Underground

Throughout the day there was the occasional sound of doors opening and closing somewhere out in the hall. They were never closed gently.

His memory had lost its adhesiveness, worn out from constant thought. There was only the present moment, and a slippery concept of a past and future that were always distant.

The hallway was dark when they opened the door. His eyes adjusted just in time to see the movement of the door closing.

In the Mud

"Looks like rain"
-Sure does.
"So...maybe we should go some other time."
-Oh, no. No other time. It has to be today.
"Why not? It will be just as good. Better, actually. If we go in the rain, we'll get all muddy."
-I don't mind the mud. Actually, I like it.
"You never liked it before."
-Oh, but I've changed.
"You have?"
-Well, not yet. But I will. I can see it happening.

Always Run From the Police

Although they were poor, the six of them packed into that tiny apartment along the polluted river, none of the children ever went without proper running shoes. Trainers, as they called them.
"Lace your shoes tight," he told his four boys. "But not too tight. A good snug fit is all you need."

A healthy fear of law enforcement was in their blood. Somewhere in the past, a few rungs below them on the family tree, someone had received an especially brutal assault at the hands of a police officer, back when unpainted batons still hung loosely from waistbands and could be wielded with generous discretion. These days, of course, the police all carried guns, making the age old wisdom, perhaps initially misguided, seem now to be a matter of deathly importance.

"Always run from the police," he told them. "They might catch you, they might not. But always run."

___

Behind him he saw only the glare of their plastic helmets. He did not see their furrowed brows, nor hear their strained grunts--his mind filled these in. They were only a few paces back.

One kilometer later he was stopped by a rubber bullet, shot from a police car that had pulled in front of him. Officers swarmed.

In the back of the police car, with a fresh bruise stretching across his forehead, he determined that he must have at least one child.

I will buy him a motorcycle.

Don't Let Him In

Although she could not see him, she knew exactly how he looked just then. His eyes were squinted, his nose scrunched up tight. It was the expression he took on when he was angry. Over the years she had only really seen him angry a few times. This was the first time it was directed at her.

"Let me in."
No.
He pounded on the door, first with his fist, and then a moment later, his elbow.
"Listen, do you realize what this looks like right now? Do you realize what we're doing?"
...
"You can't keep this up forever." He kicked at the door. A moment later it was silent. He was sulking.

She stepped back into the living room and sat down on the couch, her head in her hands. The night could only get worse from here. Was he mad enough to break a window in his own house?

The Great Fake

The only people who remained were small children, the sick, and the elderly. The rest met at eight o'clock in the morning in front of city hall, boarding buses charted for Reno. Nearly the entire town fit on six buses, with extra spaces allotted for a few of the more obese citizens (one of whom is a dear friend of mine.) The holiday would last for four days. In the meantime city business would be suspended. In houses and apartments, fish were given slow release food packets, DVRs recorded TV shows, and silence settled in.

Thirty minutes into the ride I tapped the bus driver on the shoulder. I apologized, told him I was feeling sick, and apologized again. He pulled over the bus and I got off. The walk home would take several hours; it would be well into the afternoon before I arrived. Back in our row, my sister was asleep, having taken a heavy dosage of medication shortly before departure. She would wake in Reno, surprised and alone. Around the same time I would be in her bedroom, rummaging through her belongings.

Security

And behind it all, behind the knocking on your temples that seems to have found a home in your head, there are hands at work, knobs being turned, levers in motion. Somewhere the light is dimming, and somewhere else it is becoming frighteningly bright.

"Sir, you can't come in here any more. I don't want to call the police, I just don't want to see you here."

Junction

What's Going On

Dear Caroline,
Sorry about the lapse since the last letter. I suppose it was around Christmas when I last wrote. Christmas went well. I got several gift cards to Best Buy, which I combined to buy a new television for the bedroom--a real HD one, in time for the switch (which didn't actually happen until the other day). Joan said was "too realistic", and made it feel like there were "other people" in the bedroom with us. So around the middle of January I moved it to the den. I can see what she meant about it seeming real. Sometimes I feel like the newsman is standing right there talking to me. But I don't mind, really.

For Valentine's, Joan and I stayed home and cooked a nice meal. The economy had us worried, and who needs a fancy dinner anyway? Who are we supposed to be impressing, right? I can't remember what we cooked, but it was good enough.

For President's day, we went to a barbecue at one of my co-workers' house. We found out when we got there that it was a vegetarian thing. And we'd brought turkey burgers! Oh, that could have been bad. Luckily, the grocery store was right down the street. We threw the burgers away somewhere and showed up with beer.

Easter snuck up on us this year. We didn't know about it until Joan read about it online. I think we went out to the movies or something.

Hey, did you see Star Trek? I thought it was pretty good.

Joan was really mad about the Prop 8 thing. Started crying and everything. She wanted to go to the big protest downtown, but I convinced her to stay home. She hates big crowds--I know she wouldn't have had a good time.

We're doing good, though. Thinking about re-doing the kitchen.
Maybe Formica?

Take care!

Extinguish

Sure it may seem like a good prank to wake me up with mouthful of fluffy fire extinguisher.

I bet it isn't even your idea. I bet it's Steve's idea. Steve's a funny guy, huh.

You probably think I'm going to flail my arms and run around our dorm room, stumbling over my floor lamp and knocking over my Buddah statue. I bought that statue when I was in Thailand. It's against the law to take them out of the country, but I did it anyway. And here I am, about to knock it over and break off its arms.

Well let me tell you this, smart guy: pull the lever. Spray it all over the place. I don't give a fuck. Let me tell you this: I like the taste of fire extinguisher. It's like whip cream, but without all the calories. Let me tell you this: Steve thought you were "another pretentious, spoiled Filipino" when he first met you. How does that feel? Maybe you guys won't be "brothers forever" like your t-shirts say.

I'm not scared of you.

Exit Exam

But what will you do all day? Is kayaking really that great? Since when are you such a big outdoors-y person, anyway? Okay fine, Mr. Subaru Outback. Watch out for the crocodiles.

And how will you support yourself? Have you thought about that? You've still got to pay for car insurance, repairs, an oil change from time to time. Your savings won't last forever. And once your direct deposits stop, that EZ checking account will have a monthly fee. It's in the fine print; I looked.

I bet you're going to cut your own hair now, too, huh. Yeah, that'll look great. Real dignified. Five years of college, a perfectly fine marketing job--all for what? To look like some friggin' drug addict, floating in a wooden boat? I can't believe you're even talking about this. So childish.

And speaking of childish, have you thought about our kids?