I awoke to my mosaic, the colors of my room, back from the evening’s dead grey. The dreams were gone. Though the echo of the sad old man remained.

It was 10 a.m. and outside of my room the traffic was steady and familiar. It was another day in New Guernsey. I looked around my room. Nothing was different, everything was in the same place as the day before.

…..

We moved to Creek Hills during Rosh Hoshanna, which I didn’t have any idea about then because we weren’t Jewish. However, I remember noticing three things when we drove in. First, every building looked exactly like the rest, a blur of tan two-stories covering two hill. Second, I noticed a small creek that ran through the development, about two feet wide and hardly winding. And third, I saw a man in black with strings hanging from his belt jumping up and down on top of one of the hills. He kept screaming “Abba,” over and again at the top of his voice.

I asked my mother what the man was doing. She said that it was the Jewish New Year, and that he was celebrating. I asked her why we weren’t celebrating with him and she said, “Because we aren’t Jewish.”

Then I asked her what “Abba” was.

…..

Every day I woke up to the sounds of Main Street, and like the crass hollers at night they never stopped, no matter what time of day it was. I had become comfortable with the sounds, like they were part of my room, like each sound from the street was matched to a sole color, piece of furniture or fixture. Even the walls were painted with a sound. The blue, the stone blue color of them were the rising and falling sounds of Main Street traffic as the vehicles passed my window. Trucks, motorcycles, family cars, sports cars, the passing coo of their engines were the flat, distilled azure I had painted on my walls. The red cedar dresser that reflected hints of blue off its finish was the shuffle of pedestrians, and their mumbled, blurred, and disconnected murmurs. And on my shelves, on my mantle I had spread my trophies. When I looked at them, it was the metallic ‘click’ of parking meters. When I looked at my grey carpet, its was the few moments when the street was quiet, when I heard the tempo of the clock, the sly hiss of my radiator, the brick as it settled, and the wisp of my breath.

…..

Cary loved sex in the morning.

…..

I had a vague memory of having heard a voice in my sleep. I remembered something about ‘tornado reason’, but I let it pass quickly from my thoughts. It seemed to have no importance.

…..

In early spring the willows explode and shower the landscape’s young bloom with droops of green rosettes. They always stand by the water, on the edge of a pond. The air too blooms first by the pond’s edge. The cold left by the winter mingles with sweet, luke-warm winds that come up from the south to swirl across the ponds. The lithe, hairy arms of the willow squirm brilliant in the leftover cold, and one-step languid dances in the warm breeze.

I run … around the pond on campus, close to the end of freshman year.

I have a new reputation. I am no longer the tough guy from high school, the timid boy of middle school, or the sad, silent elementary school pup. I am hardly Benny Bouchard.
Coach says next year will be spectacular. I’ll move up in weight class and fight some of the best boxers in the state. If I can repeat another season undefeated my reputation will soar, the school will know me, will hand out fliers that celebrate my feat.

I have changed. I have friends. For the first time I’m interested in what I’m learning in school. Science class moved fast, the information seemed to never end, we just ran out of time. The books I read for English class engaged me. Vonnegut, Robbins, Kerouac, Kafka and Huxley. I spoke in class. I read fast because I wanted to see what would happen at the end, though that doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy the stories.

As I am running around the pond, I am new. It’s spring and I’m so close to going home. In a couple of weeks I’ll open the door to my mother’s and walk in larger, smarter, better than when I left. The old Benjamin is gone.

I can’t wait to tell Martin about all the fights this past season.

My mother will hug me and say ‘I missed you Benny.’

I am grown. Next year I’ll move off  campus, to an apartment with Max.

I will return even better from home.

This summer I’ll run through the trails of Mt. Kitadin. I’ll spend my summer with books, new authors. I will run and lift weights and train with Martin.

God I feel great. I will spend time in the forests, do pull-ups off great pine tree branches. I will swim in the coldest water. I will bottle water from Chimney Pond for my mother. I will stare down moose and pick blueberries. Under the northern lights I’ll read classics. I will skip large stones across the currents of gentle streams, and get black fly bites that’ll itch terribly unless I swim in the crisp, cold ponds. I will experience home this summer as a happy man. My mother will smile at me, she will no longer worry. Her memories of me as a brooding child, alone in his room with his action figures. The boy who once came home with blood on his chin, beat up at school, is changed. Now I win.

In the summer I will feel Maine and dream back to this college town. I will imagine the fights to come, my friends and Coach saying ‘Kick his ass Bear.’

This is a nice pond for a campus, I like the willows along side of it.

Finals will be easy.

All right I’ve almost run six miles. Here we are, the final stretch, one more lap around the pond.

That willow is the only tree with leaves. They reach the ground. I can hardly see the trunk. Some of the vines are lying on the water, floating like water snakes.

Push harder Benny, run faster. Last stretch and then I’ll go back to the dorm and shower. Party tonight. I’ll get drunk with Max but I’m not going to throw up this time. Last time really sucked.
Someone is sitting against the trunk of the willow. Looks like a girl…looks like a pretty girl…very pretty. Who is that. OK, getting closer. Shit, I’m gonna run right by her. Do I look? Wow. She has more strawberry than blond in that hair. Damn, tight jeans, great legs. I wonder what she’s reading, who she’s reading, where she’s from, her name. That is the prettiest face I have ever seen. I’m hooked, I can’t look away. Oh shit, she looked, look away Benny. Don’t get caught gawking. OK I’m past her, but I still want to look at her. OK turn your head around, just look over your shoulder, but do it quick, she’s probably reading again. Nope, shit, caught me looking. OK, look tough and sprint out the last quarter-mile. Damn’ I’m tired. Maybe she’ll be at the party.

I hope so… …………………… Man, she’s beautiful.

…..

At last I got out of bed, dragged my heels to the kitchen, in my boxers, and made a cup of coffee. I looked outside, through my kitchen window. It was a pale yellow kind of day, the sunlight filtered through the clouds. A police car rushed by. The siren was loud in my apartment, and it woke me up a bit faster. It was irritating, the sound of a siren during breakfast.

The number “5” flashed on my answering machine. With my coffee, black, steaming in my tall white mug, I walked to the machine and pressed the button.

?Hey Benny, it’s Cary. I’m in town…. Like I said I’d be…and I was wondering when you wanted to get dinner….so, give me a call when you get this. I’m at my father’s, OK. Talk to you later?Oh, it’s Monday…around 2. OK…. Bye.

-Beep-

?Benny, it’s Cary. I didn’t hear from you yesterday.… I didn’t want to go by your store…I don’t know…we should really talk. It’s been a while and, I guess it’s time we talked about things. You don’t have to call my father’s. I realize why you might not want to, so here’s my cell number. 845-555-3972, OK? Just call me please…it’s Tuesday, around 6……

-Beep-

?Hey Bear, it’s Max. Thanks for coming to the show last week. I’m back now. Um…I stayed in New York for a couple of days…got your message today. It’s Tuesday, around six, I think…..I hope seeing Cary didn’t freak you out too much, so call me, we’ll play dominoes. Bye.

-Beep-

?Benny…it’s 4 a.m. I know you’re in town. I know you’re in bed now…. I guess I thought the phone would wake you…. I don’t know…maybe you’re listening now. Please call me. There’s things we need to say to each other, you know it….It’s time, so…Benny, Please…don’t do this to me again…. I’ve forgiven you.

-Beep-

?Ah, hello Bouchard. This is Mayor Lucas. I just thought I’d inform you that the Town Board voted unanimously last night to allow Super Save to build a store in town … right across the street from your store. The way I figure, in a little less than a year you’ll be out of business. So, happy New Year. You might want to get your fat, no-good self out of bed Bouchard and get to work while you still have a job…. Can you tell how much I’m enjoying this?

-Beep-

I pressed the button again, erasing all the messages.

…..

Should I box again, or should I stay here until the Mayor brings the supermarket in to destroy my business? I’m a little old to start up again, and surely out of shape. Maybe I’ll box the Mayor. He’s still pissed at me? Move on old bastard. Cary moved on. She has a family, a son…. Had I stayed … I’d be a good  father, the opposite of mine……. Fucking bastard.

…..

I took a shower, and eased with every puff of steam. I cleaned myself until I felt better.

…..

Religion. It’s like you’re always being watched. What better way to keep us all in check. Always under surveillance, always under scrutiny. Are you watching me right now? The gods are voyeurs.

…..

I walked, naked, to my room, and made my bed, and played Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland on my compact disk player. I walked back to the bathroom, combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and looked at my naked, paunchy self in the mirror.

In my room I dressed in faded jeans and a navy sweater. They both seemed tighter than the last time I had worn them. Every day I was getting fatter. Every time I gorged on stuffed shells or juicy steaks, or drank a Guinness or a few glasses of Shiraz, the gut grew.

I wasn’t a champion any more, the boxing star of the University…The Bear…. I was older now, twenty-seven years old, the manager of a quaint grocery store, without new trophies or spotlights on me. I was a regular man, still in the same town that had once venerated me for my talents and now merely said ‘Hello’ as it passed me on the street…. And now I had a gut.
I didn’t feel like going to work yet, and I didn’t have to. I was the boss. It was my store. Mr. Turner, the actual owner was living in the south of France. He’d call once every month, just to check up on me.

It looked like a nice day outside so I thought a walk in the sun would clear my head. I opened the window and stuck my arms outside. It was warm, no need for a coat.

I washed my hands, locked up the apartment, and stepped outside.

…..

Jellyfish kill more people than sharks.

…..

New Guernsey was the same as it always was. To the right of my building’s door was a nice boutique named Daisy’s, a store for professional women with hippie tendencies. The pantsuits were made from organic cotton. The store smelled nice inside, like aromatic candles and perfumes. Mildly adventurous lingerie hung in the windows, along with simple dresses, and plain, colorful sweaters. It wasn’t a shop that attracted the college crowd. Daisy’s catered to the tourists who came to New Guernsey on the weekends. The mountain, the trails, and river in the valley attracted a lot of weekenders. Some were rugged, mountain-climbing types while some were New York City yuppies getting away for the weekend to the beauty of the mountains, our quaint shops and our historic, preserved street where the famous Old Dutch Church stood to greet the city folk.

To the left of my door was an antique shop called Diana’s., which had very unique and often occultist trinkets in the windows. There was a phrenology skull, and today I noticed a booze flask that bore a raised insignia of the former USSR’s sickle and hammer. It was placed next to a simple, tarnished candelabra.

…..

I hate New Guernsey, but I can’t leave. Something holds me here. I know that if I leave I will fail.

…..

I turned walked up the street, past Diana’s, and past Frank’s Meats and Deli. It was an organic meat shop run by two Lebanese brothers named Mullah and Avrahm. They were nice men who worked there night and day. Avrahm had a wife, but Mullah didn’t. Mullah years ago went to college at New Guernsey State, and majored in Mathematics. However, he never stopped working at the meat store with his brother, who seemed quite happy with his life as a small business owner.. Sometimes, when I’d ask him if he was having a good day, he’d say, “I need to get out of here man.”

As I walked past Frank’s I nodded and smiled at Mullah. He raised his hand, but didn’t change his bored expression.

Across the street stood Rusty’s bar, the largest bar on Main Street and just about everybody’s favorite burger joint in town. I’d maybe eaten hundreds of burgers there. Rusty’s had this heart-attack-on-a-plate dish, fries with bacon and cheese and sour cream piled on top. I’d eaten it plenty of times.

I walked past a Mexican cafeteria called The End of the Road, which served probably the worst Mexican food on the planet. The owners just poured hot sauce grey spoonfuls of flavorless, over-braised ground beef, threw it on a tortilla and called it a taco. It was gross, crap, and I hadn’t eaten there in months.

Across the street was Prospero’s, an independent bookstore that most people in town had one of two reasons for hating. First, it was where a lot of students had to go to buy their textbooks, and their prices were marked up as high as possible. Second, the owner sold half of his property to a corporate coffee chain that most people in town, especially those people who owned small, private coffee shops, hated. Tom Lake, who owned the Inspired Coffee House actually pissed all over the walls of the corporate invader. Lloyd Trumbell, the owner of Prospero’s, was a pompous, arrogant prick who parked his Mercedes wherever he wanted, snubbed everyone, and always brought twice the allowed number of items to the express lane at my grocery store. I don’t like him either.
I walked further, past Paul and Gary’s Bar and Grill. It was almost directly across the street from Rusty’s. They were similar places that had no need to compete with each other. This being a college town, there were more than enough people to keep both places filled.

At the corner I turned around and walked back in the direction of my apartment building. I thought about what I would have for lunch. I didn’t feel like eating at Rusty’s or Paul and Gary’s. I didn’t fell like having pub food.

…..

It is almost like a disease, they way I ramble and chatter in my head. I remember, I play old stories like I’m telling them to someone, but there is no one. There are no bleachers around me, or round tables with candles on top where people sit and listen to me. I am telling myself, I am performing for me, a preacher to a congregation of my thoughts…which is…fair. I shouldn’t be vocal, I should be silent in the real world. I have no merit, I shouldn’t preach. There is no reason to believe that anything that I may think is true.

Does God understand me, even though I made him up?

Sometimes I believe that I might truly have answers so I think to pass the time. I live my mind, and one day I’ll die and find out if anything I ever dreamt was true.

…..

I walked past Daisy’s Boutique and nodded to the young girls who worked inside. They all knew me. Because it was directly over their store, they heard everything that went on in my apartment. I discovered long ago that I could be heard best in the bathroom because it was the only room where I could clearly hear the conversations in Daisy’s. I tried not to listen though. I figured that if I didn’t eavesdrop, then maybe they wouldn’t pay attention to my farts … at least … I hoped.

Past Daisy’s was a health food store called Earth. They carried the usual healthy stuff; tofu, tempeh, rice, oatmeal, organic potato chips, organic coffee, etc. I hadn’t stopped in there for a long time. Not because I was against living healthy, it’s just running a grocery store gave me access to all the food I needed. Plus, tempeh tastes like turds.

Past Earth was Fluid a skateboard shop slash head shop. There were actually five head shops on Main Street. Each was a little different, but basically they were just places to buy incense, t-shirts, sunglasses, and bongs. Across from Fluid was Fade, and two doors down on that side was the Tree of Life. Two doors down from Tree of Life stood Forever Horizons and across the street from that was the Far Out Mango Tree.

I decided what I’d eat … a calzone, just like the day before, at the Italian restaurant across the street from Fluid. It was called Trattoria de Bella. I usually ate lunch there four or five times a week. They made the best calzones, and as I thought of the flavor I crossed the street and walked into the restaurant, salivating before I had even sat down.

The rich smells hit me as I closed the door behind me. The smells, the aromas of marinara, and garlic, and the smells of the pizzas that bubbled inside of the ovens. Prosciutto and salami tied with twine dangled over the counter, along with the fresh cheeses whose flavors stayed locked in their round rinds. I was now hungrier than I could handle. The night had run me dry.

I picked the same booth that I always did, in the corner, farthest from the windows. I didn’t like to be watched when I ate. I was always conscious of any mess I’d made, always trying to spare myself the embarrassment of a crumb on my lap. The red, vinyl cushions of the booth were comfortable. A thick coat of polyurethane made the dark, stained oak of the table shine. It was a masculine corner, with brutish charm. Spices on the table, napkin holders and place mats that boasted local advertisements, one of which was for my grocery store. I was comfortable. I was happy to sit there and wait.

The same waitress served me every time I went there for lunch. She was a beautiful girl, with powder pale skin and thick, high cheeks that seemed to balance the evergreen eyes she let peer through her thick lashes. She had long, winding blond hair that looked as soft as I imagined it to be. In the still, windless environment of the restaurant her hair was tossed by the slightest of breezes.
She was young. I once heard this asshole I often saw around New Guernsey ask her how old she was. She said “twenty,” and he said back to her, “Doll, you barely look seventeen. Why are you going to lie to me like that? Dolly, now you shouldn’t lie about your age. It could get you into trouble.”  Then he looked her up and down, and stared at her breasts. “I’m not lying sir,” she said. He was an idiot.

I didn’t know her name, but I guess she was the main reason I went there so often, to see her, to have her bring me my lunch, to see her smile…. Sometimes I’d just walk by so I could get a glimpse of her through the restaurant window. I did feel a bit shady when I did that, but I did it anyway. I’m harmless, and besides, she had become like a perfect mystery to me. Perfect because when I saw her my imagination would run with ideas, hypothetical scenarios where she became the prize. The mystery was how I imagined her, how I could turn her into my ideal, my perfect love, the dream girl who would spend the nights with her head on my chest, while my right arm would gently sweep her brow as my left as rests on the nape of her lower back, my fingers lightly outlining the crevice of her spine. Could she be the perfect girl, the one who grows more beautiful with every word she utters, making me smile as I touch her face?… She picked sunflowers in my daydreams.

I didn’t even know her name. I called her ‘calzone girl’ when I thought about her. The only thing I really knew about her was that she never forgot my order, ever since the first time she waited on me.

I liked to believe that she cared to remember.

I sat for a few moments before she spotted me and stepped to my corner.

“Hello,” I said.

“Meatball calzone and a cup of coffee, right?” she said

“Sound’s good.”

“Black, right?”

“You got it,” I said.

“The coffee will take a minute. I’ll make a fresh pot.”

“That’s great…Thank you.”

I looked right into her forest eyes.

“No, problem.”

She smiled.

She left, and her hair bounced with the pulse of her walk. She was beautiful.

…..

I have spent too many days lying in front of the TV, a sloth and a glutton. I tell myself that I am only dormant, growing an active mind while my waistline grows and grows. I eat and lie down, and drink wine. After a couple of hours it becomes impossible to move. I have no energy. My mind is too goddamned busy to tell my fat ass to get up and do something? Start training again. Box if you want to box. Call her back if you want. Start a journal. Go back to school, join the army … find a wife … raise a family.

…..

Two gentlemen in suits sat a few booths down from me. I could hear them talking about meeting a quota. They hoped that 2000 would be a good year for them, and laughed about how the Y2K scare turned out to be nothing.

…..

Empire National Bank, Fifth Avenue, New York City. It was a bad idea working there, but at least I never moved to the city. It would have made it more difficult to quit. It was only an hour-and-a-half commute from New Guernsey. What a route that was. 5 a.m, wake up, 6 a.m., catch the bus to Port Authority, 7:45 a.m., jump on the shuttle to Grand Central, packed in the subway, real tight, get off. Get a cup of coffee. Walk two blocks to 40th Street and 5th Avenue, walk into the lobby, show the guard your ID, cram into the elevator. Tenth floor, walk to your cube, sit down, drink your coffee, organize your desk. 9 a.m., work, man, work. Work the wretched job, in the Control Department. I am Benjamin Bouchard, debt collector. Every day, stack of papers, leans and levies, owed taxes, owed court settlements. Take each name and run it through the main computer. I am connected to every branch Empire National has in the world. Control, control, control. No match to this name. I stamp it ‘miss’ and put it in the right pile. OK, run another name through the system. Bingo. Joe Shmo has five thousand dollars at our branch in Ft. Lauderdale. Stamp it ‘hit’. Press this button, and now the money is ‘frozen’, and it looks like it’s going to be sent to…the Marshall’s Office of the State of Florida. Place this file in the left pile. Next name. Karma what? Oh, the phone’s ringing. “Hello. Jim Dandy, yes, I am Benny Bouchard?What??Your money, yes sir, well, I had a restraining notice that had to be processed. Apparently you owed twelve hundred dollars to the Law Offices of Shit, Dick, and Honkey. By law I had to freeze the money and it will be sent to that Law Office.?Yes. I understand you have rent due,?Yes sir? It’s not necessary to insult me. If you need to make an arrangement then I suggest you call the Law Office?yes, they can just take it?Sir, this isn’t my fault.?Well thanks, and you have a nice day.” He called me an ass-dick. I think I might have heard that before. At least he didn’t insult my mother like the last guy…. How’s he supposed to know that once that piece of paper hits my desk I am obligated by law to enforce it. If I ignore it, Jim Dandy, then I can be fined, or even sent to prison. Next name, punch it in—

It all got to me, the job, the environment, the city. The people hardly acted like people at all. They were more like insects, like honeybees. They swarmed in the streets, and pushed their way into the hives, my office just another honeycomb. They buzzed down the corridors, up, down and across to their assigned levels, and filed into their cubes,  their laid out, organized mosaic of identical cells, to stop and work, to work in front of their screens, blind and obedient. Everybody dressed the same. Numbers, numbers, numbers.

I had never hated it more than I did the last day I worked there. I wasn’t supposed to be there. They were looking at me, confused but too busy to stop and say what they wanted to. I panicked. ‘Say it,’ I thought. ‘C’mon, say it.’ But they just looked up a few times, or whispered to each other. I broke, and stood up screaming, “C’mon guys, don’t be afraid. You’re human, you can think, you can judge me. I’ll forgive you. Just stop what you’re doing. Stop fucking looking at me. Say it. I want to know what you guys think about this. I can take it. You all know what I’m doing!”
And then I felt a gentle hand grab my shoulder. It was Mr. Crawford, the boss.

“That’s enough son. I think you should go home. You’re not supposed to be here. Not today.”

He didn’t look angry, only courageous. I was glad that he said it.

“I won’t be back Mr. Crawford.”

“I know Benjamin,” he said.

I grabbed my things, and left. I took the bus back to New Guernsey. I was scared. I had made my choice. Maybe the job left made me jaded. I didn’t want to take things from people. I didn’t want to ‘hit’ them. I didn’t want to take orders. I didn’t want a higher power. I only wanted my will to choose, no matter what the consequences. But I didn’t know what would happen next. All I knew was that I was out of the honeycomb, that I was alone. That I had nothing anymore, I had run away … and I still have nothing.

…..

“Here you go.”

She placed the calzone and coffee in front of me. “Did I wake you?” she said.

“No. Just drifted off a bit. Thanks,” I said.

“No problem,” she said.

I wondered if she was in a relationship. If there was someone who touched her perfect face…. I hoped he treated her well…. We all deserved to be treated well….

The calzone looked incredible, bigger than the plate. Steam snaked out of the fork holes, and the subtle scent of oregano in the meatballs mixed perfectly with the warm wheat smell of the pine colored crust.

I looked around and checked to see if anyone was watching, and then I ate, without the slightest pause between bites. I hurried…but was neat about it, didn’t spill a crumb.

I finished in what seemed only moments. The plate was clean, except for a few scattered blotches of oil and marinara. Calzone Girl saw that I was done and came to my booth with a smile and the check. She took the plate, and I smiled back at her… But as she walked away I noticed something about her that I hadn’t noticed before. I watched her walk. The plate rested on the sound thews of her forearm, but there was something different about how her uniform fell. She wore black pants, and a loose-fitting, white, button-down shirt that rested on her breasts and fell low around her waist. Normally, because of how the shirt draped over her, I couldn’t see the shape of her hips or waist. But today…the shirt rested on her bulging waist. She was showing. ‘She must be in a late stage,’ I thought. Her mystery was now more intricate, and I sympathized for her, even though I knew nothing about her circumstance. I just knew that she was twenty, and most girls in this town didn’t plan on having children at that age.

I wanted very much to know her story, but it wasn’t my place to ask. Our lives crossed only over oak tables, calzones, and my silly dreams. So I didn’t say anything. Rather, I stood up and left a twenty-dollar tip on a five-dollar calzone. I was at least sure that she could use the extra money, to help her, maybe with a pack of diapers or a few cans of baby food.

I left the restaurant, full, and a little shocked. I was sad for her, although, for all I knew, she could have been very happy….

…..

Even when you’ve convinced yourself that you have the courage to love someone, you’re still afraid. It’s after you’ve fallen in love, that the fear disappears.

…..

I felt like going to work, I guess. Back to the neon rows, to feed the town, feed myself. Earn the money.

I ran up to my apartment to wash my hands and brush my teeth. The answering machine blinked. I erased it and then I locked up and left. I was outside again, and I felt clean.

…..

I am Benjamin Carol Bouchard, born on Sunday, May 21, 1972, in Bangor, Maine. I am Gemini on the cusp of Taurus with Virgo as my moon. I was born in the morning, 6:03 a.m. The doctor’s name was Franklin, and my mother often said that he was one of the few kind men in the world. Franklin caught me and cleaned me and handed me to my mother…. I guess that is pretty kind. He could have dropped me if he wanted to.

My mother is Delia Karen Bouchard. She grew up in northern Maine where the dirt is precious for potatoes and the farms are haunted by the ghosts of Acadian settlers. She is a Scorpio. She is kind, and alone in Camden where she has a small Terrier named Toast and a bullfrog named Survivor.

My father is dead because a garbage truck hit him while he was crossing a road outside of New Guernsey. He was a gambler.

My mother only saw my father once, and not long after he shut the door to my mother’s bedroom I began to grow. It was in August of 1971 when he told my mother that ‘life gets bigger outside of Bangor,’ and my mother was too drunk to know what a crock of shit that was.

I met my father once.

…..

Back outside, the small shops of brick and wood, all sloped downhill towards the base of the mountain that heaved itself up in the distance. A mountain whose core was quartz. Tourists rushed in to climb it, to feel the pulse in the rock, to flaunt fearlessness, to boast their strength and fancy ropes. I often imagined the quartz-cored mountain as the generator of a massive bubble that kept one from being able to leave New Guernsey. I saw it everyday, the mountain. I saw it pull people in. It had us all. I had climbed it a few times, even got lost up there once, but now I just looked at it, everyday, and imagined it’s low pulses, and the clear cage that it dropped around me … and this town.

Work was up the road, and since this January day was unusually warm, I decided to walk,  uphill to the store, away from the mountain.

And as I walked, the tick was feeding.