Category Archives: Fiction

May 14, 2012

Coyotes

By welcometoflavorcountry

I asked you if you had had a previous entanglement with Jesus and you said yes, but it was many years ago. Some 31 years, in fact. Where was it? I asked. You said it was outside of town, out in the desert, away from folks in their fancy homes and Cadillacs and BMWs. It wasn’t too far from where we were standing now.

What was it like? Did you feel his hand coming down upon you? I quivered, hoping that he had felt the same passion I had once hoped for.

No, he said, with a bleak look upon his face. It was subtle and quiet. Just a whisper. I thought it would last forever but it went as quiet and easy as it came.

And then what? I asked. What happened next?

I ran. He said. I ran for the next 31 years.

But why 31? Why not 29 or 18 or 33? Why 31? What was so special about that number?

I don’t know, Nick. It just happened that way. God’s gonna do what God’s gonna do and who am I to try and change Him? I just do my best now to live the life that I know He would want me to live.

But what is that life? How do you live it? I was growing more desperate in my search for the truth. Any insights would be greatly appreciated, I said. I had quit going to church some years before but still felt God pulling the strings to my heart. I didn’t even know they existed: my heartstrings AND my heart. They had all been so darkened up until now. Ruined, I even thought.

I glanced out on the horizon. I saw, in the field, a coyote with something hanging from its mouth. At first I thought it was a dead rabbit but then knew it was something else, as the package yet had life in it. It was a pup. One of the coyote’s children, I imagined, and the mother was taking the child back to the den for safekeeping. Often times they’ll run away and it’s the mother’s job to keep an eye on her brood.

With this child, my legacy shall be secure, I imagined the mother coyote said to herself.

I said, I wonder what she is thinking. Does she understand her legacy? I said this last sentence out loud to my friend, the farmer. He looked me in the eye and sighed.

Ain’t a lot of good for these coyotes to be out here. They’re just going to get shot one of these days.

By who? I asked. I feared for the mother’s safety. I wanted to be a mother one day. Or a father. Couldn’t I be both?

By me, the farmer said. Or by some other guy who sees the coyote tresspassin’. They’ll eat up your smaller livestock if they get the chance. Pigs, chickens – might even take down your dog. Or heck, the dog may go and join them! He said with a chuckle. Ain’t too many dogs out there that can avoid their true nature.

What about God, though? I asked.

What about him? the farmer replied.

Where does he fit into your life now? I said with a genuine sense of curiosity.

He fits quite nicely, if I do say so myself. Although the final judge of that will have to be God Himself, I suppose. He looked at me with a plain but bright look. Things were just what they were in his world.

I suppose that’s true, I said.

Nick you have to understand, he said, focused. He looked me right in the eye. God’s gonna do what God’s gonna do. You can’t change that. He is who He’s always been and that ain’t ever going to change. No matter how much we may want it to, it just ain’t gonna happen.

You think so? I asked

I know so, he replied. I seen it in my life. As much as this world goes from bad to worse, it seems as though God is the same He’s ever been. Yesterday, today and forever. For-ever. He said this last word in two distinct syllables, wanting to emphasize the elongated time period that forever really was.

Well, for your sake I hope you’re right. I told him. If that’s what helps then that’s what is best for you, I suppose.

Oh, I KNOW it is best for me. It might be good for you, too, Nick. You never know. But I suspect it is.

Perhaps I said, stroking my chin and then wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my right hand. It was hot down here in Texas this summer. Even more than normal.

Kind of gives you an idea of what hell may be like on days like today, huh? He said, laughing his deep, full laugh. From the stomach. It was a jovial comment, not with any threatening notion intended.

So, you believe in hell? I asked. I suddenly felt combative. I didn’t want this conversation to become a fundamentalist rant on his part, but I felt compelled to see where he really stood.

Aww, Nick. I dunno. I believe in God. That’s all I really know. And that’s good enough for me. I ran from Him for too long. It feels good to be back in His fold – to know that I’m loved and accepted as His. That’s what’s most important to me. I figure all the other stuff will sort itself out. Ain’t up to me to decide who goes where after we’re put in the ground. I’ll leave that to God.

Yeah, I said, impressed at his humbleness. That’s probably best.

Nick, he said, placing his hand on my shoulder, you worry too much. Just live your life and take some time to listen to what God has to say to you. And enjoy what you have – your family and friends, your work, and your play – while you have it.

The dusk was starting to settle in. Hues of pink and purple beyond the ridge of the mountains. The moon – almost full – stood in the sky. And in the distance the howl of the coyotes.

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December 26, 2011

A Little Place Called Home

By welcometoflavorcountry

In spite of all he had dealt with recently, he found himself talking with no one, facing his own fears of solitude by just not shutting up.

“I COULD go to bed, but I’m just not tired,” he said. His roommates were both gone and he had to confront the concerns he had about spending too much time alone. In his head he was prone to extreme thinking of dire consequences with his response being somewhat typical to Homer Simpson’s response to his wife when left to fend for himself. (“Of course, none of this would have happened if you had been here to keep me from acting stupid.”)

He often wondered what life would be like living alone, without any consequences of his malfunctioning brain. He knew that upstairs it was just a nesting ground for mice and other small rodent creatures, with their own little habitrail that wound its way through his cranium. It was a pleasant experience for some other life form, but not so much for himself. Their squeaks and squawks a language that disturbed him and set him on edge.

So he continued to mumble to himself and try and debate what was better: staying awake and attempting to accomplish things or going to sleep and being forced to wake up the next morning and address another day. These decisions that came so easily and without any sort of thought to most were debated heavily in his mind. He might decide upon other things at a spur of the moment but the routine events often caused him the most consternation. He laid out the options and then the pros and cons of each, only to realize once he was done with one section that there were things he had missed in previous pros or cons that might be worth noting.

After surfing through the same websites for the third time, he decided it was time to shut things down and go to bed where, although sleep may not come quickly, at least he could find some time to ruminate on ideas of what to do next with his life and his tomorrow – the things that often brought relaxation. He didn’t know how to shut those thoughts off, though, and so he dealt with them as best as he could. He focused on them and wrung them through his mind until he was so tired of thinking of them they would be banished for at least a few minutes.

Once in bed, just one sheet over him, he tried out the various positions of the bed as though testing the mattress for the first time: stomach, left side, right side, back – he listened to the rhythm of the ceiling fan and the white noise made by the box fan as it blew warm air out through the window. It would be one of these two noises (or a combination of both) that drew him to sleep and kept him distracted from the other noises he heard that would normally keep him on edge.

Although sleep came slowly, he eventually found his slumber, wherein awaited a life as a foster parent to three puppies, living with a guy from a writing class, and the tale of an incredibly shrinking dog and the electronic gravestone that displayed information in both Mandarin, Cantonese and English. If any of this was supposed to make sense, he wasn’t sure, and his interest in visiting a Jungian therapist in order to achieve some clarity for the tremendously outrageous unconscious thoughts was quite low.

Therefore he woke up the next morning, ate breakfast, and made his way to work, and having exchanged pleasantries with his co-workers went back to living in his own head at his desk, even though people were embedded around him. It was times like this when, left to himself, he wondered whose responsibility it was to keep him from thinking asinine things. He did his best to focus on his breathing and the responsibilities at hand and not so much the scurrying thoughts in his mind.

He wondered how he could get anyone to understand what he was saying or thinking or feeling. His life was filled with nights of quiet desperation, things reminiscent of a rich poem with psychoanalysis. These things made the moment but weren’t easily accessible to those who did not share the same home as he and the mice he kept upstairs. They burrowed and foraged for food and nestled into a bedding of cedar chips and Kleenex replete in the upper part of his skull – a nice place for them to call home.

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October 25, 2011

Ted Kaczynski, this is your life!

By welcometoflavorcountry

A crowd of elite celebrities and politicians were admiring the work of Ted Kaczynski for all he had done to elevate humanity. Ted attended the ceremony in a fluorescent orange prison jumpsuit, with shackles around his wrists and ankles. He had a magnificent scowl on his face and sat at a front-row circular table, plainclothes guards in suits on either side of him. It was hard to believe, but Ted was going to be 62 tomorrow and this ceremony that honored his life unintentionally coincided with that. It was quite clear Ted was a genius, just in regard to the wrong things. Like blowing people up. His technophobic ramblings had some merit – primarily to academics that could appreciate such things on a higher level (Kaczynski himself used to teach at a university). However, for a great majority of people he will be known as the guy who lived in a shack in the mountains in Montana or Idaho or Wyoming (some state that doesn’t exist to 80% of Americans because they have never been there) and sent bombs in the mail.

At the banquet Kaczynski kept quiet but wore his perturbed look with an air of calmness. Unruffled, he wasn’t even allowed to eat the pricey food at his table. Despite his generally docile nature, he wasn’t permitted to have metal utensils – as per negotiated with the Bureau of Prisons. However, it was thought that plastic silverware did not fit with the program so Kaczynski was only provided with Fiji water in a plastic bottle.

“We welcome here today,” Meryl Streep said with a stunning white gown and a smile on her face, “a man whose pioneering work in the field of technological and political studies will no doubt prove to be quite fundamental in the coming years.” She held a 4” x 6” note card in her hand. It was there as a safety measure should she forget her talking points but Streep was a natural and knew what to say and how to say it. She had been giving out awards to people for years.

The ceremony was just starting but already it was obvious Kaczynski was bored. He would have rather been back in his tiny room with his books and writings than to hobnob with these hoity toity individuals who had no idea what it was he was really trying to say.

The symbols and the languages had caught Ted’s eye for a long time. Even as a child he heard the voices bequeath unto him special powers. And inside he let it burn. His heart fragmented into little blurs as he had slowly but efficiently become more effective at formulating words that astounded even him. Yes – that word will do. It helped the sentence flow and truly capitalized the essential meaning behind the theme.

Of course the theme never changed. It had been up to him to warn of the impending technological apocalypse. Sometimes even he had been surprised at how effective his message seemed and how much it mattered to others.

Meanwhile, Streep’s microphone, attached to the top of her dress, had died. Kaczynski smirked. It was the little things that added to what he considered insurmountable proof of the foibles of technology in solving our problems.

If it hadn’t been for the voices that contacted him, he would have never realized that technology was running rampant over society. But he had seen it coming, thanks to them. In his PhD program, his complex mind ran calculations: “If x equals the force of culture and y stands for an amount of years, then it follows that…” It wasn’t unlike how things were now; but back then it had a newness that came along and told him what he acknowledged was the truth.

Her dead microphone now exchanged for a hand-held number, Streep introduced the next speaker, retired General Wesley Clark. Clark extolled Kaczynski for sticking up for the world of lunatics and madmen and for seeing a future that neither he, nor anyone else at the event, could have imagined. Unlike Streep, Clark’s lapel mic worked perfectly and while it was appreciated by the sound men and the anxious members in the audience who hated to see disruptions to what was such a momentous event, Kaczynski was slightly disappointed. Only if there were successive technological faults could he continue to prove his point.

It was only a matter of time, though. Kaczynski knew that in months or years the Internet would collapse under its own weight. It wouldn’t be as bad as the talking heads on the news programs suggested. We would all survive. Well, perhaps not ALL of us but the vast majority would. It always hurts more, though, when one of the few that passes is someone you love and appreciate dearly. Kaczynski avoided these emotions by separating himself from his family and friends. The friends part wasn’t hard to do – awkwardness reigned in his schooling. It was family, however, that proved more difficult to sever.


Ted’s brother loved him dearly and could never quite find a way to reach out to his brother. If only Ted had an apathetic brother – one who distanced himself from Ted – then he may have never been caught. Damn the closeness of his family. All Ted needed were his ideas.

At the podium now stood another celebrity – an actor whom Ted did not recognize or whose name he didn’t think he had ever heard. A blank screen had been brought down behind the presenter and showed pictures of Ted throughout the years. Ted thought this reminded him of the old TV show, “This is Your Life,” and that seemed pleasant to him, which allowed him to relax to a fair degree. However, when they got to the pictures of the bomb scenes and the severed hands and agonized looks on the faces of those who had made the mistake of opening one of Ted’s packages, it became hard for Ted to stomach. He had seen these pictures before at the trial but it had never affected him until now. And yet the presenter smiled warmly the whole time. “Isn’t this remarkable?” he said in a manner that was more statement than question. “Wow. What a life! Ted, thank you so much for sharing it with us.” The crowd broke into applause but Ted felt ill.

Without taking his eyes off the screen he said quietly to no one in particular, “What have I done?”

“Keep your mouth shut, Kaczynski,” the man in the suit to his right said in a sharp, low tone.

Suddenly there was a video camera near Ted and his image was projected on to the screen above the presenter’s head. His white beard was better groomed than when he was originally found years ago in his cabin and yet he still had a disgruntled appearance and felt haggard and tired. He had that half-dead look in his eyes. He would forever be an old man.


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August 18, 2011

Genius

By welcometoflavorcountry

It was a warm day, not oppressive in its heat but an all around pleasant day when he and I first met. It was one of those days that everyone could agree was the perfect weather, as though there was an unspoken understanding in the culture that this was what was considered tolerable. I sat one table over from him on the plaza while I ate my lunch. He had finished his and was lounging, engrossed in Dostoevsky. I asked him if it was as good as everyone had said it was. I admitted I had never gotten around to reading anything by him and the thoughts of how many great pieces of literature there were that I would never read left me feeling overwhelmed to the point of paralysis. I just kept reading the same old books again and again: Philip K. Dick, self-help texts, Al Burian, and On the Road (even though I found the characters of Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty to be morally reprehensible, I still longed for their freedom).

He beamed as he explained how adeptly Dostoevsky crafted his characters. It was genius itself, he proclaimed. I nodded and found myself attracted to his energy and excitement. In a world that seemed to favor cynicism and being jaded it was a treat to see a genuine enthusiast of anything, let alone a one thousand page tome that the average person had likely never cracked. (I guess I’d consider myself fairly average, too.)

We talked for what seemed like an eternity and indeed, I did find myself exceeding my half hour for lunch by another thirty minutes. He was a PhD student at a university nearby and was taking a break in between classes. His freedom enabled him to come and go as he pleased and his classes and TA position served as the only firm commitments in his schedule. He was a better man than I, having faith in the future that things would be all right, despite the poor job market for PhD graduates in his field. I hesitated when it came to higher education, my lack of faith in the hopes of a better job mirroring my lack of faith in just about anyone or anything except the machinery and equipment that I knew could be statistically reliable. Planes, trains, e-coli poisoning from fast food – these were things I knew that I didn’t have to fear. My personal sense of trust of others or myself I wasn’t so sure about.

I didn’t think I could pay off my student loans or find a job or even complete the degree. Neurosis, my good friend. You’ve stuck with me for how long now? Your companionship and arbitrary nature towards which subjects you apply yourself has been a confusing, but lasting continuation in my life.

Finally I had to go, but I took a chance and asked him if he wanted to get a drink sometime and talk more about literature and Dostoevsky and my fears of the dysfunctional ivory tower. He said sure and gave me his phone number. I petitioned him under the guise of wanting to learn more about his PhD program, but honestly, I just needed a friend. I had never felt so alone as I did then, just a few weeks after my girlfriend had dumped me for being too enveloped in my own anxiety and depression and not giving my all to her. In the process of getting to know her I had forgotten to keep in touch with my friends and after a year they had all left both the city and me.

I left him to his Russian novel and I trudged back across the plaza to my work, my head held a little higher but still under the weight of my overarching fears. Had I just made a new friend? Or was this just another failed attempt at socialization? How would I handle this when he changed his mind and said he was too busy? I tried to shrug these thoughts off and cling to the contentment I had just had for the past hour. Besides, it was, by all accounts, a pleasant day. Why try and ruin that?

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August 5, 2011

Looking for a ladder to climb

By welcometoflavorcountry

I thought I’d finished dreaming of her weeks ago but she cropped up in my head last night. My now ex-girlfriend called and asked me to come over. I didn’t want to but I still care too much so I made my way to the large stucco apartment building where she lived. I climbed three flights of outdoor stairs to come to an enormous room with ridiculously high vaulted ceilings. It was like a gymnasium but with bunk beds stacked three high. The space between each level was exaggerated so that the top bunk was likely 30 feet in the air. I craned my neck up to the top and could make out the frame of her computer. She was laying on her back, watching TV shows on the screen although I couldn’t make out which one.

“Hey!” I yelled up to her. “What’s up?”

She twisted her neck to the left and down and said, “I can’t come down there. I broke my ankle!”

“I’m sorry!” I replied. I wondered how she could climb down from her perch with a broken ankle. Perhaps she had an elaborate pulley system comprised that allowed her to descend to the floor. Or she was using a colostomy bag and catheter to deal with her waste. Or maybe she had a new boyfriend who took care of her like I would if we were still going out.

No, that was unlikely. Our break-up had been too recent. Although that hadn’t kept me from looking online at a dating site. Every time I did so, I ended up being simultaneously disappointed at the options of people as well as having a wave of emotion coming over me, the closest equivalent to a male friend pulling me aside, placing his hand on my shoulder and saying, “Dude, you’re not ready.”

“I can’t hang out with you I’m afraid. Sorry!” she yelled down to me, looking back at the computer screen.

I wondered why she had called me over. Did she miss me or did she just need to see me to assure herself she had made the right decision?

“Okay,” I said to her, not quite mumbling but not yelling either.

I made my way to the rear entrance, confused by the entire experience. What just happened? She was as confusing in my dream as she had been in my real life.

I went outside and down the aqua blue plaster stairs. Two other men in their late twenties emerged from some unknown location and I recognized one of them as a friend from elementary and middle school that I hadn’t seen since I graduated from high school. As of late I had been trying to find him online, although if I did, I knew I was not the type to actually reach out and make a connection. I was just curious.

But here he was and he didn’t recognize me and I didn’t make an effort to tell him who I was and how I still remembered all the times as gangly pre-teens we played basketball and tackle football in his front yard. And how I thought back to these days fondly and missed that simple level of connection with others.

There was another fellow there as well and I didn’t recognize him as any one particular individual but rather as an amalgamation of various other friends from that elementary and middle school time period. The two men were friendly enough and talked to me as we descended the staircases on our way down to the ground level. I tried to ride the handrail down between the second and first floors but it was rough and the friction didn’t allow for much movement. I scooted my ass along every few feet like a dog dragging its posterior along the carpet. But minus the anal gland condition.

At street level we started moving in the same direction, making small talk. These two young men were friends and had plans together and once again I felt left out and alone. We made our way to the industrial area surrounding the apartment building and toward a train station. The ex-friends of mine were going on a trip, getting ready to make memories and establish a deeper connection. I, on the other hand, was going to trudge around the empty factories and side streets, past lots of land that were no doubt saturated with chemicals from the long-standing pollutants that society had been ignorant of for so long.

I said goodbye to them as they entered the decrepit station and I started walking down the street to the right at the corner of Tokyo and Japan streets.

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June 13, 2011

A Conversation #5

By welcometoflavorcountry

Originally from issue #21, August 2010.

“Maybe you just need to give it some time,” she said to me.

“Maybe,” I said, hesitantly. “But it’s not always that easy. I get impatient waiting for things to come down to me. But there’s that thing about the watched pot…”

“It never boils?”

“Well, there’s that, too,” I replied with an asshole grin on my face. “I think I need a vacation. Again. I know I just came back from Iceland in January, but there’s not gonna be too much more time that Johnny Cash can screw right out from underneath you, if you know what I mean.”

“Uh, no. That sounds kinda weird anyway,” she said with a slight look of disgust on her face.

“It’s just been hard for me to find some solid structure to live with. There’s too many distractions and I’m starting to feel lonely again.”

“What do you mean ‘again?’” she asked. “You mean you weren’t lonely for a while? That’s new, isn’t it?”

“Well, it just wasn’t on my mind so much. And really it shouldn’t be right now with all I have to do, but it’s just the little things that make me feel it. Like, I woke up this morning and was in bed, under the covers and just had my boxers on and I tried to figure out the last time I slept with someone else; the last time I felt a naked body against mine.”

“And?”

“Well, it wasn’t SUPER long ago, but at least six months. It’s gone by too quickly.”

“Listen, this is almost over. You’ve got like three weeks and then you’re free, right? At least for the summer,” she stated directly, intently staring me in the face.

“Yeah, and this fall won’t be nearly as much work with school. Just one real class and some research.” I sighed.

“Well, see, there you go,” she said exuberantly while slapping me gently on the back in a playful manner.

“Yeah, I guess so. I dunno. It’s funny how sometimes wanting to be with someone can seem like such a powerful urge. It’s so enticing to want to have someone in your life for whom you care about, to feel how that changes things and makes you see things differently. I have to admit I have some trepidation about my inability to really keep an interest in a relationship for too long.”

“Wait,” she interrupted me. “You mean there are guys who actually want to be in relationships for more than just a few weeks?” She smiled.

I let out a fake dry laugh. “It’s not my fault I’m damaged goods upstairs.” I stopped and caught myself. “Well, maybe some of it is my fault. Trust me, if I knew what I wanted and what I was doing I’d do it. I don’t purposely try and make my dating life shitty. But hey – I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves here.”

“Yeah yeah, you’re right,” she said. “So you’re just gonna Henry Rollins these last few weeks?”

“Henry Rollins? What do you mean by that?” I asked quizzically.

“You know, tough it out. Be a man! Be strong, stay focused and disciplined,” she said with a fairly mocking tone in her voice.

“Woah woah woah. Hold it. First off, fuck you,” I stated matter of factly but with a smile. “Secondly, I don’t know what your idea of who Henry Rollins is actually is, but I will agree that I am going to do my best to be disciplined and get the stuff done I need to do. It’s hard to focus sometimes, though. I’ve always been this bi-polar student that swings between poles of serious dedication and existential distraction.” I put on a dramatic voice, “‘I can’t finish my research paper right now! I have to figure out if anybody loves me!’”

She laughed. “Well, good luck with that.”

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June 7, 2011

A Conversation #4

By welcometoflavorcountry

Originally from issue #21, August 2010.

“Well, it is not every day you come across something like this,” she said while smiling coyly.

“You’re kind of full of yourself, aren’t you?” I tried to say it with a straight face but felt my pseudo resistance giving way to a smile.

“No, not at all,” she replied, her sarcasm taking an egalitarian tone. She turned around and walked slowly down the hallway of the building. I followed after her, lowered my head and butted it gently against her right shoulder.

“What was that?” she asked with a feigned shock that devolved into laughter.

“It was my head butt of affection,” I said, this time with a full, uninhibited smile.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yup.” I lowered my head and did it again.

She laughed and we kept walking. We pushed our way through the double doors and out onto the walkway overlooking the Bay. The sun was in the process of setting behind us and dusk had fully engulfed the islands and water. That eerie feeling that comes with the realization of the time in between two definitive periods came over me. I looked over at her as we walked towards the bus. She looked over at me; the wind – as always a factor this close to the water – was gently blowing her hair and she tucked some strands behind her right ear. We slowed in our walk, she smiled at me and I returned the expression. She grabbed my left hand, squeezed it and then let it go. We walked down the steps to the bus while a purplish hue extended out into the far reaches of the water and to the southeast over the interstate in the distance.

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April 21, 2011

A Conversation #3

By welcometoflavorcountry

Originally from issue #21, August 2010.

“Well, we made it back to Boston.”

“And we have peanuts!” she exclaims, smiling and holding up a handful of miniature bags with the airline’s logo emblazoned onto one side.

“Honey-roasted peanuts,” I add, emphasizing their most delicious attribute. “Forged by gigantic bees in a cauldron of molten lava in a forest in South America.”

“Actually, it says here they were made by Parker’s in Cincinnati,” she says, ruining my imaginary world.

“Same thing,” I say. “Anyway, it was nice of the stewardess to give you so many.”

“Yeah. Was it just me or did she seem a little tipsy?”

“I dunno, but it probably wouldn’t have been the first time it happened.” I pause before saying; “I loved that look on your face when she handed them to you. You looked like a kid that had gotten away with stealing candy.”

“Hey, it was the highlight of my day,” she says matter-of-factly before quickly adding, “besides meeting you, of course.”

“Oh, of course,” I reply, laughing.

“No, really. It was nice meeting you.”

“Well, thanks. It was nice to meet you too. How are you getting home?”

“I’m taking the bus to Manchester.”

“I started the day on a bus. It’s good times.”

“It always is,” she replies, standing up and taking her bag out of the overhead compartment. I do the same a few seconds later. “What about you?” she asks.

“I’ll take the silver line to the red line. It’s not too far. I just live down in Dorchester.”

We exchange pleasant small talk as we leave the terminal. We avoid topics that might spin out of control, knowing that we are soon to part from one another. It’s slightly windy when we get outside and her long, black hair is whipping around.

“This seems familiar,” I say as I glance around and tie my scarf tighter.

“Not for me,” she says. “I was in California this morning.”

“Yeah, I was in Indiana. Same old story.” There’s a pause. “Hey,” I start hesitantly, “I don’t want to be creepy but your hair is really pretty.”

“Oh, thanks,” she says with an awkward smile, while tucking some strands behind her left ear with her right hand. “And it’s not creepy. It’d be creepy if you took my hair and smelled it.” She laughs.

“I had a boss at an old job that did that to a female co-worker of mine. He ended up getting fired.”

“I’d hope so.”

“Yeah…that was a weird job. Anyway, I should probably walk down to my stop.”

“Okay.”

“But it was nice meeting you.”

“Same here.”

There is an awkward pause and I’m ready to extend my hand but right before I do so she says,

“Hey, do you want my phone number?”

I think, “Isn’t that kind of backwards? Shouldn’t she be asking for mine instead?” But I say “sure.” She gives it to me, we shake hands and she smiles a beautiful smile. I walk away and think about her lips. I wasn’t going to kiss her but I wouldn’t mind doing so, either.

But I’m never going to call her. Manchester is too far.

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April 18, 2011

A Conversation #2

By welcometoflavorcountry

Originally from issue #21, August 2010.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re nosy?” she asked, in an annoyed manner.

“I’m just trying to be friendly. Believe it or not, I actually do care.” I tried hard not to be passive-aggressive but asking her about what she had been doing in NYC this past weekend seemed to have overstepped some sort of boundary.

“Whatever.” She had had enough of me. By now, that much was obvious.

“I’m not totally clear on what you expect from me but I –”

“Nothing. I don’t expect anything from you. I don’t want anything from you.”

“I wasn’t trying to suggest you did; I just don’t understand what happened to our friendship.” I was close to pleading.

“We never had a friendship,” she said coldly.

“Oh,” that was news to me. “So what was that when we were hanging out last fall?

“That was just two co-workers having a drink a few times,” she said matter-of-factly. I could tell this conversation was awkward and painful for her.

“Ah, I see. I guess I misinterpreted that night you went with me after work while I ran errands even though I gave you multiple chances to go your own way.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” She knew exactly what I was talking about. She was the one that had instigated our “friendship.” I may have asked her to walk out with me at the end of the workday soon after I started but she had been the one that kept following me around. At the time I found it sweet. Now…?

“Listen, I know you liked me. You told me that yourself. I’m just confused about what I did to make you be so cold towards me.” I tried my best to keep my face its normal hue and not to become flustered or angry. I wanted to let it all go and be straight with her. In my mind I had imagined a conversation something like this (although with better results than where this appeared to be going) but I didn’t want to have it at work.

“You didn’t do anything. Well, I dunno.” She was confused. I was too.

“Yeah, me either.” I didn’t really want to play the game anymore but didn’t want to leave things on a bad note so I mustered up all the courage I had. “I enjoyed when we started hanging out last fall. I thought–think; I still think you’re a pretty cool person. I don’t know what I did to make you not want to talk to me anymore and if I offended you or hurt you I apologize. I know we’re not going to be best friends or anything but if for some reason you do ever change your mind and want to get a drink or catch up/hang out–whatever. I’m still interested in being friends. I don’t have ulterior motives; I just think we have some things in common and I enjoy talking to you. So yeah…”

Her expression hadn’t changed. She was still defensive and angry. She had such a sweet smile but she never showed it to me anymore.

“I’m sorry we had to have this conversation at work.” I sighed with disgust. “I’m gonna let you get back to work now. Sorry…” I couldn’t find anything else to say and as my sorry fruitlessly trailed out of my mouth I backed away from the desk and turned. I walked back to the elevator and pressed the up button.

There was a part of me that wanted to call up my boss and give my two weeks notice. Who cared if I didn’t have another job lined up? There was yet another part of me that took a deep breath as I rode the elevator up to my office and realized how silly so much of life is. This too shall pass. I smiled. Was thinking that just another way of avoiding the deeper issues of hurt and pain? I didn’t know and didn’t care. Realizing the transitory nature of events such as this and given my ability to rise above it like it hadn’t really happened was the best coping mechanism I had.

I made my way to my desk and opened my email. I created a new message to my boss and wrote a two-word email: “I quit.” I attached my time card and walked out of the building. It was a crisp spring day and the wind wasn’t too harsh as I walked across the plaza, down Massachusetts Avenue and made my way home.

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April 4, 2011

Bisquick North Dakota

By welcometoflavorcountry

Originally from issue #20, March 2010.

Last night I had the most horrible dream. I dreamt that I was supposed to take the Amtrak train from Upland, Indiana, to my hometown of Goshen. Except I fell asleep on the train ride back home and next thing I know, I was on a bus somewhere in the middle of nowhere. I look over at the cowboy next to me.

“Where are we?” I asked groggily, noticing his Wrangler shirt and tight denim jeans with the accompanying cowboy hat and boots.

“Bisquick. Bisquick, North Dakota,” the man replies courteously with a slight twang in his voice.

Now, I’ve never been to North Dakota, but I’m pretty sure there’s no Bisquick. There’s a Bismarck, but no Bisquick. Anyway, beyond this oddity, it so happened that this bus I was on was heading to Seattle via the same train route that the Amtrak train takes from Chicago to Seattle. But I was on a bus. I didn’t want to be on a bus. I had to get back home and go to work. I was already using up a few vacation days to go to L.A. later that month and so I sure as hell wasn’t going to spend a few more on a bus with cowboys and single mothers with whiny children and suckling infants. So I got off at Bisquick.

See, my roommate lived there. Except he wasn’t any real roommate I’ve had in real life. He was a composite of some guy I knew from a nearby university from when I was at college as well as a totally new personality I just created. My roommate’s father was a private investigator. Why Bisquick, North Dakota needed a P.I. I couldn’t tell you. But they had one. Perhaps they had more than one. In a fictitious town there’s no saying what the crime rate is like.

I thought I would spend the night with my roommate and catch the bus the next day that would be heading back to Chicago. I spent the night in some hotel instead. Why my roommate wouldn’t put me up is unclear. The hotel bed had stains, dirty sheets and bad springs. The bathroom was tiny and every time I flushed the toilet, the sump pump (which was located in the bathroom) would back up, and spurt dirty water and shit all over the floor in small puddles, which would then recede into a drain. Yet the overwhelming sensation in my dream, more than the stink of sewage, was the sense of depression I encountered. It rears its ugly head even in my dreams. Even in Bisquick, North Dakota.

Later on, I had another dream. I dreamt I was looking for Snake, the stereotyped criminal from the Simpsons. I sought him in order to drag race. As I searched for him along the county roads surrounding my parents’ house, I saw two squirrels dash across the road and I knew I ran over one of them. I heard his bones crack and break. I heard myself moan, “No!” but I knew what had been done. I glanced back and saw him barely twitching, no doubt seconds from his end. His friend had made it across the road unscathed, and ducked into the brush along the road.

How do animals that are in relationships explain to other animals a loss amongst their kind? Would the squirrel that escaped bring the dead squirrel’s friends and family back to the scene of the crime? Or would he communicate with them via his own squirrel language: a series of chirps and blurps lamenting the passing of a brave and loved member of the squirrel community?

Or perhaps the squirrel that died was the only friend of the squirrel that lived. Maybe that squirrel that lived got depressed over the death of his friend and sunk into a state of irreversible melancholy. Without the love and support of other squirrels, it committed suicide one day by mimicking the form by which his friend had passed away: death by car. Or, perhaps they were lovers. And I was responsible for tearing their deep squirrel love for one another apart. Yet there’s the possibility that they might just be goddamn squirrels. And that’s all.

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