Friday, July 31, 2009

Starstruck

Dear Web Diary,
I’m starstruck! Last night after seeing Destroyer I stopped by the pizza place down the block from my place to get a night cap pasta-garlic slice and had my first celebrity sighting. But not only did I see this famous person, Web Diary, I’ll have you know I was actually was in the frame of mind to talk them. Here’s how it went down:

As I walk into the pizza parlor I see a guy in a polo shirt and two frumpy girls with iPhones taking pictures with a squat, well-dressed African American gentlemen. They shake his hand and dissipate; I’m left standing next to him waiting for my pizza.

Me: Hey wait, aren’t you Forest Whitaker?
Cedric the Entertainer: (frowns)
Me: Oh shit, wow, no you’re Cedric the Entertainer.
Cedric the Entertainer: (looks annoyed but nods)
Me: Shame about what happened to Romeo [from Steve Harvey Show].
Cedric the Entertainer: Yeah, that was rough. You want a picture or something?
Me: No, I think I’m good.

I realize only a second later how my polite decline must‘ve made me sound like even more of a prick, but by then it was too late. Cedric the Entertainer had strolled out of my life and into the night taking with him three slices of sausage pizza and my heart. The whole thing was surreal and over far too fast; I do hope I'll see him again someday, Web Diary. Will write some more soon.

Yours Truly,

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

High Five

Dear Web Diary,
Today was not a good day. It rained and my boss alluded that she was going through menopause both times I made small talk with her. This is a story about animals; I wrote five hours before it was due last fall.


High Five

“Swanky fucking place, Joester,” Greg the Salamander said pacing around the loft. “I thought the divorce was going to squeeze you dry, but this is looking pretty good.”
“Well, I got the portfolio. Made some good choices.” Joey the Scorpion replied.
“Obviously. How old is Sharon again?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Cradle robbing. Cradle robbing, Joseph. You learn your lesson? You make this one sign a prenup?” Greg said looking at Joey expecting a laugh.
“Is the best man really supposed to say shit like that?”
“Sorry. I told you I’m gonna make it up to you this time, and I will. But this fucking view, huh?”

Joey watched Greg’s reflection in the wall of windows as he passed over the Manhattan skyline, and dropped into the East river.

“Never figured you for a Brooklyn boy, though.”
“It’s the Heights. It’s worth it for the view.”
“You kids ever fuck with the blinds open?”
“Sometimes.” Joey lied.

Joey the Scorpion hadn’t seen Greg the Salamander since his last wedding. Or more the bachelor party the night before; he was still too drunk the next day to perform his best man duties. They’d grown up together in the Bronx and followed each other through school. Joey settled down with Mandy the Cobra right after law school, but Greg didn’t. When he’d received the second wedding invitation in the mail he insisted on being best man again, insisted on throwing another bachelor party. Joey avoided his calls; he wouldn’t give him the names of any of the other guys going hoping to discourage him. But here he was in a power suit fresh from a drive from Syracuse.

“You want to?” Greg asked putting one finger against his nostril.
“Fine. Just not directly on the table. I think Sharon left her vanity mirror in the bathroom.”
“Sure thing. This way? ”Greg said gesturing to the right.
“Yeah. And only cut what you’re going to use and clean up. Jason‘s coming over in the morning.” Joey said calling after him as he walked down the hall.
“What I‘m going to use? I got this for the both of us. It‘s my gift.” Greg said as he walked back into the living room.
“We aren’t in college anymore, Greg. I have three kids”
“Bachelor party!” Greg hissed raising his hands. “It’s my job to make sure you live a little before you throw away your life. Again.”

Joey’s phone rang.

“Hello?”
“We need to talk.”
“Mandy?”
“It’s about Jason.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah.’
“He’s with you tonight, right? I told you I’m picking him up in the morning.”
“Yeah.”
“Then what’s up?”
“I’m not going to do this over the phone.”
“Do what?”
“Can you just come over? It‘s important.”

Joey hung up the phone. Greg had stopped cutting the coke instead using the razor to guide a stray ant’s path around the table.

“Who was that?’
“Mandy?”
“Really? She trying to psyche you out or something? Want more money?”
“She said it’s important. It’s about Jason. Can I borrow your car?”
“The Beamer?’
“If you drive a Beamer now, yes.”
“What happened to the Saab?”
“I sold it after the divorce.”
“Why can’t you take a cab?”
“Dressed like this?”
“You have all this fancy shit, but you don’t have a car?” Salamander Greg tapping the razor against the mirror with each syllable.
“This is ‘important‘” Joey said gesturing with his pinchers.
“Okay, yes. I’m just giving you a hard time. I’ll let you borrow the Beamer. But be quick; we‘re going out. I‘ll wait for you to start in on your present.” He said with an air of finality putting the razor down. Greg stood up and left the table. Joey heard the bathroom door close and watched the three evenly cut segments of the ant twitching on his coffee table before grabbing Greg‘s keys.

~

Mandy the Cobra had an apartment in the Village; she’d moved in with Franklin the Parrot after the girls had gone off to college. Traffic wasn’t terrible for Saturday evening, but Joey had to park seven blocks away. He scurried over to her brownstone; she buzzed him up.

“Hey.” Joey said closing the door behind him with his stinger.
“Hey.” Mandy replied.

Joey let himself in and found Mandy in her cramped kitchen standing at the sink as it filled with water. Joey gazed into the dark, false eyes on the back of her hood. She was wearing an apron, her pink one.

“Is Franklin here?”
“No, he and Jason went out to a movie.”
“So, what’s up?” He said after a minute.
“Did you tell Jason he was a mistake?” Mandy said still staring into the dishwater. “He told me you said that today.”
“He asked. Last week.” replied Joey
“And you told him he was a ‘mistake?’”
“ I said he was unplanned for. If he said ‘mistake,’ those are his words, not mine.”
“Oh, that’s great Joey. His words. That makes it better. He’s eight.”
“He is eight. What the fuck was I supposed to say? ‘So, your mother and I fucked on a leap year, and --”
“You didn’t have to tell him anything.”
“I think he had it figured out. He’s getting an A in Math, Mandy. His sisters are ten and twelve years older than him. And I’m not the one who bought him those fucking flash cards.”
“Well excuse me for caring about our son‘s education!”
“I’m not the one trying to lie to him, Mandy.”
“It isn‘t a lie, Joey!”
“And who gets their son flash cards for fucking Christmas?”

Mandy opened her mouth, unfolding her fangs then closed it and shook her head.

“No, we aren’t going to do this. I didn’t call you over here to fight again.”

They stood silent for a moment, then Mandy turned towards him, tasting the air.

“Do you remember what you said when I first told you I was pregnant with Jason.”
“No.”
“You said ‘high-five.’”
“I was probably drunk.”
“‘High five’ is a good thing, isn’t it?”
“All I said was ‘high five?’”

Mandy tasted the air three more times, then turned and stared again into the dishwater in the sink. She dipped her tail in and shuffled around the dishes.

“What’s this really all about Mandy?” Joey said stepping one of his six legs closer. “Huh? Did you really call me the night before my wedding to ‘talk about Jason?’”
“God damn it, Joey.”
“God damn what? You aren‘t making any ‘god damn’ sense.”
“Just leave, Joey.”
“Why are you being like this?”
“Just leave.”

Joey opened and closed his pinchers and gazed into the face on her hood created by those big fake eyes with a tiny pink bow for a mouth. He thought about undoing the knot. He took one last look around the kitchen then turned and left the apartment. Outside he spent close to half an hour walking the same ten block loop looking for his old, white Saab before realizing he’d taken Greg’s car.

~

“Where the fuck have you been?” Greg slurred as Joey came in.

Joey just stared at Greg splayed on his armchair, eyes glazed over with one twitching and half-closed. Joey knew from countless experiences this was the way Greg’s eyes got when was black-out drunk. Surprisingly, the coke looked untouched as promised.

“Well, I started without you.” Greg said throwing his arm towards upset bottles of Bacardi and Coke Zero, either drank or spilt, both empty.
“Sit down, get us a drinksy-poo. Then we can go out.”
“I’ll sit down, but I think you’ve had enough, Greg,”
“Don‘t be that way, buddy” he said gently but slurring, slowly uncurling his orange tail. “Give me some boose!” Greg blurted.
“C’mon Greg, you’ve had enough.”
“Give me the fucking boose, Joseph!”
“No, Greg, I’m cutting you off.”
“Get me more rum, or I’ll fucking, I’ll fuck-- I’ll drive, you asshole!”
“I still have your keys, Greg.”
“My keys are right…” Greg said fumbling his webbed digits around the coffee table then brandished the remote control. “Here! You asshole!”
“That’s the remote, Greg.”
“Fuck it!” He said spiking the remote on the carpet and collapsing back on the armchair. “I’ll find them, and when I wrap my fucking Beamer, my Beamer around a light pole, you’ll be sorry, Joey. Sorry-Joey…”
“Okay, Greg.”
“You’re Sorry-Joey.”
“You‘re right, Buddy. I am.”

Greg was still mumbling but began to doze on the Lay-Z-Boy; his normally quite productive mucus glands were working overtime oozing the alcohol out of his system and onto the suede upholstery. “Goddamn it, Greg” he thought squeezing his mandibles shut. He walked to the closet and picked out his least favorite blanket and draped it over Greg with his stinger while he used one of his pinchers to grab a still lit cigarette dangling from Greg’s sticky fingers. He took a drag off it and then walked to the kitchen and threw it into the sink. He took the phone of the hook and went to bed.



That's it. I bet tomorrow will be much better, Diary; or at least I hope so. Good night.

Yours Truly,

Sunday, June 21, 2009

Robble, Robble, Robble

Dear Web Diary,
It's me, Kevin. How are you? I found a story I wrote a few years ago and thought I would share it with you. It's the story of the relationship between a criminal and a cheeseburger shaped politician, but I think its real message is about the beauty of friendship and listening to the truth of the heart. But I'm getting ahead of myself; it's called "Robble, Robble, Robble." See if you can figure out why.


Robble, Robble, Robble


“Well, the thing I’ve realized, er, come to terms with –came to terms with–is I’m only attracted to people like, uh, like my father,” Nathan said wiping the sweat from his palms on the arms of the corduroy recliner he sat in.
“Uh-huh. And why do you say this, Nathan?”
“Well, because he was very, manipulative, gruff, and abusive and I, uh–Is this water? Right here? In this Dixie cup?”
“I have no clue, Nathan.”
Nathan picked up the cup and sniffed it.
“Go on.”
“Oh, well, and I, uh, guess Derek is too. All of those things I said that is.
“And how did that make you feel?”
“What?”
“I said, how did that make you feel, Nathan?”
“Which part?”
“All of it.”
“You aren’t even listening.”
“Of course I am.,” he said looking up from his notepad.
“What are you writing?”
“Notes.”
“Can I see?”
“You aren’t ready, Nathan.”
“Well, um, what were we talking about?”
“Your compulsive urges to steal and eat hamburgers.”
“No. We weren’t Doctor Thurman. And I told you, I, I’m a vegetarian.”

Dr. Thurman started to close his notepad, but Nathan snatched it from his desk. The majority of the page was covered in the doctor’s own name, Harvey F. Thurman Ph.D, written over and over again in cursive. At the bottom there were sketches of a dragon, a scorpion riding a motorcycle, and a stick figure attached to an exaggerated phallus labeled ‘Harvey F. Thurman Jr. Ph.D[ick]’”

“What is this?”
“I think it’s pretty self explanatory,” Dr. Thurman said plucking the notepad out of Nathan’s hands. “I’ll be perfectly straight with you Nathan–wait, do you find that offensive?”
“No.” Nathan said after a long pause.
“Good. I’ll be straight with you, Nathan. You’re my only patient who doesn’t have a court order to be here every week. The way this usually goes is patients come in, sit in that chair, I ‘listen,’ I flip a coin and blame Mom or Dad, or say something about infant fecal contact if I‘m feeling spunky, sign the papers, go to court if need be, and they’re out of here in a year or less.”

Nathan nodded, still staring at Dr. Thurmon’s hands which were still hanging in the air after gesturing the quotation marks from “listen.” The truth was that they were at the edge of a breakthrough, or Nathan was at least, in mentioning his father.

Like many fathers, Nathan’s dad sat at the top of his son's complexes. During childbirth Nathan’s unusually large and already hardening skull cracked his mother’s hip; consequently Nathan’s father had to leave work to take care of his wife and son.

Although Nathan’s appearance was a nearly identical, albeit bloated version of his father: red hair, freckles, and an Irish smile, he had trouble finding love for his only child. He often found himself staring at his son’s sallow, plastic complexion, head bobbing under his skinny neck and feeling a similar but imaginary burden brought on by unpaid bills and strangers’ looks when the two of them were in public.

Nathan never grew into his head but instead adapted to it. Instead of walking and balancing like a normal boy, Nathan was perpetually falling under the weight of his head, his body rushing to keep up with it. This gave the boy tremendous speed at the cost of control. As he grew his height could be charted by head shaped indentions in the walls or damaged furniture at his level throughout the house.

Nathan’s father tried to compensate for his emptiness towards his son by forcing him into baseball, buying him a custom made helmet and private coaching. It was torture for both of them as any athletic attempt: swinging the bat, pitching, or even looking up to catch caused Nathan to topple onto his head and turn like slowing top as he struggled to get up while his teammates and their fathers laughed in unison.

After ten years of complications from the hip replacement, Nathan’s mother died. The tragedy unleashed a string of blame and verbal abuse that had been stored up in his father since the Nathan’s birth. All of this transformed what would’ve been a happy but deformed boy into a troubled one.

“Well, due to your case and, erm, ‘celebrity status’ I think it fit you see another doctor.”
“This is all my healthcare covers.”
“Well, you’re free to come next week”
“Uh, okay?”
“I can write you a prescription if you’d like.”
“That won’t be, uh, thanks, but no thanks Dr. Thurman.”
“Don’t forget your hat and cape.”
“Thank, thank you, Dr. Thurman.” Nathan said dicking with the handle on the side of his chair as he struggled to get it into an un-reclined position.
“Just leave it, Nathan.”
“Okay, thanks, okay. Bye.”

As he shuffled through the waiting room something tugged at his cape. Looking down he found a little blonde girl staring back at him.

“Mommy look, it’s Zorro”
“Now, Charlotte, that’s just a Hispanic gentleman, we talked about this,” said her mother from behind a magazine.
“No, Mommy, it’s the Hamburglar!”

Her mother started to mouth “I’m so sorry . . .” and then stopped.

“Why, it is the Hamburglar.”
“Tell him to give back the hamburgers Mommy!”

Nathan scampered out the door at the mention of his alias nearly knocking over a potted plant in the process. The truth is Nathan was the Hamburglar and had been for quite some time. After his father’s blow up Nathan ran away from home and began running minor jobs for local pot dealers. He soon found himself in Laredo, Texas entertaining a brief stint as a coke mule.

It was during this time that Nathan’s kleptomania surfaced. He began pilfering necessities, but it soon extended to products of little use to him: food processors, camping gear, tampons. He started out stealing discretely but later donned a mask and hat to disguise his conspicuously large head and darted through stores stealing nothing of value but causing much commotion.

One day after successfully crossing back into America, a condom full of cocaine burst in his lower intestine and sent his kleptomania into overdrive. Perhaps it was the homey smell of greasy food or maybe even fate that brought him to that McDonalds that day, but the rest is clear. After zooming through and stealing every food item in the restaurant, Nathan made for one of the exits. Not knowing the door was to be pulled and not pushed, Nathan ran, face first as always, into and through the plate glass door and suffered a concussion. The incident generated much press due to the quantity of food and Nathan’s cartoonish appearance; McDonald’s played it off like a publicity stunt and offered Nathan a place in the McDonald family in lieu of jail time.

Once outside Nathan easily spotted Grimace’s purple, gum drop shaped form erupting from behind the wheel of a new Mini-Cooper.

“How’d it go?” Grimace said dopily as Nathan got in.
“Not good, he’s a hack, just like you said. Nice car.”
“Yeah, I went with the S-model. Can you help me out?” Grimace’s tiny arms flailed as he tried to reach the stick shift. Nathan reached over and put it into gear.
“Can you even drive a manual, Grimy?”
“I got here, didn’t I?”
“We, uh, started talking about my father, and I found out he wasn’t listening. He was just practicing his signature and drawing in that notepad the whole time.”

Grimace nodded. Nathan knew not to talk anymore about family as Grimace was an orphan and the nature of his being and conception was a constant strain on him.

“I had a bad day too. I joined an online dating service.” Grimace said “I had my first date today...”
“And?”
“She thought it was a joke. She, she laughed at me–”
“Watch the road-”
“She kept saying, ‘Who’s in there? Who’s hiding from me? Take it off’.” Grimace said, his voice beginning to crack with emotion.
“Oh Grimy,” Nathan said emphatically.
“I said to her, I said ‘Fuck you’ you know? ‘You are an ugly person. Inside and out’”

Grimace snuffled a few times and Nathan rubbed his furry side, wet from the few gigantic tears Grimace's eyes produced.

“You, uh, might want to switch gears buddy.” Nathan said meekly.
“I can’t, I can’t reach the damn clutch.” He shifted his weight around and cussed. “Wait, okay, there we go. So, are you going to the Mayor McCheese’s Banquet?”
“Yeah. Of course. He’s the mayor. I mean, it’s not like, yeah.”
“I really don’t understand how he gets elected. I mean who votes for a leader who advocates the cannibalism of his constituents?”
“I, I don’t know. Fry kids I guess.”

Nathan sank back into his chair and gazed out the window. He knew why. He had succumbed to Mayor’s charm many times. Too many times. The memory of their first meeting with the Mayor looped in his mind; his muscular frame, his broad, pickled-filled smile, and deep, velvety voice (“Please, call me Derek”). Nathan’s compulsions had been tamed (he only stole packs of gum now), but the urge still writhed inside him; Mayor McCheese was one final hamburger he wanted to steal and keep all to himself. He was his first, homosexually or otherwise, still remembers lying in bed afterwards, alone, bed full of sesame seeds, the smell of the secret sauce lingering in his sheets. It still gave him shivers.

“On second thought, I have a lot to do tonight. I’m tired. I, I think I’ll skip it.”
“You sure?” Grimace said glancing over at him.
“Yeah. I’m sure.”

Even though he and the Mayor met frequently, he felt more alone than anything. Each encounter mirrored the first: sex and departure. In public he was ignored. The Mayor’s rallies and dinners were torture for him; he would cringe if Derek’s cornflower blue eyes lingered on anyone but himself, wince if he whispered a joke into some else’s ear. He knew the mask would conceal his reactions, but the feeling was always there. A kicked-in-the-balls feeling that migrated to his stomach. A feeling not even alcohol would dissolve.

~

“Was it good for you?” Derek said collapsing beside him. “What am I saying? Of course it was, I’m Mayor Mc-Fucking-Cheese.”
“Of course you are.” Nathan said weakly; Derek insisted on being referred to as Mayor McCheese in bed. “Hey, um, do you wanna do something this weekend?”
“Hmm?” Derek said glancing over.
“You know, to that new play or maybe the opera?”
“Why do we need to go out when all we want is right here” he replied rubbing the space in the silk sheets between them.
“I’m serious. What are you doing Friday?”
“I’ve got a thing.”
“Saturday?”
“Busy.”
“Sunday?”
“I’ve got another thing.”
“You always say that.” Nathan sighed “What? What ‘thing’ have you got?”
“A penis.” He said with a devious smile.
“Oh, you’re horrible. Just horrible,” Nathan said turning away from him and hugging his pillow.

He could hear Derek guffawing at his own joke and let the silence between them lengthen hoping to drive in his point. It was the same room they always got: the Presidential suite. The walls were painted Derek’s favorite shade of white, Magnolia, but it just blended in with all the other grays in the dark. Derek had insisted on putting up a pointillist painting of himself along with few pictures of him hobnobbing with former Presidents and diplomats citing that that was what the Presidential suite was meant for and that Nathan could “learn something from it.” As Nathan stared at the spine of Derek’s copy of Bill O’Reilly’s Culture Warrior on the nightstand, he felt something under his pillow and pulled it out. It was a single thick, coarse lock of green hair. Nathan knew at once whose it was.

“You, I can’t, you and Javier?!” Nathan stammered.

Derek started in bed, his eyes shot over. Javier was a Fry Kid and one of Derek’s closest assistants whom Nathan had always been suspicious of. He’d suspected nearly everyone in the MacDonald family at one time or another, but now the evidence now lay quivering, like the rest of his body, in his gloved hand.

“That’s impossible. I mean, I bet the cleaning lady left that in here when she was in here, cleaning.”
“The cleaning lady!? Oh, how could you? She didn’t even have time to clean the sheets!”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Derek said regaining his composure.
“You and that overgrown Scrubbing Bubble? In our room? In this bed? Oh Derek!” his voice trilled.
“No, you’re wrong, I can explain.”
“I, you, I, no you can’t! I’m leaving!”
“You’ll be back!” Derek yelled after him.

Nathan ran all the way to his apartment, his vision blurred by tears. Once inside he began tearing down all the pictures he had, everything that reminded him of Derek. He only stopped when he saw the reflection of his blinking answering machine in the glass of a frame he was poised to break.

“Nathan, this is Birdie. We just found Grimace. I don’t know how to say this . . . He tried to take his life. When they found him they said he was turning blue. . .”

Nathan stopped listening at that point, paralyzed by the news and trying to figure out whether turning blue for Grimace was a good or bad thing. He continued to stand there as the machine cycled through old messages coming to one left by Grimace a week ago about going to a new club. He noticed the thread of sadness at the fringe of Grimace’s voice that had been there since they’d met. It was the same softly pleading note of loneliness that he heard in his own voice but never wanted to admit.

No sooner had the answering machine clicked to a stop than he tore through the streets at full speed towards the hospital. It may’ve been his tears or the brim of his hat that blinded him, but either way he didn’t see the bus and neither did the driver. The bike rack of the metro bus struck his dense skull making tinny popping sound as it hoisted him into the air. His limp body flew silhouetted by the sky nearly twenty feet, arms forward, cape trailing like a miniature Under Dog float. He landed and skidded to a stop at the middle of the intersection. People got out their cars and stared.

~

The hospital held more reporters and cameramen than doctors and nurses. Some crowded the halls, others watched from the street all hoping for a glimpse of the two disposed McCelebrities. Nathan awoke unmasked for the first time in years. He found his head wrapped in bandages exaggerating its size and lending him swami-like appearance. His mouth was gritty with bits of pavement and the faint, coppery taste of blood. Someone stirred in the cot next to him.

“Grimy, is that you?”
“Hey” Grimace said weakly.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. Are you?”
“I think so. I guess this head is good for something.
“Heh, I guess.”
“….But why, Grimy?” Nathan said softly after a moment.

Grimace said nothing but began to cry. As he covered his face with his fingerless hands Nathan noticed the bandages around his wrist.

“I can’t. I can’t even kill myself right.” Grimace said between sobs. “I tried to hang myself but my neck, kept slipping out. Stuck my head in the oven, it was electric. How was I supposed to know, you know?”
“Oh Grimy,”
“My life’s trash Nathan. Who could ever love this? Who could ever love me?” he wailed, his tiny arms gesturing wildly at his oblong body. “I, I look like a fucking butt-plug!”
“I love you.”
“You’re just saying that. You’re just saying that ‘cause I just tried to kill myself”
“No, Grimace, I do love you. You’re my best friend. You’re my only friend.” He said softly “I, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Thanks. You know, no one’s ever sad that to me…I’m sorry, I know it was stupid. It was selfish.”
“Don’t worry. It’s over now. We’re okay. We’ll be okay.”
“It, it was nice of you to come visit me in the hospital” He said sniffing, a goofy smile spreading across his face.
“Did, uh, did anyone else come? To visit?”
“No, why?”
“Um, nothing, no one.”

A nurse entered and began ask Nathan questions. A man entered slipped in behind her and waited in the corner. He was a stocky, short older man with red hair ungracefully graying in spots; his overall image was one of a fox with mange. When the nurse left he approached the bed, his faded green eyes fixed on Nathan’s.

“Dad?”
“Hey, Nate.”
“How’d you?”
“I saw it on the news.”
“How, how long have you known I was, I am . . .” Nathan said touching just below his eye where his mask would be.
“Since McRib.”
“Why now?”” He said after a long pause.
“It’s been six years, Nate.”He said searching for softness in his son’s eyes. “Look, I hate myself for what I did to you kiddo. It’s not your fault, she, I, I’m sorry.”
“You’re just here for the cameras. If you wanted to find me you would’ve done it six years ago.” Nathan said, his voice raising an octave.
“That’s not true, Nate.”
“Well, you wasted your time.” He said with a quiver in his voice. “I ran away. If I wanted to see you, I would’ve come back.”
“Well, I’m sorry to hear that.” His father said frowning, “But I think I understand. I want to leave my number in case. In case you change your mind.”

He put a slip of paper on the night stand and stared at Nathan for a moment more before putting on the jacket he’d draped over his arms and left.

Nathan lay and gazed at the ceiling for hours listening to the gentle hum of the medical equipment under Grimaces snores. His fingers traced the skin around his eyes where his mask would be; it felt clammy and exposed the way he imagined flesh under a wedding ring gets. He found his frayed mask on the nightstand next to his father’s number and held them both as if weighing them. He put the mask down. He wasn’t going to wear it anymore.




That's all for now. I'm going to bed. Goodnight, Web Diary.

Yours Truly,