Senior Week – Chapter 3

As I smoked another cigarette, leaning over the porch and watching the passersby, it struck me that Carl and Eddy would not be returning to hear my thoughts. So it goes, I was drunk and ready to be drunker. I went in for another beer and bumped into Ojas, who was visibly more intoxicated than thirty minutes previously.

“Johnny-fucking-BOY!” he exulted, crushing a beer can underneath his foot and wildly flapping his tongue in the air, spraying globs of saliva on the bushy blonde hair of a blissfully unaware girl standing nearby. “Jesus Christ man it’s good to see you!” Continue reading Senior Week – Chapter 3

The Old Man and the Subway

It was just another day when the old man stepped into my life. I was on the subway, off to work. Frankly, I wouldn’t have noticed him if it weren’t for his hat. It was a light blue baseball cap with a flattened rim. The words Watching The Bay were painted on in big white letters, and flanked on either side by the skeletal outlines of two marlin fish. 

Even then, I felt myself drawn to the hat’s simplicity, but I couldn’t overlook the man’s toasted olive skin. It was worn and stretched, much like his tan leather jacket. The cuffs on his baggy jeans were rolled above his workman boots. On his lap was a grocery bag, stuffed with miscellaneous clothing articles and a big Ziploc bag, which itself was stuffed with a sandwich and what appeared to be Ruffles potato chips.  Continue reading The Old Man and the Subway

Senior Week – Chapter 2

The final leg of our drive was easy enough. We stuck to the coast and went south. Mission Beach begins as California’s coastline narrows into a scraggly peninsular strip, awkwardly wedged between the Pacific Ocean and Mission Bay, a butterfly-shaped coastal cleft of saltwater arteries and rocky outgrowths. Before long we were seeing billboards imploring us to ‘visit’ SeaWorld.

“Friends?” Boris inquired in an overblown British accent, holding his chin like a thinker. “Might there be any interest in visiting the alter for and expression of our peculiar mammalian pride, wrought as it has been in the great fiery quest to overcome marine life and tame it for our amusement?” he asked in a single gasping breath as his lanky legs jittered epileptically, pounding the car’s floor mat like a ritualistic drum beat.

“Nah, fuck that,” said Justin. Continue reading Senior Week – Chapter 2

Senior Week – Chapter One

I know you won’t believe me if you look back and read this, but I swear it felt like there was nothing else for us to do. It all began on a Friday afternoon. I had just taken my final college exam. So had Arnold, my roommate and best buddy.

“John, can you believe it?” he asked as we walked back to our apartment. “We’re fucking done man! Fucking done! Ahhhhhhh,” he squealed excitedly, shaking my shoulders and looking to the heavens with gratitude.

“I know! It’s un-fucking-believable!” I cried.

“What should we do to celebrate?” he asked.

That question was answered when we entered our apartment. Boris, our other roommate, was waiting for us with a freshly loaded bong and a cold case of Coronas.

“Boys,” said Boris dramatically when we entered. The lights were dimmed and classical music was blaring from the speaker. “Welcome to the post-graduate lair. Tomorrow, it’s San Diego for Senior Week. Tonight, it’s this apartment –  a boy’s night out! Not out out, of course. We’re gonna stay in and get absolutely fucked, and I’ll have no protestations to the contrary. I’ve talked to people – of course, of course – and everyone’s playing it easy tonight. So fuck it, we’ll make our own party! Now, enough explanations. Somebody hit this fucking bong, I just smoked a bowl all by myself.” Continue reading Senior Week – Chapter One

Cars and Pedestrians

If death is like sleep, maybe we want to die.

The thought kept Henry awake, bouncing around his dark room. The logic was too piercing to allow for more sleep, even if it meant he ought to fall back asleep.

“What’s logical is illogical and what’s illogical is logical.”

The words opened Henry’s eyes, bouncing around his dark room. Who said them? Harold. But when, and where? Last night… the club with the yellow-green strobe lights… or was it the jazz bar? Yes, probably the jazz bar. All he remembered was Harold wagging his bony index finger, barking like a prophetic madman: “What’s logical is illogical and what’s illogical is logical.”

Continue reading Cars and Pedestrians