down a couple of Martha’s
little helpers, suck
in Jack Daniels as I turn on
some tunes. Judas Priest,
in honor of my little brother,
whose taste in music
skewed toward metal,
maybe to make himself
feel a little less gay. Did
Luke realize Priest’s lead
singer was also gay?
I sit on my bed, waiting
for the hallowed buzz
to descend, eyes closed
in thought about this
evening’s revelations.
I think about calling
Vince, but what would
I say? “Hey, buddy,
I know it’s been almost
a year since I talked
to you, but I just found
out you were telling me
the truth all along. Sorry
I didn’t believe you, but . . .”
But What?
But this: I needed someone
to blame, and he was the logical
choice, if you can even attach
the word “logic” to the emotional
battle I found myself embroiled
in. Still, why would I assume
someone I’d been friends with
forever would have betrayed
my trust in such a horrible way?
I certainly never assumed
my loving-but-considering-
breaking-up-with-me girlfriend
might have been involved,
even if she didn’t mean to. Like
who wouldn’t know telling
Jo-ce-lyn anything is tantamount
to announcing it to the world?
Dave Holland launches his epic
“Painkiller” drum solo and K. K.
Downing joins in on lead guitar.
And now Rob Halford’s crazy
lyrics—half man and half machine—
make me want to kill my own pain.
One More Pill
Could only help,
right? Down it goes
with a hot gulp of
whiskey. Ga! Nasty,
but likely to do the trick.
I turn off the light,
embrace the cool hug
of darkness. In spite
of the frenetic music
in my ears, my body
relaxes and my brain
begins a slow whirl.
We’re such different
people. That’s sure
the fuck true. Love
isn’t enough. Maybe
not for you. I think
it’s for the best. Right.
Screw you. So sorry.
Kind of late for that.
You were with me
when . . . My choice.
Guilt.
Blame.
A Crash of Cymbals
Wakes me. Cymbals? Shit!
Judas Priest in endless loop, all
night long? I’m probably brain
dead. I yank off the headphones,
sit up in bed, or at least try to.
There’s more than drums pounding
in my head. There’s a goddamn
sledgehammer! The air reeks
of Jack Daniels and nightmare
sweat, though I can’t remember
dreaming. Probably a good thing.
Now yesterday reincarnates,
good, awful, and hideous—bikes,
breakup, and ball-bashing
confession—in quick succession.
Two years ago, my life wasn’t
perfect, but it was a cakewalk,
compared to what it’s become.
All because of who Luke was—
a fluke meeting of sperm and egg—
and some people’s animalistic need
to exploit perceived weakness
in others. Wonder which instinct
is stronger—survival of the fittest,
or the hunger for sex. Speaking
of that, I suppose my dad and Lorelei
are sleeping off their own appetites.
I slip down the hall to relieve
myself, make it all the way back
without hearing even a whisper
anywhere in the house. Then I fall
back into bed. Screw it. I have nothing
to do today, and unconsciousness
sounds better than breakfast with Dad
and his girlfriend. There’s a little
Jack left in the glass on my nightstand.
I hold my nose, drink it down, hair
of the dog, to ease me into sleep and
turn off the jackhammering in my skull.
It’s Dark
When I wake up, driven
from sleep into the velvet
black sleeve of predawn
morning by a dream so real
I’m still breathing hard
from running. I remember
it start to finish. Fade in:
Hayden and I are on a blanket
looking up at an evergreen
canopy. It’s an incredible July
day, hot but not sweltering,
and she is wearing short cutoffs
and a pink tank top. I slide
my hand over the smooth skin
of her legs, push a little farther
than I ever have before and
she sighs into her laughter.
I lean up on one arm, bend over
to kiss her, and just as I do,
my cell plays three bars
of “Back in Black,” Luke’s
designated ring tone. I almost
don’t answer, but he knows
I’m with Hayden and wouldn’t
call if it wasn’t important.
“Hold that thought,” I say to
Hayden, who stares up at me.
Expectantly, I think. I can’t wait
to see just how far she might
let me go, so when I respond
to Luke, it is semi-impatiently.
“Hey, bro. What’s up? I’m busy.”
Hey, Matt? I love you. Not
in a gay way, in case you think
I’m also a perv. There’s more,
and I hear it, but my attention
is focused on my girl. Her skin.
The female scent of her I’m
suddenly aware of, one I want
to dive into and swim around in.
I Tell Him to Hang On
I’ll be right there,
But Hayden is here,
inviting temptation,
and I don’t pull myself
away until afternoon
fades toward dusk.
She is everything to
me in those two hours,
and even though we never
come close to shedding
our clothing, what we
do share is making me
hard right here, alone
in my bed. And I’m afraid
to reach the end of this
dream because I know
what’s on the far side
of the door, so I refuse
to hurry. Refuse to run
toward its inevitable
conclusion. Fade out:
I could have saved him.
Three Hours Till Dawn
And the comfort
of daylight, I force
myself to lie motionless
beneath a threadbare sheet
of night. One word
pirouettes round and
round the black space
surrounding me. Blame.
Blame. Blame. Blame.
So easy to affix blame
to someone else.
I blamed Dad
for his steadfast refusal
to accept what could not
be changed. I blamed
his
inexplicable homophobia.
Where did he learn to hate?
I blamed Mom
for her aloofness,
for wallowing in resentment
over circumstances she sparked.
If she’d only been more present,
if she’d only opened her arms
more often.
I blamed Vince
and Doug
and Jocelyn
and her miserable brother,
who still deserves a pummeling,
along with all his bastard friends.
I blamed middle school
for being a cesspool of nastiness.
Blamed Luke’s teachers
and principal and counselors
for not doing their damndest
to protect him from harm.
I blamed the Bible,
when its words were not at fault,
only the way they’re interpreted
by those too willing
to wield them like chain saws,
cutting others off at the knees.
I blamed Hayden,
once I knew what she’d done,
maybe not as much as the others
because, one: I didn’t have
a lot of time to think about it.
And, two: I still love her.
Somehow I Avoided
Blaming myself,
at least consciously.
Funny how the brain
works. Can’t deal
with it? Shut down.
But now, every time
I look in the mirror,
I will recognize fault
in the person I see.
And he won’t be able
to deny culpability.
Now every dream
will return me to that
day, to that blanket,
to Hayden, who in
those hours was more
important to me than
discerning my little
brother’s state of mind.
And forever, I’ll know
I was all that stood in
the way of Luke kicking
over that chair. I failed
him, and he’s dead.
The Sky Pales
Coaxing me out from under
the covers. Well, that, and my empty
stomach. I didn’t eat at all yesterday.
All I did was sleep. I lost an entire
day to bad dreams and worse
certainties. But now I’m starving.
Too bad the kitchen is so disappointing.
Mom’s the one who buys groceries,
as evidenced by the dwindling staples
in the pantry and toothless yawn
of the fridge. All that’s in there is beer,
a little milk, and some wilty carrots.
There are waffles in the freezer,
at least. I scarf four, sans butter,
but heavy with the strawberry jam
I find hiding out in a cupboard.
By the time the third one hits my gut,
I’m treated to a carb-and-sugar rush.
It energizes my body, and my will.
I find the notepad and pen Mom uses
for her lists, write a note for Dad.
Any chance you might buy a few groceries, or are you trying to starve me into submission? (Not working!)
I’m going out to the range, where Uncle Jessie still awaits your promised visit. Why don’t you stop by after you drop off your girlfriend? It’s on the way home, you know. Oh, if you’ve forgotten how to get there, text me for directions.
All my love,
Your Only Son
I Consider Where
To put the note so he’ll see it.
Refrigerator? Nah. Not unless
he’s planning on beer for breakfast.
Counter? Too random. I settle
on taping it to the cupboard above
the coffeemaker, the one with mugs
for the French roast I’m sure he’ll
brew. Or maybe Lorelei will make it
for him. How housewifey is she?
I’d like to skip the bathroom routine,
but man, I totally reek. Even gunpowder
couldn’t mask this B.O. I manage
to scrub off the smell, dress, and slip
out the front door without a Dad
confrontation. It’s a crap day, slick
and gray, kind of like my mood.
I’ve got a couple of hours until
Uncle Jessie will open the doors—
it’s an inside shooting kind of day—
so I drive on over to the Koffee Kup
for a kup of koffee and some protein.
I’m sipping my joe, waiting
for my omelette, when who walks
through the door with her parents,
but Lex—A-lex-a. Three syllables.
When she sees me, she says something
to her mom, who nods a curt hello
in my direction as Alexa comes
over to my table. Hey. How’re you
doing? Compassion dampens the bell
of her voice. “You know? How?”
Less than thirty-six hours
from breakup to broadcast news.
Her shoulders lift. Fall. The power
of the Internet, you know? I never
unfriended her, so she still shows up
in my feed. Mostly, she was griping
about her feet. She said you made her
walk home from downtown in heels.
“I made her? That’s rich. She was
the one who chose Valentine’s Day
to break up, in public, no less.”
Even to Me
That sounded bitter.
I guess I am, but should I be?
“Sorry. The wound is pretty
raw yet. I’m sure it will scab
over sooner or later, though.”
I hope so. Well, I should
get back to my parents.
Mom’s giving me the “Hello,
remember us?” look.
You know how to get hold
of me if you want to talk.
Just so you know, I may be
happy about it on a purely
selfish level, but I’m sorry
it happened like it did.
Her fingers light softly,
like moths, on my hand.
It’s a gesture of sympathy,
not invitation, and she leaves
everything there, ball solidly
in my court. She is all class.
I like it. I like her.
But I’m not ready to rebound.
My Omelette Arrives
I eat, thinking about girls
and class and love. I always
thought Hayden was classy,
but in retrospect, her proclivity
toward gossip and criticism
tarnishes her halo. Of course,
anger and hurt could very
well be influencing my current
opinion. Now another word
drifts across my line of sight,
like an eye floater against
a sun-startled sky: Secrets.
We are both guilty of keeping
them, but while infidelity—
a single lapse of judgment—
was a breach of faith, the things
Hayden kept from me were
soul shattering. I thought I knew
her, but I didn’t. All I knew
was the person I wanted her to be.
The girl I believed suited me,
despite every fact to the contrary.
Her halo was never gold, or it
couldn’t have rusted so completely.
I Arrive at the Range
A little past nine. There’s only
one other car in the parking lot—
Gus’s old gas-guzzler. I grab
the Glock, head on inside the office,
where Uncle Jessie is talking
earnestly to his veteran pal.
. . . to Eugene to get that barrel
looked at. I’ve got a friend who’s
a great smith. He knows his shit.
I told him give it a thorough once-over.
Kinda strapped for cash right
now, answers Gus. My piece-
of-crap car needs an engine
rebuild and my rent just went up.
No worries at all. I’ll cover it
and you can pay me back when
things turn around. Meanwhile,
you can borrow one of my guns.
Well . . . okay. But did you
tell him Fiona was my grandpa’s
gun? He’d better take real good
care of her. She’s one of a kind.
The Two Go Off
In search of a gun for Gus to use.
Pretty sure it won’t have a name,
especially not one like “Fiona.”
Did Gus name that rifle, or did
his grandfather? Was the older
gentleman a little off, too?
I grab some safety glasses and ear
protection, make my way out into
the big cement building that houses
the indoor range. People will show
up eventually, so I choose the farthest
of the eight lanes, preferring to have
only one person shooting beside
me. I spend a half hour wasting
ammunition, and just as I’m reloading,
Gus appears with a pistol similar
to mine. He settles in two stalls
away, but before he loads up,
he turns, signals for me to take
off the earmuffs. Your uncle
says you’re a crack shot. That so?
I Guess I’m All Right
That’s what I tell him, and
that leads to a shooting match
of sorts. “Of sorts,” because
I’m no match for Gus, at least
not today. Though he claims
to be a much better shot with
a long gun, Uncle Jessie’s Glock
is no match for him either.
Every bullet strikes the heart
of the target in a beautiful
round pattern, while most of
mine fly high or wide on either
side. I’m happy enough just
to hit the paper. Our magazines
empty and we come up for air.
“Wow, I kind of suck today.
Not sure what my problem is.”
He studies me curiously.
What’re you holding inside?
“Wha-what do you mean?”
Rumble Page 21