The twin wants to know how Violence gets her money. The bells of the piano are ringing. I’m sitting in the middle of Salt Lake’s data center feeling my private rising publicly. Please change the name on the invoice, I say, so that mine is on the marquee.
Case files upon case files are merging through the cabinet, becoming the case itself.
Your wife’s not feeling well, says the preceptor. Morning sickness.
Every week, it’s always like this, I say. The same shit, over and over, forever. It renews itself with every sunrise. And then there’s me. I’m continuously undercover, boy. There is an unrelenting burden on my shoulders. I’m not upfront about it, but this is play acting. It sucks submitting to the powers that be, but that’s what I’ve got to do to avoid getting thrown over. I’ll stop complaining, bro… It’s my short day. We’re going to the hospital, I tell Jamie-Beth, at 2. There will be an ultrasound. The baby’s still in the 22nd percentile. They’ve got to check its progress.
We have to be in this for the long haul, I tell Atticus, walking through the sliding doors, my arm around his neck. And I’ve got control of the music. They all love it when I bring it around, and as such, they love us. I’m the lucky one making you luckier, I say, pointing a finger into his face, and the music is always playing in my head. I don’t have to wait for myself like you do. I can dance behind the drawn shades of my day.
I pat him on the back and stare. Musette is on the couch, asleep. It’s nine-thirty. The baby is progressing right along schedule, her foot still in front of her face.
I don’t got no friends, I say. Don’t want no friends
What I want is to feel the wind beneath the wings of my heart again as I’m approaching the dark corner of suburbia’s high school bridge that wraps around the old mental hospital and the church park barbecue pits. The fog of uber futures is where I should feel at home, but I am a boy buried in tree roots who has passed the end of his twenties. I’m sucking on a tailspin, but you never know what’s going to happen around these moments, not when you’re dealing with a primadonna and a sick fashion sense.
Come on, bibles. She’s throwing up over the side of the bed, says the preceptor.
I’ll get the radish.