High Pressure

His wife and child were away that weekend. He never said why, though, he just sat on my couch and drank rum and colas. He must have drank quite a few. We both must have, to be honest, because the next thing we knew we were out in the cold night wearing our Christmas sweaters roaming around the streets.

The sky was clear, not a cloud in sight, and there were stars – big ones – and when you live where we do there aren’t many stars. All that clear sky, though, meant it was extra cold and we weren’t dressed properly and at one point he wrapped himself around me as we walked together. We must have looked like quite the lovers, though, all snugged up in our Christmas sweaters and rummy breath, but we weren’t lovers. We were just a couple of friends.

Then we ducked into the lobby of an apartment building to get out of the cold. I stood in front of a mirror and blew warm air into my hands and rubbed my chubby cheeks. In the reflection I could see him standing in the corner of the room near the couches and a bookshelf taking a piss. I knew where we were. Maybe he didn’t. Then I said we should get out of there, but I guess he didn’t hear me because he didn’t move.

Through the mirror I could see the trail of piss running along the marble floor. It started out like a pool, but as it floated farther away from him it would break out into a bunch of tiny streams going any way they felt like.

It reminded me of when we were kids and we used to hang out by a river in the summer. We used to talk about our lives, our dreams, what we wanted to become there. The sky is the limit, he used to say, as we watched the river gently move along the shore.

Fiesta Farms

My guess was that the cashier had something with the bag boy, but who knows. We were in Fiesta Farms buying some mixer for a New Year’s party and the poor old guy ahead of us was chatting her up. All innocent, though. I mean this poor old guy could have been her dad, excuse the cliche. Maybe she felt sorry for him. I did. He was buying microwave popcorn and a bottle of ginger ale. Probably spending his night hanging on the couch watching the countdown on the local news. Maybe after he’d sit there and work on some screenplay. You know, he was sad like that.

But they were talking and maybe she’s a little bit intrigued by this poor old guy. Maybe under a different light things could have been different. This bag boy, though, is just staring at this man, not even throwing the shit in the bag, just watching him, like he’s got fire in his eyes.

Later, we’re in the car and deciding how we’re going to get where we’re going. We hadn’t broken up then, but it was close.

Then out in front of this little grocery store the bag boy has stopped him. He’s carrying a broom stick and he’s ready to unload on him. And just by watching you could tell this poor old guy didn’t have the foggiest clue about what to do. He was scared. The bag boy was yelling at him and swinging the stick. He puts down his bag and starts to hold his arms in front of his face, trying to duck out of the way.

So she says to me do something, but what the hell am I going to do? I start honking the horn, but the bag boy doesn’t flinch. Instead, these two other bag boys coming running out of the store. They go straight for the guy’s bag and the one he starts stomping on the box of popcorn and the other he takes the bottle of ginger ale and smashes it against a wall. He starts holding the jagged part of it out like he’s going to slash this poor old guy.

I keep my hand on the horn, real firm. She’s screaming at me and I’m screaming at her. Then this fat Italian guy comes running out and they stop. He goes over to the poor old guy and says something and then heads back to the store with the rest of them.

We pull out of the parking lot and see the poor old guy just standing there all confused and scared. She tells me to give him a lift. I pull over and he’s all nervous when I offer him a ride. He takes a look at me, then he looks at her. I’m not sure how she looked at him, but he got in. They talked for most of the ride, but not about the fight. Maybe she invited him to our party, I can’t remember. They would see each other a few more times after that night. Sometimes I knew about it and sometimes I didn’t.

A Christmas Story

Herb walked to the skating rink by the streetcar tracks, but it was closed. It was Christmas morning and most things were closed. Then he went to a movie and watched something about John Dillinger. There was a whole lot of shooting and running, but the thing that stood out to him was how much Dillinger really seemed to love the movies. He died outside a theatre.

After, Herb went back to the rink and hopped the fence. The ice was hard and clear and if it was a lake, he thought, he would be able to see a school of fish, but it was artificial. He skated and played games with himself. At one point he imagined his neighbour and him skating hand in hand. His neighbour was a man, but it was just imaginary. Then he would skate hard and then glide. He would do laps and chase after other skaters that weren’t there.

The sun was going down when a man stopped him and told him the rink was closed.

“Can I do a few more laps?” Herb asked.

“You’re not even supposed to be here,” the man said.

The man was chubby and old and probably the only one patrolling the city rinks on Christmas Day, Herb thought.

“I’m just going to do a few more laps,” he said.

“Don’t make me come in after you,” the man answered.

Herb held onto the fence and pushed his skates back and forth and back and forth.

“Come on, it’s Christmas,” he pleaded.

The man looked at him and smiled, “Doesn’t mean a thing to me.”

Take a long stare

We’re older than everyone there by at least ten years, maybe more. Anyway, Frank says to me let’s go get high on the porch and I’m in. Why not? I think.

We do that and then have some more drinks. I look at my watch and it’s almost four and Frank turns to me and says he could really use the Doors right now and I agree cause I think that I know exactly how he feels. I go to this kid with the records and I ask him to play something by the Doors, and you know what he says? He says, who the fuck are they? Can you believe that? Who the fuck are they? I say something stupid back to him like: listen man, it’s my buddy’s birthday and he really wants to hear the Doors. Can’t you help a man out on his b-day?

I look at this kid. Take a long stare. He’s way younger than I am, but confident. It’s a confidence that you start to lose as you get older and then maybe get back later on.

Frank and I have lost our confidence.

Then I think something inside of this kid is going to budge, like he’s feeling what we’re feeling, but instead he says to me: sorry, it’s not that kind of party.

Looks

When we were young we stayed close to home. In the evening we would meet in the middle of a park and talk about suicide. We never did it. It was just talk. One guy, he’d say something like if he was going to do it right, he would take a hot bath and then slip in while slitting his wrist.

It was summer. The stars were bright. In the morning we had exams.

We should have really been studying, but we liked this talk.

We did it often and would often promise that if one went through with it the others had to follow. It was a pact. A suicide pact and that’s all it was.

Then we’d speak about girls and about getting our dicks sucked by the chubby chick in fourth period. If looks could kill, one guy would say.

We promised that we would never let anyone in on our pact. It was ours and we felt we could say anything because we had already promised so much.

Like

Brad handed Sandra a book called Fields Under Stars. It was a book of poems about relationships, she figured.

One poem was about a husband cheating on his wife. Another, titled Roadblock, was about a young couple that planned to take a car ride and leave their baby on the side of the road.

Sandra read all of them.

“Do you work?” Sandra asks Brad outside. He lights a cigarette.

“I sell houses,” he answers.