Giving Shit

One day, Edward Julian Watson had on a yellow dress shirt only; he had not done up the buttons on the cuffs yet and this is what Edward Julian Watson noticed, while standing in his yellow bathroom, looking into the mirror, that was above his bathroom sink.
Of course, what Edward Julian Watson noticed was not noticed at first. In fact, Edward Julian Watson almost looked away from the mirror; but when his eyes snapped back upon the reflection of himself; those eyes widened; so wide were the whites.
And yes, Edward Julian Watson's hand did indeed grip the edge of the sink, as he leaned forward and perched his puckered pinched fingers to his hairline.
Edward Julian Watson was wondering if he should be fainting.
Because his heart was pounding very fast and wanted to leap from his chest.
Edward Julian Watson was scared.
Because Edward Julian Watson noticed he was going bald. He just knew it.
So, he did not touch his hair, not even with the very tips of his fingers. Instead, Edward Julian Watson stood up straight and took a long, stiff look in the mirror, at his head. His hair.
I am sexy, he thought.
Not for long now, Bozo, Edward Julian Watson's thoughts answered themselves.
So, Edward Julian Watson decided to look down at his nipples.
But, he just had to look back up to his head. His hair.
And that is when Edward Julian Watson become aware of the fear in his eyes.
“Snap out of it,” Edward Julian Watson said out loud, but he was still paranoid, when he walked out of his front door ten minutes later.
Edward Julian Watson decided he better shave his moustache.
What? You want to lose more hair?
Shut-up,, Edward Julian Watson strangled his thoughts.

Becki stood in front of the mirror in her yellow room. Becki was wearing a green dress. She was happy.
It was probably because her hair looked nice.
It almost always did. It had taken her years to perfect how to do so. And Becki could do so in many different styles, to boot.
I am not empty headed,to herself, without defiance.
Becki was having dinner with her Mother. In less than half an hour, she would have to be there.
Becki had purchased her Mother a lovely bouquet of daffodils, on her way home from work. These flowers were waiting paitently on the wooden stand that was beside her door. They were wrapped in pink paper; green stems poking out from the bottom.
Becki smiled one last time in the mirror.
Prouder than peaches of herself.
Because her lipstick looked great, too.
Becki picked the yellow blooms up carefully on her way out. She was not wearing a coat, as she walked down the back stairwell and out into the early April evening. Quietly.

Edward Julian Watson adjusted his yellow tie.
The white banner above the entrance of the Glenwood Community Centre said Saturday Night Singles Dance in red lettering.
Edward Julian Watson licked his teeth and stepped inside the glass doors; Eric Clapton's guitar filling his ears. Edward Julian Watson scanned the dimly lit room for a green dress.
Edward Julian Watson would worry about his hair tomorrow.

The Red Envelope

February 14th

Dear Tommy,

You asked me once about God. About what I thought.
I said, "Who the fuck knows?"
Then we kissed. We were in Krystal's backyard.
But I know that is not what I was really thinking. I always think the same thing, when I hear the word god.
I was probably four years old and we were standing on the front lawn. Me and Mom and Daddy and there was other people, too. Two others. I do not know who. But, I was wearing a purple dress that day, pretty and pale and down to my knees.
I had in my hands the most beautiful heart, cardboard; something I had cut out myself. I had painted it red. It was for my Uncle Garth.
I liked looking at it and paid no attention to the grown-ups.
It started to rain. On my heart. So, I looked up. The sky was full of huge, grey clouds. It was dark suddenly, just like it was going to be nighttime soon and I had not even had my lunch yet.
And the rain would wreck my heart.
I told my Daddy that I wanted to go inside.
I know I told him three times.
I remember looking back up desperately at the sky. I just wanted it to stop raining.
But the clouds had started to roll; moving fast from all directions, towards the middle of....what? I did not know.
"Daddy," I shrieked, pointing at the sky. "What's that? Daddy! What's that in the sky?"
"It's God," he said, and he laughed and then he said, "Let's go inside."
But I knew Daddy was wrong, as I watched the sky, while we walked up the porch stairs. I clutched hard to the red heart in my hand. I was crying, silent, fast tears because I was scared of what the clouds might do.
Because I knew the clouds were not God.
Tommy, clouds have minds of their own.
Of course, they do. God lets people make choices, right? And God created everything. And God loves everything. So, then God would love everything enough to let everything be able to makes its own choices, right?

Who the fuck knows?

I miss you.

Anarchy Forever,
Minnie

Punks-In June

Minnie was 14. She liked wearing bright red lipstick and getting high.
She was walking down the hallway, to meet Krystal at her locker. They were going to the pizza shop for lunchtime.
Tommy was lounging against Mick's locker and their eyes met.
But Tommy looked away.
Minnie was getting used to that.
"Tommy," she said, deciding; she walked towards him and Tommy pretended to ignore her.
"Tommy," she said, again. "I got you something."
And she stood in front of him, reaching inside her blue binder; rainbow stickers and pot leaves on a background of magic-markered lines. The words THE WALL scribbled in the middle.
She handed him the worn, red envelope. Tommy took it from her, without looking at her.
Until she was walking away.
And then Tommy shook his head.
He sighed.
That girl never, ever looked back.

Minnie could tell Krystal was really excited.
"I think Mick wants to get back together. He asked me after math if I would spend lunchtime with him. You don't care, right?" Krystal snapped the bubble she blew with her purple gum between her teeth.
Minnie rolled her eyes.

Minnie stood behind the school, in the teacher's parking lot; her back up against the wall; light blue winter coat wrapped tightly to her shoulders. The teachers would never say anything to her, when they saw her smoking there.
She reasoned the teachers were scared to even talk to her.
The teachers were just happy that Minnie hid her filth.
She was happy; not spending the lunch hour with. Krystal.
She traced her sneakered foot in the springtime dust. Minnie missed Tommy. Three months was a long time not to talk to somebody.
The wind blew her hair in front of her eyes; keeping them warm.
She saw Tommy come around the corner, with his head down. He stopped with his back turned to her, next to Mr. Perry’s red Camero. Black pinstripes.
Tommy did not throw away the envelope. After he had finished reading what was inside, he tucked everything into his back pocket. Then he walked away.
Tommy did not notice Minnie.

Her bedroom was dark because nothing lit it. Minnie was sad and wanted to cry.
So, she got high.
But Minnie still wanted to cry.
Then phone rang.
Her whole body jumped.
Her heart.
Her tongue.
It was 9:58 p.m.
Tommy...
An into the red phone she did not have to reach for, Minnie said, "Hello."
"Hey," Mick said, back.
"What do you want?" Minnie sighed, slumping in her disappointment.
"Some lovin', baby," he laughed.
"Fuck off, Mick. What do you really want?"
"I am being serious, Minnie. Krystal did not put out."
"You musta really fucked-up," Minnie answered him; could not help but snicker at him.
"No, Bobby bought her a bracelet," Mick gave a short laugh.
"Oh," Minnie said; she stopped smiling.
"So, come on, Minnie. Can you come over?"
"No, Mick. I told you we would not be doing that anymore," she said.
"Come on, Minnie," he used his little-boy voice.
"No," Minnie said into the phone.
The silence lasted but seconds.
"Tommy ain't calling you tonight, stupid," Mick said, snidely, into the phone, before he hung up.

Momma

Sunday

She sat on the edge of her bed and looked at her bare feet, her cold feet. The nylon scratched all her skin, when she inched the panty hose up her leg.
It was summer.
And Momma was tired.
She stood and put on the navy dress. The one with the white collar.
The only dress that owned a hanger.
... and white shoes look best, she thought; not even aware she had.

Tommy was waiting, sitting on the front porch. He looked uncomfortable in his brown corduroys and white shirt. Momma thought he looked like an angel.
"You look like an angel, Tommy," she told him, too.
"Why are we going over there?" Tommy demanded; chin slamming into his palms and elbows on knees.
"Because we have to," she replied.
"No one is even there. Why do I have to go with you?"
In case I get caught, she answered Tommy; and only to herself.

She could feel the itch and trickle of sweat down her back. A bare hot leaving her skin scratched more. The sun; bald and white. The heat of the sidewalk burned through her shoes and disagreed with her soles, as they walked along. Tommy trudging three steps behind her, until now.
Now he was walking beside her and staring at her.
"Sometimes, I pretend my tongue is a hammer and I can bash out my own teeth with it," he said.
And Momma wanted to tell him what a wonderful idea that was, but it did not seem like a train of thought she should encourage.
Instead, she tapped her tongue against her teeth.
Then she looked back over at Tommy. He was looking straight ahead. He was breathing out of his mouth like an animal. Then she noticed that she was doing it, too.
"You know they are at church, Momma," Tommy insisted, turning his head back towards her.

The blast of cool air, when they walked in the side door of the house hit Tommy's arms. Reminded them to sweat.
He followed Momma up the three steps into Aunt Lynn's kitchen.
He saw Grandma's egg holder sitting beside the sink. Every morning she had an egg. Every morning. Grandma told him all the time.

A pound of hamburger. A loaf of bread. Two cans of soup. Some potatos.
Tommy was sitting in the living room, watching the television.
Momma walked in and handed Tommy a slice of the take-out pizza, that she found sitting in the refrigerator.
"I have to go to the washroom, Tommy; then we can go."
"I didn't change the channel, Momma," he said.
"Okay, Tommy," she answered him. She did not know what else to say.

Tommy was fast. Momma was in the bathroom and he zipped into the kitchen.
Tommy had seen a five dollar bill sitting on the kitchen table.

Momma watched him from the hallway; watched Tommy put the money into his pocket.
Momma said nothing and Tommy snuck himself back into the living room.

Before Entering

Forty-five miles and forty-five miles and then I'm gone forty-five miles and forty-five more.
Add a few and I'll be there and it'll be done and the wheels will stop rolling and my heart will stop racing and my life will keep going but the engine stops turning and the engine will stop and I'll be there and so will she.
She will be there and she is.
And I have to stop, to catch my breath, to breathe. Because she can't.
Not on her own, not with out them.
It's the last round of a knockout, a boa constrictor is wrapped around my spine.
It's cold in here. It's the middle of July.

Leaving a Room

I took two breaths and was out the door. I left it open. The church bell was caving in like wind blown down through a chasm, leaves sweeping across the floor while the flag hangs, lifeless.
I've heard the same four sentence story now more times than I can count. What the nurse said, what he said. There's no telling really. I'm dead these last four years and she has been too. There's nothing changing. There's nothing going on.
The only difference is that she always did the talking. I just listened and waited for the end. What difference do the words make anyway? They just float off like smoke when it's all said and done.
The bubbling noise though, the gurgling, that said something louder. Those two pieces in my ears, that round circle on her chest. It must be cold, she wants it off, wants the people to stop listening for a change.
She'd rather the warm embrace of a darkness, the eerie silence of a bell...