In the car, I tell her that I had an idea, but that I couldn’t execute on it. I am weak, I say, without you. I have lost the ability to survive independently. I wanted it to be a surprise. A locket. Sterling silver. Petite little thing. I was going to prowl the antique shops on my lunch break, but I forgot and ended up getting a five dollar footlong instead. Tuna fish. I ate it at home, on the couch, reclining, watching HBO. I wanted to print a small version of the ultrasound, the one where baby looks like a little bean. I was going to fit it to size. “Mama’s first mother’s day”. Now look at me, an abject failure. There’s no way that I can accomplish the task in the amount of time that I have left. Mother’s day is tomorrow. I wouldn’t have gotten it done no matter how much time you gave me. I couldn’t. Not without your help. I’m dying. That’s why we’re having this baby. I’m fading into the periphery.  A watchful eye, reporting. Fingers for iris. Reporting the news to a strange crowd scattered across the Earth. Impersonal. Something for them to hold onto. A cautionary tale. Always get your wife a gift on her first mother’s day. It only happens once. You’re so worried about your first gay orgasm that you let it slip by. This is bigger than father’s day cards, but be prepared because that’s just around the corner. And let’s not even talk about your actual mother. I got her a card, but I have no idea of what to get her for a gift. She’s in Europe. I’m putting it off. I’d never do this at work. I’m more responsible there. Work is my life. Being off is death. I don’t want to do anything. Let me relax in the unrestrained freedom. I don’t even want to sleep. Death is too instantaneous in sleep. I would rather be aware of my resting than cherish it and fulfill it with life outside of work.

To tell you the truth, I like the ambiguity of my life. All the juxtaposed paragraphs. Give me more english lessons, and I’d go into deeper depths, but I’m doing the best that I can with the scraps The Lord’s given me, and I don’t have it in me to send myself back to school. It’s exactly what I mean, I tell Franny. That’s why I’m having a kid. That part of me has been transplanted. I’m going through a transmutation. I’ve taken enough acid to know that I am not the meat that you may eat, but the all of it working together a machine of the living soul. The ghost of the eternal box.

Nobody tells me anything anymore. The days go by. Latch on and let me take you through them. That’s what I’m here for. It’s what I’m good for. Give me a break. Let me tell you about the time the old man mime came in and told me that he couldn’t be offended by us. He pretended to be nothing but air. I knew that he was observing. Slipped into the periphery against his will or he’d shut up. He doesn’t have the same kind of release that I’ve got, though it’s right in front of him. He doesn’t understand that he can just let go and let that letting go evolves into a sort of class. An art.

Pass a torch this way, and let me writhe out my legacy.

You know how I get with words, says my therapist. You’re a dangerous creature bibles. Like to ride the edge a little, don’cha?

I know that some people like me, I say, clutching my fists and eyelids, walking down the cold, crisp, tree lined path in the morning.

Flash me through your pornhub glasses.

Who is going to impregnate this poor young woman?

I’ve got to start letting the world dress me. Choosy, handsy, little ass grabber. I’m starting to call slippers house shoes more often. I’m more into one source now than I was yesterday. One love. Fuck all the racism, sexism, homophobic, homoerotic bull crap. Don’t be scared of the homeless youth, and don’t make fun of the Mormon youth. You are neither right nor left. None of us know who we truly are, and I’m no exception. I may be exceptional, but I’m no exception. I get no exemptions. My back hurts like the rest of ours. I have a hard time getting off the couch. I submit to my wife’s request couched demands. I’m a pussy. I’m a bully. I’m going to be a bad dad, but that doesn’t make me a bad guy. It’s all in your mind, son. The light’s playing tricks on your mind, girl. Check yourself before you wreck yourself. We’re all slated to die, but it doesn’t mean that it’s going to happen. These are the best of times, they’re the worst of times. Consider yourself lucky.

It’s too bad cyber attacks exist. Ransomware is a terrible meme. I’ll pray for you while worrying about myself. Thank goodness I don’t have Windows. Times like these, it’s good to be innovative.

I intend to liberate myself, and I’m bringing literature with me. We are one and the same. You pay me one dollar a month, I’ll send you a post of your choosing quarterly, signed. Five dollars gets you the year’s worth of writing in book form. 25 dollars, and I’ll read in a location of your choosing. We can even hang out, because audience is power.

The gods need worship, and money is sustenance. We want to live free. Die if we have to. Die when we want.

I wish that I didn’t have to hold my brain back. It aches me keeping my thoughts within myself because I am trying to make something of them. But it’s this ambition that is getting in the way, clogging up my sinuses, turning this spotlight on my forehead into a constipated poop chute.

Sometimes, Diane, it’s best just to remain silent. Or simply to speak when spoken to or to act when called. All of this story nonsense seems like it could best be fitted for the trash because who am I the one for presenting it. I can’t even describe to you the way that my boots slosh on the sidewalk during the rainy days of cloud sky New York. Or the smile that my dog gives when he looks up at me confirming that we are on the same page. I am the unreliable narrator, rolling over and again through the same pastures while Donald Trump rises higher in the polls and I can’t tell if Bernie Sanders is a robot.

There is the possibility of pasta in the cupboards and fridge. I have a pot of water on the stovetop but the stovetop is not on because we have been eating peanut butter sandwiches which I have made using the honey that Musette has taken into the bathroom with her to keep her face acne free.

I’ve been wearing the same DECA shirt for days. It is orange. I sleep in it. I probably would’ve changed it out yesterday but for the fact that I woke up too late to change my clothes. I’ve had no reason to change my clothes today. It doesn’t matter if I stink when I’m here by myself with the dog who smells better than me.

I take him out and he shits something solid. I couldn’t be happier to see it. I am so proud of him. The pride radiates from my eyes. He’s looking up at me. We’re looking into each other’s eyes. I can tell that he is proud of himself. There’s not even any blood. Thank God. Is this a miracle?

I walk him back to the apartment. It is my turn to shit. Sitting down on the toilet, I let ripcelabratorily. Such a relief. The sweet smell of success.

The Hues of Martyrdom

There is a thirteen pound bag of dog food waiting for us at home. We purchased it less than a week ago, from the only pet store in town, which is located over a mile away from our apartment, thinking it would save us money in the long run. I carried the awkward, corpse resembling, hunk over my shoulder the entire way home, engendering the required strength by imagining myself a mother wolf delivering a kill to its pack.

Musette’s mother Gina is on the phone telling Musette that pet stores are required to take back bags of dog food regardless of their state.

“You should call them and ask.” Musette says to me.

So I unholster my phone from my pocket, in an act of getting done what will be done, following as closely as I can Henry Miller’s advice, completely surrendering, looking up the pet store’s number on Google Maps, and letting improvisation guide my performance. The associate hears my case and grants pardon for our purchase. But it takes me weeks to muster the motivation required to make the trip, and the instigation comes not from within but through a text message from Musette telling me that if I complete this task we will be rewarded with enough funds for me to purchase an eighth of seemingly long abstained from, poverty guarded marijuana.

I find the dog food bag fits inside of the faux-paratrooper backpack I purchased from the army navy store in Utah. I had purchased the backpack in preparation for my unfulfilled expatriatism in Mexico. There were actual paratrooper backpacks for sale there as well, but they were less comfortable, more complicated to operate, and duller colored – albeit righteously stylish, and signed by a potential haunting ghost.

Having the dog food fit inside my backpack allows my hands to be free which makes it possible for Charleston to come with me on this journey. It is the longest walk he has ever been on. I use Google Maps’ navigation service to ensure I don’t head East when I should be heading West. It guides me up a different route than the one Musette and I had walked originally, saying, “Turn right on Lovejoy.” and “Head straight on Tenth Avenue,” depositing me finally at the back of the pet store, where a man stands next to the door, wrangling with a large German shepherd.

He tells an inquiring woman that the dog is actually a puppy:

“Can you believe it? They are the sweetest of dogs… He just met his bestest of friends inside, and now he’s super excited!”

The last thing I want is for him to try to make friends with Charleston. The man is gratingly, and ectoplasmicaly annoying. His dog pulls him around like he is a tassel dangling from the end of his leash. I have had bad experiences with German Shepherds, having been bitten multiple times as a child by a neighbor’s dog, which was dangerously under disciplined, and ill-contained within a homemade pen of two-by-fours. To be fair, I have been bitten by other dogs besides german shepherds; but the only other type of dog I specifically remember being bitten by is a doberman pinscher – which brings me to my opinion that most people are under qualified to harbor these large, weaponesque breeds, and in doing so are committing foul acts or irresponsibility, usually by sickeningly fostering the chimeras of over-compensation and fearful violence which bubble sinisterly in the gut flora of our nakedly pathetic species.

Through a combination of avoidance, speed, proper timing, and the German shepherd’s transfixation upon the inquiring woman, who is forced to validate the man’s claims regarding his ultimate sweetness, Charleston and I slip into the shop without incident. The place smells like dog and the floor is slick. Charleston slides and scratches upon his claws. “Surely this was a choice of utility over comfort.” I think to myself, sliding Charleston, like a skunk colored mop, past a woman who stands, holding a little dog in her hands, kissing its head.   

An associate sees us, notices the size and age of Charleston, scans the area with furtive eyes, and tersely asks, “Can I help you?”

“Yes.” I say. “I have a bag of dog food here in my backpack which I would like to return.”

The associate abandons the task she was working on to sidle around the checkstand. I remember her from last time. She has bright tattoos on her arms which I wanted to compliment her on, but didn’t, instead praising them later to Musette.

She had been more personable then, even going so far as to give us ten dollars off our purchase. Today I deal with an alternate incarnation who asks interrogative questions, wondering why I am returning the dog food and what type I am replacing it with. I give her the same answers I gave the associate over the phone, not telling her about that phone conversation though, believing it will have a beggarly, presumptuous effect, knowing however that it is my trump card should this interview go negatively.

“The money will be deposited back into your account within two to three business days; and good luck finding a food that works for your puppy, it can be tough.” she says.

Her raspy voice, which I fell head over heals for last time, has returned, making me want to deliver that tattoo compliment, or touch her cropped, strawberry blonde hair, or lick those freckles on her face, which I imagine continuing down her neck, spattering her chest, and sprinkling her upper thighs – if I am only so lucky to be in the presence of a true, American angel.

“Yes.” I end up saying. “Hopefully this gastro-intestinal stuff gets the job done.”

I exit through the front door, just in case that man is still waiting for Charleston to become his dog’s new best friend. The area is well populated. Everybody wants to pet my puppy. It takes me five minutes to walk five feet. But it is a less strenuous journey than the one I took getting here. My bag weighs thirteen pounds less and the path has flipped to the downhill version of itself.

When Musette comes home I tell her of my accomplishment. She is surprised at my fortitude, but says, “It’s good, because we could probably use the money right now…”

“What do you mean?” I ask, surprised that she is offering me this response instead of a marijuana related one. “Has an unexpected bill popped up?”

“Well…” She says. “I told my mom I would give her money so that she can buy a puppy.”

My brain starts ticking.

“I never got her a Mother’s Day present…” she continues. “And she wrote me a message today telling me how she found the perfect dog; but the money my dad gave her isn’t enough to cover the cost…”

“What type of dog is it?” I ask, struggling to appear unphased.

“A golden retriever.”

“I thought that she wanted a great dane…”

“Well, she’s always loved golden retrievers, and they are such good family dogs…”

“But don’t they require a lot of exercise?”

“She has had one before. And she always tells me how good of a dog it was.”

I ask her how much money she is planning on giving her.

“Two hundred dollars.”

I am nonplussed. Two hundred dollars is five times the amount of money I was planning on spending.

I have to struggle to keep speaking.

“That is so sweet of you to take care of your mom like that. I don’t really need the pot anyways… and you’re right, you didn’t get her a mother’s day present…”

“Really? You’re not mad at me?”

“How could I be? You are the sweetest child the world has ever seen.”

“You’re so wonderful!” she says, proceeding to log onto her computer in search of a means of instantaneous wire transfer.

The music from my radio intensifies. It deepens with the hues of martyrdom.

“This is what I need…” I tell myself. “It is what I truly want…”

“I can pick it up right away…” Says Gina, in regards to the withdrawal of our funds, in full submission to her shamefulness, being blasted by puppy love.

She hangs up the phone with the excuse of needing to finish getting ready. It is the last we hear from her for hours. Musette sends her text messages with no replies.

“She is probably busy dealing with the breeder…” Musette says.

Five hours pass before pictures of a white colored puppy, buckled into the front seat of Gina’s Astrovan, start rolling through Musette’s message log. They reveal a puppy more resemblant of a yellow lab than a golden retriever.

“The flash is washing everything out,” Gina says. “But he’s really more yellow than that.”

She is driving while talking on the phone which causes Musette to request a call back later.

“Ok sweety.” she says, with the pathetic sweetness of indebted gratefulness injected into her voice. “I love you honey.”

Much time passes.

“What’s the deal? It’s practically our puppy!” I say, complaining about the lack of updates.

“She’s clearly busy getting adjusted.” says Musette.

The entire night passes. It isn’t until the next afternoon that we receive a call.

“We decided to take him back.” says Gina.

“What? Why?”

“His hair was affecting our allergies. Mine and Vicky’s both. I couldn’t even sleep last night, my sinuses were so affected…”

She proceeds to corkscrew through this mire like a sycophantic pig. Witnessing her debasement brings a high more euphoric than two hundred dollars worth of pot could provide. It detaches a gasping giggle from my entrails. I have to excuse myself to the bathroom to pour silent mania into the mirror.  

“I can deposit the money back into your account…” she says.

“No… No… You keep it, so that you don’t have to wait once you actually find the puppy meant for you.” replies Musette.

I can’t stop smiling.

“Thank you sweetheart… I know he’s out there waiting for me… This one was just too much like Blimpy… But I think I need another miniature schnauzer… that’s just the dog that’s made for me… you know? Oh you’re so sweet for helping me… Some things just don’t work out…”

“Just don’t stop looking, ok?”

“Oh, I promise I will sweetheart. Or I won’t… Whichever one is the right answer…”

The tragedy beneath Musette’s faltering ignorance, manifested in the form of a half smile,
which glows my way after the phone call is over, levels the fizzing of my mind, and deposits me to a higher state of sanity.

“Some things just don’t work out…” she says.