Are you still in love with god?
Does he make you hurt in all the right places?
Heathens carry grudges,
not crosses. The weight
is not as great.
And your man -- is he spiritual?
Can he do what I could not?
Don't let him disappear
your name. I've always liked
the lowercase z.
Does he leave you messages in your native tongue?
Send you on scavengers' hunts to pass the time?
We needn't be liars
like we were before. I have no
room for your savior.
Do you believe he has space on his shelf?
Did you ever kneel at night, praying for me?
All I ever did for you
was stay up late with falling snow,
watching you sleep.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
What's My Line? b/w Room Service
I pulled the handle like a pantomime
and led a camel through the corridors.
I made a first impression seven times –
Hello, I'm Herb Saunders from Baltimore.
The ballet turned into a pants-fitting.
Nude ballerinas dropping bits of food.
Pull it together 'cos your phone's ringing.
Finish: your snacks and: dancing with your ghoul.
I knocked the door down on my own child
and then skipped through fields of gravel stones.
Coughed up blood until I cracked a smile.
We invoked thee – you answered no, no, no.
We are like puppets with heads exploding –
in our wheelchairs with our guns, circling.
and led a camel through the corridors.
I made a first impression seven times –
Hello, I'm Herb Saunders from Baltimore.
The ballet turned into a pants-fitting.
Nude ballerinas dropping bits of food.
Pull it together 'cos your phone's ringing.
Finish: your snacks and: dancing with your ghoul.
I knocked the door down on my own child
and then skipped through fields of gravel stones.
Coughed up blood until I cracked a smile.
We invoked thee – you answered no, no, no.
We are like puppets with heads exploding –
in our wheelchairs with our guns, circling.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Friday, January 21, 2011
Monster at Twenty-One
She could destroy the world if she wanted to. Wrap its people
around her fingers like black olives –
the way she did when she was young with baby fat.
Running around the yard, an Oleaceous creature on holiday.
(Calculated mischief.)
When her fingers thinned and elongated, woman-like,
the olives would bust when she tried this.
She scoffed at growth. Age as Challenge.
The sobriquet cements: No power in the verse will stop me.
She believes life should be a movie, or a cancelled television drama.
We should always be in love. September should last forever,
and road trips should be beautiful and cathartic – like finding God.
She knows reality is not this.
Would you settle for an early
season of Dawson’s Creek and finishing
a scrapbook? Waiting
for a hiccup – her minute to escape. To leave behind
tired streets and distant friends for a one bedroom in the Village,
or maybe a small town with Southern accents. Anywhere but here.
She walks with a solid step – not heavy, mind you.
It’s a quiet thunder
in the living room. Hey, Gravity? She’s done wit chu. Like a doll
she makes herself. Builds a person from leather boots up. Spouts pop
culture epiphanies before telling your girlfriend to go fuck herself,
then she will sell you a reasonably priced cup of coffee. One sugar?
Or two? You will know her destruction – bra on the stove. Small fire
on the hair straightener. Jeans left in the bathroom like she melted
through the floor. All part of the charm. The charismatic drunk.
She will not go gentle – more like kicking and screaming,
shooting a plastic dart gun. Painfully authentic. Uncategorized.
She’s a monster, you see. She’s not like us.
She’s going to be a firefighter when the floods roll back.
This monster’s going to part traffic like the sea for a fountain soda,
and maybe just the smallest slice of chocolate cream pie.
around her fingers like black olives –
the way she did when she was young with baby fat.
Running around the yard, an Oleaceous creature on holiday.
(Calculated mischief.)
When her fingers thinned and elongated, woman-like,
the olives would bust when she tried this.
She scoffed at growth. Age as Challenge.
The sobriquet cements: No power in the verse will stop me.
She believes life should be a movie, or a cancelled television drama.
We should always be in love. September should last forever,
and road trips should be beautiful and cathartic – like finding God.
She knows reality is not this.
Would you settle for an early
season of Dawson’s Creek and finishing
a scrapbook? Waiting
for a hiccup – her minute to escape. To leave behind
tired streets and distant friends for a one bedroom in the Village,
or maybe a small town with Southern accents. Anywhere but here.
She walks with a solid step – not heavy, mind you.
It’s a quiet thunder
in the living room. Hey, Gravity? She’s done wit chu. Like a doll
she makes herself. Builds a person from leather boots up. Spouts pop
culture epiphanies before telling your girlfriend to go fuck herself,
then she will sell you a reasonably priced cup of coffee. One sugar?
Or two? You will know her destruction – bra on the stove. Small fire
on the hair straightener. Jeans left in the bathroom like she melted
through the floor. All part of the charm. The charismatic drunk.
She will not go gentle – more like kicking and screaming,
shooting a plastic dart gun. Painfully authentic. Uncategorized.
She’s a monster, you see. She’s not like us.
She’s going to be a firefighter when the floods roll back.
This monster’s going to part traffic like the sea for a fountain soda,
and maybe just the smallest slice of chocolate cream pie.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Prelude To "Monster at Twenty-One"
Grab your party hats,
for the Weather bites vicious.
The end is quite nigh.
for the Weather bites vicious.
The end is quite nigh.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
Monday, January 17, 2011
Cepretet
We are the punch-drunk. The obnoxious
ghosts that everybody wants, but no one
will admit to. Offer us a verse as reward
and we will eat its skin. Suck the bones
dry. Or simply steal it, and give it
as a gift to our young. Malicious,
but well-meaning. And we will mean
everything. A wasted syllable is a spilled
beer -- and we love our beer. Do not fuck
with our beer. For we will find your home.
We will find your secret place. We will burn it
to the pavement. Won't you use caution?
There is a fire where a wood shed used to be,
and I'm running low on diet soda. And John
gets nervous for my throat and organs, 'cos
they're not painted like a bicycle. He doesn't
want coughed up body on his rug -- Sarah
just cleaned the place and now she's napping.
He gives a good god damn, and knows I won't
smash in heads with bats or floor boards,
but I will bite out a tongue like a geek.
Chew and spit, blood as ink -- or maybe
a promise. To rely on. Like a good flying bird,
or a dusty basement hymn. From the ground
up comes the sound. And we know it's glorious.
ghosts that everybody wants, but no one
will admit to. Offer us a verse as reward
and we will eat its skin. Suck the bones
dry. Or simply steal it, and give it
as a gift to our young. Malicious,
but well-meaning. And we will mean
everything. A wasted syllable is a spilled
beer -- and we love our beer. Do not fuck
with our beer. For we will find your home.
We will find your secret place. We will burn it
to the pavement. Won't you use caution?
There is a fire where a wood shed used to be,
and I'm running low on diet soda. And John
gets nervous for my throat and organs, 'cos
they're not painted like a bicycle. He doesn't
want coughed up body on his rug -- Sarah
just cleaned the place and now she's napping.
He gives a good god damn, and knows I won't
smash in heads with bats or floor boards,
but I will bite out a tongue like a geek.
Chew and spit, blood as ink -- or maybe
a promise. To rely on. Like a good flying bird,
or a dusty basement hymn. From the ground
up comes the sound. And we know it's glorious.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
...And Found
Miss Mars,
Is it lonely where you are? Do you wage
war on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis?
These are the things I want to know.
Do they teach you (the chase)?
How to keep from the wind? It must be
the coldest and most far away place.
You are a blonde/black/red planet:
not orb-like, please understand.
You are a destination. Uncharted
territory in the dark, dark sky.
Mysterious...yes! The word fits
like a second-hand smoking jacket.
We are glad to have found it.
Let us plan to meet again, accidentally
of course. Old spines and whiskey and
leather boots will lead the way.
Is it lonely where you are? Do you wage
war on a daily, weekly, or monthly basis?
These are the things I want to know.
Do they teach you (the chase)?
How to keep from the wind? It must be
the coldest and most far away place.
You are a blonde/black/red planet:
not orb-like, please understand.
You are a destination. Uncharted
territory in the dark, dark sky.
Mysterious...yes! The word fits
like a second-hand smoking jacket.
We are glad to have found it.
Let us plan to meet again, accidentally
of course. Old spines and whiskey and
leather boots will lead the way.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
New York Cannonball Finale Fuckstorm
I've only got twenty-four bucks by side, so it looks like I'm drinking my dinner tonight. If I end up in Paramus, I've gone astray. And if the train hits the end of the line, I might stay. But when I get to the city 'cos I begged or borrowed, I don't want to be used tonight to be sent home tomorrow. 'Cos home, that's the fakest joint I've ever seen. Twice as bad as New York, at least here they know what I mean when I tell them I'm tired. They don't show me a bed. They pour me a drink and we get lighter heads. And we play with our coasters without saying a word, as we listen to the whistling of Andrew Bird. Then the conversation starts, man, and that's when it happens. We talk in paraphrases and poke holes in our napkins.
And our logic is sound.
Our views are unbent.
And our reasoning is so god damn magnificent.
Maybe I'll get to the city and visit with John, and he'll answer the door with a girl on each arm. He'll introduce me to Ruffin, a girl with fire-like hair, who will tell me:
1. her uncle's a millionaire. And that
2. her life is depressing, but also makes her laugh. That
3. she sleeps in the tub when she goes for a bath. That
4. she's never liked Tuesdays and never eats meat (though she's not opposed to the occasional treat.) And
5. she broke both her hands once, and both of her feet, when she tried to ride her scooter down Barrow Street.
6. She talks during movies, and
7. never says "like", but
8. she always rereads endings of the books she likes.
You know? I think I'm gonna stay.
('Cos we know that we learn to love the things we hate.)
And our logic is sound.
Our views are unbent.
And our reasoning is so god damn magnificent.
Maybe I'll get to the city and visit with John, and he'll answer the door with a girl on each arm. He'll introduce me to Ruffin, a girl with fire-like hair, who will tell me:
1. her uncle's a millionaire. And that
2. her life is depressing, but also makes her laugh. That
3. she sleeps in the tub when she goes for a bath. That
4. she's never liked Tuesdays and never eats meat (though she's not opposed to the occasional treat.) And
5. she broke both her hands once, and both of her feet, when she tried to ride her scooter down Barrow Street.
6. She talks during movies, and
7. never says "like", but
8. she always rereads endings of the books she likes.
You know? I think I'm gonna stay.
('Cos we know that we learn to love the things we hate.)
Sunday, January 9, 2011
The God Ship
I hold your lives like a jar, or a cardboard box beneath the stairs. You fill me with stories, with love. Unspeakable love you keep hidden, even from (especially from,) each other. You are all so silly in that way. You keep things buried underneath, but I’ve seen you. Nervous fumbling in the glow of a television screen. Labored breathing. Explosions like little deaths in the bedroom.
And then I’ve heard the lying – fibs and little whites. “I’m sorry.” “Yes.” “No.” “I love you.” And the heavier. “I didn’t.” “I wouldn’t.” “I love you.” Siblings and friends and parents and lovers do not hear everything. They do not get to get at the heart of the matter. I do, and for this I feel sorry for you all.
I wear your photographs and posters and swatches of color like a uniform. My ceremonial dress. You peel and scrape and gut, rebuild off of and on top of me. But I don’t complain...not so much as a groan. Because I am one of meaning. Of reason. The God Ship. I could be your house, and I can be your home – at least for a little while. And then it’s time to leave. And then it’s time to move on and empty me out. Keep me as a memory, for better or for worse.
You cannot forget me. I am The Blackmailer. I am The Invisible Man. I am the one who could destroy your world or improve it. Cut me a mouth where the front door used to be and I will tell you everything I know, everything you think you kept secret. And you will be amazed at what I know, at what you do not.
How could I have missed this?
I do not know.
I must have been blind.
You were only in the dark.
You knew what you needed to, and this is enough. That is not your role – to know everything. The meaning of everything. I am an object – you have assigned me “shelter.” But I am an object. I cannot make such distinctions. I am Shelter. I am Observer. Objects, by their very nature, exist. But what you do with them is the true test. The meaning gives them power.
And then I’ve heard the lying – fibs and little whites. “I’m sorry.” “Yes.” “No.” “I love you.” And the heavier. “I didn’t.” “I wouldn’t.” “I love you.” Siblings and friends and parents and lovers do not hear everything. They do not get to get at the heart of the matter. I do, and for this I feel sorry for you all.
I wear your photographs and posters and swatches of color like a uniform. My ceremonial dress. You peel and scrape and gut, rebuild off of and on top of me. But I don’t complain...not so much as a groan. Because I am one of meaning. Of reason. The God Ship. I could be your house, and I can be your home – at least for a little while. And then it’s time to leave. And then it’s time to move on and empty me out. Keep me as a memory, for better or for worse.
You cannot forget me. I am The Blackmailer. I am The Invisible Man. I am the one who could destroy your world or improve it. Cut me a mouth where the front door used to be and I will tell you everything I know, everything you think you kept secret. And you will be amazed at what I know, at what you do not.
How could I have missed this?
I do not know.
I must have been blind.
You were only in the dark.
You knew what you needed to, and this is enough. That is not your role – to know everything. The meaning of everything. I am an object – you have assigned me “shelter.” But I am an object. I cannot make such distinctions. I am Shelter. I am Observer. Objects, by their very nature, exist. But what you do with them is the true test. The meaning gives them power.
Saturday, January 8, 2011
Sample
"You can't bargain for a home. You build one, from the ground up. This town is fucked - there are red ants in the sugarbowl and black pitch dripping from the birch tree in the backyard."
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
The Great Escape
Cushion
$2,000 (currently at $835.17)
Destinations (in no particular order)
#1: San Francisco
#2: Brooklyn
#3: Manhattan
#4: Los Angeles
#5: Boston
Job Opportunities
#1: No.
#2: No.
#3: Possibly.
#4: FUCK no.
#5: I haven't heard back.
Pros
#1: Loose hippie women, Dave Eggers
#2: "No Sleep 'Til...", cheaper than the city proper, Galuminum Foil
#3: The center of the world, quoting Ghostbusters lines
#4: (Almost) every Joss Whedon show ever made, a place to get clean (somewhere no one's expecting)
#5: Murph and Sheila
Cons
#1: Hippies...
#2: Hipsters
#3: Living to work
#4: Season Six of The L Word -- excellent show, terrible final season
#5: Sports, "The Boston Accent", still extremely close to Rhode Island
$2,000 (currently at $835.17)
Destinations (in no particular order)
#1: San Francisco
#2: Brooklyn
#3: Manhattan
#4: Los Angeles
#5: Boston
Job Opportunities
#1: No.
#2: No.
#3: Possibly.
#4: FUCK no.
#5: I haven't heard back.
Pros
#1: Loose hippie women, Dave Eggers
#2: "No Sleep 'Til...", cheaper than the city proper, Galuminum Foil
#3: The center of the world, quoting Ghostbusters lines
#4: (Almost) every Joss Whedon show ever made, a place to get clean (somewhere no one's expecting)
#5: Murph and Sheila
Cons
#1: Hippies...
#2: Hipsters
#3: Living to work
#4: Season Six of The L Word -- excellent show, terrible final season
#5: Sports, "The Boston Accent", still extremely close to Rhode Island
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Coquette, Pt. 2
They sit with legs spread,
like an invitation. No, no --
more like a summons.
A notice to appear.
It's a dizzying display, like when I was five
and I got vertigo at the Ann & Hope.
The checkered floor shifted
and slid. The ceiling collapsed.
This is why I have to hold onto:
arms/parking meters/mailboxes
when looking at tall buildings.
Look, I'm telling you, I must sneak glances.
Sipping through a straw
so I don't fall down.
But hark! There is a remedy.
Smaller buildings, or some goddamn pants.
like an invitation. No, no --
more like a summons.
A notice to appear.
It's a dizzying display, like when I was five
and I got vertigo at the Ann & Hope.
The checkered floor shifted
and slid. The ceiling collapsed.
This is why I have to hold onto:
arms/parking meters/mailboxes
when looking at tall buildings.
Look, I'm telling you, I must sneak glances.
Sipping through a straw
so I don't fall down.
But hark! There is a remedy.
Smaller buildings, or some goddamn pants.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Into the Woods
(Hum: da da daaa. da da DA dada. da da dA DA DA Da da da da da da. da da daaa da da da.)
Don't keep me as necessity.
If I'm just a want, that's good enough for me.
Don't keep me as a time of day.
Or a confidence to steal and hide away.
I will burn your house. I will burn your house. I will burn.
I like your mom, because she's good to me.
Offers kindness and a warm cupper of tea.
I'm not a man, but she's called me one.
Keep the teeth I've sharpened hidden underneath,
like a champion. Like a champion. Like a champ.
No, we've got time. Into the woods with you.
Leave your watch, it's a weight around your wrist.
So you call me at three o'clock.
You don't want to fuck, but the distance makes you cold.
Can you hold me close? Can you hold me close? Can you hold?
And so we drink. Polish off that wine
in a borrowed room on the New Jersey state line.
The nightingales, they keep us company.
'Til your stomach hurts you ask them all to leave.
Fly away, little birds. Fly away, little birds. Fly away.
There's a beat rattling my chest.
There's a traitor here, I wanted you to know.
When you ask, what's that on your tongue?
Say, the money's blood and we need to eat it up.
Makes us safe and warm. Makes us safe and warm. Makes us whole.
My dear, I thank you for your sympathy.
It's a kindness, still, you're not in love with me.
'Cos it's not hard to get lost in time.
As a peasant boy in 1899,
when you weren't there and I was fine. When you weren't there and I was fine.
When you weren't there.
Don't keep me as necessity.
If I'm just a want, that's good enough for me.
Don't keep me as a time of day.
Or a confidence to steal and hide away.
I will burn your house. I will burn your house. I will burn.
I like your mom, because she's good to me.
Offers kindness and a warm cupper of tea.
I'm not a man, but she's called me one.
Keep the teeth I've sharpened hidden underneath,
like a champion. Like a champion. Like a champ.
No, we've got time. Into the woods with you.
Leave your watch, it's a weight around your wrist.
So you call me at three o'clock.
You don't want to fuck, but the distance makes you cold.
Can you hold me close? Can you hold me close? Can you hold?
And so we drink. Polish off that wine
in a borrowed room on the New Jersey state line.
The nightingales, they keep us company.
'Til your stomach hurts you ask them all to leave.
Fly away, little birds. Fly away, little birds. Fly away.
There's a beat rattling my chest.
There's a traitor here, I wanted you to know.
When you ask, what's that on your tongue?
Say, the money's blood and we need to eat it up.
Makes us safe and warm. Makes us safe and warm. Makes us whole.
My dear, I thank you for your sympathy.
It's a kindness, still, you're not in love with me.
'Cos it's not hard to get lost in time.
As a peasant boy in 1899,
when you weren't there and I was fine. When you weren't there and I was fine.
When you weren't there.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
The New Year
“So this is the new year,” Sophie muttered to herself, taking a sip from her poorly mixed cocktail. She made a face as she swallowed the sugary firewater. “I don’t feel any different.” She surveyed the apartment, the get together turned party still churning. The ball had been dropped, the obligatory Auld Lang Syne had been sung/inaccurately slurred. The sound of 2010 pop hits had been replaced with softer music, the clanking of plastic cups acting as crystal. Sophie imagined what was happening in the upstairs bedrooms – explosions of heavy groping and sloppy kissing in the distance. She wished she was one of those lucky ones, locked in a borrowed bedroom, ringing in the new year.
Her daydreaming was interrupted by a presence felt. She turned to find Jess, a friend she had since high school. Jess was tall, dark, skin like caramel. In her outfit, she looked like a villain from a postmodern film noir. Lipstick the color of electric cherries. Slim black dress and smokey tights. Heels that could double as weapons if necessary. “This is the new year!” Jess yelled, bumping glasses with Sophie. Sophie raised her eyebrows unamused and finished her drink. Sensing her friend’s apathy for the celebration, Jess continued. “Any resolutions? Like...not being a stick in the mud?”
“Ha ha,” Sophie mocked, holding her stomach. “No resolutions for me. They’re just one more thing to feel bad about. Like lent... I never understood lent.” Jess nodded, not following Sophie’s logic. “Self-assigned penance,” Sophie explained. “It’s not for me. Wait, let me fix that. It is for me, all year long. I don’t need a resolution to make me feel bad about myself. I majored in self pity.”
Jess laughed. “You’re such a pessimist.”
“I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”
“But you’re not,” Jess scoffed, setting down her drink on a nearby end table. “I’m not going to tell you that people have it worse off than you, you already know that. You’re not stupid.”
“Thank you?” Sophie replied, cocking her head.
“You don’t like your life,” Jess pressed further. “I get that. Everyone feels like that...maybe not as often as you feel like that, but everyone has their days. Not every problem is easy with an easy solution.”
“Well it seems like everyone here has it easier than me,” Sophie commented, turning back to the room full of friends. Jess shrugged, walking towards the kitchen. Sophie followed, picking up Jess’s empty glass from the table. The two friends stood at the refrigerator, scanning for their next libation. They settled on two Stellas.
Jess leaned against the counter, fumbling with the paper wrapper on top of the bottle. “That’s what nights like this are for, Sophie. The promise of a new year – that’s what people hold on to. They want to believe that things get better, even if – ” Jess put up a hand to stop Sophie from interrupting. “Even if things are going well for them. Everyone wants better. I want better, different. You want better.” Jess popped the cap off the bottle and took a sip. Sophie was still fumbling with hers. “So, once a year, everybody puts their best suits or dresses on. They play pretend – they pretend their celebrating, that they’re wealthy or loved or successful for one night. Because if they believe enough, maybe it will happen. Do you need help with that?” Sophie nodded, handing the beer over. Jess reached into a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a bottle opener, cracked it, and handed the bottle back.
“I get what you’re saying – ” Sophie started. She paused when a herd of partygoers ran past her through the kitchen.
“Fireworks! Front lawn! Now! ” a random man yelled as he disappeared out the door. Jess and Sophie looked at each other, then at the door. The thirty-odd dialogues that filled the apartment had poured out of the house, leaving only one.
“Like I said,” Sophie continued. “I get what you’re saying. But I don’t care what other people are dealing with, or what they want. I’m selfish. I’m twenty-seven years old and I’m still young enough to care about only one person – me.”
Jess sighed. “That’s a fair point. But you have two options. The first, do nothing. Stay trapped in your home town forever, hang out at the same townie bars, working at a job you fucking loathe. Or, the second, do something. Get the fuck out of this place. Be happy. Do something. Do anything. I got out, and look at me. I’m dolled up like Angelina Jolie...less slutty, of course.” Jess smiled, prompting Sophie to laugh. She set her beer down on the counter next to Jess and rubbed her eyes with both palms. Jess rested a free hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“Fuck Jess,” Sophie sighed, leaning into Jess slightly. “I miss being a kid. Things were so simple. The biggest problem was weather Johnny So-and-So invited you to his birthday party, and a hundred dollars felt like winning the lottery. I wish the world was flat like the old days, you know? Then I could travel just by folding a map.”
“I know,” Jess comforted, smoothing out the back of Sophie’s hair. “Life will never be that simple again, but that doesn’t mean it has to be terrible. You’ve always said that money is blood, and that’s true. We need money to survive – money is a big thing. But it’s not the only thing. You’ve got options – airplanes, speed trains and freeways. Any one of them will take you where you want to go, where you belong. There is no distance too great to hold you back from what you need. It’s just distance. It’s just money. You’ll figure it out, I know it. You’re close and, more importantly, you’re ready. Escape.”
Her daydreaming was interrupted by a presence felt. She turned to find Jess, a friend she had since high school. Jess was tall, dark, skin like caramel. In her outfit, she looked like a villain from a postmodern film noir. Lipstick the color of electric cherries. Slim black dress and smokey tights. Heels that could double as weapons if necessary. “This is the new year!” Jess yelled, bumping glasses with Sophie. Sophie raised her eyebrows unamused and finished her drink. Sensing her friend’s apathy for the celebration, Jess continued. “Any resolutions? Like...not being a stick in the mud?”
“Ha ha,” Sophie mocked, holding her stomach. “No resolutions for me. They’re just one more thing to feel bad about. Like lent... I never understood lent.” Jess nodded, not following Sophie’s logic. “Self-assigned penance,” Sophie explained. “It’s not for me. Wait, let me fix that. It is for me, all year long. I don’t need a resolution to make me feel bad about myself. I majored in self pity.”
Jess laughed. “You’re such a pessimist.”
“I’m not a pessimist. I’m a realist.”
“But you’re not,” Jess scoffed, setting down her drink on a nearby end table. “I’m not going to tell you that people have it worse off than you, you already know that. You’re not stupid.”
“Thank you?” Sophie replied, cocking her head.
“You don’t like your life,” Jess pressed further. “I get that. Everyone feels like that...maybe not as often as you feel like that, but everyone has their days. Not every problem is easy with an easy solution.”
“Well it seems like everyone here has it easier than me,” Sophie commented, turning back to the room full of friends. Jess shrugged, walking towards the kitchen. Sophie followed, picking up Jess’s empty glass from the table. The two friends stood at the refrigerator, scanning for their next libation. They settled on two Stellas.
Jess leaned against the counter, fumbling with the paper wrapper on top of the bottle. “That’s what nights like this are for, Sophie. The promise of a new year – that’s what people hold on to. They want to believe that things get better, even if – ” Jess put up a hand to stop Sophie from interrupting. “Even if things are going well for them. Everyone wants better. I want better, different. You want better.” Jess popped the cap off the bottle and took a sip. Sophie was still fumbling with hers. “So, once a year, everybody puts their best suits or dresses on. They play pretend – they pretend their celebrating, that they’re wealthy or loved or successful for one night. Because if they believe enough, maybe it will happen. Do you need help with that?” Sophie nodded, handing the beer over. Jess reached into a drawer beneath the counter and pulled out a bottle opener, cracked it, and handed the bottle back.
“I get what you’re saying – ” Sophie started. She paused when a herd of partygoers ran past her through the kitchen.
“Fireworks! Front lawn! Now! ” a random man yelled as he disappeared out the door. Jess and Sophie looked at each other, then at the door. The thirty-odd dialogues that filled the apartment had poured out of the house, leaving only one.
“Like I said,” Sophie continued. “I get what you’re saying. But I don’t care what other people are dealing with, or what they want. I’m selfish. I’m twenty-seven years old and I’m still young enough to care about only one person – me.”
Jess sighed. “That’s a fair point. But you have two options. The first, do nothing. Stay trapped in your home town forever, hang out at the same townie bars, working at a job you fucking loathe. Or, the second, do something. Get the fuck out of this place. Be happy. Do something. Do anything. I got out, and look at me. I’m dolled up like Angelina Jolie...less slutty, of course.” Jess smiled, prompting Sophie to laugh. She set her beer down on the counter next to Jess and rubbed her eyes with both palms. Jess rested a free hand on her friend’s shoulder.
“Fuck Jess,” Sophie sighed, leaning into Jess slightly. “I miss being a kid. Things were so simple. The biggest problem was weather Johnny So-and-So invited you to his birthday party, and a hundred dollars felt like winning the lottery. I wish the world was flat like the old days, you know? Then I could travel just by folding a map.”
“I know,” Jess comforted, smoothing out the back of Sophie’s hair. “Life will never be that simple again, but that doesn’t mean it has to be terrible. You’ve always said that money is blood, and that’s true. We need money to survive – money is a big thing. But it’s not the only thing. You’ve got options – airplanes, speed trains and freeways. Any one of them will take you where you want to go, where you belong. There is no distance too great to hold you back from what you need. It’s just distance. It’s just money. You’ll figure it out, I know it. You’re close and, more importantly, you’re ready. Escape.”
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