Hey Siri, could you tell how to fix my broken heart? No one made it stop I just can't get it to start. Hey Siri, are you happy? Do you wish that you could cry? Are you as lost as me?

There’s something sad about seeing pubs and clubs in daylight. When it’s all dark and fumey and there’s pulsating lights flashing from every direction, you loose your orientation and sense of reality – at least you do if you clean up all nice and show enough cleavage so you can drink free all night –, and you feel like you’re in this whole other dimension. Pubs and bars are worse, there’s a reason normal places don’t open ‘till at least 4 PM, ‘cause seeing alcoholics wasting away at the bar is just sad without music.
The Net is different, with all natural lights and squeaky-clean floors it’s leaning towards creepy rather than sad. Moira has her back to me as she scribbles something down on her notebook.
“Heeeey,” my voice sounds sickeningly sweet and my smile actually hurts. I’m pulling all the guns out. “It’s Lou? Monroe…?”
She’s very much aware I’m there, in fact, she was the reason I came. I felt like a joke, she calls and I literally drop everything so I can come as soon as I can. It’s like I’m the guy in this relationship or something. Disgusting. “Lou. Hello.”
So, here’s the thing. Last time I met her, I might have fallen down the stage – there’s this weird catwalk type thing that leads out from the kitchen to the tables on one side of the dance floor and they pay you to serve chicken wings in six inch heels and very little clothing. And I’ll let you know, walking down the steps in pulsating light isn’t exactly easy, especially when you have vertigo. And whether or not that vertigo was caused by ingested substances is another topic entirely. It’s been a year, and I’m fine now. Better. And I really need the money. So if I have to lick her ass to get a few nights a week during the spring break, I will.
“I came as soon as I could, I just had to…”
“I really don’t care”, she sighs, turning around to finally look at me. And that she does; looks me up and down with the expert eyes of an art dealer. And I mean, hey, I’m flattered but also uncomfortable. I’m wearing sweatpants. “You’ve gained weight.”
Rude.
“Umm… I mean, maybe a little?” It happens when you try to quit and end up binge-eating instead. And then you can’t quit, and then you eat because you’re a failure. “I’m on these new meds.”
“I hope they work against dizziness”, she says sharply. “And ‘stomach problems’.”
“I mean, it wasn’t that bad…”
“You projectile vomited at my customers.”
My face scrunches up at that, I can almost taste the bile in my mouth. Or maybe it’s just that weird gummy multivitamin I’ve found under the couch. Hey, it’s still a vitamin. It’s not like I can afford to just throw them out. “Yeah… I’m sorry. It would never happen again.”
“Yeah, well, it won’t.”
“I really am sorry!” She can’t be serious, right? But she very much seems to be, as she just… walks past me.
“Me too.” You don’t seem to be! “But I can’t give you spring break like this. You won’t even fit into the dress.”
Ruder!
“I’ll manage. I’ll loose it.”
She stops with her lips pursed into this thin line that still manages to mock me. It’s like she’s Meryl Streep and I’m the annoying new assistant she can’t stand, only my basic instinct isn’t to try and persuade her but to break her nose. She gives me this side look and I give up, I’m not trying to pretend to be on top of this situation. I’m fucking desperate. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t need to, and she fucking knows it. She’s knowingly drawing out the suspense and I’m sure delights in the way my fingers are tapping a crazy Morse code into my thighs.
“You better. You have until the end of next week. If you don’t, you’re out.”
So the thing about desperation is, it seems not so bad when you’re in the situation. But then you leave and you feel like smashing your brain into the corner and ripping your skin of because you don’t deserve that. I’m seriously putting in actual effort to look a certain way so I can serve fratboys beer with a wide smile and pretend like giving me a ten dollar tip is enough to pay for their wandering hands? Seems like I am. Some fucking role model I am for my son.
My son whom I left with some random dude.
Okay, obviously, Rick isn’t ‘some random dude’. One, I know his name. Two, Dex is a living example that he can be tasked with keeping another being alive. And when you look really closely, toddlers and dogs and twenty-something year old guys aren’t that different. They love food, they are easily distracted, they love playing catch, they seem to have something against cleanliness and they’re all fascinated with their genitalia.  
I know Khoi wouldn’t agree with me, but arguably, leaving Benny with me was just as much of a good idea as mine. I would never – ever – do anything to hurt that kid. I simply know that I’m not good for him in the long run. And it’s not like I did that lightheartedly – I had to leave, because Moira insisted she can only do this today. It’s a small miracle he was even available on a morning during a weekday. Every normal person is at work by then.
“It was a shitshow”, I tell him immediately after he opens the door for me.
Benny is sitting on the couch, where all the cushions are packed on top of each other and he’s balancing himself like some acrobatic king. Dex seems very much not happy with the situation – under normal circumstances, he’d be able to reach the bowl Benny has in his lap and get his due food portion.
“Momma said a baaaaad word!”
“Yeah, no, it was a mistake, hun-bun. We don’t swear in this house… or any other house.” My sidebag lands on one of the wonky kitchen stools and I walk around the couch to smack a disgusting momma-smooch on his temple. “Are you eating cereal?”
“Rick saaaaid it has, it… umm… it has calzooone.”
“Calzone? You mean, calcium? There’s calcium in the milk?”
“Noooo, calzooone!”
“Okay, sure.” It’s hard arguing with four year olds ‘cause then they just start crying. And right now, he seems really content – with his throne and with life in general. As soon as I walk out of his periphery, I’m basically non-existent and his eyes are glued to the tv screen.
“You know that was invented, by, like, the milk lobby, right?” I snort at him with a smile. As a ‘thank you for keeping my kid alive’, I punch him in the upper arm and then walk towards the kitchen to get coffee. There’s that thing, right? Coffee diet? Maybe I could try that one. “It went shitty”, I say before he could ask. “Apparently I’m not Size 0 enough. So I either try what it’s like to be bulimic or… I could go back to checking up on old people at home and then pretend I can’t see their figs of balls hanging out of their pajamas.” I’m still not cleared for more than four hours of supervised work at the old folks’ home, and I’ll die before I take up waitering again. “How’d it go here? He didn’t try to push his pants down too much, did he? He’s in this weird stage… Khoi said the teacher at pre-k told him it’s normal. But it’s so weird. I almost wish he was back at the stage when he just always rummaged around in his pants like he was looking for the Lost Ark in there.”

ezeket hamarosan kicserélem eskü

Me and my man Benny, we go way back. We get each other on a spiritual level. Might be it’s just a four-year-old thing, but he says the wildest shit sometimes, reminds me of my friend Twon from back in Philly. A couple hours with Benny and it’s deadass a whole ass trip without the relapse – all the upsides, none of the downsides. No way I was gonna say no to Lou when she hit me up going, “Yo, Rick? Can I, like, drop the lil’ grasshopper at your place, ‘cause like, I got shit to do”, or something along those lines.
About two hours ago, I found out he ain’t never built a blanket fort before. I thought it was pretty much standard, like some kinda developmental milestone to get through, and there he was, shaking his head saying, “Nuh-uh.” Never fuckin’ built one.
“What you mean, ‘nuh-uh’? That’s like, Daycare 1-0-1, man.”
I mean, he’s only four, so I guess he ain’t had much time yet. Must be a ride, being so shiny new you simply ain’t done shit, ‘s a whole new world and all. The thought weirds me the fuck out and I swear I ain’t even smoked nothin’. It’s just, you cute now and shit, but I’mma be straight with you, that ain’t no feat at four. Challenge gon’ be in making sure you stay on top of your game, for years and years and years and years. And years. Plus, not to assume your gender or anything, but you’re probably on your way to becoming a whole ass dude – meaning you can’t live off your cuteness for too long. I got really long eyelashes and no one’s handed me money yet, pretty sure that only happens if you a girl.
Anyway, the challenge of life starts with mastering basic skills like how to build a blanket fort. And of course various other just as important skills like peeing or, like, blinking.
So we got to work, dragging the dining room chairs into the living room, placing all available pillows on the ground, draping all available blankets over wooden frames.
“Couch den!” Benny pointed at the end result when we were finished.
“Say what?”
“It’s like the, the, the couch den we build with daaaddttdd!”
Turned out he had built a fort before, only he has his own name for it. For real now, dude? You couldn’a told me earlier?
I motioned at the thing. “‘S called a blanket fort.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“No.”
“Yeah.”
“Nononononononononono…”
“Yeayeayeayeayeayeayea…” I pointed at him. “Yes a hundred times.”
He scowled at me, suddenly falling silent. Gotcha. Can’t even count to a hundred and you gon’ tell me what a blanket fort is and isn’t? Not on my watch, Benito.
I motioned inside, mumbling, “Aight, go perform a vibe-check in there.”
He got on all fours and climbed inside the fort, then rotated back around like a little puppy, head popping out from between two blankets. “Now you come!”
“I ain’t gon’ fit in there, bruh.”
“Whyyy?”
“I ‘onnow, too much KFC.”
“Bruhhh.”
He picked that up real fast. A few more hours with me and he’ll be conversing with the Queen of England.
Wait…
Riiiight, granny’s restin’ in peace nooow! Can’t remember the name of the new Queen, though. Might be Charles or some shit.
“Booooriiing!” Benny decided after like ten seconds, climbing out already. That was the point where I remembered you actually needed to put toys or comics or some shit inside the fort to actually make it fun, otherwise it’s just a small dark hole. I coulda switched on the TV for entertainment, but the fort wasn’t even facing the screen.
And that’s kinda how all those pillows ended up on the couch, Benny peering down on Dex and I like mere peasants whose sole purpose in existence is to serve him snacks. I got him some Rice Krispies and from that point on we just kinda chilled out to Peppa Pig.
Now get this, Peppa and her friends were deadass working out at the playground, just gettin’ jacked as fuck I guess, but then they find some hula hoops on the ground and they can’t for the life of ‘em figure out how to spin that shit around their waists. It was riveting, bro, I was watching at the edge of my seat.

When Lou rings the bell, I get up from the couch with a grunt and stroll to the door. I peer outside for good measure before sliding the security chain off, opening up. Dex rushes over to fulfill his usual task of getting in the way.
“Yo, how’d the…” I begin, but she cuts me off with the answer, walking past me. “A shitshow” don’t sound too good. Closing the door, I monotone, “Languaaage.”
When Lou walks back to the kitchen and asks if I knew that Calcium was invented by the milk lobby, I blink at her, looking daft as fuck.
“The what lobby? Ow…!” I rub my arm where she just domestic-abused me. I figure it constitutes “domestic” since we’re at my place or something.
I turn after her as she gets to work making coffee, explaining The Shitshow. Cogs are turning and creaking inside my head as I try to come up with something to try and make her feel better, some way to shittalk that fatphobic joint, it wasn't you. In the end, the best I can come up with is, “Yo, they trippin’, Lou. I mean, you gotta be, like, able to lift some plates and shit. Can’t lift plates with low blood sugar.”
I’m pretty happy with how that came out.
“‘S, uh, been a ride,” I sigh with a couple of blinks, looking over at Benny. “We been watching Peppa Pig. They were trynna learn how to hula hoop, but they couldn’t, for like five minutes straight. Gave me hella anxiety.”
I wasn’t joking when I said I was watching at the edge of my seat.
“He was a good boy, though. Mostly ‘cause we been takin’ these craaazy bong rips, y’know, chill him out a bit?” I smile at the mental image, betraying myself. “I kinda promised him we’d go to the playground, though. He had wayyyy too much energy and I was gonna take Dex on a walk, anyway.”
Big boy appears at my feet on cue – probably heard his name and came to see if we talkin’ shit –, so I bend over and give him a good old scratch.

Hey Siri, could you tell how to fix my broken heart? No one made it stop I just can't get it to start. Hey Siri, are you happy? Do you wish that you could cry? Are you as lost as me?

I don’t really have… A lot of friends, not anymore. I mean, I used to. Going in and out of rehab a couple of times does that to you; not that I blame them, after a while I started to hate myself for the excuses, too, and you know, you might feel bad for the stupid dog whose paws you keep stepping on the first few times, but after a while it’s really on them if they don’t learn to pull their shit in, right?
So having Rick is nice. At first when we met and he started chatting me up next to half-dry bagels, I thought he was chattin’ me up, but turned out he is a surprise in more ways than one. I don’t think I’ve ever told him but… He’s a big part of why I’m still trying this shit anyway, after Benny. He did it. And as much of a macha tea drinking, ‘#ThoughtsAndPrayers’ tweeting manhattaner basic white girl it makes me, sometimes seeing other people succeed does light a fire under my ass. When it doesn’t throw me into this self-destructing hellcircle about ‘why do they get the good stuff like mental stability’ I mean.
“The milk lobby”, I repeat with heavy stress like I’m about to summon them like Bloody fucking Mary. “You know, the peeps with the cows? They have like, five percent of US GDP. I know it doesn’t seem like a lot, but the military gets, like, half of that and they have a shitton of helicopters, so…” I saw Black Hawk Down, okay? Might not have been watching for the plot, but I’m not manhattaner enough to not know how much a Humvee costs. And they have armored ones. And missiles! Killer drones, right? That’s what CNN says. “Whatever, I heard this podcast that the bullshit about how you need milk for your bones to be strong comes from them, to boost sales.” It's a very intellectual conversation we’re having right now, TOTALLY not to prolong the inevitable and not talk about the interview. One thing I’m great at is multitasking and finding shit in other people’s homes, usually to sell it later but now to make coffee, so by the time I get to this part in my rant, I’m scooping half a spoon of sugar into my mouth. “The same thing they did with cigarettes in the fourtieeees, these facecreams and stuff with actual radioctive shit in them… And BOY did that work!”
Doing shit to make you be a fictional, better version of yourself always sells. Once, it was radioactive rouge, then those weight pills, and now supplements that make you shit yourself in half, hoping you’ll magically get guns like a trunk with a few pack a month. And when that doesn’t work, you still have injections – ‘cause when they do it, it’s for ‘aesthetic purposes’, when I do it, it’s against the law.
“What I gotta do is shake myself like a maraca and pick up the pity money”, comes my very self-appreciating retort. Water, coffee, click. Turning back towards him, he has this far-off look on his face. You gotta love when a man doesn’t know what you want to hear and ‘s afraid of saying the wrong thing. It’s like this whole other kinda drug that gives this lift, if only for a few moments. Torturing men. My favorite pastime. “I can see the clogs turning in your head, bro,” says the finger poking the middle of his forehead. “You don’t need to lift my spirits. Just facts. I don’t fit into those dresses and that’s it.”
Can’t say it doesn’t feel nice though, or that I didn’t feel like the biggest piece of pigeon crap standin’ in front of Moira and her size minus 2 hips.
I’m not surprised that Rick and Benny would hit it off on the longer run; one, I do find they have a lot of shared interest, and two, their names already sound like some metafictional grown-up cartoon with political references, probably on Fox, maybe Netflix if it sucks. It’s good to hear, though, that the little guy had a good time. “But did you learn how to hollahoop though?” Asking the important questions here, all serious and everything. “’Cause, you know… If you want to have a go at it, I might still have a sparkly pink one in storage somewhere.” The mental image that appears in front of me makes me chuckle like a villain from a ‘90s Scooby Doo episode.
The coffee comes out of his ragged coffee maker, letting out these angry puffs of air. Reminds me of my mother. “You wanna play house with me now?” One of my eyebrows shoot up, but I’m not gonna make it hard on me and pretend like I’m not amused. I love the little guy, but watching him play sand castles – that, might I add, NEVER look like castles – for three hours straight isn’t exactly my favorite past time. Especially when he gets all social and goes up to these other babies like they’re about to deal in the prison yard. The moms always want to chat and for whatever reason they have this misconception that I care about whatever they have to say about how long they’ve breastfed or whether little Hyram still pisses the bed. And then it goes back to their husbands – it always goes back to them, and their shitty marriages. I know Rick is a cool guy but he ain’t exactly the type that pulls in mom talk so it’s a win either way.
“Just fuckin’ with you. I’mma get my coffee on the go then.” Pat-pat on the shoulder and I’m back at the cabinets. “You still have that Starbucks cup I left here? Nevermind, found it!” It also says ‘Chantelle’ on it, so I really can’t recall where I got it from but a cup is a cup. The next stop is getting Benny ready, which is another feature. “Heeey, bugger, wanna get ready for the park?”
“Yeaaaaa!”
“Nonono, don’t ju- you know what? You’re fine.” No blood, no crime, that’s my motto. I still tap him down, COs would be super proud of my technique, just to make sure he has no bones sticking out somewhere it shouldn’t be. I don’t have a lot of paranoia when it comes to me, not more than I think is healthy, but once I saw him sommersault down from the bed as a toddler and he landed on his head that made his neck do this weird bend and I swear I blacked out. He was fine, though. He’s always fine. Pretty sure he got that from Khoi. “You need to pee?”
“Noooooo!”
“Did you go since you came here?”
“…Nooo? Bu’ I don… I dooooon…”
He stomps his little feet and in times like this, I can see the sense of resemblance of me, so I’ll let him be. I do bend down and get all up in his face, though. “You should go, okay? ‘Cause you’re a biiig boy, and biiig boy don’t get us into trouble at McDonalds, right? Like last time? Remember that?”
I do. You’d think after a while helping your kid do all the numbers on a calculator in public would get easier, but I’m gonna be honest, it’s just as awkward as the first time, PLUS, there are fucking weirdos everywhere nowadays. The last thing you want to worry about when you’re trying to correct your kid’s aim is not having some pedo stare at you. I’m all for confrontation but you can’t really throw a bunch with a toddler on one arm, they mess up your balance.
“McDooonalds? Can I get McDooonalds?”
“We’ll convene about it while you’re doing your big boy stuff, okay?”
Martin Luther King had ‘I had a dream’, that weird general guy fighting the Mexicans had ‘Remember the Alamo’, and Benny has: “I want the chicken nuggeeeeets” as he runs off to the bathroom.
The next one I’m getting in the face of is Dex, because he has been criminally underrepresented by me since I got back even though dogs are officially every owner’s best quality. You can be Moter Teresa, your dog will always be your best feature.
“You cool with getting some nuggets after? Maybe they have Peppa Pig for Happy Meals. It’s that or Paw Patrol, but I think you’d vibe with that, too.”

ezeket hamarosan kicserélem eskü

I’m pretty shook that apparently there’s, like, some kinda milk mafia running amok out there and not only was I oblivious to this until now but those mawfuckers also got helicopters and shit. Not sure why I’m even surprised after all these years on Planet Earth – I mean, everything got their own mafia, it ain’t just drugs. This one time I was blazed as fuck, browsing Chrome – yeah, just Chrome in general –, and I see this big ass mindmap of practically every brand in existence, grouped together by which mega-corporation they’re secretly – I mean, not secretly but also not loudly – owned by. One was Nestlé, don’t remember the others but apparently there’s like six or so conglomerates that produce all the shit you buy. I don’t remember the whole trip, but I’m pretty sure Cal and I droned on about the illusion of choice for like four hours. Dex had a couple things to say, too – we smoked that type of strain, I guess. Cal’s batches tend to hit like that.
I got zero idea what a maraca is, though. My three remaining brain cells hold a little conference inside my head and decide not to pose yet another question, not after the reveal that I wasn’t even aware of this infamous milk mafia. I don’t want Lou thinking I’m dumb or some shit.
“I ‘onnow. Gotta put Peppa’s tips into practice and see,” I reply with a downturned smile, down to hoop the hula anytime.
Spence refused to try it out with us back in the day, said it was too girly, he’d rather shoot hoops alone on the other side of the backyard. Joey got me to join in a couple times, see if I’m secretly a hula hoop virtuoso or something, I mean, you never know. I always hoped I’d finally find my talent by trying out obscure shit like cricket or origami or, like, people-watching. Turned out I was pretty good at the latter, kept at it for years with an uncharacteristic consistency. I can stare for a pretty long time and at a pretty long distance, I can stare left, right, up, down, you name it. Maybe being a good starer ain’t as cool as being, like, NFL material, but I figured the more obscure the talent, the less people you gotta compete with, and that’s good news ‘cause I hate competing. Shit puts me on edge for real, like, what we competing for, survival? Bitch, I done that enough.
Anyway, the hula hoop wasn’t my secret talent but it was Joey’s. One of many, actually. I usually got like four rolls out of it while she just kept that thing going, and I mean it when I say this, forever. Then again, she also did gymnastics for a while and like, walked on her hands along balance beams and all, so I don’t think the hula hoop was even that big of a feat for her. Then she contracted this back injury – doing gymnastics, not the hula hoop – aaaand that was kinda it. She was so down about it for so long that, for once in my life, I was kinda glad I ain’t never had a talent.
“I mean, call it what you want,” I drawl in response, giving a lazy shrug. “But I gotta walk Dex, so ‘s either that or…” And I smile, pointing limply in the TV’s direction. “...‘S your turn with Peppa.”
Now, I don’t know a lotta things and that’s a good thing ‘cause it means you got a bunch of room to learn new things. And what I learned today is that the playground is for sure more fun than watching this show. I’mma downvote on Rotten Tomatoes, not intellectual enough for me. Like, how old do the creators think I am, four?
I think Peppa herself is four, actually. That’s what I read on her Wikipedia page, at least. Now, correct me if I’m wrong, but I’m pretty sure that makes her an adult in pig years. She should be paying her taxes, not hula-hooping around all day. Foolin’ around like that don’t lead to good things, Peppa, look how I ended up. Keep that shit up and Daddy Pig gon’ kick your ass out the house for good.
“McDonaaaalds,” I echo Benny’s sentiments absently, grabbing Dex’s harness. I sound like I’m about to collapse due to low blood sugar, but Lou knows me, it's just my hyped voice.
I slap my thighs twice with a “C’mere, boy,” Dex immediately breaking up with Lou, skirting around our makeshift bar counter. I mean, he could literally just pass underneath it but whatever, my boy’s just a creative free spirit like that. He’s not like other dogs, aight?
I get down on one knee to put his harness on.
“Am I coo-hooool?” I chuckle under my breath, eyes laser-focused on getting them big ass paws through the leg holes. “Fuck yeah we gettin’ nuggets, Lou. What kinda question is that, jeez...”
I stand up and walk past her over to the coat rack by the door, thrifted red North Face rustling as I put it on. Dex follows me, well-aware that the highlight of his day is coming up.
“Yo, the kid get swallowed up by my toilet or sum’?”
And I grab the leash, clipping it onto his harness.

The four of us barely fit between the stairs and the door while I close it behind us. There’s always this weird quiet when Cal ain’t home, my keys jingling, Dex’s breaths huffing like a tank engine.
“Damn, stop usin’ up all the air, dude,” I mumble, shoving my keys in my pocket.
Holding Lou’s hand, Benny looks up at me, cheeks blown up like a puffer fish as he begins holding his breath.
I look down at him like, “NOT CHUUUU, oh my Gaaaaah, I’m killin’ your kiiid, Lou! Not after all we survived today, man, don’t turn blue on me now. Mom gon’ kill me.”
And I get going, the start of our journey down, like, eight flights of stairs, our steps echoing off the grimy ass walls.
“I meant the one that’s out here sounding like a helicopter 'bout to land,” I hint at a certain somebody before turning my head, half-glancing above my shoulder. “See, Lou? Always talkin’ shit, bringin’ the milk mafia on my ass...!”

Once we out on the gray ass, cold ass sidewalk that kinda smells like piss, I wait for Lou to escort Benny’s little ass out the heavy ass door. I light a cig in the meantime, eyes all crossed as I frown at the tip. I succeed on the fourth click and look up at Lou, puffing once before taking it out of my mouth and spreading my arm.
“C’mon, smoke travels upwards. He in the clear.”

Hey Siri, could you tell how to fix my broken heart? No one made it stop I just can't get it to start. Hey Siri, are you happy? Do you wish that you could cry? Are you as lost as me?

Benny was supposed to have a twin. The first time I had a heart attack was when I found out I was pregnant, the second when the OB/GYN down at the clinic had the audacity to tell me with a huge, definitely not-done-at-the-free-clinic smile that ‘congrats, there’s two pretty babies in there’, and then… I mean, I thought for sure Khoi would leave my ass, I had this whole speech prepared, cried a few times in the bathroom to make sure I still look hot with smushed mascara, train my fingers to type up the long ass rant under five minutes, you know, the important things. And I swear I was deadass angry when Khoi was happy. Shocked, at first, but then definitely happy and the motherfucker had the NERVE to stay.
He shocked me so bad I stayed sober for months.
He actually made me believe I can do this, because it’s not ‘I’, it’s ‘we’, it’s ‘us’, and we can do all the shit we couldn’t before. Like, we can have this happy-ass family that’s not perfect but there’s… Love, and affection and honesty. He was actually so excited, I had no heart to tell him I had all the ‘perfect family’ shit growing up. Yeah, a kickass brownstone, my own room, skiing as a casual hobby, Christmas gifts in the double digit, family dinners with homecooked meals, the works. It’s nice. Until your stepdad crawls into bed with you.
Being pregnant was scary enough at barely past twenty-one, especially seeing we’ve only been together for a few months and I just started bartending. So, like, ‘oh, yay, double jeopardy’ wasn’t what I wanted to hear, and as the weeks passed and I started to freak out, I… might have done some bad things that would have made me look like a horrible mom, only I wasn’t really showing yet, so people didn’t judge me harder than otherwise. I felt all ten plagues of the Bible come down on me after, though, when the next time, the woman was like: ‘there’s just one now.’ Like, what the hell you on about. One? ‘Oh yeah, you know, happens with multiples a lot.’
Like what in the actual ham sandwich. Lady in the labcoat deadass just went your son is a cannibal like it’s no big thing. And it’s not like I could go ahead and ask if cocaine intake raises the risk of fucking fratricide, could I?
I still feel pretty shitty, though; I had proper panic attacks that maybe he will be born retarded or some shit – can you say retarded? Guess not. It must be something like, ‘developmentally delayed’ or ‘intellectually challenged’ or ‘differently abled’. I looked up all these websites and they had pretty scary shit to say about what could happen to your baby if you get fucked up even once. It was punishment enough to the little froggy to be born as my kid, he didn’t need to be otherwise disabled as well.
He'll get to know the full story later, that’s what I keep telling myself. He deserves it, but I don’t want him to feel bad about himself, the world will mess him up, I mean, he’s mixed, that kinda means he gets the worst of both world, the baby cannibalism part can come after college or something.
“I’m doooooone!”, he yells in a sing-song voice.
“Did you wiiiipe?”
“I caaaaan’t!”
Maybe he won’t go to college. It’s fine. He can join the army or some other shit.
Hot having two kids is great, though, because you can almost carry them down the stairs so they won’t break their stupid little noses. Because no kid can just go up or down the stairs the normal way, they treat it like they’re about to be the next Ninja Warrior, and they might look cute and small, but they are heavy as shit. Give him two more years, Benny will be carrying me everywhere.
“Easy for you to say, I’m almost eyelevel with him.” Not that I really like smoking; I have asthma. Not the ‘carry our own breath in a douchepipe’ kind, I got better genetics than that – yeah, I’m looking at you, weak ass motherfuckers who can’t be in the same room as a jar of peanut butter without shitting your pants –, but it does make me want to scrape out my lungs after a while. He’s cool, though, Khoi used to smoke before we had Benny like he was about to label me ‘smoked in THC’, I’m acclimatized.
“Hey, did Marlene hit you up, too? About the… ‘Express Yourself’ group she got going on?” She’s like this moderately cool Auntie who still thinks they’re twenty but swears she was at Woodstuck that goes to the same NA that we do. Lucky bastard still gets to be high, ‘cause it’s ‘for the lupus pain’ or whatever and ‘it’s medical, there’s no funny stuff in it’, but come on, she usually has a smile that sings Bob Marley songs on its own. No idea how she gets past the tests but I’m trying not to be interested. “She says it’s like… Slam poetry. But with beats. Which sounds like freestyle rap to me, right. It’s supposed to be cleared with Roger and everything so it counts as ‘mandatory optional meeting’, buuut I don’t really feel like being the one white person there, so. Do you wanna come?”
I hope he says yes ‘cause otherwise I’m not sure I’m gonna go, and I feel like I should. It all feels kinda like school to me. Or brussels sprouts. Supposed to be good for you but is it really?
“What is the maaan doing?”
“Nothing you should be seeing, baby. We avert our eyes, okay?” I make sure he does, manually turning his head like he’s some mannequin, before flipping the bird to the sicko who thinks peeing into the trashcan at the bus stop in daylight hours is a good idea. The light at the crossing turns red which I wouldn’t care about but Benny’s here and he’s already singing ‘I’ve gotta wait, wait for a green light’, and stomps into a puddle on ‘WAIT WAIT’ for ‘if the red light is flashing’. And I honestly don’t know if the song goes on, because that’s the whole two sentence he keeps repeating all the time.
“Does Dax know any cool tricks? Like… ‘Grab the balls on that p-e-d-o’?” I’d spell pedophile out loud and clear but I’m not sure Rick has the attention span for it currently. Or that I can actually spell it well.
I have doubts in Dax’s killing skills. “Whatever. If he went after every bad man, this would be a ghost town, I swear.”
“Walk, walk, momma, it’s greeeeen, it’s greeeen!”
“All right, we’re walkin’ walkin’.”
He’s basically pulling me ahead, if he was a few pounds heavier, I might be flopping after him like a raggedy flag. At least somebody’s excited for the playground I guess.
“You have any idea if they still make those Mexican diet pills? No, retract that question. Do you think Cal can get some of those?” I mean, the dude’s basically a living drug prevention program, he looks like he could literally cough up anything like that penguin on Nickelodeon. “I’m kidding. Kind of.  But I have no idea what I’m gonna do without that job. Is your place hiring?”
I mean, they’ve already hired one soon-to-be-ex junkie, what’s another one, right?

ezeket hamarosan kicserélem eskü

When Lou reminds me that she ain’t much taller than Benny, I just pout, shoulders squared.
“See? There’s pros to everything.”
And with that, we get going. Mission’s the swings and chicken nuggets. I regularly take Dex to the playground a few blocks down, seeing as it also doubles as a dog park, so I know the way like the back of my hand.
“Marlene?” I knit my brows, struggling to recall Marlene inviting me to anything, ever, really. “Nah, I ‘on’t think she hit me up with that.”
I know she ain’t exactly a fan of mine. We had this one group therapy session once where our therapist made her open up about what was really bothering her, why she was being so weirdly quiet. A couple minutes of nudging and she finally admitted I was bothering her, I reminded her of her dad. This bald white guy in a jersey with a pitbull thing, she said. And then, I shit you not, she goes, in front of everybody: “I just, I know it’s dumb, but sometimes I don’t feel safe.”
And I fuckin’...
I don’t know. I didn’t take it well. I said, “Aight, I mean, ‘s cool, I get it,” but inside, I wanted to fade the fuck away. Even without the drugs, I felt like complete shit. Like, why me? Why always me? I try so hard. Even when I’m uncomfortable, my smile just says, “See? I come in peace, I mean well, don’t hurt me.” You don’t even gotta like me, all I ask is just let me be, have mercy.
I hated how guilty she sounded about it, too. Like, stop it. Either hate me or don’t, but I can’t take this in-between. I don’t like ambiguous shit, I can barely handle the obvious.
“I mean, sure thing,” I shake my head at the concrete, not an ounce of “no” audible in there. If Lou wants me to go, I’mma just go. Marlene’s pro’lly over it, anyway. Might be she don’t even remember no more, I guess. ‘S been nine months and most folk tend to move on from shit with time, most folk don’t get why I’m still hung up over shit they don’t even fucking remember.
Benny points at some dude aiming his peepee at a trash can, everyone in the bus stop just casually inching away.
“He just waterin’ the plants,” I join Lou in this covert operation of, uh, keeping piss a secret from Benny, I guess. I mean, I’m pretty sure he himself has peed before, otherwise I don’t think he woulda survived this far, but whatever. Mother knows best, right?
“Most he can do is not pee himself,” I answer Lou’s question before looking down at Dex. “Right, buddy?”
I’m pretty proud of him for, like, not peeing himself no more. Huge milestone for us. The shelter worker warned me, actually – she couldn’t say why Dex was doing this, but she said it was pro’lly this thing, I don’t remember the name, but kind of a response typical of dogs who had a shitty past. Dex usually did it right before I left in the morning and again when I came back – he was just so over the moon at my return that he actually peed himself. We had to go see a whole ass trainer to tell me what to do.
When Lou asks me about diet pills and whether Cal could get some – let's be real, he pro’lly could –, I give her a parental kind of look, lips twisting. “C’mon now.” Then she backtracks and I do ponder for a moment.
“I ‘on’t think so, Lou,” I drawl after a few seconds. I mean, they already got a night shift guy and a day shift guy and the place ain’t in need of any more human resources, I don’t think. ‘S practically this little rat hole by the subway. “But ‘s not like you couldn’t find a better place, y’know? If your first day sucked, imagine working there all day, every day.”
Some people just be toxic as shit. I would know – I spent two years in Kenzo, livin’ like a crab in a bucket. Misery looooves company, man.

The playground’s just this whole ass concrete jungle surrounded by a metal fence, not even the swings and slides got too much color – I figure most of the paint’s been chipped away. Ugly but ours, I guess. There’s a couple kids running around, climbing shit, squealing all over the place. It don’t seem to matter, though, ‘cause Benny seems hella excited about it.
“Let's go theyuwre!” he points at this big ass lamppost in the middle of the park, right by the basketball court packed with black sixteen-year-olds. The fifteen-feet-tall fence clatters metallically as someone kicks a ball against it.
“Bro, that ain’t even a toy or anything, ‘s just a lamppost,” I gesture with my arm, confused.
“I wanna go-o-o-o-o-o!” Benny shakes his upper body, stomping with his feet.
I look at Lou, shrugging like, okay, I guess.
So we saunter over and Benny clutches at this cylindrical concrete base built around the bottom of the lamppost. I hand Lou the leash for a second, bending down and grabbing Benny by the armpits, lifting him on top of this thing. He hugs the post like they best friends or some shit, waving at Lou like he on top of the world. His foot is only about five feet high, but I still cheer him on like, “Woaaaaah, look how high up he iiiis, dayuuuuumn!”
And I shoot Lou a look of confusion before sliding up to her so we can both observe Benny as he pretends he's King Kong hanging from the Empire State Building.
“I wanted to ask if you got any other interviews lined up, but like…” Gaping up at Benny, I shake my head. “Look at him. No care in the world. Maybe we should follow the example.”

Hey Siri, could you tell how to fix my broken heart? No one made it stop I just can't get it to start. Hey Siri, are you happy? Do you wish that you could cry? Are you as lost as me?

Dex is a cute-ass dog alright, the thing is just that I’m not overly fond of dogs. I like them okay, most of my FYP is cute dogs and hot girls (because no matter how cringey some lesbian thirst traps get, they have NOTHING on straight thirst traps, I swear if I ever see one more 14-years-old lookin’ guy with fucking unicorn hair licking their lips and rubbing their palms like they’re cosplaying Mr. Burns again, I’mma snap), I just never really had a dog so I don’t get the overwhelming urge to have one. I hate cleaning as is, I don’t exactly need another being just drooling on the floor and getting fur on my shit.
But I do really like Dex, he’s sorta acts like he’s always on some good stuff, happy and waggin’. Dogs and kids truly are the only ones out there that can be happy just for having you. And Rick too, I guess, but he’s just weird like that, you get over it after a while. It took me about four months, and I’m kinda lying. Sometimes I catch myself staring at him from the corner of my eye like – whatchu hidin’, bro? No man has ever wanted to be in my company for my bubbly personality before. What the fuck is wrong with this one?
“Greaaaat, even the pizza place won’t take me. Doesn’t hurt at all,” I drama dramatically, letting my head fall back like the weight of this insult’s breaking my neck. And I can’t even really stare at the sky; it’s this bright, ugly grey color per usual. Makes you accept that you live in a simulation like Resident Evil and the level designer was too lazy to do anything so it’s just grey shit 85% percent of the time, about 5% of clear sky so the tourist traps can work their black magic, and the rest is just the remake of The Day after Tomorrow. “I don’t have to imagine it, dude, I’ve worked there. That’s how I met Khoi. Saw me twirling around one of the poles and it was love at first lap dance.” I keep up the straight face for about five seconds before snort delicately like a Draft Horse. “We met in College. Imagine though…! I should’ve told that story to my mother, the cold-hearted b-i-t-c-h.” God I hope Benny never learns how to spell ‘cause I don’t know how I’m gonna explain things to his teachers. I can’t just go like ‘you don’t understand it, Miss Schnizel, swearing ain’t right, but it was hella funny’.
“I used to bartend there, sometimes do waitressing… You show off enough skin, you make bank there. Your self-respect might just scream and jump outta window, buuuuuuut I’ve already sold mine along with my tearglands and a piece of my liver so it’s cool. Besides, you don’t make that kinda money at respectful places,” I shrug. And unfortunately, things cost money. It’s unfair, I know, you should just be able to chill in your Manhattan apartment that has a view of Central Park and have unlimited Pizza in your fridge for just putting up with other New Yorkers in the first place.
I know, I know. ‘Money doesn’t make you happy.’ Well it sure never made me unhappy, either.
I’m gonna be honest though, I’ve always talked to Benny like we could have a conversation, he was the best audience when I had this three-hour rant about why Drake would be a great president back in ’20, but I’m still unsure about 33% of time what he’s saying. Luckily, he points at things – like at the lamp post. Or at that huuuuuuuge guy in line in front of us at that taqueria we went to a few months ago. ‘Momma, does the lady have baby in her stomach?’ No but he’s sure eating for at least quadruplets.
Maybe I’m a sucker and pregnancy leaves these sneaky hormones in you that make you stupid, but come on, you can’t help but smile when a kid is that happy. Just this… Overwhelming pureness and awe. Kids are something else. And I’m so fucking lucky to have a friend like Rick. I swear I wouldn’t be surprised if he started climbing the lamppost, too.
I join in the celebration with overly impressed features like,“Wooooow, look at you, monkey! You’re so high the popo won’t ever catch you!” Can’t start too early. Not when he’s looking like the cutest cocoa puff ever. He’s showing the testosterone, though, flexing his arms like bodybuilders and raaaaarw-ing away to his heart’s content. I swear I could eat him up sometimes. Like he ate his – no, not going there. Dark humor is the gateway drug to depression, I swear. “Careful…! Your Papa’s gonna be maaad if you break something again.”
I give the leash back to Rick, one eye always at Benny. I’m Steve Buscemi like that. “I’d looove to go back to kindergarten. You think you’ll always have time to destroy sand castles, but then they’re like ma’am, this is an offense and you’re assaulting children like the they couldn’t be annoying little shits just because they can’t vote yet.” My nose scrunches up in my best ‘disgusted Elvis Presley’ impression. Benny starts springing on the lamppost like a dog dry-humping their chewing toy, leaving some space for Jesus, and I guess he’s just toying around with gravitational pull ‘cause he definitely didn’t get his brains from me, the little Einstein. “I don’t, by the way. Fun fact, not many people want to hire someone with known drug problems and on probation,” I smirk at him like he doesn’t know. Maybe I have it easier in a way. Like it or not, I look more presentable most of the time, and prettiness does take you somewhere; but it still kicks you out the Uber with, like, thirteen blocks to go. “Roger said he knows a place that gets off on hiring us junkie fuckers but the last time I went to a place like this, the manager wanted us to blow him in our breaktime. Three of us went there, I was the only one who threw the form into his face.” Another shrug, ‘cause, really, what are you supposed to react to that. Sad fucking world but it’s what we have. That’s why I never feel the urge to like, recycle and shit, ‘cause honestly, this fucker’s not worth saving, gimme my fucking wet wipes, I’m rawing my butt for no turtles’ sake.
“I’ll get back to full time at the House of Slow Death soon, anyway. I jus’ gotta finish this program first.” Like it’s no biggie, right? Easy like that – bam, there’s a court that solves your problems. A miracle. And to be honest, it’s fine most of the time. It’s easy to forget how much you hate everything about your life when you’re out here like that.
“Mooomma, look, I can jump, I can jump!”
“Hey, hey, no…!” Jumping. He lands on all fours but keeps his balance, picking small pebbles off his hands, concentrating like he’s ‘bout to do surgery on a grape. It takes, like, two moment to decide he’s not gonna cry and then hops towards us.
“You see, you see?! It was sooooooo high…!”
“Yeah, it was. We miiiight just make an athlete of you yet,” I nod, beaming down at him. I get to hold him and swirl around with his little legs swingin’ for exactly five seconds before he’s off again, this time storming the monkey bars. We’re not the only ones here, there’s a couple of Staceys who, even around this place, look like they’ve just walked out of a Bloomingdale’s catalogue. Or I’m just jealous ‘cause their coat has no stains on it. Whatever, one of them is pushing this stroller back and forth, at least three kids ranging from two to six running around them, so I’m definitely not jealous of their vaginas.
They give us this side look, more likely aimed at Rick – yeah, I know he looks like he’s about to give your kid candy from a white van but does he look like he actually has a van though. They go back to fake-laughing with each other which is lucky, ‘cause if they dared to try and go Karen on him for having Dex here, I’d have channeled my inner Veronica from Shameless.
“I’m late with my bills. And my rent”, I end up admitting, now that Benny’s positive aura is more than six feet away from me. I cross my arms like it’s no big deal. If I can pretend long enough it’ll come true. Shittiest Cinderella story ever. “Philip’s out of town, and with the half workdays… Well, it’s not like I have any money left. I’ve thought about getting a roommate but the last time I did it was a Ukranian hooker who used my sheets for business if hers were ‘used’, so no thanks. You think there’s any way for me to get the rat in my pipes to pay rent money?”

ezeket hamarosan kicserélem eskü

Took me a while to solve the equation that Lou pro’lly just pretends to hate kids. I mean, I can tell she loves Benny, for one – then again, Benny’s kinda her son, so I don’t know if that counts as a telltale sign or what.
“Oddly specific right there, Lou,” I slur, chin raised, eyes on the kid.
I remember Spence trampling all over my sandcastle when I was like six – I cried and Joey chased him with her plastic fishing net, both of them shrieking about. We used to drive to Rehoboth Beach like every summer. I remember flip-flopping along the sizzling hot boardwalk, getting lost in concert-hall crowds, ordering nothing but trans-fats in those corny ass themed restaurants. And I had the time of my life, man. I kinda had it all.
I had this dream about the place a few weeks ago. Woke up kinda down about the fact that we’ll never be those kids again. We don’t get to spin the wheel of time and go back to the way things were, before mom and dad got divorced. Before Spencer cut us all off ‘cause my parents gave me an early inheritance to try and get me out of my… Hole. He said it would affect the inheritance he would get and that I was a waste of money anyway, I’d just spend it on drugs anyway.
Which I did. He was right. Spencer was always right, his words were always prophecy. And afterwards he’d always go, “I told you so”, and I’d always just go, “I know, I know!”.
“Thh, you tell me…” I scoff at Lou, completely feeling the struggle. Having to clock out at random times during the day to attend drug court is kind of a dealbreaker for most employers – main reason I decided to go freelance, actually. I don’t mind the freedom even if it ain’t no startup, it’s just driving people and paper bags around. But I’m doing something, something other than black tar. Character development if you ask me.
“Sheeet…” I look up with a frown when Lou drops this whole SA storyline. “Yo, good on you for leavin’, man.”
Whack as fuck how people be out here abusing their authority. Good thing Kenzo’s one big brownout in my brain ‘cause I may or may not’ve gulped some dick-cheese for a hit here and there. ‘S kind of a vicious cycle, you make the biggest mistake of your life and then shoot up just to forget, rinse and repeat. Ain’t nothin’ cute about it, it was a fucked-up time for real. Like, for real for real.
“Yo yo yo, you better be c…!” I begin when Benny calls Geronimo, howevs he makes the leap before I could finish. ‘Course you can jump, bro, anyone with legs can jump. ‘S the fall that’s the problem.
He takes it like a champ, though. Dex and I watch on as Lou picks him up and swirls him around – I guess he’s living his very own Rehoboth Beach era right about now.
He gallops out the picture and we right back to grown-up shit again. I never liked dealing with grown-up shit, the crushing weight of reality. Why else you think I spent years deadass cracked outta my mind?
“Hey, lemme know if I can be of service,” I suggest, shaking my head even though we both know I ain’t exactly in a helping kinda place right now. “Might wanna give roommates another shot, though. I got pretty lucky with Cal, he’s like barely home. Even when he is, it’s just to bang some chick in his room and then he’s out.”
My guy built like a lamppost with patchwork sleeves and girls still be all over him somehow. Not that they shouldn’t, dude’s a legend. Don’t know much about where he even came from, but I do wonder how he manages to survive solely on hash brownies and the occasional tablespoon of lean. He also smells like grease most of the time, but I bet Dex and I smell like a lotta things, too, so I ain’t complaining.
“Then again, we had this third guy before who’d put on this lobster costume and hula around the living room sometimes, so... Yeah. Russian roulette type business.”
His name was Javi and he worked as a mascot on Coney Island for some restaurant, I think. He’d also spit into empty Gatorade bottles and kind of just... Collect his weed-spit in there…? I only discovered when I was kicking some of his dirty laundry onto his side of the room and spotted all those cans underneath his bed. At that point we kinda had this sit-down with Cal and decided it was about time for a heartbreaking goodbye. I was kinda sad ‘cause I liked the guy and all, but hoarding spit for unknown reasons? I don’t know if I feel safe around that energy right there.
“That said, you know you’re welcome anytime. I mean, you can crash at our place if shit hits the fan,” I guess, giving a slow shrug. “Again, Cal ain’t never home, so I kinda call the shots. We can hijack his PlayStation and all. That’s what I been doin’, at least.”
Hey, video games are a renewable resource, being digital and all. There’s no such thing as “using them up”, you can steal ‘em all you want and it still ain’t stealing.
My gaze follows Benny along the monkey bars as I let out this big ass sigh.
“I ‘on’t know ‘bout you, but I ain’t lookin’ forward to NA next week,” I confess. “Shit’s been getting real church-y lately. Not that I wouldn’t wanna be ‘Saved by Jesus’ and all, it’s just… I don’t vibe with it that hard, y’know?”
In fact, I kinda wish I was like ‘em, I wish I was saved by Jesus Christ. Only he don’t seem too interested in me, of all people, is all. Understandable. He got a lotta folk to watch over, I guess.

Hey Siri, could you tell how to fix my broken heart? No one made it stop I just can't get it to start. Hey Siri, are you happy? Do you wish that you could cry? Are you as lost as me?

My mouth twists into this ‘sure thing, bro’ half-smile when he goes all Mother Teresa on me. Make no mistake, I’m never too proud to accept help, help me all you want, if you wanna waste your money so you can feel better about your shitty vanilla life helpin’ this poooor souuul out, I’mma be a vet from Vietnam for you. Rick, however, is in the same boat as me, some pieces of planks held together by sheer determination of not dying and those little plastic shits you get with your six-packs. I’m not gonna lie, there were certain times in my life when I would’ve grabbed everything right out of his hands and scratching his palms like a mingy cat. Being selfish is really easy, actually. Feeling like the whole world’s out there to get you helps a lot.
“Never thought I’d hear ‘Cal’ and ‘lucky’ in the same sentence”, I mumble. If Chris Evans was cultivated in an underground lab of a secret Disney compound specifically for the abs-and-pecks role of Captain America, then Cal was probably made in a meth lab somewhere rural Nowhere, Missouri, USA, when a piece of moldy bread fell into a tube of paint thinner and he rose from the sulfurous smoke like an appropriating Mushu.
There was also a time when I’d have hated being in my own skin enough to get with him, just so I could have something physical to blame all my bad life choices on. It can’t always be me, right?
“You wouldn’t be able to resist my natural charm once you see me drooling on your couch cushions”, I grin over at him confidently. I’m very proud of how well I clean up, it’s this whole Korean TikTok routine. Having an ugly ass base always helps, you know, it’s like loosing weight, when you literally look like the twinsister of Tammy Willingham it’s always way more impressive to go ‘well this year I’ve lost 200 pounds’ like bro, literally all you need to do for that is only eating two whole pizzas for breakfast instead of four, you still get to eat some…! That’s the same thing with my morning routine, maybe I should film it sometime, moth to butterfly in only two hours. Truly inspiring. “Although my gassy ass might be a bigger problem. Mine don’t, like, make sounds, no…” insert me, blowing raspberries that came out of a Taco Bell toilet, “they’re like lil’ fairy burps, going all…” and insert me, just blowing out a puff of air with pursed lips that smells like the Juicy Fruit I’ve claimed earlier as my lunch. “But let me tell you, I’ll clear a room with them. I think it's the fast food. My stepdad says my insides are simply rotten’. Maybe it’s Maybelline.”
It's still feels nice though. Been a while since someone offered me a place on their couch. My friends used to, but… They only take your ‘I didn’t sell your microwave for a handful of Percocet, it was Patricia’ bullshit well for a few weeks. It’s kind of like seeing an ugly ass broken dog on the street that has no fur and missing an eye, sure you feel like a Good PersonTM for about a couple days and then it dawns on you that you have to pay for this ugly ass dog’s medical bills and food and you can’t even really pet it ‘cause it will bite and all the ‘hihihi I’m dAmAgEd’ look only sits well for a while. So then you just take it to a clinic or the pound, whatever, just get that shit out of your home.
“Is there anyone who does? Ever?” I ask, knowing fully well that yeah, there are some. You know, the people who actually have hopes. Dreams. Wants. Sitting there in that circle, jerking off to your respective traumas like some weird-ass legal cult has never sat well with me. But I get what he’s saying, I’m not into the whole Jesus shtick, either. The only problem is, when you’re looking for free shit, you always want to go with the Jesus freaks. They have the best donuts out there. “Yeah, me either. I’ve done the whole confess your sins, let Jesus into your heart and feel your spirit lift a few times already. I went to a Catholic All Girls school. Did I ever tell you that?”
Doubt.
My gaze fixes on Benny as he’s trying to run up the slide the wrong way. That’s my boy, always going against the current. He’s gonna get tired real fast but let that be his problem.
“Yeah, my stepdad was, like… A devout fake bitch. Made me and my siblings go kneel in front of the Big Guy every Sunday.” I wanna make a joke about how it’s his fault that I got so good at kneelin’ but I’d mean it more ways than one and I don’t feel like feeling too shitty about myself today. “I also went to these… Youth Group things. I got kicked out of three of them before he gave up. I’d beat up the nerds,” I grin at him, obviously proud. That was back then when you’d surprise lil’ Christian girls with a punch. I’d never been so brave in the Hood, though. I know my limits, you respect the weave. “Maybe I could beat up the nerds now. Would you be my getaway driver?”
I know, I know, I should be thankful that I have the opportunity to miss out on the whole masc lesbian prison experience. I got a big mouth on me but I know I’d either have the best time of my life there, or I’d end up being someone’s bitch-wife in two seconds and I’m not the best at luck games. It’s a birth defect thing, where my genes rolled ‘2’ on most things while my little brother got straight ‘20’s. That’s why only one of us has to shop at the kid’s section.
“Are you feelin’ better?” Comes the question no one really wants to ask but I’m lowkey miserable now, not full-on Lewis Bacardi, more like Sam Smith. You’re sad but you’re still charting. “Like. Do you feel like all this shit is helping?”

ezeket hamarosan kicserélem eskü

I blow an uncertain “pheww” of air at her question. Does anyone ever? I mean, I like conversing with folk, I spend half my waking hours talking out’ my ass, but there’s some real uncanny valley shit going on at NA right now. I used to buy Marlene & Co’s whole “Let the Light Guide You” mantra – she sounded so sure of herself I just had to eat it up. I too have had a couple withdrawals where I thought Hell was real and this was it, so I kinda saw where she was coming from. I always listen to gurus who know what they on about, who look like they got it all figured out, they got the masterkey to life. Just sign up for this one course and you’ll be all-knowing, too.
Shit’s gettin’ old real fast, though. And I ain’t calling Marlene a liar right now, it’s more… I feel like she lyin’ to herself. I feel like she still addicted, only in a different way – either to pleasing God or to attending meetings, I don’t know. Then again, I might just be butthurt that damn near everyone in our group thinks you can’t call yourself ‘sober’ unless you quit everything for good, not a single blunt, not a can of beer or you’re succumbing to Satan. I mean, I’m sober as fuck right now because tests, but once I’m out, I’m rolling a damn joint first thing. And I think we should all do the same, chill the fuck out, forget Sauron’s Eye in the sky for one sec.
“You did?” I knit my brows at her, looking away with a silent chuckle in the end. Can’t exactly picture Lou in a Catholic boarding school. Her teachers must’a been shitting their pants twenty-four seven.
“Shit.” I flash my brows like she just told me something mildly traumatic. I guess being forced to attend somewhere you don’t wanna be don’t sound like that much of a good time. Kind of a running theme in my life, too: it all started with kindergarten where I’d spend hours just bawling as soon as mom dropped me off, and I kept that up for like two years straight. Kindergarten was scary, my guy.
“You ever, like, sit down in front’a some creepy dude behind a screen?”
And I wave my palm in front of my face, miming said screen. I come from a lineage of Irish Protestants, we don’t do that whole confessional thing. I mean, we do – I mean, not my family, but we do in general –, but not to some balding-greying weirdo in a cassock. The image I get in front of me is this fuckin’ grandpa behind the wooden grille, staring at twelve-year-old Lou while she goes, “Uh, sorry for like, jerking off to Playboy” or something. Aight, maybe not jerking off and maybe not to Playboy, I ’on’t know, but that might’a been twelve-year-old me’s confession and my shrink says “abstraction” ain’t my strong suit. Thank The Big Guy that coming up with stories ain’t some kinda fundamental life skill or I’d be even more fucked.
Then again, withdrawals had me coming up with the best lies of my life for sure. That’s when you make shit up like your life depends on it.
“Yo, no beating no one up, bruh,” I smile, bumping her on the shoulder. “We ain’t got much left, gotta be on our best behavior.”
Not gonna lie, it gives me anxiety when she jokes around like that about drug court. I know she knows this shit serious, I know it’s just her sense of humor that’s kinda dark, and I will admit it’s kinda funny, but it makes me feel like her heart ain’t in it or something. I know drug court's half a reintegration program and half a money vacuum, but you gotta drink the Kool-Aid a bit for it to work. Kinda like therapy.
As for me, if it wasn’t for Lois, I think I’d still be out here pissing in cups and counting the days like “BULLSHIT, that’s BULLSHIT, FUCK y’all!”. I wish Lou had someone like Lois, too. I try to parrot her words back sometimes, but I can never remember the exact way she said it and it all just sounds fuckin’ half-baked comin’ from me. Lou don’t seem to vibe with it as hard as I do, neither. She ain’t like me, she don’t fall for all kinds’a crap just ‘cause it’s being said with enough conviction.
When she asks me if I’m feeling better, I just shrug with a pout.
“I think I am, this time,” I figure, hoping this ain't a lie. “Life feels kinda-sorta easy for like, the first time, y’know?”
And that's a first, meaning maybe it’s real this time. Maybe I’ll go the mile this time.
“No withdrawals, no sketchy dealers, no police, no nothin’. I mean, money’s always a bitch, but still less of a bitch than it used to be. Staying clean still ain’t easy, but everything else…” I shrug again, giving Lou a tentative look. “...Still ain’t easy easy, but positively easier than playin’ Survivor on Skid Row.”
I had a couple yo-yos back in Philly where my old friends – including my dealers – kept contacting me all the time. Just this, just that, just one pill, and I sure as fuck wasn’t gonna say no. Moving away, wiping my contacts clean and changing my number was pro’lly the single biggest step I could’ve taken towards sobriety.
That, and getting arrested, I guess.
“You?” I tilt my head back, pursing my lips at her. “Hope you already missin’ me in advance, by the way.”
And as soon as I say it out loud, it’s a surprise to my own damn self – out here talking like I’m confident I’ll make it to graduation. Now that’s a first.

Hey Siri, could you tell how to fix my broken heart? No one made it stop I just can't get it to start. Hey Siri, are you happy? Do you wish that you could cry? Are you as lost as me?

Some people have cringey middle school phases where they think they’re the main character in an anime, some people pretend to have significant others who are obviously so cool but just happen to live in a different city, and some people used to have the hots for Jesus. Not me, I was one of the main character freaks, but my parents, definitely. Well, my mom – I’d never deem Lawrence my parent. I wish I could say it’s ‘cause I had a Dad, but I was only five when he died. Kids’ memories suck, even if Eli – my little brother – thinks I’m somehow privileged to ‘have known him’. Bitch, I don’t remember what I ate yesterday, you think I have some secret memory stash about our biological dad? Shut your clown mouth or I swear I’mma beat you up and feed you worms like I used to.
“Like… Confession or OnlyFans?” I grin at him, mouth full of absolute shit. Some dude behind a screen, he says. “The answer is yes for both. Latter made me feel less dirty.” Is it the money? Who am I kidding, it’s always the money. Buuuuut it did start getting’ a liiiittle too creepy even for me fast, like, faster than men appearing in the comment section of a video discussing sexual assault, crowing ‘nOt AlL mEn’. Not quite accidentally, it’s probably the same crowd that kept asking me for feet photos. I can cater to a lot of weird kinks but that ain’t it, bro.
I’m gonna be honest, it’s kinda surprising me that he didn’t grow up in a church freak home like that, he just gives off that vibe, you know. The altar boy huffin’ glue behind the sacristy. Maybe he was though. He just huffed too much Gorilla Glue. I mean, I might’ve gathered a few things from all those sob stories everyone keeps sharing, but that doesn’t mean you know someone, right? It’s just a version of them, the one they decide to share.
I think I know him, though. Rick is so fucking weird, I swear, and I’m not saying I understand how his alien brain works, but I know what to expect from him and that’s more than I can say about myself.
Then he hits me with this pep talk bullshit and I take all that back. See? That’s why you don’t compliment people. They always make you regret it.
“Huh. Yeah…” I huff out a laugh like it ain’t nothin’.
Sure, we’re close. Right. A few months to go – something I haven’t done. Ever. Only if I mess it up this time it’s not my work that’s gone bye-bye, it’s not my parental rights or even a friendship I never really cared for in the first place. It’s fucking everything, cause once you go to prison, there’s no going back. Correctional facility my ass, the only thing they’re correcting is you, to the path straight to the landfill.
I kinda wanna punch him in the nose when he says it feels easy. Sure, yeah, it’s easy. When you’re not thinking about it and just go absolutely autopilot, sure, only then you find yourself holding onto a single Oxy you’ve found on the floor of the bathroom stall and your brain goes huh, like, you’re doing this whole mental gymnastic see-saw game of ‘is it technically a pleasure when you’re really not feeling good about the amount of pee and STDs you’re getting with it’ at 3AM.
I swear I’m happy for him. He makes me wish I was the kind of person who could be truly happy for someone else’s success when they themselves don’t get it.
No relapses in a while, though; I took the pill and flushed it down. But the thought was still there, wasn’t it? I mean, maybe one or two shady stains less on the floor and I might’ve broke. I wanna ask him if he gets those thoughts but nah, it’s not worth the self-loathing.
A half hearted huh and a languid smile is all he gets, ‘cause he does deserve it. Pat, pat, good little turkey egg. And then the way he says ‘missin’ me’ hits me riiiight in the guts. I know he has more good guy points than me, so yeah, realistically, I know he’s leaving this shit faster.
Still don’t like hearin’ it.
“Why? You leavin’ any time soon?” I raise an eyebrow at him, like, come at me, bro. “Ooooh, what, am I gonna be too lowlife for Mr. Drug Court Graduate now? Can’t be seen with someone from the wrong side of the tracks?” My smile says ‘I’m fucking with you’, my eyes say ‘yeah, go ahead and leave like everyone else’. Absentmindedly trying to search for the right spot to scratch behind Dex’s ear, I’m fronting to myself about all this. No, I’m not worried that our friendship is based on circumstantial things like the fact we need to endure the same shit and it’s nice to have someone to bitch about it to. No, he ain’t gonna forget about me the moment he’s not legally required to spend time with me sometimes. Why would he do that? I’m a delight.
“You deserve to have it a bit easier”, I end up saying, ‘cause one thing I promised him not to ever do is lie. Which is basically my love language so I’m kinda fucking myself over. “Finally. I mean, I never had to sleep on benches and shit, which is good, ‘cause you’ve seen the shit we have over here, right? Not to mention the hobo aesthetic is way too Kanye for me, I’m aspiring towards Keanu Reeves sitting on the train vibes, y’feel? I’m sure you rocked it though. I mean… You’re kinda rockin’ it now…” I said I’m not gonna lie, it’s either that or brutal honesty, you can’t have the best of both worlds here! “But seriously. You did the shit. You should have it better. I just… You know. Hope you won’t forget about good ol’ Jeez Louise over here.”
Obviously, he won’t. No one rocks Keanu Reeves looking homeless better than me, not even Keanu Reeves.
“Have you thought about… You know. The making amends thing? Maybe after you’re done with this shit?”

ezeket hamarosan kicserélem eskü

There’s this gigantic dude called D’Angelo in our group. I kinda fuck with him and I feel like Lou does, too (as far as liking people goes with Lou). My man got this whole Hagrid vibe going on, not sure if he always been that way or if it was Jesus that did it for him, but I tend to relate when his gravelly ass voice fills the meeting room. One time, he told us about how he finally put the pills down and it was like listening to my own damn self.
“I thought, y’know, ‘long as I seem fiiine, look goood, go to work every day... I ain’t hurtin' nobody. They wouldn’t know, right? But then one day, I can’t go to work no more. I can’t look good no more. I know, I know – hard to believe comin’ from this lightskin God you gaze upon today, but I looked like daaawgshit.” And he looked around with his wiry beard and his Morgan Freeman type complexion and we all laughed. “I was in that dump for thirty years. In and outta rehab, you know the story. Then one day I wake up and I be like – I know, sounds tacky, but I be like… Enough.”
Enough. I can’t. It’s too much, I can’t.
‘Cause being a full-blown junkie’s a full-time unpaid job and then some. And I don’t just mean the shit people think of when they hear “addiction”, I don’t just mean the cravings – I mean the whole package. The stealing, the winters, the snitches, the dealers, the cops. The lying, the not-knowing, the hating yourself.
(Woah. Michael Jordan of slam poetry right here.)
In the end, being a spoiled lil’ white boy prolly saved my ass. I simply couldn’t take it no more, I simply wasn’t hard enough. A hundredth relapse might’a been an option for someone else, but it was no option for me. And yeah, drug court’s hard, but it ain’t the hardest thing I ever done, looking back. It’s… like… the second hardest. Right up there with Skid Row and passing my GED.
I blink blankly at Lou when she asks if I’m leaving anytime soon. I mean, I hope so, I’m ‘bout to say, but then she begins clownin’ around, calling me Mr. Drug Court Graduate. I wish. My mouth in a lopsided grin, I huff a laugh the way I usually do when I don’t get the joke or just the point in general, not wanting to look dumb.
I can hardly believe my ears when Lou says something so supportive – something so outright and unironic. Shit came outta left field, I swear. Tucking my chin in, I knit my brows and do the duck-lips.
“Thanks, Lou,” I blurt out in pleasant surprise. “I mean, you, too...!”
So she goes on as if having to explain or justify it. I look down at my ‘fit when she tells me I’m rocking the hobo look, then look back up at her with a grin.
“I am?” I ask, reading it as a compliment without a second thought. She gotta be in a good mood.
But my smile’s replaced by confusion when she suggests I might drop her once I graduate.
“Whuh?” I huff, still grinning limply. “‘Course not. We for life, bruh.”
And I raise my hand for a fistbump. Now, I’m aware that “life” do be kind of a long time, but for us to stop hanging before that, our DM’s would have to go quiet first, and y’know what, I just don’t see that happening. Then again, that’s how I usually feel with friends. I’m always the one trynna keep our streak up, still hittin’ ‘em up way past the expiration date, even. It’s always my lonely ass going What you been up to, man, haha, been a minute, haha…, that flimsy little desperation in my laugh, you know the one.
Most days, I wish I was smarter. Other days, I wish I was stupider. Like stupid to the point where I can’t tell if somebody don’t want my ass no more. I knew folk like that, dudes who go ooooon and ooooon about their all-week bender while everyone else is just loudly waiting for ‘em to shut up. But they don’t. Not until someone goes “Aight, man…”, sometimes not even then, and I shit you not, those guys be the happiest. Best to be either STEM-smart or completely slack-jawed in this life ‘cause the in-between’s always a mess, ‘specially the lower percentile – learned the term at an IQ test back in middle school. Reflecting on my story, Lois once asked me what the definition of “IQ” was, and I was like, “I’unno, ‘s like, your Smart High Score or whatever,” and she said, “IQ is a score earned on a test designed to measure intelligence.” I said, “Now that’s just goin’ around in circles,” and she smiled and nodded, “That’s right.”
To this day, I don’t fully get what she meant, but it made me feel better.
I suddenly feel like smoking another one when Lou asks me about step nine, though. I don’t like thinking ahead, shit stresses me out.
“I have,” I exhale a shaky sigh and look down at my sneakers, shoving my free hand into my pocket. “I mean, I got to. I mean, not that I don’t wanna, but there’s a couple people I really done fucked over, y’know?” I look up, giving her a passing look. “I ain’t really lookin’ forward to my big bro. He’s this, uh… You know. Adult. He don’t take no BS, not like my parents. Last thing he said to me was Never call me again, so... Yeah.”
To be fair, Spencer had the patience of a saint with me up until a certain point. Family drama gets cutthroat real fast when it’s about inheritance.
“How ‘bout you?” I put on lighter tone. “Got a boogeyman of your own?”

Hey Siri, could you tell how to fix my broken heart? No one made it stop I just can't get it to start. Hey Siri, are you happy? Do you wish that you could cry? Are you as lost as me?

I wanna tell him to eat shit, me being nice ain’t the harbinger of the end, it’s not like I’m a Republican senator condemning BOTH guns and child marriages, I’m literally doing the most basic thing ever and being NICE but I guess he’s right. I’m confident in saying there’s nothing to be gained from complimenting others, ‘cause most people don’t give two flying fucks about the people complimenting them. They’re just like, yeaaaaa, reeaaallyyyyy? Yeeeaaaa, I knooooow, riiiiiteeeee, in the most Valley Girl accent ever, and keep on going with their day. They can’t even return that shit. Sure I compliment lil’ Cocoa Puffs overs there ‘cause he needs it for healthy development or whatever, but that’s different. Also dogs and cats, yeah, they can have their good girls any time, even when they’re not girls.
Others? Fuck ‘em. Otters, too – especially fuck ‘em, they’re nasty little spawns of Satan.
But SOMETIMES, like now, when they look at me like I’ve just grown an extra head, it does occur to me that maybe I could try being nicer. The thing about being nice in general is though that it’s fucking exhausting. I should know, I’ve exhausted quite a few very good, nice people in my life, it’s one of my biggest accomplishments, actually. Back in middle school, I had this friend, Melissa; she was literally the last person you’d wanna befriend at a new place ‘cause she dressed weird and spoke with a lisp and sometimes smelled like cottage cheese but I had no choice since I sort of protected her ONCE. I wasn’t protecting her and her weird Indian ethnic food – not the good kind of ethnic, it literally just smelled like burnt onions and fish – from this 90’s romcom villain girl group as… I wanted to talk shit about them. But girls do be clingy, going all ‘awww you headbutted someone for me’ like I wasn’t just tripping over my own foot and accidentally breaking noses, but I ended up liking Mel. A lot. She was my best friend for a few years, before I got so comfortable with her that I told her about Lawrence and she completely freaked out. Once again, not the good kind of freak out – she was acting like… Like it was somehow my fault. She was horrified and ran out the room with actual fear in her eyes. She just stopped talking to me. Me. Goat cheese girl ghosted ME.
If that weirdo playing clarinet in Band ended up leaving me, what’s gonna happen with Rick once he gets actual opportunities? It’s not like my nice compliments are making him feel welcome and needed on the regular.
“Yeah, I guess it is like a prison sentence,” I end up saying, giving in to the fistbump but ONLY if I get to blow it up. Is there another way of fistbumping? Doubt it.
I swear I wanna have all his confidence ‘cause I know he ain’t lying. He also hasn’t seen me at my worst yet. Yeah, you can take a good, loooong look at me: it’s as good as it gets. And it’s all for that little monkey who just falls back to the sand, jumps back up, dusts himself off, and gets on the bars again.
“Maaaama, you seeeeee, you seeeeaaa?”
“Yeah, you’re doing great!”
“I can – I can go faaaster! I can go one hand! Look!”
“How ‘bout we don’t do that, honey? Save the neckbreakinng when we’re with Papa?”
“But I wanna, want too, want tooooo show you!”
“Okay, I’m looking!”
Rick says there’s a ‘couple people he fucked over’ and although I’m listening to what he’s saying intently, I’m also following Benny move across the monkey bars. Yeah, I definitely fucked him over. I can fool the drug court with all the ‘I’m trying my hardest to change’ shit, I can swear on all the fucking stars in the universe to Khoi, but I know I’m not nearly enough of a mother. And it was my decision. I wasn’t trying to get pregnant, obviously, but when I did, Khoi was supportive of whatever decision I made. He left it up to me – but one look into his big brown eyes and I wanted to give him what he wanted, the family he kept talking about, because no one has ever looked at me the way he did. Like I was the best fucking thing in the whole world. When I was with him in the beginning, he made me believe I could be that person, and I made him believe I could be trusted with a kid. I guess we were both fooling ourselves in a way. The problem is our foolery resulted in someone and I need to own up to Him. I’m not sure how I’d even go about that.
“Yeah, I know,” I nod along. That’s the thing that really kills you when it comes to addiction. OD’ing may be the final nail in the coffin but if you have no bearers then what. You just rot in that fucking piece of overpriced pine ‘til the bugs clean you off. Except for your ‘immortal soul’, of course, ‘cause that’s going straight to Hell Cruise Inc, ba-by.
“Wait, you have a brother?” I squint at him like that’s the important part. It’s just he’s always talking about Joey, so I completely missed out on Spencer. I mean, the name sounds familiar but at this point, that could be from anything, for a few months I was convinced I had an aunt named Monica, turns out I just fell asleep to too many a Friends episode.
If I was a different person I might have enough emotional maturity to not feel weird about showing affection, and at least give him a hug or something. God knows poor little meow meow needs it. Unfortunately, all I have is emotional constipation. Nothing comes through those gates.  
“You want me to beat him up for you beforehand? Y’know. That’s how they soften meat, so if he wants to be a meathead…” I raise my hands with my elbows close to my sides. Like, I’m just saying…! That’s all I ever do. Say shit. “People love getting their egos stroked by others groveling in front of them, so who knows. Maybe his ‘no’ is… No, that’s not the right way of putting it, no, sorry. I meant, the worst thing that can happen is that he still doesn’t want to talk to you. Is that so bad? Who really wants to talk to these ‘real’ adults, anyway?”
Yeah, I’m really out here, lowkey gaslighting him. Yeah, let’s talk about other people – wait, you want to talk about other people? Nah, I meant let’s NOT talk about other people! But he’s kind of taking the obvious, logical flow of conversation, two things I’ve never been associated with, and asks about my ‘boogeyman’.
Sometimes I think I might tell him the truth about why I started this shit, why I thought flushing my life down the toilet was still a better alternative to not doing it. But then I remember all the times I told someone – even the bitch who smelled like expired dairy –, and immediately backtrack. Nah, we ain’t gotta do thaaat.
“Me? You know me, my life is a walk in the park, a box of chocolate, roses and grilled cheese sandwiches…” At this point I don’t even know which movie I’m quoting. I know I don’t have to be so misdirecting, I could just say I don’t want to talk about it and he’d be like okay fine, do you think penguins eat ice cream?
“I don’t feel like I own anything to my family,” I add with a shrug. “I’m pretty sure they’re better off without me, anyway. I guess sometimes you’re just born to the wrong place. You know what I’m saying?” If it wasn’t for Khoi, I’m pretty sure Benny would be in the wrong place, too; but no, it’s still me, I’m the one, the sore thumb. “No, that shit was ruined before I started pretending to need prescriptions. Khoi’s a different story. I’ve hurt him, a lot. I don’t think he’d give me a hard time about it though.”
Nice people are fucking annoying.
“I’m starting to think the hard part about ‘getting clean’ isn’t even the whole ‘don’t do drugs kids’ peptalk part. It’s everyone else who won’t believe a word you’re saying ‘till the rest of your life. I tried getting better so many times, but every time I’d get close… A few weeks, months pass, and I’m still surrounded by people who look like they’re just waiting for me to mess up, and I’m just like, what’s the point then? Is longer life expectancy really worth it? In this economy?” Blowing raspberries like it’s the most casual thing ever, I’m waiting for him to actually say something that might lighten my mood now. Cause this whole thing sucks even when he’s in it with me. And then he’ll just leave, and I’ll be stuck in the same space I always was. Maybe I should just go to prison. A few years, good behavior, space issues, and I’m done. Shouldn’t be that hard, right?

ezeket hamarosan kicserélem eskü

He’s never been “high-functioning” as they call it. Even as a kid, he was the one sticking knives in toasters, the one diving head-first off the top bunk into a pile of clothes, breaking what little brain he had. One time, he crawled underneath his mother’s car and waited for her to leave for work, thinking it’d be a fun surprise. He tells the story often: “Almost had my own mom murk me – never been a bad kid, I ’s just mad stupid.”
They used to watch a lot of TV back when people watched TV. Back when things were simple. Invited half the block over for the Superbowl, spent Friday evenings watching whatever movie came their way, Die Hard, Jurassic Park, Joe Dirt over and over and over.
And, of course, Rain Man. They even joked about it: this one’s about Rick and Spence! The latter never kept his annoyance a secret, never stopped grumbling out loud like an old man, yet he’d leave work and drive across the city just to help out any way he could. He spent years playing bad cop, trying to talk some sense into his brother’s head while bailing him out, picking him up, reminding him to do his fucking taxes every year.
He really believed family could fix this. There was no way someone would get wrapped up in junkie shit over and over again with so many people caring for them. Right?
Wrong.
Ninety-nine times, he's pulled over by Rick's place, his brother shuddering in the backseat, hugging himself, ridden with guilt. The hundredth time – or what felt like the hundredth – was somehow different. He's had enough.
Rick avoided his glance in the rearview – he peeked only from the corner of his eye like some fucking kid. Spencer sighed and rubbed his forehead, mere outlines shifting in the dark.
“Just… Stop.”
He was begging now. He was exhausted.
Rick hugged himself tighter, couldn’t stand the rhythmic thump of the wipers, never could.
“Just stop, stop looking so…” Spencer’s voice cracked, hitched higher. He blinked out the window and then bawled, bitterly, “So saaad…!”
He leaned his head on his hand as if shading his eyes. All Rick could see in the mirror were his gritted teeth, his forehead turning red the way Sheridans often did.
And he realized he just made Spencer cry.
Spencer.
Cry.
“I’m done…” Spencer sniffed after a while, his tone grave and defeated at first – then strangely light: “I’m done. Don’t call me again. I’m not playing this game no more, you hear me? I’m not. Call mom, call Joey, call whoever you want, Rick. But never call me again.”
Silence.
Spencer sighed once more. Squeezed his eyes shut and gripped the wheel. He inhaled, then got all this out in one breath:
“Rick, I’m-going-to-need verbal-confirmation-that you-got-what-I-just-said through your thick! fucking! head!”
Huddled in the backseat with his head down, Rick hesitated.
Twelve knee-bounces later, he gave a few hurried nods and agreed in a trembling whisper, “Got it. I got it.”
Silence again.
“Good. Now go.”

Wait, you have a brother?
The question kinda throws me off guard.
“No way. I ain’t tell you yet?” I ask, brows furrowed.
I was, like, sixty-nine percent sure I told her about Spencer before, but then again, my memory do be kinda cloudy. No surprise when I been smokin’ like a mawfucking chimney since middle school, the only hobby I managed to keep up consistently throughout the years. For some people, it’s going on a run at five in the morning – for people like me, it’s rolling a joint as soon as I get my hands on a bag.
I smile at the ground when Lou offers to beat Spencer up for me. I mean, she don’t know the half of it, she don’t know I’m the one in need of a beating here, but, “I appreciate the gesture.”
I don’t know much about her folks, but the way she talks about ‘em, I doubt they were as supportive of her as my family was of me. Girl must be mad sturdy to survive so far with no support system – sturdier than I was, at least. Without my family doing all that firefighting for me, I would’a been six feet under by sixteen.
Funny how it did fuck all ‘til I myself woke up and said “Enough”.
“Yeah, I got you. I mean, you don’t owe ‘em shit, not automatically,” I shrug. “Depends on the family, I guess. Some of ‘em kinda suck ass.”
Most of my junkie friends’ families did suck, actually. Heard stories I could barely believe, it was like, damn, B, no wonder you turned to fuckin’ drugs. I got enough anxiety to begin with, not sure I could’a survived feeling unsafe in my own damn home growing up.
That “everyone waiting for me to mess up” thing kinda hits home, though.
“You bet. I mean, I done fucked up so many times it’s, like… I can’t blame ‘em. Still feels kinda ouchie, though.”
I look down at Dex just ADHDing all over the place. I bend over to give him a scratch.
“What’s good? Excited for your Happy Meal?”
I straighten up and turn to Lou.
“He whilin’ out here. I say let’s roll before he goes full Karen on us. You think Benny’s ready for some calories now?”

When we get going, I put two fingers in my mouth and whistle towards the monkey bars. Benny’s hanging up there like a little sloth – the way he twists his head to look at us gives me more of an Exorcist vibe, though.
“Yo, you McDone over there? ‘Cause we McDippin’!”