I come in the door, 2am, leave my shoes on, don't take off my coat although I am sweating. I always hurry home from shift, but for what? To get a head start on a long empty night, to get the jump on doing nothing? I walk in the(more) door, and I open the fridge. I need comfort. I have a hole in me. I don't care about myself. I don't.
I take out the cold pasta from supper the night before, I dig in with my fingers and chew a cold mouthful to tide me over until the rest of the noodles heat and beep in the microwave. Butter and salt, lots of salt. I eat standing, blocking out the details of my day. I eat slow enough so I don't choke. I don't want to be the fucker found choked with a throat of congealed noodles. In my job, I see this sort of thing.
I don't know what hole this shit is intended to fill. What am I looking for? My days are blood and engines, roads and sirens. And silence. Blocks of silence.
This is me. It's why I am 250 pounds - 6 feet tall sure, but also the guy who (despite his size) looks soft at the edges - like he will cry at the drop of a dime. And I will, too. I am 45, no dates in 5 years. I like Pixar movies. I fear my habit of paying for hooker blowjobs (folded up emergency $20-bill in my wallet) will be something any potential real date can smell. Meanwhile I am trying not to get the shadowy-eyes and tense look of the isolated man (masturbator!) who squints at a computer screen in a city where streetlights and ambulance lights outshine the stars.(less)
Some where in the field over there is a twenty dollar bill.
A bill that has been buried for forty years. Buried in the dusty dirt in the field on the corner of Rio Linda Boulevard and M street.
Directly across from Archway Frosty is a fie(more)ld that holds a hidden treasure and proof of my thievery so many years ago.
Perhaps it was uncovered by another who had no idea it was a secret. I wonder what someone would have thought if they uncovered a buried twenty. They would have to know it was put there because of guilt. What other reason would one have to bury a twenty. I wasn't leaving a treasure for someone to find. I was burying my sin.
I have always feared that the evidence would expose itself. That someone would know it was me and come to point their accusing finger. "Shame on you for stealing from your own mother's underwear drawer!"
I couldn't put a twenty dollar bill back in my mother's drawer. After all, it wasn't originally a twenty dollar bill. It was a fifty.
It's amazing what a fifty could buy in the 70's at the Archway Frosty. (less)