scribblesnshit

[scribblesnshit]

dadbod.txt

A good father figure (heteronormatively speaking)...

* Doesn’t use his mother, sister, wife, girlfriend, or daughter as shields for his sexist fodder

* Fucking shows up early and stays late

* Listens and waits to speak

* Normalizes women’s reproductive health

* Doesn’t call his kid a quitter; gives them support for trying something new; helps them process why they quit, what they learned

* Breaks down household gender roles; allows the home dynamic to evolve naturally; feels no shame if the matriarch rules the roost, but doesn’t fall short on his responsibility

* Can fucking apologize in front of and to his kids

* Advocates/protests on behalf of the underrepresented; educates his kids on why it matters and how they can help

* Calls out toxic masculinity in himself and his male peers (I could go off about what a father isn’t just on this topic alone)

* Lets his nails get painted

* Actively and openly talks about what he’s learning; encourages his family to share too

* Proactively finds gaps in the security and well-being of the family and works to fill them, seeks input from the family

* Allows his kids their contrasting views; demonstrates the importance of allowing views to be challenged healthily

* Stops short of manipulation, condescension

* Establishes and demonstrates healthy boundaries

* Doesn’t act like he can shoulder everything himself, but thinks first before asking for help

* Can more than cover his costs of burden

* Does not even pretend to be his partner’s everything; actively de-stigmatizes seeking help with mental health

* Just fucking isn’t his partner’s child

* Absolutely gets giddy when his kids shows interest in what he’s doing; thanks them for interest; thanks them if they help

* Works with his partner to ensure both are getting the time away that they need, as individuals and as a couple (can we normalize solo vacations in relationships? Seriously. Sometimes I want to go away for a weekend and exist.)

* Helps with homework; turns the process of learning an answer into something educational in itself; helps foster a purposeful life of self-educating

* Destigmatizes talking about finances in front of kids; provides kids with practical financial knowledge

* Destigmatizes sex; draws clear boundaries on what’s appropriate to talk about; practices mindfulness to allow his kids to comfortably seek him out for help

* Isn’t a fucking asshole

* Can leave a heated environment without slamming the fucking door

* Recognizes how he carries his physical presence around his kids, constantly checks that he is not a menacing figure

* Worships every square goddamn inch of the mother of his children

[scribblesnshit]

What stress it brings to want to talk, but to hate to know I’m being heard.

[scribblesnshit]

There’s this younger couple that lives in my building. They fight behind closed doors as if you couldn’t hear them from the hall. Things getting slammed around to fill the quiet space between the verbal barbs. She issues a distressed “don’t leave,” but he’s already two feet in the hall and the door closes by unseen force behind him. This argument, every argument has gone on too long and he didn’t know what else to do.

They leave together a couple days later, hands around waists, all squeezes and looks, like the world can’t see them and they wouldn’t care what the world would see anyway. So long as it doesn’t see the hell they left at home. Rinse, repeat.

It’s distant and familiar, like anxiously visiting your old town again after many years. You hear one thing and see another and you know intimately the routine and stress of it. As a passing third-party, it makes me feel old. I feel a rip in the fabric of space-time into a voyeuristic view of a past life.

They must have great sex.

[scribblesnshit]

Getting a dream out; tangential thoughts

The house was single story, large and white. The roof sloped from one central point. It was a larger-scale version of the house my family moved into in Massillon. The one I was living in when you and I started dating. The three season porch in the back was largely where the dream took place.

I was there with two other guys, whose faces I did not render, but whose presence I trusted implicitly. We were there to work on some sort of construction job happening in the back yard, but no project really made itself obvious. The porch had two saw horses holding a door that was being used as a work bench.

You appeared on that work bench at some point. Your feet hanging off the sides. Your eyes followed me as I moved around, your face tracking a little slower. You had a smile on. You were happy to see me and more than content waiting for me. I looked at you every time I passed.

There was no picking skin around the nails, no frantic fighting against your thoughts, no looking at porn on Tumblr while you waited. You were, for the first time since before we were married, wholly present. Attentive.

When things slowed down, I stepped out of the way and approached you. You looked up at me, your eyes were vibrant. I couldn’t believe you were there, no objective, no unspoken intent, no interest in picking a fight.

“I’ve missed you.”

“I know.”

“I’m in [City], visiting [Person].”

You looked proud of me, happy for me: “I know.”

It was the first time since we met that we didn’t make any physical contact in a dream. It was no coincidence. The person I was visiting was someone I burned for you. I destroyed them for us. It was the first of a series of caustic decisions over the years that I harbored a lot of regret and guilt for, but ones that I made as sacrifices for our relationship. You knew, always knew, that it weighed on me. She was my closest friend. She saw what was happening to me and around me and she saw what was happening inside of me, but your jealousy over that, over our friendship won out.

When things were falling out between us, you said you wanted me to get out from under you, to let you go. In the years since, I’ve struggled. I haven’t. I’ve had you antagonizing my thoughts, my dreams, eroding my ability to start something new, something without you.

There and then though, on that workbench, your eyes, your smile, your composure told me that I finally did, and that you, maybe in turn, were finally able to let me go too.

-----

When we were younger, we’d share the dreams we had and felt the fire burn bright when we’d had dreams near identical, as if we had traversed a subconscious dimension to share one collaborative imagination for a night. This felt like that. Like you were there with me. But we weren’t collaborating so much as you were there to see me in my own space. To see me off.

-----

When I moved in with friends, I made a new one. We bonded over failed marriages. We commiserated over what it was like to be our age, so young, but so absorbed by relationships that spanned such a long stint of our lives and the sadness their fallout brought. She was already married again, a few years out from her divorce, while I was still feeling freshly stung. I’ll never forget her telling me that it doesn’t go away. It gets easier, but it doesn’t go away. It will always be hard, but you just gotta keep embracing it, the fact that you even got to have it at all, and keep living your life.

-----

I’m afraid that a proper ending to this would trigger my anxiety, depression, my deep-seated sadness about how things came to be to take over again and start a new cycle, so I won’t do that. I can’t afford it. But I also can’t afford to lose any more sleep than I have procrastinating getting the words out about that dream. About you.

[scribblesnshit]

“You know what hurt the most?

You never told me why you left.”

But she was already asleep.

[scribblesnshit]

“Tell me everything”

“Well, that would take some time. It’s not a complicated story, just a long one. Mismanagement, poor communication, misunderstandings and overreactions, missed deadlines and meetings. Bad planning all around. For me to tell you the story of everything is to tell you what you already know. How about I tell you instead how good it is to see you? That story is much more interesting.”

[scribblesnshit]

Within the walls of my apartment, the world is dampened

The top floor corner unit of a hundred-year-old three-story brick multi-tenant building, it has only recently been brought to my attention that it’s the nicest unit in the building. The mice that make the occasional unannounced visit tend to agree.

Each unit has two entrance doors -- one I assume was for deliveries and the other for guests. The door inside the apartment that separated business from pleasure has long since been removed. A building meant to serve a guest-entertaining middle class during a time when we believed such a class existed.

Windows on two walls are seldom closed during the summer, save for a gusty rain from the north, and they might as well stay open during the winter, as insulation was not a concern when they were originally installed. There is no dishwasher, no air conditioning, no forced air. Two loads of laundry will set you back three dollars in quarters. Some of the windows refuse to stay open after the ropes to their counterweights have long dry rotted and snapped inside their frames. Others are nearly impossible to close depending on humidity.

Shelves upon shelves house books, records, tools, supplies, projects, collections, media, and plants -- of that last group, all but one have claimed first dibs for all the east-facing windows. The straggler is very content in the shade by the books. She’s not necessarily into literature so much as she is very particular about her tan. 

This place was the towel-thrown-in on a months-long search for the right address to recover or spiral in solitude from a marriage that two teenagers intended not to let fail. I signed the lease knowing it was a mirage of red flags -- fees and absurd policies -- but the fantasy of seclusion and isolation was too great.

Inside its walls, I have a sanctuary. Seclusion from the meddling world, to be left with my thoughts and dig deep into whatever rabbit hole I want to explore.

So protective I am of my sanctuary, of my atmosphere and rabbit holes and second-hand furniture, that I am loathe to restart dating, letting the walls become saturated with lust and heartache of the very kind I moved here to process. It has been a contributing factor to ending relationships prematurely. I have even gone so far as to ask the property mangers to leave their tools and supplies outside the door so I can perform their repairs myself. I’ve even taken a cat back to the rescue after a week of unintentionally (and very sweetly) disrupting the flow. (A lack of emotional fortitude at the time may have been the primary issue. It’s very difficult to try to explain to a cat why you’re sorry about the breakdown you’re having on the floor in your sopping-wet boots and winter coat.)

Just beyond my windows, the other two of the triplet apartment buildings, a homeless shelter, a church whose yard displays a Commercial Real Estate sign, and a beautiful and austere private school. The crackheads, methheads, heroin users, (I struggle to call them addicts, because who among us isn’t after something to be addicted to?) homeless linger around the bus stops on either side of the block, asking and sometimes demanding thirty-five cents, a dollar, a quarter, a dime. Denominations the majority have all but stopped carrying in lieu of the convenience of the debit card. Police and ambulance sirens, flashing blues, reds, and oranges whiz by and not infrequently stop out front. Busses hiss and beep to kneel for boarding passengers. Riders denied service for combative behavior or insufficient funds state their case for the neighborhood to hear.

While others around me move from office to home, home to office with their windows up and radio on, from safehouse to safehouse, using their phones as a decoy to ignore the needy hoards, I migrate from the front lines of the gentrified impoverished to the forefront of technology: an office full of corporate ladder climbers whose decisions are void of the help they could offer to the very people on my stoop that could stand to benefit. Their hard-earned 35 cents isn’t enough to positively impact our profit margins. Too much effort; won’t fix.

Another quarterly update reports record earnings, thanks to our clever strategy to edge out and absorb our competitors. We must dominate our industry and diversify our portfolio to begin the conquest and pillage of sister industries. We know you worked hard all year and we know we’re stripping benefits over a long enough span of time that few of you would notice, but we’re pleased to announce that you’re receiving a bonus check meager to the total financial growth of our company that your efforts contributed to.

Meetings where only the white men in the room carry the discussion on inclusion and diversity as the women and people of color look on with cynicism and boredom.

At the end of the day, my company-provided top-of-the-line tools of industry are packed into my ten-year-old messenger bag, I put on my $12 glasses I found on sale two years ago, and catch a public bus back home, back down the way I came, watching as the passengers that board gradually diminish in conspicuous wealth, as the masculine high rises of industry gradually give way to the highway overpass, to the neighborhood with increasing gun violence and drug crises, past the scenes of paramedics carrying another dying man on a stretcher due to exposure, another arrest of a black man for the crime of being black and in the part of town the rest of society ignores, to my bus stop where at 3AM is used as equal parts shelter and restroom. Whizzing by the small businesses struggling to keep their lights on as Jeff Bezos and Tim Cook commoditize the ease of access to their wares. To my apartment, where just outside my window I bear witness everyday to the result of industries such as mine that believe they’re saving the world when, in fact, we’re pushing the lowest-earning bracket right off of it.

In the time since I’ve found my sanctuary, I’ve witnessed the numbers of those who have lost theirs only increase. In the time since I’ve joined the technology circus, I’ve witnessed the numbers of those who have written off and blocked out the very people they gentrify and condemn increase.

And yet, tomorrow, I will throw on my messenger bag with my company-provided top-of-the-line tools of industry, my $12 sunglasses, catch my public bus, and take the daily trek back into the heart of industry, back into the offices and conferences rooms and daily lunch outings, bearing witness once again to my peers ignoring the requests and greetings, the very apparent struggles and absence of medical insurance, conversing ignorantly and briefly over how the presence of them was a burden to us while we’re just trying to go get some lunch at that upscale Italian joint we like to have a Friday Mai Tai at. A Monday through Friday rinse-and-repeat as my dichotomous life forces me to watch my peers insult my struggling neighbors.

[scribblesnshit]

The radio looped "War Pigs" for no discernible reason.

The radio looped "War Pigs" for no discernible reason. A deputy said a disc was stuck in the stereo and they couldn't eject it. The power button was raw from use. The only way to really stop the howling was to disconnect the battery, which was stowed under a hood that became welded shut after the third time the car rolled over.

The sheriff stood at a distance, looking at the scene with a disconnected sense of reality. He was down to only a few quaaludes and he knew the howling he himself would be doing tomorrow night if he couldn't squeeze someone for more soon. One hand on a hip, the other on the belt, it was clear to him that this was not an accident caused by texting or road head. Nighttime country accidents are seldom caused by anything else. Curiously, the driver was nowhere to be found.

"I hate Black Sabbath."  

"Short of setting the car on fire again, sir, we're kind of stuck with it. At least it's from when Ozzy was part of the group."

The deputy waited for a response and received none.

"Uh, sir, we found nothing in the car, really. The VIN numbers were removed from the doors and windshield, and the hood is still stuck shut. Everything was wiped down too. No prints anywhere."

Sheriff moved closer to the car and squinted. "I don't know what to tell you then. We're wasting time. We need to get this mess cleared up before sun-up."

He felt a pang rise up from his thigh and a bead of sweat form under his hairline. There was a moment of immense anguish in that first step that the deputy didn't see, and each successive step became more graceful.

[scribblesnshit]

“’Track my phone's location.

“‘You won't find my body, but you'll find the people that have done this to me.’ That's all the message said.”

She looked terrified. Even after she had three hours of sitting in her home as investigators looked throughout, she did not relent the initial shock of the message she received. Others at this point might have had their guilty “glad it wasn’t…me” thought by now and graciously accept the ensuing emotional fatigue. That numb sensation we all find solace in after our hearts have given out.

There she sat though. As traumatized as ever. Brain pumping out torturous scenarios of what might be happening to him right now, intercut with intermissions of impending loss: “Will I ever see him again?”

It didn’t seem like the right time to approach her and start my usual line of questioning, what with the rest of the department here already ahead of me. I’ve never seen her place lit up so brightly. You could see dust on the wall from across the room. I would have expected the place to be tidier, but I mean, what are the chances that she would go on a cleaning spree when hearing something like this?

My pits keep sweating though. I have some deep, deep rings. Hope the deodorant doesn’t stain again. Some of the department are looking at me strangely. Did I drink too much again? I should really remember to go to a meeting about that. They say admitting it is the first step to resolution, but I’m only throwing back a couple a day. That’s not bad, right?

My badge isn’t on. I left it in the car. Doesn’t help that I only recently transferred to the precinct a couple weeks ago. These people probably don’t recognize me yet, but they will. Once they hear about my record, they'll be buying me drinks, which is exactly why they probably shouldn't hear about my record. Boy do my pits sweat when I'm on the scene. Damn, she noticed me. "What the FUCK are you doing here? Get. Out. I'm calling your mother. You better hope to God you get home before I talk to her. Excuse me, officer, I have to kick this little asshole out of my home." Nothing the detective in charge won't clear up for me. He knows me. He's the one that requested I transfer to his division in the first place. "Wait, he’s not yours? I'm sorry, we all thought he lived here. How about I have one of my officers give him a ride home?" "That would be very generous of you. He's been up my ass for months now and his parents don't do anything about it." Hey now, nobody talks about my mother this way. "I'll have you know, *ma'am*, that I'm still grounded from the *last* time I investigated this case. I can't help it that the window in my office on the first floor has a quick release screen." "It's called a bedroom. And I'm still calling your mother. Get out." Her eyes were bleached pink and filled with rage. This is going to earn me a few demerits back at Central. "Come on, little dude. Let's take you home." I turned around to one of my own looking down at me. My pits were awash with the waters of a thousand geysers. Fine, I'll go. This time. I just hope his trunk has enough space to fit my car.

[scribblesnshit]

You’re just chasing the dragon.

Circling the drain on life, man. Everything you think is within grasp couldn’t be farther away. You’re too blind, deaf, and dumb to realize it. You’re the last to know your own existence is fading, like an aging Polaroid. You should see your own mortal coil unwind as you sink a foot deeper into the earth.

Just give it up. Stop chasing those things you call dreams. Stop thinking you have a chance at anything more than spreading more heartache and pain. Every grey hair on your head is just another fucking reminder of another fuck-up you couldn’t recover from. Wiping your taste from the palate of this planet would be the best gift you could give to everyone that puts up with you. What gives you the right to even think you deserve to be here?

The sooner you can put this whole thing to rest, the faster people can put your body out of sight and move on. The grass is greener on the other side, because that’s the side you’re not on. The sun is coming, little darling, because you won’t be there to bring in the clouds. A shipwreck is somehow less tragic than you. Pack it in. Call it a day. Turn out the light. Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

Cold sweats. That dark abyss almost swallowed me whole again. I could feel my ribs cracking from that rapid expansion in my chest. When I close my eyes, it’s trying to consume me. When I’m wide awake, it’s trying to force its way out of me. It’s better not to sleep, not to spend too much time in my own head. Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

I should turn that alarm off. I need to put my skin suit on and slither my way back into life. Pretending like it’s not there doesn’t make it go away. Wake up.

Wake up.

Wake up.

I’m awake.

I’m awake.

I’m awake.

I’m alive.

[scribblesnshit]

“Fucking Todd.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“I just think it’s humorous to sound spiteful of people named ‘Todd.’ It just sounds funny.”

“Yes, it was funny, but it’s not anymore. You’ve been repeating the same two words with different emphasis for the last hour.”

“Shut up, it’s been less than ten minutes. You exaggerate a lot when you’re annoyed.”

“And you’re fucking annoying for someone that wanted to ‘hop in the back seat to catch some rest.’”

“Yeah, then I found the one-hitter and it’s fun watching the trees pass and dissenting about ‘Todd’. It doesn’t help that you’re playing Ben Folds. Shit makes me all accuse-y.”

“I asked you before we got back on the highway if you wanted to listen to anything and you were all like ‘o-o-o-o-oh n-o-o-o-o, whatever y-o-o-ou want to listen to-o-o-o.’ You could have said something at any time, you jag.”

“It’s way more fun just going with it, you know? Let the environment just influence your mood.”

“God, I’m really regretting bringing you along.”

“Yeah, ever go on a camping trip by yourself? Way less fun. You would’ve turned around out of boredom, because unlike me, you can’t keep yourself entertained without Ben Folds and the honor of my company.”

“I’m about to turn around because of the honor of your company. Ben and I can go off to wherever the hell we want to without you. He and I get along swimmingly.”

“You know, if your name was Todd, I’d be dissenting you right now. Ever notice how highway trees always look ever so slightly different than their equivalent tree counterparts in, like, say, small towns or forests?”

“I’m going to Todd you upside your head so hard at the next rest stop.”

“No, but seriously. Highway trees: what are they even about? They’re so imposing and stark. Non-highway trees have, you know, character and shit.”

“I can’t tell if you’re fucking with me right now or if you’re just high.”

“I can’t tell if…no, I got nothing. Fucking Todd.”

“Oh my god. New car game: Todd is dead. There is no more Todd. Todd is gone from this world.”

“Oh my god, Todd is DEAD? WHAT? NO! NO-O-O-O-O! I THOUGHT I HAD MORE TIME! I SPENT SO MUCH OF MY LIFE CASTING HIM OUT, BUT HE WAS MY ONE. TRUE. LOVE.”

“You are the fucking worst person. I have ever had the privilege. Of being stuck in a car with. For the next sixteen hours.”

“Seventeen.”

"I'm just going to turn on the radio now and pretend like you don't exist."

[scribblesnshit]

It was pretty late at this point

As I sat there, sipping on coffee and nibbling my glazed doughnut to crumbs, it never occurred to me that everyone else in this dank heap of a restaurant had been staring at me since the moment I walked in. There were at least fifteen of them, all with the same sugar-coated glossiness in their eyes that my doughnut had.

In traditional fashion, I sat at a table by the window, facing the entrance. My body pushed closer to the window than the aisle, coat still wet from the rain pattering against the other side of the glass crumpled up around my frame. This was comfort for me until I noticed everyone staring. I pulled the donut away, checked my face with a napkin for jelly, checked my shirt and tie. It really wouldn’t be a loss if the tie was stained. It was going on fifteen years old at that point. I couldn’t tell you where it came from anymore.

No jelly, no blood. I didn’t feel like I was shot. There was no panic in the room either. I put the donut down, pulled out my wallet and threw a few bills on the table. Took one more sip of my coffee and wiggled out of the booth. As I started walking to the entrance, I stumbled a bit and felt my face go flush. Nobody’s face changed, but they were certainly locked onto me. I looked down and saw my shoe untied. It can wait. Just walk smarter.

In a weird hobble, I made it to the entrance and pushed the door open with my forearm. Looking back across the restaurant, no eyes left my gaze. It was stone silent, save for the Beach Boys playing overheard. It would’ve stayed stone silent if it wasn’t for my quarter that requested any random song I could find.

The parking lot had two cars sitting on wet gravel. The rain was pattering on everything. There was one light above the diner entrance illuminating what little I could see. Two lane street, separating the diner from deep, dark woods. Cars seldom drove by here at 4AM. I piled into my car and stared at the steering wheel for a minute. When I put the key into the ignition and looked up, I saw the silhouettes of the people in the diner staring at me through the windows. They were completely expressionless.

In a panic, I threw the car into reverse and hit the gas, realizing I didn’t even start the engine yet. Back into Park, turn key, engine gave a roar and settled for a split second before I threw the transmission back into reverse. Rear wheel drive lets you fishtail your car around very effectively, but headlights only work well when they’re turned on. No sooner did I whip my car around than a truck flew by and clipped my bumper, wailing on the horn when they realized what they hit. My adrenaline told my brain that I didn’t have time to care about that. Two clicks into Drive, gravel spraying all over the one other car in the lot, clattering against the glass of the diner, changing nothing of the behavior of its occupants, and I swerved out onto the road, clicking my headlights on the moment I felt that I was out of view.

Nobody chased me. Nobody ran out into the street to throw rocks. The truck driver was pulling into the parking lot as I crested the hill that would put the entire scene out of view. My handkerchief passes over my forehead and cheeks before disappearing into a jacket pocket that I swear I didn’t pull it from.

The woods were imposing. Sixty foot tall trees standing over me with the same expressionless stance and stare as the diners. A power line on the left undulated down into view from the black sky above before disappearing up again to make way for another wooden pole. While I was observing this, I failed to notice a car pull out behind me with their headlights off, tailing close. A flash of light bouncing off their hood from a streetlight into the rearview caught my eye. I could hear their engine rev up as their car lunged forward, then fall back and disappear into the black behind me. The engine revved again, launching out of the abyss to within inches of the trunk then disappeared again. I suddenly realized what rabbits must feel like when they’re realizing they’re about to be killed by an encroaching fox.

On the third rev, I could hear the engine long before I could see the car. It launched out of the black after what seemed like eternity, like a rocket into the back of my car. I lost control of the backend, swerving around to face the attacker. Their cab was pitch black. I couldn’t see hands on the wheel or see an outline in any of the seats, but I was also trying to regain control of my car. As I jerked the wheel, I felt the back of the car swing toward the other side of the road. The mysterious car fell back into the black again. This time, I saw the reflection of the hood before I heard the engine. It charged fast at the front passenger tire, knocking my car around, off the road and into a pole on the driver side.

As I tried to fight unconsciousness, I heard an engine draw near and shut down. A door slammed. The abyss was swallowing my vision. I couldn’t see my feet. I couldn’t see in the mirror. My hands decided they were taking leave. My neck tensed up as my head slumped forward onto the steering wheel. The last thing I could observe was the smell of burning antifreeze, oil, and a faint hint of gasoline.

[scribblesnshit]

Boy, it’s a lot hotter than I dressed for today.

If it wasn’t for the crusted mud on her boots, I would’ve assumed she was from New York. She caught my eye and moved her head into my line of sight, snapping me back to attention.

“You’ve been staring at my boots. They must have a more interesting story than me.”

“No, it’s not that. I’m sorry, where’d you say you were from again?”

“I told you: five minutes north of here. I grew up here. You know that. Why are you so curious about where I’m from?” Her paper coffee cup was getting mighty wrinkled at this point. She couldn’t help but fidget. I was making her uncomfortable. This wasn’t uncommon for me.

“Well, it’s just - the car in the driveway has New York plates. The one parked in the street is from Wyoming. Do you have family in town?” My brows were furrowed. The inside of my cheek was getting a little raw from the gnawing my brain has been doing. There was a bead of sweat running down my back, skillfully evading the absorbent superpowers of the thick pressed shirt I was wearing, sending a cold pang up my spine as it descended. I feel ridiculous.

“I’m not sure why it matters, but yes. My parents are visiting. My fiancee and I are - were - getting married in two days and we wanted to do something small.”

“What about his parents? Are they around?” I looked up from her boots again just in time to catch the inevitable eye roll. She was getting very tired of me.

“No. They’re not around.”

I shuffled for a minute. I knew where this was going, but I needed to find a way to get what I came here for.

“So, let me get this straight. You’re here, alone, and your family is in town for your wedding, but nowhere to be found, and your fiancee of two years just up and left you the night your parents showed up without warning?”

The coffee cup hand dropped down to her side, then behind the frame of the door. The opposite foot took a step forward while the empty hand, palm open, ascended to a new location in the space between the blindspot by my temple and the door frame. I took one step back, but not too far back. The concrete porch was short and without railing. I was losing control of the conversation fast.

“Yes. What are you getting at? Why is this so important to you? Don’t you have anything more important you could be doing right now? I have shit I need to do to try and get my life in order and here you are in your punk-ass outfit asking me questions that are frankly none of your goddamn business. Get to the point.”

I wasn’t going to get what I came here for. Another bead of sweat running full sprint across the open clearing on my forehead to the nearest eyebrow. Good shelter there. I can only hope it wasn’t seen. This hot fucking weather is throwing me off my game. Should’ve come down here last night, but I had so much paperwork due today. Stupid.

“I’m sorry for prying. The other night, I was riding past here and heard shouting and shattering glass. I felt it was only right to investigate it when I noticed the car that’s usually in your driveway was replaced by two cars from out of state. There’s been lots of drug running in this neighborhood lately, so I just wanted to check it out and make sure you were safe. I’m sorry to have bothered you, ma’am,” and in one swift flick of the wrist I had been practicing for weeks, I flipped my spiral notepad cover closed and pushed the plunger back on my pen, fitting both neatly back into my chest pocket. Not without noticing the resistance the sweat in the fabric of my shirt has created. Teaches me to wear long sleeves on hot days. “I’ll leave you be. Have a good day, ma’am.”

“Drug running!? Are you fucking serious!? Who the fuck do you think you are? Get the fuck out of here, you little asshole. What the fuck? Seriously? Fuck off.” She shrunk a few inches and watched me as I turned to the right and descended the two steps to her sidewalk as coolly as I could. I could hear the coffee cup hand slam the door with a little less force than I was expecting, followed by the wheezing and click of the screen door I was leaning against. I have to get my nerves in order. A long drive home at twilight should do it.

Boy I should get a new car someday. This thing is just too small for what I do. I opened the door, bent down and compacted myself into the seat. My knees were slammed against the dash on either side of the steering wheel. My neck was craning forward so I wouldn’t smack my head on the ceiling. My feet pushed off the pavement and began a rapid back-and-forth motion to pick up speed. Before I entered the street, I turned on the battery-powered siren and looked both ways, smartly skidding my feet to slow down a bit before entering traffic.

No cars on either side, I turned the wheel left and headed home. I didn’t need to turn the wheel. It doesn’t work anyway, but it makes it feel more real. Once I was on the right-hand side of the street and out of view of Miss Pam’s house, I kicked forward as fast as possible. Mom is not going to be happy when she hears I snuck out to play Cops with the neighbors again instead of doing my homework.