Jacob’s Drift

They go by travelers, traveler punks, traveling kids, hobos, hobo-punks, crusties, crust punks, anarcho-punks, transient punks, punk nomads, road kids, gutter pirates, street punks, dirty kids, train hoppers, rail riders, and many other names that they’ve been called.  Jacob preferred gutter punk. It suited him well, he would say. He would get up, eat cold beans, drink warm beer, and fly the sign, asking for spange.  Spange is short for spare change.  Jacob wasn’t a fan of stealing, but had in the past, when he was really hungry, or needed more beer.  The same couldn’t be said for the people he was with now.  They stole frequently, and as much as they could.  Dogface was a big, burly, son of a bitch, who basically was protection for the rest of them.  He was older, probably in his early thirties. Scumboy was the youngest. He ate and drank anything in front of his face, sometimes for survival, and other times just for attention. Then, there was Firefly.  She was a spitfire of a girl, hence the name. Jacob was infatuated with her to say the least.  Firefly was a petite, but stacked, little red head with dreads, and a shape that would bring most men to their knees.  They met outside of Asheville, North Carolina, while waiting for a train car.  Jacob thought that she didn’t stink like the rest.  They both talked of their travels, horrible upbringings, and painful memories.  It was the attention he needed at that time.

Jacob enjoyed the conversation with a girl, which he hadn’t had in quite some time.  He didn’t want the train to stop.  It did, and occasionally they would have to hide from the railroad police.  They were headed to New Orleans, just in time for Mardi Gras.  Some of Dogface’s friends were already down there as he knew from the ‘sign in’ outside of Asheville.  ‘Sign ins’ are tagging of certain walls as communication between travelers.  Jacob had never been to the Big Easy, as he was only a year into his travels.  The other three had made the rounds a few times in years past. 

“What’s New Orleans like?” asked Jacob.  Dogface almost leaped out of his skin to respond, “It’s fucking amazing.  There are so many of us there, especially this time of year. Beer runs like waterfalls, and leftovers for days, I tell you, days!”  Scumboy had to speak up, “He’s right. Cold beer too.”  Jacob longed to feel the sensation of a cold beer to his lips.  Firefly barked, “Tell him how we get most of the beer.  This waterfall of beer utopia, you speak of.”  Scumboy with no hesitation said, “She shows her tits, and we get beer!”  Jacob thought of this as a win-win.  Not only would he get free beer, but also get a look at Firefly’s beautiful, bulging bumps, which were currently covered by a stained, white wife beater.

It was daybreak when the train arrived outside of New Orleans.  There were no beans left, and all four shared the last beer.  This was Jacob’s first train ride, so Dogface played big daddy, “When it starts to slow down, get ready.  When we jump, you jump. Ok?  And roll like we do.”  Jacob thought, if Firefly was jumping, then he was jumping.  He would follow that girl to hell, and ask for seconds. 

The train slowed to a manageable speed and Dogface yelled, “JUMP!”  They all jumped and rolled onto the dusty gravel.  They made it unscathed for the most part.  A few cuts and scratches are nothing to a traveler. Brushing himself off, Jacob thought, let’s get that free beer.  They had a small walk to endure before the festivities would be enjoyed.  Plus, they had to locate Dogface’s friends.  They had been there for a few months to escape the brutal northern winters.  The best places for shelter and food were already pinpointed by them.  Firefly would provide the beer.

After a modest walk, they arrived at the French Quarter.  They strolled Royal, turned on St. Peter, and saw a fellow kid half way in a garbage can with his feet straight up in the air.  Dogface approached the can and asked about his friends through the opening at the top.  The kid quickly emerged from the bottom of the can, half eaten Po’Boy in hand, and said, “Look, It’s still warm.”  Dogface asked again, “Do you know where the Killhead Drunks are?”  Different sects of travelers took names to separate themselves from other ‘sign ins’.  The kid, with an almost reverent demeanor and tone said, “Oh yeah, I know where they hang. Follow me.” 

They followed, weaving through thugs, drunks, and whores.  Jacob, seeing all the glistening glasses of cold beer in the tourist’s hands, thought, Firefly needs to break those titties out.  They got stares and heard whispers as they passed.  Sometimes it wouldn’t be whispers. “Take a fucking bath!” an old, leather-skinned, drunk whore yelled.  Dogface marched forward through the mass of flesh, said over his shoulder, “Ignore them. Keep moving.”

The kid ducked off between two shotgun houses and they followed close behind.  He took a quick left and arrived at an abandoned house with boards on all of the windows and doors.  The kid knocked twice then ran off into the night to find another trashcan.  As they waited, Jacob gazed upon Firefly’s face in the streetlights and wanted nothing more than to taste those succulent lips.  The board blocking the doorway started to slide to the right.  “Dogface? Is that you motherfucker?”  Dogface smiled, “Yep, it’s me motherfucker.”  They embraced as if they were lovers.  Dogface introduced Jacob, as the others were already familiar with one another.  “Jacob, this is Bull.  He is my bro from way back.  We’ve been in the shit from Oregon to New York City.”  Jacob could feel the unspoken alliance between the two, and after seeing them greet one another, wondered if they had fucked in the past.

Bull was a big one too, about the same age as Dogface.  He had a shaved head, as Dogface’s was short, and unkempt.  “Get in here.  We have jambalaya, some bread, hell, even some fucking fried shrimp.”

“Any beer?” Jacob asked.  “Don’t fucking spit on his offerings!” Dogface said foaming.  Bull laughed, trying to reel in Dogface, said, “It’s cool man, it’s cool.  All out of beer at the moment.”  Scumboy with a mouth full of jambalaya, spat out half intelligible, “Let’s go get some fucking beer!”  Firefly knew she would have to take advantage of tourists by showing her tits.  It really wasn’t a big deal for her.  She thought that it was funny that men would turn into puppy dogs with cash when in front of big, fat, whale-shaped tits.  The tourist would try to give beads, but Firefly would insist on money or beer for her and the boys.  Beer and cash would soon follow after her pale mounds of flesh with dime-sized nipples were exposed.  Jacob, beer in hand, and tits in sight, thought about tasting more than her lips.

They all had their fill of beer and debauchery for the night and decided to pack it in.  On the walk back, Scumboy busted out a car window and took some visible change from the console.  When they reached the abandoned house that would be home for the time being, Dogface and Scumboy staggered inside.  Firefly asked Jacob, “Will you stay out here with me for a bit?” Without hesitation, Jacob responded, “Of course I will.” The two of them sat on a broken set of concrete steps.  “I hope you don’t look at me any different now,” said Firefly.  Jacob almost blushing said, “Well, yeah, I see you a little different, but in a good way for sure.”  Then Jacob moved a little closer, put his arm around her, and went in to kiss her. She quickly stood up, straight as a soldier, and walked over to a dilapidated wrought iron gate.  “I’m sorry.  It’s not that I don’t want to kiss you, but I’m fucked up Jacob.  I’m damaged goods.” Jacob, now with an arm around her once more, said, “You are beautiful.  We’ve all been through shit.  I don’t judge or blame.” Jacob knew it must have been horrific by her closed off body language, but didn’t want to exacerbate the situation.  He didn’t judge nor blame.

Firefly whispered, “I was raped.”  Jacob squeezed her tighter.  “By my uncles and stepfather years ago,” Jacob, unsure what to say, said, “I’m so sorry.  At least you are out of there now.  They can’t hurt you anymore.” Firefly turned, gave Jacob a small, quick kiss on his lips and said, “Come on, let’s get some sleep.”  The look on Firefly’s face told Jacob that there was more to this horror story, but he knew it wasn’t the time nor the place.  They moved the board back in front of the door, found a blanket, laid on the floor, and went to sleep in each other’s arms.

Jacob woke up numerous times throughout the night while the others slept soundly.  The yells, gunshots, sirens, and thoughts of Firefly getting raped plagued him repeatedly.  A few hours later, sunlight through small cracks in the wood woke him again. The rest were still asleep.  Jacob sat up, grabbed a white styrofoam container beside him, and scooped in some cold jambalaya with his fingers.  Everyone else eventually started to wake and move about.

It was a hot morning for early March as they headed out with cardboard in hand.  Dogface, Bull, and Scumboy took one corner, while Jacob and Firefly took another.  It was a rough life for sure, but sometimes freedom costs.  They have avoided the typical trappings of society.  No bills, no overbearing bosses or parents, and no social media.  However, also at times, there was no food, no drink, no warm beds or showers, and no love.  It was a sacrifice that many were willing to make, but Jacob, only a year in, battled with this dilemma constantly.  As they sat collecting a few coins here and there, Jacob reflected on the hardships of his travels, and wondered if this life was truly for him.  He turned, looked at Firefly, and thought that it was all worth it to have met this dirty angel.  She turned, gave him a smile and said, “My ass hurts. Can you look at it for me?  I’m sorry, but it hurts.”  Jacob without hesitation pointed to an alley and said, “Sure, no problem. Right over there.”

In the alley, Firefly pulled her dirty cargo pants down mid-thigh and exposed a supple, pale, very round ass to Jacob. He said, “Yep you have a big ol’ bump. I’m gonna get it.”  Jacob thought that this was the nicest ass he’d ever seen in spite of the huge, glowing red and yellow pustule.  He squeezed the oozing matter out until only blood and clear fluid could be seen, wiped it off with his shirt, and said, “There, all done.  Good as new.”  He gave a little smack to Firefly’s rear just before the cargo pants concealed it once again.  She gave him a light, but sensual kiss as a thank you.  They went back to the corner, but Firefly decided to stand for a while.

It was late evening now.  Bull, Dogface, and Scumboy met up with Jacob and Firefly to discuss and compare the day’s haul.  Of course, Firefly was responsible for their total being much higher.  They even had some one dollar bills, and a five spot swimming around in with the coins.  Tourists, local cons, and whores started to mill about in droves.  Scumboy said, “Get us some beer Firefly.”  Jacob interjected, “We have enough here for beer. Let’s just buy some.”  Firefly appreciated Jacob’s thoughtfulness, but said, “We can save that for food or something.  I don’t mind. Honestly.”  They headed for Bourbon Street, where beer would flow like Niagara.

Jacob stood on the corner drinking a beer and watching old drunks lust after Firefly as she continually exposed flesh.  This had been fine with him before, but now he had a sense of shame associated with the act.  One drunk got a little too close to Firefly and attempted to cop a feel.  He ran his hand up her stomach and grazed the bottom of her tit.  Before he could get a full squeeze in, Jacob was between them, and pushed the drunk back with fury.  “Get the fuck out of here!  Get on down the road, motherfucker,” Jacob said, with a hateful tone, through gritted teeth.  The drunk just smiled, took a few more steps back, and wandered down the street to possibly molest another.  Jacob spit at his departure in disgust.

It was now dark and the five returned to the uninhabited shack to rest.  Once again, everyone staggered in laughing and cursing except for Jacob and Firefly.  They took the same seat on the broken concrete steps and looked off into the night.  Firefly pulled out a joint given to her by a tourist and said, “This is just for us.”  She lit it and they smoked it down until it burned and stained their fingers.  Jacob, sobered a little, but stoned by the weed asked, “Do you ever want a change?”  Firefly took a long pause, breathed in the stale air with the stench of vomit, beer, and piss, and said, “This is pretty much all I know now, but sometimes I think change could be good.  What are you thinking?” Jacob hadn’t thought about it, he just knew that he was now in love, and wanted to spend every waking moment with this girl.  He wasn’t sure if he wanted to return to normal life, or continue on the drift. He did know, however, that whatever he did, he wanted Firefly beside him.  Jacob looked at Firefly and began to speak, “I’m not quite sure.”

Then, through the smoky haze of the night, a medium-sized dog appeared.  Its hair was matted and it was thin. Firefly called the dog over and began picking ticks from its skin. “He’s dirty like us,” said Firefly.  “He just needs a little love, too.”  Jacob went inside and retrieved some stale bread for the dog to eat. As the dog devoured the bread, Jacob looked at Firefly and said with a laugh, “Well, we ARE gutter punks.  We need a dog.  What should we call him?”  Firefly looked up into the sky, then down at the dog again, and said with clarity, “Drifter.”  Jacob loved the choice of name.  They both continued plucking ticks from Drifter’s scarred skin until no more could be found. 

The next morning, Bull, Dogface, and Scumboy woke to the sight of an empty floor where Jacob and Firefly had been sleeping the previous night.  “They’re gone. Where do you think they went?” Scumboy asked without true concern.  Bull kind of shrugged and said, “They may be out getting some food or something.”  A grin appeared on Dogface as he said, “Nope. They’re gone. Continuing their drift.”

As Jacob, Firefly, and Drifter sat in the back of a pick-up truck headed west, the two of them could only smile at one another. They weren’t sure what was ahead of them in this life, but one thing was for sure, they were together. The three of them found the love they had been desperately searching for this whole time. Firefly put a leg across Jacob’s lap, with wind blowing dust from her dreads, said, “Julie. My name is Julie.”

Serial Date

Consuela Reyes hoped she looked slutty enough. At least, for the purpose.

She’d picked the gentlemen’s club strategically. The killer had last struck at another strip joint in Valasia, which was just off the 415 Freeway South. Consuela figured he wouldn’t hit that neighborhood again for a while. If her calculations were correct, Big Joe’s was his next pick-up spot. So she was there too, shaking her ass, kill-bait with curves.

Ogling herself in the bathroom mirror three hours’ previously, Consuela felt certain she had the tawdry goods to snare a murderer of working girls. Pink vinyl boots with platform heels, a black microskirt that left nothing to the imagination, white lace stockings, a blue thong bikini, lacy white halter top. From what she’d grasped from the headlines, he liked them dark, a little primitive maybe. Well, that was her. Masses of dark, curly hair flowed down her back; her face was narrow, Indian, her eyes black as obsidian chips. Her makeup was subtle, accenting her natural colors, her leonine cheekbones. Except for the “Fuck Me Red” lipstick—she couldn’t resist.

She noted the twisted tube of toothpaste “for sensitive gums” on her sink next to her amber-handled hairbrush. That relationship had been brief. The man was vainer than any woman she knew. But not in a hot, self-assured way. Consuela gingerly removed the toothpaste and popped it in the trash. Then, with one final glance around her living room—piles of Anatomy and Physiology textbooks on the glass-topped coffee table, a well-thumbed paperback entitled Extreme Self-Defense—she shouldered her Joosy handbag. From the wall, Ramirez, Dahmer and Bundy—real guys—seemed to give her a collective wink.

Go to it, Sister. We can’t wait for your report.

Now, standing on the sidewalk just outside Big Joe’s parking lot, she wondered. Maybe he’d be able to sense it. Something not right about her, or too right. A set-up. An undercover cop.

WWTD…What would Ted do?

There had been rain, and the neon letters that sat atop the club’s awning smeared their reflection across pools in the asphalt. Consuela lit a cigarette, even though she didn’t smoke. She waited, watching the cars cruising down the boulevard, standing well back from the curb so she wouldn’t get splashed.

Nothing. She flicked the smoking butt onto the ground, where it expired with a hiss. She shivered, wished she’d worn something warmer. That she wasn’t subject to dangerous whims. In a way, she and the killer weren’t that different. Except for the killing part. So far.

Consuela’s hybrid was parked on the other side of the street, down the road a ways. She was just about to pack it in—terrible idea, she could actually be murdered—when a silver Corvette coupe slowed to a stop.

Casually, like she did this all the time, Consuela sauntered over to the car. It matched the description from the police reports and the flyers plastered all over the three-city area the killer was crawling. A zagged scratch extending over the right wheel well exposed the primer like a scar. The windows were smoked.

The driver’s side window rolled down. She leaned in. For a moment, she felt a surge of terror—

it was so dark inside the Corvette. Then a piece of the darkness lifted on a white, white face. He was wearing a hoody.

Her man. He even dressed the part, like one of those signs asking you to watch for suspicious characters.

“Looking for a date?” she asked, batting her eyes. Wasn’t that what pros said in movies and on TV?

The man nodded. “Get in,” he said in a voice surprisingly soft. Consuela slid into the car next to him.

The coupe’s interior smelled acrid, smoky. Adrenaline jazz. She smiled, licked her lips and crossed her legs. He was checking out the package.

They drove for a while in silence. He seemed moody, and she couldn’t get a fix on what he might be thinking. He flicked on the radio: “Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap” by AC/DC. The flicker of a grin teased his lips. He began to keep time on the steering wheel to the classic song.

“Now this is rock and roll,” he said.

“Right fucking on,” she responded. So far, so good.

“I’ve got a flask in the glove compartment, if you want a drink,” he said. She thought she’d seen this neighborhood before. But it was hard to tell. The same liquor marts, gas stations, bail bondsmen. Were they going around in circles? She flipped through the glove compartment, found the silver flask and took a pop. Cheap bourbon. Well, it hit the spot.

“You want to talk some business?” he asked.

“What kind of business?” Doing her best to sound hard. The alcohol was going straight to her brain. She wished she’d eaten something before, but she’d been so keyed up. “You’re not 5-0, are you?”

He frowned. Had she hit a sour note? At least she hadn’t said “po-po.”

“No, I’m not the police,” he said. “How much?”

What was the industry standard, and for what? “Two hundred,” she said, making her voice husky, blasé. “You can do anything you want, but no rough stuff. And no pee.”

Consuela had really impressed herself with that last note. She hoped he bought it. Two hundred bucks sounded like a reasonable fee for fucking her, or whatever. She was young and pretty, after all, not some gap-toothed slag. She imagined a drop-down menu of hardcore services provided, a naughty fridge magnet poem maker. “Rough teabagging.” “Light anal.” “Bondage shit.” The man grunted. “No worries. I’m not a weirdo like the President.”

Which left a lot of room for the bizarre.

The possibilities excited her. All the things she hadn’t tried. Multiple penetration—cocks fore and aft, wriggling inside her. Suspension. Toys. She was starting to get wet. She lifted the edge of her microskirt and slid a finger down her panties.

The man’s face went cold, rigid. His lips curled over his teeth as her scent filled the car. Chewing down the panic—she hadn’t meant to do that, she was probably pissing him the fuck off—she pushed things a step further. With her other hand she reached over and curled her fingers around his thigh. He was big, but soft, like some kind of Loofah. His eyes went dark. “Cut that out,” he said. His knuckles whitened as he gripped the steering wheel.

“Sorry,” she said, pulling away her hand. She was really, really turned on. The prospect of imminent death aroused her like a drug.

They’d left the city proper and were driving through an unincorporated industrial area. He indicated a field next to an abandoned factory. She shrugged. “Do you have a tarp or something? Looks a little muddy.”

He was silent.

“Well, they say the customer is always right.” She waited for him to get out and open her door. The sky was a profound gray and the rays of the dying sun streaked it like fragments of shattered, bloody glass. They stood at the base of a set of concrete stairs that ended on a ten foot square platform, part of some building project sacrificed to the economy. Weeds jutted through cracks in the platform like wire sculpture. About ten feet away to the left stood a corrugated aluminum shack, and behind a thicket of bushes, a hand-pump.

She timed it perfectly. Turning her back to him, she pretended to fish in her handbag for a pack of cigarettes. Consuela felt his hot breath on her neck, and her hands curled around the can of Mace. Suddenly she crouched, crippling his forward attack. Going to one knee, she kicked out sideways. He struck the platform hard, and the ball-peen hammer he was holding flew from his hand and landed harmlessly on the concrete.

The killer was out cold. While he was unconscious, she tugged off the hoody, pulled his jeans around his ankles, inched down his boxers and bound his wrists and ankles with zip-ties. When his eyes fluttered open, she gave him the spray full in the face. “You fucking cunt!” he shrieked.

“Wow,” she said. “That was so not cool. Apologize.”

His eyes streamed tears from the pepper spray.

“You like to kill prostitutes,” she said. A flat statement. He sputtered and swore at her. “Yes, I know,” she said, pretending this was a reasonable, ordinary conversation. “Mommy was a pro, she abused you, something something. You, sir, are a cliché.”

Consuela suppressed a peal of giggles. She hadn’t intended the last part. But her blood was on fire, the cold was tonic, the moon was out, and she was pretty sure she was going to do and say some other things that were just as much out of character, or flat-out weird coming from anybody.

“You can’t get it up, and when they see your little handicap, they laugh. Right? Not that it’s little…” She kneeled down and took his cock in her hand. At last she was at leisure to examine it, caress it. She kissed the tip. Still soft. “A shame, all that meat and no spine.”

She noted a small trickle of blood oozing from his scalp, like an ooze of black pudding. She swiped a finger across the head wound and brought it to her lips. “Mmm…that’s good. Maybe that’s why you’re so flaccid…your blood is flowing through the wrong head.”

“I’ll kill you, bitch!” he shrieked.

“Maybe,” said Consuela. She rolled off him and grabbed the ball peen hammer. Then she straddled his chest and turned the hammer over in her hands so it caught splinters of moonlight. “This the one you use on your victims?” She placed the haft of the hammer against his throat, and pressed experimentally. He gurgled. “I know you’re into overkill,” she said. “I prefer a more subtle approach.” She pressed harder.

His face grew red, and his eyes bulged. She caressed his neck with the hammer-head. “You like the way that feels against your skin, the cold steel?” He was struggling to speak, but no words came out. Bubbles of saliva burst from his lips.

Consuela slid down her body till she found his cock again. Now it was fuller. Not full enough, but on its way. She began to stroke the shaft with one hand, keeping the hammer pressed against his throat with the other. As her hand moved faster, he grew, filling her palm.

“Houston, we have hard-on!” she squealed. She rolled down her panties and squatted down on him, sighing with relief as his full erection filled her up.

“I seem to be a little dry,” she said.

Her hips grinding against him, up and down, up and down, she picked up the hammer again.

“Nonononononoyoucrazybitch…”

With precise, unerring strokes, she turned his skull to jelly. Riding the spasms as an electrical storm tore through his nervous system, she held on like an experienced jockey, daubing herself with the sweet, sticky blood that bubbled from the wreckage of his face.

She couldn’t wait to tell the boys the story, down to the last toothsome detail.

Blood Dahlia

I can’t understand myself anymore
But I’m still feeling lonely
Feeling so unholy

– Numb, Portishead

Elliott stood outside Carrie’s apartment building for the third time this week.

The apartment’s exterior was faded with age, overgrown with vines that crawled up its sides like thick, dark snakes. Street lamps cast pale yellow light amid apartment buildings and businesses cramped together for blocks around.

He inhaled the November night air, pushed his thinning, stringy hair from his face, and plunged his hands into the pockets of his coat.

Did he have the courage to knock on Carrie’s door and tell her all the things that had been on his mind since their first—and last—date at Applebee’s three weeks ago? He had shown up to the restaurant that night loaded on Maker’s Mark, his nerves like hot wires, his hands almost trembling.

His love for and encyclopedic knowledge of cinema left her underwhelmed; she was not into films. He bragged about his impressive fantasy miniature collection, also to no effect. She talked about her love of animals. He did not like them. At all. They were smelly and needy, although he did not tell her he felt this way.

Toward the end of the date, she asked him whether he had “fabricated” his online dating profile. He admitted he may have done so to some extent. But only because the dating scene was cold and inhospitable. What was a guy to do these days?

After she noticed him staring at her cleavage while she ate her Caesar salad, she promptly looked at her cellphone and remarked about how late it was and that she needed to be up early for work tomorrow. She concluded the date by telling him that she didn’t think it would be good to go out with him again. That she just wasn’t ready to date right now. 

Elliott knew she was lying. They always did.

After she broke the news and left him humiliated and standing outside the restaurant, the words of his cloying mother, who never seemed to receive enough affection from him, no matter how much she wanted, seeped into his mind. The words were an acid that burned through the pitiful layers of his life for as long as he could remember:

No woman will ever love you as much as I love you, Elliott. Never forget that.

His mother drilled this into his brain throughout his fatherless childhood, as if she were performing a verbal lobotomy and sabotaging any chance of happiness he might have with a member of the opposite sex. And it worked.

Until now. 

Carrie was different. Elliott got the sense that she didn’t really know what she wanted out of life, let alone what she wanted in a man. She seemed so delicate, so fragile. As if her whims could change with a gust of wind.

He could be that gust of wind that changed both of their lives.

After their date, he had followed Carrie from a safe distance until she reached her building.

In the days that followed, Elliott found her employer’s website—a veterinarian’s office— and located her headshot. He quietly masturbated to it a few times over the next week in his bedroom, interspersed with occasional online videos of German torture porn, of which he was a devoted curator. 

He was careful, as always, not to let his mother hear him. 

With each sad, messy orgasm, he became more confident that he deserved her and that having her—mind, body, and soul—made him a complete man.

Following work shifts at the movie theater–and sometimes before–he stood across the street from Carrie’s apartment. Hoping to catch her leaving for work. Hoping to spy her coming home with another guy. Hoping their eyes would meet, music would swell from somewhere, and she would realize that no other man could fulfill her the way he could.

But each time he stood across the street from her building, that sense of entitlement grew like a rancid seed blooming within. He had to have her. She belonged to him, whether she knew it yet or not. 

Now, standing outside her place tonight, he recalled a line Billy Crystal said in the film When Harry Met Sally: 

“When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start right now.” 

He never appreciated the film and didn’t understand why Sally liked Harry. He was weak and wore tight-ass jeans like one of those twinks. But that line stuck with him after years of rewatching the movie. It was a perfect line of dialogue.

This line was now his North Star. He would convince her that their lives together were just beginning. 

One way or the other. 

He snapped out of this trance, not realizing he was mumbling under his breath, when he noticed someone exiting her building.

It was now or never.

Elliott darted across the street, narrowly avoiding getting creamed by a blaring bus, and reached the door before it closed, bypassing the call box. As the door slammed shut, muffled sounds of crying babies, arguments, yapping dogs, and droning televisions seeped through the walls. The air carried the odors of animals, fried cooking, and dirty carpeting. 

He found her mailbox and apartment number.

A rusted sign hanging on the doors to the elevator declared DANGER: OUT OF ORDER, so he climbed the four flights of stairs to Carrie’s apartment. 

He stood there, one hand inches from knocking on the door. His nerves were conducting his tension like a mad orchestral maestro. Only this time, there was an undercurrent of delicious anticipation.

***

Carrie finished putting the wax-paper-wrapped, freshly cut meat into the freezer and was washing the large, serrated, hand-me-down butcher knife from her late mother. 

Looking down at the wet, gleaming knife, her thoughts drifted to one night decades ago that changed everything for her. 

Carrie’s mother was standing in the kitchen with her only child. She was stroking Carrie’s long chestnut brown hair with a hand that was becoming stiff with coagulating blood, while her 10-year-old daughter’s sobbing subsided.

There was a dark, glistening trail of blood leading from the kitchen to the bathroom. The crimson-coated knife was on the kitchen counter.

“He’s gone now,” Carrie’s mother assured her only child, in a voice that seemed a million miles away. “He can’t hurt us anymore. He won’t touch you anymore either. Do you understand?”

Carrie nodded.

Her mother kneeled down and handed Carrie the knife, handle first. “I want you to keep this.”

She then kissed Carrie’s forehead and held her for a long time.

Now, Carrie was staring at the knife and initials, deep in a dark reverie, when a knock at her apartment door snapped her back to the present. She opened the door slowly.

“Hey, how have you been?” Elliott asked.

A look of shock stretched across Carrie’s soft, pale face, which was framed by her now short brown hair. This expression turned into a slight smile.

She couldn’t believe her good fortune.

“What a surprise,” Carrie said. “What are you doing here?”

“I, um, thought I would swing by to see how you’re doing. I didn’t like how the last time ended, and I wanted to see if you’re doing okay.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have. But thanks.”

She leaned against the door frame, crossing her arms.

Elliott stood there, biting his lower lip and staring at the floor.

After an excruciating moment of silence, she stood aside and beckoned him into her apartment, then smoothed her waifish hands over her dark blue veterinarian scrubs. They were flecked with spots of blood. She must have just gotten home from work. 

Her purple-polished nails gleamed like a wolf’s eyes in the hallway’s harsh overhead fluorescent lighting as she slowly closed the door.

“Mind if I use your restroom?”

She winced, thinking of what her bathroom looked like presently. “Unfortunately, it’s out of order. You know how old buildings can be.” She shrugged. “Have a seat.”

He plopped down on the tired leather couch, folding his hands in his lap, and scanned her cramped studio apartment. The space was absolutely crammed with books, some with titles indicating her interest in human and other creature anatomies. There were also photos of cute dogs, cats, and other mammals, some framed, some merely pinned to dulled white walls. Portishead played softly from a set of speakers connected to a vinyl record player in a corner next to an unmade mattress on the floor.

His gaze lingered on the mattress for a moment. 

Elliott yelped as a cat jumped seemingly out of nowhere onto a couch cushion and hissed long and loud at him. The creature’s luxurious grey-and-white fur stood on end. One of the eyeballs was missing. The eyehole was horizontally stitched up.

“That’s Lucky. He’s a rescue. Very interesting story about him.”

“I see,” Elliott said nervously, not caring about the cat’s story. He kept one eye on the cat and the other on Carrie. She looked so cute in her veterinarian outfit.

“He doesn’t seem to like you very much,” she smiled. She lifted Lucky and placed him gently on the floor. He hissed at Elliott again and disappeared behind the couch.

She sat down on the other end of the couch. “Take your coat off. Get comfortable.”

He removed the coat and placed it on the arm of the couch. It fell to the floor, but he didn’t notice as he continued to gaze at Carrie.

“So, Elliott. What really brings you here?”

“Like I said, I just wanted to check in and make sure you’re okay. The other night kind of sucked.”

“It sure did,” she replied, cracking her knuckles loudly. “Was there anything you wanted to say to me about that night?”

“I know that you were offended that I lied on my profile. I’m sorry. It’s just tough out there, you know?”

She laughed, cracking her knuckles again. This nervous knuckle-cracking thing was adorable.

“I see,” she sighed, draping her right arm over the couch and moving a little closer to him. “Anything else you want to say? You were staring down my blouse, Elliott.”

“Well, yes, actually.” Eagerly, sensing that he was starting to break through. “That was just a compliment. I think that women are too sensitive these days and don’t appreciate when a man finds them attractive.”

Her teeth gleamed in the lamplight over the couch as she smiled. “And?”

“I think we got off on the wrong foot. I think we could make this work. I think we need to make this work. Look how desperately lonely and miserable people are. How we are. I don’t know about you, but the isolation and vapidness of society feels like it’s eating away at my bones sometimes.”

She reflected for a minute. “That’s almost poetry, Elliott. It is brutal out there, isn’t it?”

“Yes!”

She pondered his words, then placed her right hand on his knee and squeezed. “You know what? Maybe I was overreacting a bit. How about a drink? I have bourbon in the cupboard. How do you take it?”

“Neat,” he said, his body shimmering with a flood of endorphins. He couldn’t believe how well this was going.

“While I get our drinks, would you mind playing with my cat? He’s been here alone all day while I was working and needs to get some angst out,” she laughed.

She tossed him a string attached to a chewed-up mouse plush and then moved to the kitchenette for some glasses.

This was a busy week, Carrie thought to herself as she poured two Bulleits. Elliott was even dumber and more pathetic than the last guy.

While Elliott picked up the toy with mild disgust and gingerly draped the string behind the couch.

Claws from Lucky’s paws immediately tore into the mouse, violently yanking the string and knocking his hand hard against the wall.

“Owww!” he exclaimed, more out of surprise over Lucky’s strength than pain.

“See what I mean? Lots of steam to blow off. I know the feeling. Don’t you?”

Elliott started to reply and turned around to find Carrie standing there holding two glasses of bourbon. 

She handed him the drink. He accepted but tried to stop shaking.

A sudden anxiety swept over him. All through high school and into adulthood, he had imagined a scenario like this happening, but no dice. Spurned by girl after girl, all because they were too emotional, couldn’t take a compliment, or just weren’t as interesting as him. Now, for some reason beyond his understanding, it was happening. He was terrified.

He had never been with a girl before. Thirty-seven years. And now, after all the years of his mother smothering him and telling him he was no good for any girl, here he was. Just went to show that persistence and confidence paid off.

He drank the bourbon in one loud, deep gulp. His face turned warm.

Here we go.

“Your shoulders look so tense,” Carrie cooed, sipping on her drink and setting it down. “Turn around, let me work on them. I can do amazing things with my hands.”

Elliott chuckled and complied. His breath caught as she lifted his Slayer t-shirt up and over his head. 

Her cold hands sent a shiver through him. They soon warmed, and he closed his eyes, leaning back against her. He could feel her breasts pressed against his back through the fabric. He sighed, losing himself in the moment.

“Carrie, I think I love you,” he whispered.

Losing himself to the degree that he didn’t notice one of her hands slip down into one of the pockets of her scrubs. 

He felt the prick of a needle. 

“Hey, what the fuck?!”

Elliott tore himself from this fantasy and spun around. Lucky mewed, watching with intense interest from Carrie’s mattress, as she stood before him, putting the cap back onto the needle and launching it into the kitchenette’s sink.

“Have you ever heard of a Komodo dragon?” she asked. “They’re truly magnificent creatures.”

There was an expression on her face—her eyes narrow slits, her lips pouting—that filled Elliott with deep fear.

She sauntered over to the record player and cranked up the Portishead album, then returned.

“Did you know that female dragons can reproduce without males? It’s a process called parthenogenesis. This enables them to reproduce in isolation.”

Elliott, stunned, started to respond as if he knew what she was even talking about. What stopped him was a tingling in his extremities. He stared at his hands, mouth agape, then looked back at her.

“Another fascinating thing about Komodos is that their venom can do absolutely fucked up things to the human body.”

Elliott’s legs wobbled as strength continued to drain from them. He fell to the floor, sitting awkwardly but upright against the couch.

Carrie went to the kitchenette. She produced the serrated hand-me-down from a drawer and a crisp new plastic tarp from beneath the sink.

She swayed and hummed to the music as she playfully spread the tarp out. 

“I have my mother, who was also a vet, to thank for encouraging my interest in animals,” she said. “I’m also grateful for what we learned together about how to handle animals like you.”

Carrie pushed him onto the plastic and straddled him, grinding hard. She groaned then laughed.

“Damn, your tiny cock is still hard! That will change in a minute.”

She placed the blade against his neck, her face scrunched in concentration like a butcher deciding the correct cut to take. She blew a tuft of hair from her face and shifted the blade to his bare chest. Carrie sliced vertically from the collar bone to the navel as the skin peeled open, making a sound like wet paper.

Shock and poison clotted any pain he should have felt. His life essence blossomed like blood dahlias and cascaded down his chest. Elliott could feel the warmth pouring out of his body as it began to pool around him. He tried to scream but only emitted a loud groan, drowned out by the music.

She punched him hard squarely between the eyes.

“How we doing, baby?” she said in an enthusiastic purr.

Stars swam in Elliott’s vision. He tried to struggle from underneath her, but his body now felt very weak. He lifted his left arm to attempt a punch, but he couldn’t complete the swing. His arm fell limp against the floor. 

Carrie tittered.

“Komodo venom takes away muscle control, which is why you couldn’t hit me. It’s also an anti-coagulate. Do you know what that means?”

She dipped a finger into the thick rivulets of blood pouring from his chest and painted a crude smile on his lips. 

“It means you can bleed to death because your blood won’t clot, dipshit.”

“P-p-please, I’ll do anything you want, I’ll apologize. I apologize! J-just don’t let me d-die,” he muttered as the venom increased its hold. He felt his lungs laboring to breathe now as warmth spread from his groin. Piss.

She punched him in the jaw this time and knocked his head to the side, sending a thick line of spittle into the air. He strained to focus his vision on what was under the couch.

Several pairs of men’s shoes sat beneath the couch. Elliott started crying as his wheezing increased.

Her eyes followed his fearful gaze. 

Lucky pranced over and started lapping at the blood pooling on the floor.

“Don’t act like you’re surprised. I’ve noticed you standing outside my building. You’re a sick little twat, buster. Just be happy you’ll be able to feed my cat for months. Now, I need to get to work on you before you lose consciousness.” 

She tugged his jeans down, tore his boxers off, and guided the blade to his now flaccid penis. She yanked it and started sawing to the sound of the cat’s purring.

Meant to Last

The night ends the way it always ends. A pickup truck’s headlights backlighting three men. They wield a baseball bat, fists, boots, a tire iron. It gets harder and harder for me to see through a haze of blood, splinters, and tears. 

I know I am dying, even as I know soon, I will live again. 

***

You’d think that if you had to repeat the same day over and over, at least it would be a day you didn’t sleep in. Nope. I don’t even get ten hours of consciousness in the loop. My alarm goes off on my shitty Cricket phone, and it’s half past two in a grimy room that reeks of ditch weed and cum. 

This day used to be decades ago. I don’t know why this started. I woke up on a day I’d mostly forgotten. This time of my life was lost in a void.

An argument in the next room. The same one I’ve heard thousands of times. My boyfriend’s voice louder, petulant. “They loved me at the interview, I just failed the piss test.”

His father’s voice fills in every gap, lightly accented, and raspy from hand-rolled cigarettes. “I give you almost every dollar I have, I sleep on the couch so you can have a place to stay…for what? You said you could pass the test.”

Of course, he blames me. “He didn’t pick me up on time. I was sweating buckets. I drank a fucking drink, okay, that was going to get my piss clean. But this dipshit had to take a late lunch and the drink went nowhere except my fucking pit stains, okay?”

His dad doesn’t blame me, but doesn’t defend me either. He puts up with me. He hopes that I am going to realize I am a woman and make my boyfriend into a normal man, with a wife and kids and a real job on the horizon.

Sometimes I engage them, join the argument or try to break it up. Most times I don’t. Nothing I say seems to make a dent.

I shrug and put on clean clothes, although they’re contaminated by my unwashed skin. I slept in my binder—I knew I shouldn’t, but some days back then, it was the only thing that made me feel safe. Sometimes I even wore my steel-toed boots to bed. My wardrobe, stuffed in a backpack, is loose-fitting and drab. The kind of clothes that fade well into a corner while my boyfriend’s dealer (and sometimes roommate) works up to hitting his boyfriend. My hair is dramatic, though: layers of bruise colors, from fresh to faded. Enough piercings in my face to delay an MRI. The days I brave the bathroom, I love to stare at my fresh young face.

Grabbing my keys and wallet hidden in the closet makes me grimace as I raise my arm, thinking longingly of my deodorant trapped in the bathroom; might as well be in Siberia, I don’t want to walk past them to get there. And in Tucson, deodorant never lasts long anyway.

Hand on the doorknob, listening for the right lull. I manage to hustle out with a mumble, and without a glance behind me. I need to break through.

***

In this dilapidated landmark tower, now low-income senior housing, I might be the youngest person. In my future, the building becomes something different, luxury condos, office space, something with a lot of steel and windows. In the future, I won’t make it back to Tucson much, but I’ll look for it every time.

My boyfriend lives with his surprisingly-old father—or maybe not that surprising, now that I have processed how much older my boyfriend is than I was. Back in the 90s, “legal” was all that mattered, and he waited until my 18th birthday had passed so I was no longer “jailbait.” Remember, this was the time of websites that counted down until underage actresses would be legal to fuck. The ball dropping in the Times Square of Natalie Portman’s presumptive virginity being up for grabs by schlubs on Geocities.

A rotating crew of one or two other queer men stay with him on the twin mattresses lined up on the floor; no sheets, no pillowcases, just layers of stiff blankets we hide under when we want to fuck. 

Yes, I am one of those squalidly-surviving men who don’t officially live anywhere. My boyfriend is not allowed to live in the building; by extension, I am so unwelcome in the building that I was never sure if it was the last time I’d be able to sign myself in. 

I sign out, this time, every time, to an eye-roll.

I jiggle my car door and ease it up a breaking hinge to get in. It doesn’t lock anymore, but it’s never been stolen. It never will be stolen, if the future unrolls in the expected way. The tape deck will be stolen out of it in a few years, but, well…it is just a tape deck. Not even a CD player. This is a little while before iPods, but a long while after CDs. I work at a used record store; the CDs aren’t even shiny anymore, usually. When someone sells us a pristine CD, I feel like I can see into their future, and it involves escaping Tucson and at last, ironically, being able to afford air conditioning.

I stop and get a sandwich on the way to work. That’s about a third of my $14 for the day. Take it to eat in the midtown park’s recently-repaved parking lot. I could sit at a picnic table, but that’s even hotter than my car. I have a half-full water bottle from yesterday in my cup holder. Drinking plasticky water the temperature of tea really takes me back.

I chuck my sandwich wrapper on the floor of the passenger side, because why not, and go check my email at the library tucked in the corner of the park, a hidden oasis. Somewhere to cool off for approximately 45 minutes, although sometimes I let myself be late to work. (Why not?)

The first time I lived this day, I was still a reader, despite the haze of pot and abuse. Since the loop began, I usually borrow something ambitious that I’d never quite been ready to face over the years. I’m almost at the end of Empire of the Senseless, dipping in throughout my work shift and meal break. I feel a little guilty, borrowing books that I will never return. Will those books go missing in some kind of library of the multiverse? Or does my death transport them back onto this exact shelf, crisp and ready to get me through the next ever-darkening evening?

The ironic part of this errand is that I could check my email at “home,” but my boyfriend is always logged in to a slightly-less-expensive knockoff of World of Warcraft. I’m not allowed to touch his computer. He sits there as the hours redden his eyes, hunched over the keyboard, smoking, scowling, drinking two-liters of Dr. Pepper right out of the bottle. How he hasn’t died by the time I get to my future is amazing. I starved myself for years and will end up diabetic. He pumped his veins full of sludge and has a vibrant fucking life. He ended up, of course, with the lucrative job, lovely wife, and adorable baby. My deepest fears confirmed, that he did not think of me as a man at all, that he wanted to be what his father wanted him to be, that he really wanted a woman and everything easy and conventional, with hashtag “blessed” slathered all over.

Anyway, I check my email at the library most days, because I’ve noticed that sometimes, I get different messages. I always hope that this Nigerian prince or that limited-time offer will have a secret message from Bill Murray, or Natasha Lyonne at least. Never happens. And nothing from my friends or family. My boyfriend has driven everyone away, although I didn’t see it like that, the first time I lived this day. The first time, it was unremarkable that no one was writing me back, that my inbox was barren, full of automated messages and notifications. Every time I relive this day, though, it gets a little bleaker. 

I get to work, and I could tell you about how the afternoon and evening goes. The 41 different customers and which CDs they buy (among other items, including hair dye, lascivious stickers, and DVDs, a format just coming into its prime, and never quite replaced by Blu-Ray as expected). What my coworkers chat about. The store manager stinking up the bathroom in the back of the store by the time clock where I punch in. The incense the assistant manager lights to drown out the smell. The endcap I create out of posters for an album (I’ve created everything from a crooked poster stapled bare onto the wood framing a tray of CDs, leaning into the punk, anti-capitalist aesthetic, to an assemblage of caution tape and layers of jagged, feathered posters threatening to take over the whole aisle. It’s oddly soothing work). The music my coworkers put on; eventually, I get a turn to put something on. This is another detail that shifts with each loop: it seems to vary based on subtle interactions throughout the day; if I play a bright, poppy CD, that might change the decision my goth coworker makes an hour later, to spite me. If I chat about a movie, someone might put on its soundtrack. The assistant manager puts on “Closing Time” at the end of the night, every night—not just this endlessly repeating night; it was his schtick. 

I don’t think any of those things matter as far as why the day is repeating, or how to break the cycle. I’ve really tried every kind of interaction I could think of. 

I’ve tried calling in sick, but my boyfriend has always kicked me out to end up somewhere on the streets of Tucson with a broken-down car, and of course, the truck finds me.

I’ve tried leaving work early, but my shitty car doesn’t start. I can call my boyfriend, on his landline, because during this entire four to midnight shift, he never seems to leave his dad’s apartment. He always says he’ll pick me up. But never shows, or at least, not before the day’s over and I die and live again. I’ve tried calling my dad, AAA, whatever. Only one tow company ever picks up, and they don’t have any availability until it’s too late, and my dad does usually answer, but always says he can’t talk right now, try back later after work; when I do that, it goes straight to voicemail. 

There is no version of this that ends up with me able to get out of the parking lot before ten after midnight. Except on foot, and I know how that goes.

I’ve tried walking every direction, away from everywhere I went during that day. Just walking and sweating in the Arizona sun, cooling off a little after dark, but not much. Finding places to hide. Overheated and hunted. Most storefronts mysteriously closed. Nowhere that stays open late enough. Even the 24-hour Albertsons and Circle K are closed for floor cleaning that night. According to the hand-scrawled note on the door, at least; the disturbing fact that both appear to be written in the same handwriting has not escaped me. 

Every day, I make it until a little after midnight, and then they find me.

I always have $14 when I wake up, cash; no credit card, and my debit card is overdrawn. Just like the financially abusive situation with my boyfriend’s dad, most of my income goes to him too. Not just today; throughout our whole relationship. When we will end up getting kicked out of his dad’s place, I will pay most of the rent. When I will luck into a free two-week vacation, I have to go with about $40 to my name because he needed money to buy a wolf pup, I shit you not. 

$14 goes further in the past. It’s enough to buy me a couple meals, or take the city bus anywhere, or theoretically a short jaunt on the Greyhound or the Amtrak. But if I can make it downtown to the station, they have mysteriously closed up, even though the buses are supposed to run all hours and the first train would be at 4 a.m. 

I’ve tried driving, just cruising past my work instead of pulling into the doomed parking lot, but my engine always gives out at some point before sunset, and I’ve never gotten far. At least, not far enough. 

And then there’s hitchhiking. No one picks me up. I feel like a ghost. I think anyone I hadn’t really interacted with that day can’t even see me, and that I can’t go anywhere I didn’t go that day, either. I still don’t understand the rules, though. Maybe it’s nightmare rules.

I have called every number in my shitty Cricket phone, and it’s always a dead end, if they even pick up. Most of my “contacts” seem to barely remember me, or to pity me. I have even called a few numbers that I somehow remember from my future. No luck there, either; I’ve yet to find a thread that convinces them to save me, although certainly, my future friends and exes are a little intrigued by my promises of stock market fortunes and juicy gossip. Maybe eventually I’ll break through.

***

Today, I’ve decided to take a different tack. My remaining $9 after the sandwich is more than enough to buy a gas can and enough gasoline to do the trick. It would be enough to buy a lighter too, but there are plenty in the display case by the register that I can pocket. I choose a novelty one that says “fuck you, you fucking fuck.”

 In my past life, I never stole shit. Now, what does it matter? (To answer the obvious question about my limited funds, I have, on previous days, tried stealing from the register, and even, lowest of the low, from the charity box by the register where people drop in loose change on the honors system. I am always caught, detained by the assistant manager, made to perform a disgusting sexual favor, and then let go, no richer than I began. I wish I hadn’t tried this as many times as I have; I think I must be losing days off my future every time.)

I know the route their truck takes into the parking lot. They always stop in the same place, although of course, if I take off running in the other direction, they just catch me. But there’s a spot they will go, all things being equal. I take my meal break at around nine thirty. It’s dark and there’s only tweakers around. No one cares what I’m doing. 

I pour methodically, then stash the gas can back in the trunk. 

I head back into the record store, wiping my fingers on my ripped jeans. The metalhead couple leaning on the trade counter, antsy from withdrawal as they try to eke out a little cash, talk shit about me. “Look at his hair. Or is it a he/she?” Sometimes, I get an “It’s Pat!”

Tonight, if instead of buying gas, I’d gone to grab fast food at the only place that’s open, or open to me (and it’s always tempting; this young body can turn anything into fuel and beauty), I would have met the men in the pickup for the first time. For the first time this day. 

I did always keep a vague memory of this encounter; it had stuck with me, although whether the day had originally unfolded with a second encounter is lost to the mists of time. Obviously, I couldn’t have died from it, and I’m sure I’d remember even being threatened or injured. Queerbashing deaths were in the news all the time, back then. I was always very conscious of the risk of being seen.

The first time I met them, they were a looming threat. These guys have baseball bats, and have already started getting liquored up. There’s shouting, and swerving to follow me, but no beating happens, not then, not before midnight. 

It’s not that the future is less homophobic and transphobic, exactly, but it’s been startling to relive how overt it used to be. Even a fellow clerk who I literally will know in the future to be bisexual rolls her eyes and deems all kinds of annoyances “so gay.” 

The closing routine is odd. In the future, even in the near future, I’ll work at jobs that feel more like a family, and at night, we’ll make sure we get to each others’ cars safely, that everyone has a ride, that no one’s being followed. 

As I leave the record store, though, we have to examine each other’s bags after locking the door, standing on the sidewalk in front of the facade. Peering into tampons, chewing gum, dental floss, whatever detritus. This pageantry of people who are poor as fuck policing each other’s possible theft of an item that, at best, might help them afford lunch or an ounce. I rub my fingers over the stolen lighter in my pocket nervously, but of course, it’s just a bag check, not a pat-down. It’s no wonder that after that affront to our common humanity, we go our separate ways in silence. 

I’m parked towards the back of the lot. I liked it that way; if I wanted to eat or read on my break, I didn’t want the clerks who smoke outside to scrutinize my off-the-clock life. But that means everyone else is long gone before I try to start my car. 

I’ve tried changing this outcome. I’ve tried parking right up front. Asking for a ride. I’ve tried delaying someone for almost half an hour with dumb chitchat, everything. It never works out. I will never be so alone as I was during this time.

Anyway, I pull my shitty Cricket phone out of my bag, and pretend to make a call, leaning into its glow like a depressed anglerfish. I head towards my car, by way of that spot in the parking lot. With my other hand, I grip the lighter. 

A little sweat. I don’t know why. If I fumble this, I can always try again. I hope that’s true. Or maybe I don’t.

And here comes the truck, on cue. 

Their voices, even their words, are identical to the moments before all the other deaths etched into my memory. The amount of accumulated trauma must be incalculably high. I don’t know how I will come back from this, even if I can get it to end.

But now, a flick, and the lighter doesn’t catch. 

And then it does, a wavering flame, and I throw it, assuming that it’ll go out or I’ll miss the gas slick trap I’d laid. 

A miraculous fireball envelops the truck. It’s their turn to scream. 

I don’t take long to relish it. I need to book it, before the nightmare can continue with, fuck knows. Them somehow surviving unscathed? A different truckload of assholes?

On a whim, I dive into my car instead of fleeing on foot as planned.

The door swings smooth, like my car is young and vibrant and full of life. And this time, it starts. I make it past the intersection of Oracle Road and Miracle Mile. Yes, those are the real names, because in Tucson, a good omen is always waiting on the same corner as sex workers and drug dealers. 

I get to the freeway, still occasionally glancing in my rearview, not quite believing it worked, and finally relax enough to focus on the gas gauge. Half a tank plus my last couple of dollars might get me out of this state. I regret getting lunch. If I have to turn a trick, at least it won’t be in Tucson, and it won’t be to placate the greasy assistant manager for a fistful of twenties I have to give back anyway.

I listen to Nine Inch Nails; Broken is in my tape deck, and I don’t change the cassette all the way down I-10. It’s only an EP, so it must end and begin a lot of times. Sometimes I go back and listen to a song over and over. I guess I got in the habit.

 I pull over in Yuma for a quick nap.

I don’t know if I will wake up back in my comfortable bed, with my girlfriend’s good morning sunshine emoji dancing on my iPhone, or if I will be back in this time again for good, in my shitty car in Yuma scrounging for spare change melded to the cupholder with congealed soda droplets. 

I don’t know how hard it will be to survive. But I know I’ll get through it. I know that I will return. I have broken through.