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[theracingengine]

The Undeniable Importance of Complete and Utter Self-Dissection, Self-Destruction, Recreation, Re-connection, Jo-jo Potatoes, Whiskey, and Wait, What Were We Talking About?

Hi, how are you? That’s nice. I think it’s nice, I’m making it up because I’m just trying to put some words on the screen to get this thing started. First lines are always the hardest for me, and I’m the most critical of them. I tell them they are either too fluffy, or too pretentious, and they pretty much never talk back. Unless I’m in a really bad place, then everything talks back.

I’m not in a bad place.

I’m emotionally down to the bone though, so that’s nice.

That doesn’t mean I’m in a bad place, mostly it means I’m growing. Growing sucks, right? It’s mostly not some soft and easy pleasant experience so far. It’s being eviscerated, examined, then put back together, at which time you need to figure out how to walk again. Yeah, let’s go with the medical thing, that’s a nice frame for this. This is going to go off the rails a bit. Perfect.

 Patient: Alexander Ian Fuchs or Fox (Unclear. Patient only clarified with “it depends on if it will end up in the newspaper).

 Full Examination of Patient, Beginning With Feet:

 Patient claims feet are restless, causing an inability to sit down for more than a few seconds. Upon closer inspection, feet seem to move on their own, drifting away from all emotions that may be trying to creep up on patient. Very prevalent at work, where he is incredibly unsatisfied, underpaid, slightly (more than slightly) shameful, and is mostly a place that is “safe” in theory but likely causing massive mental harm. Feet are trying constantly to leave this work environment, but patient has instead stood for hours and wandered aimlessly in a lonely basement, battling the feet for eight years, causing massive need-to-get-the-fuck-out swelling in the legs, culminating in a recent bought with torn pants. Patients “junk” was visible for a moment.

We will be administering a strict regime of “Work on your resume,” “apply for jobs,” and “your partner will help, this is what she does for work.” We expect a full recovery, with the possibility of pride, and a sense of purpose beyond survival.

 Examination of the Arms:

 Patient has been working out a lot. Good job patient. A mix of needing a place to pour excess energy, a desire to feel strong, the awe of how the body can be shaped, some insecurity, but also personal enjoyment of “feeling sexy” in a way men are rarely allowed to feel, has kept patient in the gym. When questioned about “feeling sexy,” patient turned red out of complete embarrassment, and began stuttering out a response, something along the lines of “hey, well, it’s, listen. Guys can, we can, it’s okay, we can, I can feel that too, or something.” Patient may be speaking to the idea that men may be able to feel ties to sexuality beyond what is usually considered some primal need to fuck everyone and everything.

When asked about the concept of insecurity, patient laughed, examiner laughed, someone down the hall also laughed, because no shit.

When asked about strength, patient was fairly clear. Old injuries had been causing him pain, this aided in their relief. Somewhat recent verbal altercations had also left patient with a desire to have some strength and “feel strong.”

Just before examiner moved on, patient also quietly explained that if he were to put his arms around his long term partner, or anyone else who may want/need it, he wanted to make sure they knew “he would hold them as tight and close as they needed.” Patient seemed to wait a moment for examiners reaction to that, possibly expecting to be derided. Examiner didn’t have much to say about it really.

 Examination of the Torso:

 Patient had complained of feeling that just below his sternum was collapsing in on itself, causing his entire body to constrict, like a tiny black hole had opened up, sucking in everything, or trying to anyway. Patient indeed did look shorter, his back arched slightly, his pounding heartbeat clearly visible, working against whatever was inside chest cavity.

Patient reported that drugs, alcohol, video games, screaming into car dashboard, books, extra exercising, and weird dances, all had little to no effect. But were fun.

Upon closer inspection, examiner found that what patient to believe was a void, was in fact a storage container for every emotional built up and unexpressed over the course of three decades, as well as normal emotional growth for a healthy person, which is incredibly hard to go through, because life and love and emotions and desires are painful at times and a lot to go through but we all have to.

Patient asked examiner asked if chest storage container could be lanced, and examiner informed patient that “no, you kinda have to go through this shit, or fall apart and destroy everything around you.” Patient understood, already knowing that would be the answer. Examiner did notice that for a moment patient was going to subconsciously attempt to place all emotional baggage and troubles on other objects and people, all in unhealthy and destructive ways, expecting those people especially, to fulfill those needs that can’t actually be fixed by anyone else. This moment passed and patient thought better of it. We believe a previous therapy session was to thank for this.

In attempting an on the spot cure, patients long term partner was brought into examination room. Unprompted, she began to explain the concept of sadness to patient. Patient had previously expressed being “bummed,” or “disappointed,” or feeling “rage, anger, fury, or guilt.” Patient had a good handle on downside emotions that men are allowed to feel openly, yet sadness itself was elusive, as needed to function in an early 90s society of which patient was raised. Patient’s partner then held patient, and left emotional room for patient to express said sadness, which erupted from patient’s chest storage container in heaving sobs. Patient was then measured for height, having gained a full foot as chest storage container ceased it’s constriction.

 Examination of Genitals:

 Patient insisted, examiner repeated it was unnecessary.    

 Examination of Head:

 Patient was moved to a local warehouse facility in order to leave room for the opening of the patients skull. A full medical team, as well as three containment crews were placed outside as a safeguard. Lockdown protocols were explained, and re-explained. All this, as it turned out, was completely necessary.

Having worked hard for two years, the interior of the patients skull were in fact completely normal. A proper mix of joy, and sadness, and rage, and lust, and loss, and confusion, and grief and strength were all present. Examiner was able to document:

 Gratitude and anger at all the changes and good things.

Grief: for this father, who is alive, but most likely will pass unhappy. Grief: for a lot of things really, patient never got to grieve at things that are still around.

Sadness. The effects of learning to be sad, still prevalent. Patient reported how good it felt to be cleanly sad. How amazing feelings were all around. How scary they were, and then how scary they weren’t. How he could see everything as so much more beautiful when he realized how momentary, fleeting, and perfect it all was.

The need to be needed and desired. This area seemed to be in flux, like a bar about to go out of business. Patient seemed to act in ways that would force others to need patient, but completely remove the ability for others to grow. Patient seems to have begun abandoning this idea. Wanting to be desire still there, as this is a basic human function.

Humor. Something funny happened here, but examiner didn’t want to force the joke.

Lust and sexuality. Both can exist, neither need to be shameful, no matter what every 90s sitcom tried to tell us. You can have needs, desires, wants, the libido of a teenager and not be some deviant for saying it.

Awe, that today, patient openly and easily cried in front of therapist. She explained to patient he was just ready, and patient was, ever after two years. Patient also expressed to therapist that he wanted to be more “honest,” meaning with emotions, and those he loved, and just in the world. Therapist explained that he wasn’t dishonest, the he “just wasn’t ready.” She explained that he was a good man. Patient can believe it now.

Love.

Fear. Patient is afraid of the things he needs to do. Excited to do some of them, dreading doing others. Work, art, connection, exploration, openness, feelings, all falling into fear. Though these also all fall into love.

Examiners found a very messy deposit of expectation. It would seem patient isn’t sure of what expectations he has of life and others. Signs that this area used to be home of “demands” exists. Examiner believes this has given way to some healthy boundaries and expectations of the world around patient. Some delusions still persist.

The ability for patient to trust gut. This seems to exist in some quantum state, flitting in and out of existence. As patient trusts gut, he is able to see all the things he should be to protect himself, and to love others, while staving off projection. Patient seems to be able to tell when he’s being manipulated, even if it isn’t malicious, and in a way loving. Patient can also tell when he’s being secretly or openly loved. Sometimes this function is completely non-existent and blind anxiety takes over, leading to patient nodding head and feeling horrible.

A desire to actually show the cracks. Not to everyone, because not everyone needs to give a damn, but to those who have earned or need it.

Gratitude. It would seem there are two chambers for this.

  Examiners were able to find more, and expect to right follow up reports and post them on a blog or social media in massive tangents, because it brings patient some sort of catharsis, a hope of being seen, and a hope that someone else feels seen too.

 All in all patient is healthy. Patient isn’t always happy, isn’t always sad. Patient is full of strength, and masculine, and full of a roar, but patient is also soft, and quiet, which are strong too. Patient is learning. Patient continues, and will continue. Patient will be a better man for himself, and his partner. He will understand himself even more, which will make it easier to love others. To connect with others, truly. Patient will make a lot of mistakes, and fail beautifully. Patient will live.

[theracingengine]

September 14th

I was helping a mom and her kid out at work yesterday, and the kid immediately glommed onto me. He followed me around the store, trying to scare me with the occasional “boo,” he peppered me with questions, let me know he was sick and how awesome it was to be an older brother. And he made sure we all knew that later they’d be getting doughnuts and man was he fucking excited about it. He didn’t say fucking. But if he knew that word, he’d say it. I was fucking excited for him, I love the shit out of doughnuts too. He made sure he was always in my eyeline, or at least skittering around my legs, not trying to trip me up but doing it anyway. He didn’t know though that really what he was doing was keeping me present. I should have been grumpy, it was the end of the day, I hadn’t taken a break, I needed to leave for the tailor, I was tired, I was angry, and I was carrying a lot with me that I hope he doesn’t ever have to deal with (he likely will, that’s life). But he wasn’t about to let me mope, he didn’t even know what moping was. He wanted to jump off the stairs and do karate kicks, and I wasn’t about to get in the way of that. I snapped back when they left.

I watched a man die on Saturday. It’s the second I’ve seen, outside of people shaped sheets on the side of the road or being moved into ambulances. The first was a heart attack, where the man died laying in the grass he had just mowed. A couple neighbor kids tried to save him with CPR. Teenagers. Mostly it felt like life had happened, I could see the path of every choice, the naturalness of it all came together later as I processed it. Or I could at least make it up.

This weekend was a motorcycle accident. A man tried to pass a car on an s-curve as another car came around the corner. The whole thing stutters in my mind, frames here and there, fluid for the worst parts, the noise throbbing in my head. I’m afraid to describe it here, worried that somehow his family will see it I tried to cover Christina’s eyes, she kept trying to look, not having a choice in the matter.

We were about fifty yards away, four or five cars were closer, so I pulled over and called 911. I didn’t know what road we were on, I couldn’t tell the operator, and I apologized to her.

A young woman came running from the accident, telling me others were calling 911, asking for road flairs, letting me know “it’s probably fatal,” and running by. I remember being shocked by her excitement, but I understood, and it was comforting. The 911 operator pinpointed where I was, I told her that sounded right and she let me go. I said thank you.

A bicyclist came peddling in, I told him he didn’t want to go that way. We told him what happened and he swore a lot. He went by anyway, he said his wife was waiting for him.

A young man came sprinting by saying “I need to get the blanket.” He ran back towards the scene with it. Later I’d realize he only grabbed it to cover the body, his urgency spurred on by a need to feel like he wasn’t totally helpless. When he asked us how we were doing, we answered, he walked away then a few minutes later I regretted not asking him. I’m regretting it now.

There is more, but I feel like I’m just avoiding talking about this now. It was details, details I think I’ll always remember, just maybe not how they actually happened.

I watched a man die, I saw the entire thing.

And I am so angry, and so fucking sad.

The car he struck had five people in it, including a child. The kid threw up, might have had a concussion.

The way he died was unnatural, people are not supposed to move like that in real life. A car is not supposed to embrace a motorcycle. No one is supposed to see that. But I keep seeing it.

I’m so angry about it, I’m still so angry about it. And it feels stuck. It’s latched onto the back of my brain, causing pressure as it expands, swelled up with more emotion finding its way to that spot.

I’m so angry at him, and I’m fucking furious at the man he was riding alongside, who passed first on the curve. The dead man following. He was fifty, he should have known better. I’m angry at them both because the driver might think for a moment that they killed someone, or that the kid in the car might remember any of this, any of it. The driver was in his mid-sixties, I think he’ll spend the rest of his short life carrying that. The average life span of an American male is seventy-eight.

This guy died, and the responsibility of death is to those around, never to the dead. I’m angry because I found out he had kids.

I’m angry because I don’t get to tell him that I was sorry it happened to him.

We stayed until the fire trucks and ambulances arrived. We had been on our way to Oktoberfest, and so we kept on that way. It was that or home, which didn’t seem right.

I had told Christina when the motorcyclists passed us at high speeds “that man is going to get himself killed,” “or kill someone else” was her reply. “He’s a motorcycle, he’d be dead and everyone else would have to live with it,” I actually said that.

When we reached Oktoberfest it was hard to understand how everyone else wasn’t destroyed by what had just happened. They didn’t know of course, mostly they just knew traffic was diverted. On the parking lot tram, I looked up everything on my phone, there was another fatal accident in Vancouver. Someone else was going through this too. Nothing on what we saw yet.

Walking through the crowds was just us being present. Christina was experiencing what I was, absolute presence. We could hear everything, smell everything, taste everything. And we liked everyone. Even those people who stop in the middle of walkways to look at their phones, they were just trying to live. Beer was incredible. I looked at it a few times partially out of disbelief that I was drinking it. I still kept seeing him die. Even later when I watched a man in a polka band play a musical beer bong while his brother danced around in a cow costume. I laughed pretty hard, and I don’t feel bad for it.

This is all a mess. Because that’s where my head is. It’s going to take time. Let’s take a breath and try and clear it up just a little bit.

 One of the things we’ve touched on in therapy now is the fact that I’m an “Adult Child of Alcoholics.” This is important because it means a lot of my wiring got all funkied up and in growing as a person I’m having to reset the entire system. Part of it is that we (ACOAs, we have an acronym!) never really got a chance to process our own emotions, and we were never taught how to do it. What this ends up meaning is that a lot of the time in situations, I have no fucking clue how I’m “supposed” to feel, and I defer to others for how they are. This can be good, this can be bad. I only kinda sorta knew this before a week ago (this isn’t being a psychopath, I feel everything, just imagine second guessing your emotions all the time).

Being an ACOA and learning about it is massive, it’s a schematic for large portions of my brain and the firing neurons within. It points out experiences, reactions, fears, issues of fixing, and abandonment, the ability to experience extreme empathy at the peril of your own emotional core. Things that I did as a child clicked and made me feel dizzy for a second. I remembered old friends that exhibited similar behavior, or friends that preyed on it. Listen, it’s a lot, it’s a whole lot.

So now I’ve learned about this, I’ve researched it, I’ve sat on the bus reading books about it trying not to tear up next to a guy playing his Switch, because neither of us are ready for that. I’ve learned this…and then I see a man die.

The entire system sort, my system of…I’ve found that it’s capacity to feel is limitless. It is overwhelming, I am overwhelmed. But what the fuck would I have done if I hadn’t known that I am allowed to feel all of these things that I am feel. I get to be angry, and sad, and remorseful, and grateful. I didn’t judge myself for having fun later, I didn’t get mad that I had a few drinks and ate a corndog/bratwurst.

Fuck me, this is all colliding at once and it’s very difficult.

This will take time.

My therapist told me to tap my self gently every time I start to think about the accident. I used to self sooth as a child by blowing on my arms, so she thought maybe I should tap there. It’s to release the built up energy from each thought. It’s keeping it out of the back of my head for now. Writing, this is help too. It’ll help more when I can be clearer about it.

I’m angry, and I’m sad. Listen, just, fuck, let me be preachy for a second. If you’re reading this, and you have choices you haven’t made that would better your life, remember that it’s not just you in this. It’s NEVER just you. Your anger, your pain, your health, your choices, your whatever the hell it is, it shapes the world around you, it burns or builds the world around you. I’m betting the why of the things you do isn’t your fault at all, mine isn’t either. But it’s our bullshit responsibility to deal with it, it’s our bullshit responsibility to not pass it on. I hope you’ll be okay. You aren’t alone.

[theracingengine]

Compression

He had a heart condition. It was horrific for a random bystander to see. Here was a man, eyes rolled into the back of his head, rhythmical hammering away at his center mass in an effort to restart his heart. And today, after a few slams to the ticker, he breathed deep, sat up straight, and continued reading to his kindergarten students. Only the new kid was crying, the rest un-phased, mostly annoyed that they had to wait to hear what happened at the bunny rabbit's birthday. He stopped, and consoled the child, telling him it was “only a heart condition.” The child took it in and calmed down, properly filing it away to be discovered in a therapy session twenty years down the road.

Class finished, and the children rushed out leaving him in the room alone. He cleaned up, and used the quiet to breathe out the last of the little aftershocks in his chest. He wasn't sure what brought it on this time; maybe something he ate, maybe allergies, or perfumes, too little iron, too much iron. Something a proper tweaking of external forces could prevent.

He lingered, he delayed. He slowed way down as picked up of wayward crayons, holding “Spring Melon” and “Delayed Sunset Orange” with a gentle and thoughtful grasp. He vacuumed, taking care to cover and re-cover each section, telling himself some lie about why he was taking so long.

As deliberate as he was, the room sparkled and too soon. He taught the world’s only group of clean kindergartens. The little bastards. That he really really loved.

His coat, weighing in at ten thousands pounds, sat on the back of his chair. Every ounce of it was felt as he lifted it up and placed it over his arms.

The drawer, hiding his keys stuck a little, a thud and the rolling of pencils allowing him to be grateful for the two seconds it added. This also sharpened the betrayal as whatever was stuck became dislodged, and the drawer sprung open. He placed his keys carefully, delicately, into his pocket. That was everything.

At the door, he placed his hand on the lights, looking around the room just in case. He faked a smile, sighed and shut off the lights.

And he waited.

And he waited.

And he...oh yeah! He flicked the lights back on and trotted back to his desk. He stood there a moment and...forgot what he came back for. Or pretended to forget. Now it was really time to leave. It was time to go home, it was time to sit in the driveway of his home for twenty minutes, it was time to fumble with his keys at the front door, it was time to see if she was...except, he had a heart condition.

There it went. His eyes rolled back and he looked at the blackness of his sockets. He began sweating profusely, the droplets freezing already cold skin. All the blood in his body solidified, refusing to move. He felt the grinding of rusty gears. He felt the grip of a hand, fingers weaving around valves and squeezing with all its might. He felt himself dying. He felt his heart...just...stop.………

Breath, just a, just a moment, one breath, he got it, he got it, enough to...he punched himself in the sternum. Thwap! Because of what's waiting. Thwap! And what isn't. Thwap! The confusion. THWAP! Not strong enough, or too strong. THWAP! Not a good enough man. THWAP! He was alone. THWAP! Her pain. THWAP! Her pain, not yours. THWAP! Your guilt, not hers. Thwap.

His heart started again.

As his vision came back, so did the clarity. He could see the world that he was letting down. He could see the fraud that he...that didn't...he didn't mean that. Why did he say that to himself? That wasn’t him, not anymore. It used to bring comfort, the self hate. But it stopped working.

He was fine. He wasn't.

He was brave enough. He was.

He was happy. Yes, yes he was.

He didn't deserve to be. No, that wasn’t true.

He sat down in a tiny chair. An average sized man, now a giant, his knees above his butt, his butt below sea level. He looked like he now often felt, huge in this little world that wants to make you seem small. He looked like someone who deserved to take up room, and he tried not to dislike himself for it.

As he settled into the tiny plastic seat, he drifted, and he had thoughts. Good thoughts, thoughts he didn't like, about everything and everyone he loved. How loved them, and how he owed it to them to get over his heart condition, except...it was a heart condition, something you don’t just...get over. He really wished he could keep lying to himself about it.

Them, for “them.”

For her.

But it wasn’t about her.

As the palpitations subsided once again, he stood up and wavered, light headed from the heavy breathing. He tried to steady himself, needing to lean his arm down to the tiny table. He had to leave. He couldn't. But he would. Fuck. He was so sorry. Guilt is how far you've come, shame is how far you'll go. Knowing that you can never go back, knowing that you never want to, is how you carry both with you.

Shit, here is comes again. Breathe, let's head it off. Breathe. He did.

He was so sorry, he was so goddamn sorry. Fuck, it's coming again. Breathe. Breathe. He punched the tiny table. Breathe. Breathe. He was sorry he wasn't....breathe. He was sorry things were...breathe, please breathe. He was sorry he couldn't...breathe...but he just...couldn't do what...breathe...breath breathe breathe breathe breathe breathe he wasn’t sorry, which made him sorry, and he tried to tell her she would be strong enough, that he loved her, that he knew she loved him, that they would always love each other, and she wanted a better life, maybe with him, maybe without him, but he wasn’t her, and she wasn’t him, they were side by side, after so long it changes, but they could still love each other, but she couldn’t hear it, no matter how many times he said it, and she would try and hold on to him, though he would keep walking forward, he couldn’t stop, even if he tried, because it would kill him if he sat down next to her, because he saw the world and it’s beauty, and it’s beautiful lack of reason, and how every word we all spoke was carefully chosen by our subconscious even if we thought we were choosing it, and why couldn’t she just hold him, why did she hate him when he held her, and that hand that he needed to touch his cheek was him being told he wasn’t alone, but she couldn’t hear that either, he wanted to shout it, he didn’t, because he knew who he was, and no one could tell him anymore what he wasn’t, he wasn’t a concept, and he was soft, and he was titanium, and he was anger and joy, and made of silly things, and he was sensual in ways men aren’t allowed to be, and he blew some things out of proportion, and handled many others with grace, and he took things at face value, because he needed to know he could trust, and he just wanted to know if it was okay for him to be...okay.

It was.

It didn't come this time, the heart condition.

He straightened up. A perfect line from his head to his toes.

And he held that position.

Until he couldn't.

Then he held it again. Because he could.

This could go on, if it had to.

He would keep hold himself forever.

And there he stood, a giant among tiny furniture.

A giant and his heart condition.

[theracingengine]

Zipped

“I just didn’t...” Jack filled the void with a loud empty stare.

“The mind unwinds these things when it’s ready. You’re ready,” his therapist didn’t even once seem bored.

Jack sat, a million thoughts a minute, many of them worries that he should be saying something, the rest the knowledge that everything had changed. Fuck.

Silence, silence, silence, si- “I’m not sure what I do now,” he said without the need to fill.

“I have no idea either,” Jack started to resent her, “but you have it in you to figure it out,” Jack stopped resenting her, “but it won’t be easy,” Jack halfway resented her. “And...this is just the start.”

“Of what?”

“I’m not sure where this goes for you, but...you will end up somewhere better,” like chemo therapy, or amputating a gangrenous limb.

Jack cried, and apologized for it, she told him he didn’t need to apologize, and he blew his nose while they scheduled the next appointment, one week from today.

Having turned on his human autopilot, Jack appeared at home. He was ninety-nine percent sure he didn’t run anyone over on the drive back.

Had everything changed?

“Rodger?” He called to his husband, realizing his husband’s name was Rodger and they didn’t even own a gun. No response. “Rodger?” Nadda.

Jack walked into the dining room of their modestly sized home. Papers were scattered about the table as usual. The room smelled like lemons. Jack liked lemons.

Jack moved to a corner, and stood with his back to it. He closed his eyes and breathed. He’d never stood here before, he wasn’t sure anyone had. Jack was the first person in human history to stand in this corner, to look at things from this view, to breathe the air that hung out right here in this exact spot.

Jack wondered what other corners had been lonely in his home, and he moved room to room to find them, giving each their due time. The bedroom, that one corner near the main window. The office, the one next to where the door opened, but not behind the door, because that’s where Jack would scare Rodger from. The laundry room, where he had to climb behind the washer. The living room where...it...well it was next to the opening to the dining area. It was a little tiny corner, almost nonexistent. It was a runt of a corner. Jack gave extra care as he sidled into it.

Jack closed his eyes and took it in. This tiny space, almost unwanted, forced away by a needy opening. Jack opened his eyes and scanned the room. End table. Recliner. Couch. End table. Lamp. Wall zipper. TV. TV stand. Wait.

His eyes moved back. Wall...zipper. It was a zipper. On the wall. Right in the middle of it. The tap nestled at the bottom, touching the hardwood floor. The zip ending at...well it didn’t end, it kept going and Jack followed, back through his home once more. It wound, through the house, up the stairs, down the basement, to the front door. It went on and on and on. Jack rushed back to the tab.

He bent down and fiddled with it, the metal just a little cold. He held it and waited.

“What are you doing love?” His gunless Rodger stood watching.

“What’s this?”

“What’s what?”

“This, come here and look.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said it too fast. He said it as he kissed Jack on the forehead. He said it as he left the room.

“The zipper!”

“What?” He knew Jack hated to talk to people in other rooms.

“The-, come here and I’ll-”

“Your parents are on their way over,” a vacuum of panicky parental paranoia vacated all the air from Jack’s lungs.

“Why?”

“Why not?”

No, not now.

Goddamnit, not now.

“When are they going to be here?”

“How should I know?”

“I...” Jack fiddled with the zipper tab.

“We need to do these dishes before they get here.”

Jack fiddled with the zipper tab.

“Jack, love, come on.”

Jack fiddled with the zipper tab.

“Most of these are yours anyway, love, so come on.”

Jack loved Rodger. Jack’s stomach hurt. Jack had to cry. Jack fiddled with the zipper. Jack loved Rodger.

“I’ll be right there,” he let go of the tab and stood up. Jack loved Rodger.

“I’m sure they’ll only be here for a little bit.”

Jack loved Rodger.

“I hope so.”

Jack loved Rodger...but.

“We’ll be done with all this in no time.”

Jack loved...Jack was...Jack...everything had changed.

Jack waited. Rodger talked some more. Jack waited. Rodger spoke in muted trumpet. Jack got on a knee. Rodger came in. Jack put his fingers on the tab again. Rodger started moving in. Jack loved Rodger. Jack unzipped the zipper.

It moved easily, refusing to get caught on anything. It glided up the wall. As it reached the ceiling, Jack moved a table so he could stand on it. He scooted, inch by inch, unzipping through the living room. He brushed past Rodger as the zipper moved to the side of the dining room wall. He unzipped it into the kitchen, climbing on the counter tops to reach, and crawling down on to the tile when it snaked to the ground. Rodger followed, his protests only registering as such, the words themselves, a mush.

He moved upstairs, downstairs, upstairs again, weaving in and out of every nook and cranny.

In the basement, Jack heard the front door open. He heard cautious talk turn to alarmed shouts. He heard careful but angry steps make their way down the creaky wooden stairs. His mother and father joined Rodger in the pleading to stop. Jack kept unzipping. They scattered as he unzipped between them, moving back up the stairs and into the family room.

The zipper crossed wedding photos, and pictures of pets, it crossed diplomas, and movie posters in French. It crossed the reading couch, where Jack asked Rodger to marry him, it crossed the books Jack couldn’t possibly get rid of. He reached the front door and followed the zipper out to his car, to Rodger’s car, to his parents car, to the tree in their front yard. The zipper moved back inside and unzipped over Jack’s old shoes he used to mow the lawn. It wound around the banister to up stairs, it zig zagged into their bedroom, across their sheets, into their bathroom, over their towels, through their tooth brushes. Across the smallest intimate moments painted onto the least obviously spaces.

Jack left the bathroom, zipper tab in hand. In the center of the bedroom, Rodger and Jack’s parents formed a line. A unified front.

“Stop, love,” Jack heard this now.

“Jack, no more,” his mother said softly, but actually sharply.

His father said nothing.

Jack saw the zipper, weaving from the carpet of their bedroom, up along Rodgers leg, over the top of his head, and back down, connecting to Jack’s mother, a seam moving along her as well, falling again to the floor, finally connecting to Jack’s father.

“It’s okay, you can stop now,” Rodger smiled, but Jack didn’t know why.

Jack loved Rodger.

He moved the tab along the floor, Rodger only asked him to stop. Jack kindly, lovingly, moved the zipper over his husband. Jack kissed him lightly when he was done. Jack moved the zipper over his mother, she spit in his face. Jack stopped at his father, who was still quiet.

His father smiled, and nodded. Jack moved the tab over his father. The room was so quiet.

Jack took a breath.

He knew where it went next without looking. He wiped away more tears. He moved the tab along the floor and planted his feet. He took another breath and quietly, joyfully, unzipped himself.

[theracingengine]

Stand

“Get out of the car Tim.” He should have said it with kindness. “Get out of the car Tim.” No. “Get out of the car Tim.” It refused to change. “Get out of the car Tim.” He used it surgically. “Get out of the car Tim.” He used it to graft on shame. “Just get out of the car.” He couldn’t even support himself. Tim got out of the car.

He saw the woman in the Escalade parked next to him. She was floating in her own world, fidgeting, or fixing. She was safe in her car, he was vulnerable outside, vulnerable to snipers, or people with opinions. He hurried across the parking lot. The woman’s white reverse lights flickered on, and she backed into the center of the lot, briefly taking up the space she was owed, before zooming off. Tim considered what would have happened had he been behind her, ten seconds earlier, and she somehow hadn’t seen him, and he somehow hadn’t gotten out of the way, and somehow the force of the slowly reversing car had crushed his spine rendering the lower half of his body useless, his mobility locked into a wheelchair. “Get out of the parking lot Tim.” He did.

The blast of AC hit the sweat on his back, making a chill run down his spine as he sat in the faux leather backed seat. It was warm out, but not warm enough to have back sweat, so he thanked the seat for the discrete cover. The blue of his shirt was visibly distorted, as his armpits battled to cool themselves. This would be more socially acceptable. He still tucked his arms in a little as the the waitress came over.

“Just coffee please. And an everything bagel.”

“Whatcha want on it?”

“The sailor spread.”

“You got it.”

He figured she was glad, for his direct nature, his lack of demands, the kindness he forced his eyes to beam out, that he didn’t sexually harass her, even just a little, in a way he could easily deny. Tim laughed that she would even remember him. Tim just didn’t want to be a prick.

He picked away at his phone, opening and closing the same social media sites, somewhat comforted that nothing had changed, and somewhat disheartened that they hadn’t. He really needed to delete these things, he said to himself for the twenty-sixth time this year.

The coffee arrived, it’s friends Creamer and Raw Sugar tagging along, each driving their own little porcelain boats. The bagel followed, only a little fashionably late, well dressed in whatever “everything” meant, slathered in cream cheese, a healthy dose of lox, and capers that did their best to fall off just before Tim was about to take a bite. Tim got annoyed at himself for lingering on observational humor.

Tim waved a little wave at his ex-girlfriend sitting two tables down. She smiled and waved back. He gave a nod to a few co-workers sitting in the window seats. One waved, one nodded. His oldest friend sat near the bathroom, and Tim asked how they were doing. It was only a little awkward when they replied, as Tim’s uncle had to duck out of the way so the two could properly see each other and give one sentence answers. Tim ignored his uncle. Tim’s wife sat at the bar, re-reading something she had written. She mouthed something to Tim, he smiled and shrugged his shoulders pretending he understood, causing her to nod and go back to reading. Tim’s mother and father stood outside, he could see they were arguing, and doing it right in the middle of the sidewalk, which forced Tim’s softball team to walk around.

Tim took another bite of his bagel, managing to capture one wayward salty caper, the others making their break to a short lived freedom. He’d fork them later.

Tim’s Grandmother grumbled by, her walker smashing into a table of Tim’s high school friends, most everyone in this interaction were still alive.

“How was the bagel?” The waitress ignored decorum and asked him this in-between bites, and not during the customary mouthful.

“Just right.” He didn’t mean that.

“Exactly what we want to hear.” Not that the bagel wasn’t good, he didn’t mean to say “just right.”

“Can I get another coffee too?” He wanted her to ask about him personally, and he wanted to pretend to be embarrassed.

“Sure can.” Then he wanted to regret later that he didn’t tell her, because she might have listened.

“Thank you.” And that she might have had advice, or just held his hand, or didn’t say anything just let him know he was heard.

She walked away to get more coffee.

Tim scanned the room. He watched everyone he loved, or came close to loving, or could have loved. He saw how close they all were. He saw them talk, or not talk while talking. “Stand up Tim.” He didn’t mean to say it out loud. “Stand up Tim.” He saw some hurting. He saw some needing to hurt others. He saw some change. “Stand up Tim.” He saw some losing their fights, others just starting. “Stand up Tim.” He saw some so angry and refusing to let it go. “Stand up Tim.” He saw some trying as hard as they could. He saw some that couldn’t be fixed. He saw many that could fix themselves. “Stand up Tim.” Tim stood up.

Some of the people turned and looked at him, just a few. All the ones he wanted. Some turned away, but tried not to keep looking. Tim stood by himself. He wasn’t brave. Tim felt miles between each table, a wasteland he had to cross. He felt the absolutely profound loneliness that love can bring.

Tim took a breath and picked another seat next to someone. He would feel lonely again later. He would feel warm for now. And so would they.