiser can for a body. The ashtray was worn as headdress that reminded Miguel of what Julius Caesar would have worn. When you lifted the ashtray off, presumably to clean it out, the can of beer would rise up and a large red penis would pop from out from underneath it. Miguel could lift off the ashtray over and over again and always want to laugh, but sometimes he would wonder why the penis was so red.
Miguel liked it better when his father would go upstairs, to answer the telephone, because he knew his father kept his dirty magazines underneath the sofa. Often he would see them spilling out from the sides. Miguel was twelve and a half years old the first time he took one his father’s magazines. He would hide them under his shirt, inside the waistband of his jogging pants, his jeans, and once his leather pants. He would look at the pictures; by candle-light, late at night, in his bedroom, and he would remember ‘practicing’ with his sister, his fingers touching the glossy images of boobs. He liked the centerfolds best. The larger the boobs, the more of his hand he could use. Carefully; he did not want to rip the pages of the magazine. He did not want to get caught.
And because Miguel could read as well, he soon learned how to pleasure himself too.

Daryl broke-up with Marissa and she had spent the next three months crying and eating and locking herself in her room. “Leave me alone…just leave me alone…” she had moaned through the door, and for the most part, everyone would. She stopped going to school and after a few weeks of phone calls from the secretary, the principal and her history teacher, even they became willing to accept her request. But finally, the parents had enough of Marissa and her ‘attitude’. They enrolled her in fat camp.
Miguel got to stay home, instead of going with them, on the long ride to drop her off. And after an hour of being alone, Miguel ventured downstairs to the magazines. And an hour after that he found his father's pornographic videos. He set the alarm on his wristwatch. Then he hit rewind and play all day.
Her jerked off twenty-seven times, in just under 11 hours. He could not get off more than 9 times. He wondered what was the wrong with him. Miguel did not know yet that this was an amazing feat, nor did he realize the implications this would have later in his life. But he did know pain the next morning, he doubled over getting out of bed and looking down at his red penis, while he peed, he realized he and the beercan-ashtray man were idiots.

By the time Miguel was sixteen, he had his own modest assortment of pornographic material. His best friend, Fernando, had connections and money. Enough money that he hired Miguel to do drops for him. And Miguel was happily paid with porn and little bits of coke. Fernando’s nickname was Gopher. It should have been Hustler. Fernando was a good friend.
Most drops Miguel made were to women. It didn’t matter most of them were fat and older than him. They liked to share their weed and they were the girls with the biggest tits anyway. And Miguel liked doing things with tits. Grabbing them, shaking them, sucking them, rubbin’ his motherfucking face in them. And maybe it was just because those ladies were holed-up too long getting horny waiting for Daddy to come home and help feed these three damn children; but he didn’t care; he was getting to touch a lot of tit.
Sasha was the first one to let him tittie-fuck her. She was tall and black with a big, fat ass and belly rolls and a mountain of boobs. The first night he made a drop there, she had rubbed his head in her cleavage when she hugged him good-bye. Miguel had an erection for the walk four miles home. The next time he dropped her dope to her, they fucked and this worked well for the both of them for the next six months. One night, about three months in, she made the offer. It excited him. He would never have the nerve to ask for this, although he had been masturbating to the images for 3 years. He ejaculated all over her face and all into her hair, and she screamed; so angry and offended. “I am not a piece of shit, ya know?” she cried. And he had calmed her down because he knew she wasn’t, but he was really confused about why she did not like it. It was certainly not the reaction he got when he entered the porno business himself two years later though, through Fernando's connections. They asked “Lucky Rodriguez’ to do it and he did and they all likedit. He could pop quick and often. Tittie-fucking became his money shot.

Exit

Sitting in the back of the car, Tommy was sad Barbara would not allow him to get a dog. He had wanted one so bad. For so many years.
The world rolled by fast, as Dave drove down country back roads and the fields of corn sure were boring for Tommy. So he asked, "Why are all of us dressed in white?"
"It's Sunday; it’s God's Day. White represents the cleanliness that He wants us to live our lives with."
"Oh," said Tommy.
"And white clothes also keep us cool on terrible days such as today," she continued, and then to her husband, Dave, "If we put the top up, we can put on the air."
Dave laughed and reached over to pat her leg, but otherwise, ignored her.
"What does the color green mean, Barbara?" Tommy had picked his nose and was looking at a booger.

It was too hot in the church, so some of the boys had brought the long wooden pews outside and set them up along the side of the church. Most churches Tommy had been to were boring, but Tommy had never sat outside for a service, so he was a little excited. They seats were set-up right beside a river and birds were chirping everywhere and Tommy started wishing he had a gun cause then he would shoot a few, so he tugged on Barbara's hand and asked for one of those.
"I'll teach you what to hunt, Tommy." Dave laughed, thinking it was a good idea.
"Right on!" Tommy was exclaiming, as they were taking seats in the back row.
"I am glad I brought my hat today," Barbara was complaining.
And that is when Tommy noticed everything was different at this church. First off, everyone was black. And they kept popping out of their seats to clap their hands and sing. And the Preacher! He would run around everywhere, up and down and all around the congregation. Tommy could not help it. He did what they did.
"It's a mighty fine day, today. Oh, yes, it is! Our Lord gave us this day!" The Preacher was yelling. "A nice day for the water to cleanse our souls! Come and take a dip with Jesus. Won't you come?" He was looking at right at Tommy.
And oh, boy, Tommy was coming! This church was awesome! He couldn't believe they let you go swimming.
"The smell of that water will never come out of your clothes." Barbara grabbed Tommy by the back of his collar.

After church, Dave decided they would stop at McDonalds for French fries, but Barbara would not let Tommy use any ketchup on them. "Not in those clothes."
And Barbara added, "The first thing you do, when we get to the house, is move your butt to your room and get them off."
Remembering Barbara's words, Tommy was out the car door fast, when they arrived home. He heard Barbara say to Dave, "Can you believe the nerve of that preacher?"
"I think he's cool," Tommy paused to say through window, before running towards the house. He tossed over his shoulder, “I'm a quarter black."
"You mean a quarterback," Dave yelled out, correcting him.
And Tommy stopped to turn around for a second. He shook his head. "Nope. My Momma told me so all the time."
Dave and Barbara sent Tommy back to the State.

Giving Shit

Later on, Edward Julian Watson was sitting in a jail cell and the local police force was ignoring his pleas to use the telephone again. He had tried to use it several times, but when he had picked up the receiver, there was no way in hell he could bring himself to dial his mother's phone number. Edward Julian Watson should have just called a lawyer.
Because now he was in a honest state of crazy. He jumped up from the bed and went to the bars. “Come on, guys. Let me make a call! You know I haven’t yet!”
And the officers in the lunch room laughed. They had been laughing at him for the past three hours.
"Everybody sucks! You’re all jerks!" Edward Julian Watson.
Jimmy popped his head out the door and yelled, "Shut-up, tough guy, or I'm gonna go arrest me some bikers to throw in there with you!"
Edward Julian Watson sat down, cross-legged on the floor and thought about smashing his head off the floor. It was almost lunchtime. Maybe he would go on a hunger strike. Maybe he was gonna sue the badge right off that stupid nigger cop too...
Nobody offered Edward Julian Watson lunch.
But they finally did let him the chance to make another phone call. An hour and half after he had shut his mouth.
And Edward Julian Watson called for Becki.
"You did this to me. Now you need to get over here and make them let me outta here. Hurry, Becki."
And Becki replied, "I do not know what to tell you, Edward. I really don’t want to."
And Edward Julian Watson hissed into the phone. "Quit acting like a mother-fucking princess and get your ass down here now, Becki. This is not funny anymore."
And Becki knew it was not. But her senses were offended by his hash words. Becki said nothing.
"Becki...are you still there? Becki...Becki....oh, do not have hung-up! Oh, jesus..."
And she could not help but laugh at his anxiety.
"Come on, Becki," he said, "I have to go home and feed Orange." He knew it work.
Becki walked six blocks over and Jimmy let Edward Julian Watson out of jail. But she did not stay at the police station and when Edward Julian Watson figured this out, he drove the side roads that took her to her home. But he never found her.
So Edward Julian Watson went to his mother’s and spent the night.

Giving Shit

Edward Julian Watson arrived to pick-up Becki at 10 p.m. He was supposed to be there between 2 and 3 in the afternoon.
At 8 o'clock that evening, Becki had told Ms. Johnson, "Just tell him I went out."
And Ms Johnson did as requested, always willing to keep her tenants satisfied.
"Sorry, sir, but Becki is out," she informed Edward Julian Watson.
"If you just let me go up and knock the door to her room, I know she is home," he wanted to convince.
But Ms. Johnson just shook her head at him. "I'm sorry, sir. There are no visitors in the rooms after 9 p.m."
"But you see, she is spending the weekend with me. This is how I know she is not out." Edward Julian Watson was becoming indignant.
"Oh, no, sir. Becki went out with a nice boy tonight. His Daddy is a banker and his shoes and his hair were so shiny. Oh, and so was his smile! He dresses real well too. Appropriate. Not like yourself, sir. Can I ask why you wearing a black man's shirt?"
"I-" Edward Julian Watson began and then said loudly, "She's ignoring me! I know she is! She does this!"
"No, sir," Ms. Johnson assured. "Tonight Becki went out with a nice boy. Clear outta here." And she closed the front door on Edward Julian Watson's nose.
Becki had been listening from the top of the stairs, chewing off her pink nail polish and her eyes had been growing damp. She knew Ms. Johnson was telling the story of what she hoped for Becki's future.
Becki was feeling love for Ms. Johnson.
Even if it was her Mother's vision too.
And Edward Julian Watson, well, he was making his way back out to his car. He was swearing and he up for a fight. He wasn't clearing the hell outta anywhere.

It was such a sunny morning and when Ms. Johnson pointed towards the window, Becki could not see out it at first, even though she barely opened the curtain.
But yes, she finally saw him. There was Edward.
"I noticed he was still out there about 3 in the mornin'. Scared me a bit and thought I'd get out the shotgun, 'til I noticed he's sleeping."
"He still is." Becki affirmed and after a pause, "Ms. Johnson, let's call Jimmy."
And Jimmy smiled through the telephone. "Why Ms. Johnson, you know I'd do anything for you. Even leave church on a Sunday. Let me talk to the girl."
Then Jimmy put on his hat and kissed his wife and left. He parked his car a house down from Ms. Johnson's. He made big displays about sneaking up the driveway and over to the car because he knew Ms. Johnson was watching him. Both women were and they were giggling. Becki covered her mouth with her hand.
Jimmy made monkey faces at Edward Julian Watson, before he knocked on the window and waited for him to wake-up and roll it down.
"May I see your license, sir?" Jimmy asked.
And Edward Julian Watson was already fumbling into the back pocket of his pants, before the words were out and he handed the card over.
"Have you been here sleeping in your car, since last night, sir?"
"Yes, but-"
"Haven't ya been here long enough now, sir?"
"No.-"
"Yes."
"No," Edward Julian Watson was going to explain. "I have driven from-"
"Sir, you cannot stay here any longer."
"Yes, I have come here to see-"
"It does not matter, sir. Time to clear outta here." And Jimmy rapped his knuckles on the roof of the car.
"She is ignoring me! I know she is! She does this!" An excitable Edward Julian Watson.
"Sir, can you get out of the car, please?"
And Edward Julian Watson did what he was told. Instead of just agreeing to go.
And slap went the cuffs and Edward Julian Watson thought, ... what the fuck- and Jimmy was whispering in his ear, "You got a real nice car here, sir. Too bad Leroy'll be comin' to tow it."
Jimmy was laughing.
And Edward Julian Watson was yelling, "WHAT?!?! WHAT?!?"
And the police officer asked, "Sir, do you want to calm down and get the hell outta here now or not?"
And Edward Julian Watson, he said, "No."

Punks-Big Mistake

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high. Mostly with other people. But that had not been happening too much lately.
There is no Tommy. There is no Krystal. There is no one who wants to know her.
Except Billiy-Boy. Always fucking Billy-Boy.
And Phillip.
And Phillip is so popular. And he is so blonde and blue eyed.
He says he will talk to her in front of others--but he doesn't; at Minnie's request.
He really wants to walk her home at night.

It surprises Minnie how much you can get to know when people claim you as invisible. She hears a lot of conversations these days.
"I bought some new lipstick..."
"That Susan Howe makes me so mad..."
"I love Patrick sooo much..."
"I love the colour. It's great, right?"
"I am gonna punch her in the face, I swear."
"I just know he is going to ask meee out."
Melaine, Sandra and Nancy; smoking, in a circle of self-interest.
And she hears Phillip isn't asking anyone out. No one at school thinks he's a fag.
"He fingered me once...like a year a go..."
"He's hot. I'd fuck him..."
"He probably has a girlfriend in Toronto. Or Paris or somewhere..."
"...A fashion model in New York City!"
and
"That's the best muthafucka out on the field. My boy!" High Five.
It was always good news about Phillip.
He doesn't deserve it. To be asociated with her.
So, when he says, "Minnie, I promise I love you...", she just kisses him or grabs his dick--whatever will shut him up the quickest.
Nobody ever says anything bad about Tommy either.

Bridging

Samantha always hated going to church. 'Thou shall not this' and 'Thou shall not that'. She felt it was pointless to be told not to do what she wouldn't do anyway. And since she turned 13 and officially too old for Sunday school, there was no escaping Reverend Patrick's rants. His very long, very loud, two-hour rants.
Not that Sunday school had really been any better. Everyone was loud there too. Poor Mrs. Chute’s voice was so high-pitched, when she yelled "Quiet!", she just blended in with the screaming kids. Samantha felt bad for her, so she hid in a corner pretending to read her Bible; a pocket-sized copy of Huckleberry Finn or The Swiss Family Robinson tucked neatly inside, while the other kids ran dizzy around the room wearing the plump, little woman out. Mrs. Chute also came to teach religion class twice a month at the school. Mostly she would teach songs and read the stories she was never able to during Sundays' classes.

At home, Samantha read other things. Things she would not bring into a church out of respect. If her parents were home, Samantha would read her school books. One time, she had been in her sister's room and found a dirty magazine filled with naked pictures of women and stories sent in by the 'readers'. After reading three of the tales, she deemed them trash. She had put the magazine back where she found it. She would never rat her sister out for anything.
But she had let Krystal know anyway. "I see you have been reading."
And Krystal had let her know too. "So what, Miss Prissy? I will tell Mom and Dad you sneak out every night to the library. Who's ass will they be burning then?"

When Samatha was twelve, she asked Tommy, "Don't ya think it is creepy...? cremation...? burning yourself like that?"
"No, I like fire," Tommy had replied. "I think I'll do it when I die."
And Samantha had been horrified. She said to Tommy, "It reminds me of....Hell."
"I'm a hellraiser, Sammy. I might as well get used to the burnin' a bit before I get there." And Tommy liked the sound of what he said. He filed it away to use again and again. It creeped out the other kids too.
But he drew the pictures for Samantha. Jesus Christ on his cross and burning flames surrounding him.
She told him, "I think Jesus was black."
But Tommy thought they would make real cool tattoos.

No Sugar Tonight

Sissy threw her cereal around the kitchen from her highchair. Milk and Cheerios hitting the kitchen cabinets, before sliding to the floor.
"I want a cookie, Tommy, I want a cookie," she wailed over and over again.
But Tommy was late and he did not answer her. Instead, he wheeled the highchair into the living room and flipped on the television; finding a cartoon.
"Let Momma sleep awhile," he warned his little sister. Momma was still asleep on the couch.
"O-tay, Tommy," she replied, and Tommy reached over and took the two-dollar bill that was on the coffee table, and he ran out the front door and to school.

The big green doors of the school were pretty big compared to Tommy. He looked up at them and then down to himself reflected in the dark glass.
Maybe I won't go to school today.
Tommy had thought this before. Sometimes as a daydreams and sometimes as bed dreams and sometimes at times like these.
Tommy hated walking into class late. Everybody staring at him.
Everybody knew mothers were supposed to wake-up.
Everybody knew if you were late to class it was because your mother didn't.
The kids hated him.
His teacher pitied him.
And Tommy knew it.

Tommy decided he would go to the arcade. He didn't think to hide from people. Instead he ran to the arcade, and it was probably because he was running that no one noticed him. Tommy was the fastest kid alive. He could even beat a cheetah.
Tommy caught his breath
He looked up and the fat guy behind the counter was staring at him.
"Whadaya doing here, kid?"
And Tommy thought the guy was nuts for asking, but he answered him anyway. "I come to play video games, sir."
"Yer not supposed to be here," he sounded angry. "Yer supposed to be at school."
And Tommy conceded, "Yeah, but it ain't like this is habit or anything."
And Joe thought that was a good point, so he didn't call anyone to tell them about the boy.
Instead, he introduced the kid as 'my friend, Tommy' to all the men that came in to play pool that day. And he let him sweep the floors for more quarters. And he fed him Slushies all day long. And because Joe had kids himself, he knew when to shout, "Tommy, school's out!"
Tommy gave up the racing game he was playing immediately and he was sad, but he hurried towards the front of the arcade.
He felt obliged to say something to Joe. He said, "Thank you, sir. I had a really good time."
And Joe wanted to smile, but instead he pointed at the boy and said in his meanest, nastiest voice, "I don't wanna see you back here for at least a month, kid."
And Joe scared Tommy a little bit, so he turned, yelling, "Yes, sir!" as he ran out the door.

Giving Shit

She could not smell the gin.
She could not taste the gin.
She could feel the gin and the slow burn down to her belly every time she took a swallow.
She looked around the room and noticed her half-read Emily Bronte. She wanted to be like her.
Just like a man.
Maybe, if she were just like a man, maybe then she could forgive herself for wanting to do this. For allowing her heart to be part of this.
And then she threw out the thought completely. Stupid, men are always right; therefore, never in need of forgiveness...
“What is the matter with you?” Her mother asked her twice through dinner and Becki had been Emily Bronte then. Stone-faced, she had stone-walled her mother’s questions and asked others.
“Mother, are those new shoes?”

Edward Julian Watson had let the cold water run hard and fast earlier, so he could make juice, and now much later, he was trying to fix the kitchen faucet. The big drops of wet that had continued to hit the sink, interupted his reading now, but had not bothered him, in the least, on his way out the door for a run. Or when he returned home and watched Conan the Barbarian for the second time that day.
Looking into the living room, he noticed Orange sitting atop his copy of The International Jew.
"You better not be pissing on that, Orange!" He yelled into the next room. "I'm reading that!"
But Orange did not respond to him. Did not even look his way.
And Edward Julian Watson did not know how to fix a faucet.
So he lined the sink with a whole roll of paper towel.
He said, “Take that, bitch!”
And the sink did not respond either.
Edward Julian Watson went back to his reading.

It was a miracle she could still stand on her feet. Working all day long at the bookstore, and then walking all the way to mother's and then to her home. And with all this drinking...What was she thinking?
She was not thinking about being in Chicago; midnight the next night.
She was thinking: Maybe Mzzz. Johnson would like a drink.
So she grabbed her bottle and went downstairs to the porch.
And they laughed and they drank and she cried.
But she woke-up Friday feeling fine.

And Edward Julian Watson was feeling fine too. Styling and smiling in the hallway mirror, he snapped his fingers, before pointing at himself.
Edward Julian Watson was wearing a yellow and purple-striped golf shirt.
And he and Amy were having breakfast together.
And breakfast turned into lunch.

Not The End

As the tears dripped down her cheeks, she looked up to find Tommy standing over her, with his hands held securely at his sides.
She could see that one fist was more bulged than the other, and before she had time to think of the trouble, he stabbed her in the chest, taking the baby, while she and the pillow fell to the floor.
There was no crying, and no gasping for air, only running out into the cold January air where Tommy slipped on the ice, landing on the same knife he just stabbed her with.
The baby could never withstand the cold, she knew this, when she looked through the window. He was only wearing his diaper and undershirt and the wind was whipping.
She turned on the outdoor light, watching Tommy for the next hour, to make sure he was still breathing.
He had stabbed clean through her left tit. No real damage done.
When the rain started coming, thick with frozen ice, she turned it off and went to bed.
She set her alarm for 4:30 in the morning.
And Tommy was easy to wake-up then, and the baby was blue then.
Inside, she drapped their bedroom blanket over his shoulders and sat down beside him.
"So,how we gonna get rid of it, Tommy?" She pointed to the playpen, where she had put the baby.
Tommy started to cry.
And Tommy started thinking. Where...?

by
jessy & Queenie

Again

I feel lonely. She thought it to herself for the 100th time that day. Even amongst the stuff of others. The stuff she would trip over. The stuff in every freaking corner. Even amongst their mutters and moans, their words, their letters. Alone.
She rationalized. She generalized. Of course, everyone secretly feels this way.
Of course, they do.

Tommy didn't pay his half of the rent again yesterday.
Of course not. She saw it coming, watching him pretending it was not.
He tried to give her 100 dollars.
"Way to go, Mr. Coporate Confrence-Call."
She was disgusted with him. With herself. She had seen it coming.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away...
She remembers the chanting voice of her first grade teacher. Mrs. McDonald. She was so old and she would move around the classroom so fast. She would go home and ask her grandparents why they did not.
She believed in that little rhyme.
She knew she was human. She knew she had to eat. And she hated the doctor.

Tommy said to her, "I could turn blue talking to you and you would still not listen."
And when she looked at him, it only confirmed the obvious.
"Get out of this house."

Daddy used to bang his fist on the dining room table and boy, it would scare the hell out of her. It was heart-stopping, scary shit.
Do you know how much fucking money the roof over your heads cost?
Do you?
Do you?
Do you?
She learned quickly to never look up. Daddy's mouth was so large. And his stained teeth were long and menacing. He looked like the wolf that ate Little Red Riding Hood's granny.
It was just smarter to keep an eye on his fist, so at least you could see when it was coming your way.

For a long time, Tommy sat in the couch, instead of leaving.
"Let's go for a drive."
"No."
"Let's go for a drive."
"No."
"I am going for a drive," he said.
And he did.
And when Tommy came home, he went upstairs to sleep, while she sat on the couch staring at the blank teleivison screen.
Because there was no cable.

She would pick up the baby when he cried. But he did nothing to elevate her loneliness. This mindless, drooling thing.
She would walk around the house holding him.
When she kicked one of Tommy's shoes across the kitchen floor, the sudden movement made the baby spit up; some of it landing on her retreating foot.
She took him over to the couch and when she was done changing him; she placed a pillow over his face.
But that is not how she killed the baby.