T)
tommyb
Registrant
(a chapter)
__________
(Saturday, 10DEC2016)
(night)
The wind roars cold as we light cigarettes, huddled outside the restaurant's back door, the dinner rush over, us puffing in silence.
Once the trolling began offline, it is like being surrounded by ghouls. 'Best to have been born from the cauldron of women. Regardless the level of hell, I'm never singed. Dante wrote the levels out, and I wonder him.
"You're good with money," he says, a tall, brown-hued co-worker of strong voice. He seems in his upper thirties but's always having grandchildren.
"F_cking rational," one says with venom, as if she had something to do with me, though we've hardly spoken.
"You heard from 'Walker?" he asks.
"No."
"Subdued," another coworker says, in her familiar twang, as if to the embittered one. "He IS good with money."
"You ever believe anything about him?" he asks me.
"'Would've seemed irrational--"
"--Humph!," the angry one says. Short, petite, and elderly, she puts out her cigarette, then swings the back door open, its light sweeping over the parking lot. "Lot of good he could've done for us," she says as she steps inside. "But he's got to stick to the truth!"
__________
(Sunday, 11DEC2016)
(morning)
'Woke from a hotel room, except it was a barracks. Dawn is away, our single mother.
"Why do we get along?" he asks, as he seems to prepare for a party, him donning a tux jacket.
"Chemistry," I tell him, brushing my teeth, then rinsing and glancing in the mirror. He is taller than me.
"I wish you knew what you looked like," he says, 'cept 'protected myself from him.
"I still like Mom," he says.
"Yeah, the way she'll see a movie by herself--"
"--Just to review it."
__________
(Monday, 12DEC2016)
(night)
'Apartment's nice.
'Walker took it hard. 'Out there somewhere, still, off-the-grid.
Four stories up, it has large rooms, high ceilings, enormous windows. It's like living at an armory or military barracks, but I found out it's a World War II V.A., converted.
Since everything's in storage, the place remains empty and silent but for the plants in the windows, the sleeping bags, the bicycle, and an old radio. The kitchen stays empty, but for beer.
'Mostly here at night, since I work, apparently baking good bread, but find making deserts from scratch a different science. 'Walker did go on a rampage and I do wonder others' ghoulishness, how obvious it is, even to each other, but the gulf between us remains priceless, and they can't prove I created it. I never did that with the deceased. He knew I never fell for trolling, so I knew he would never. I should've gone with them that night, when half our group escaped to South Carolina. They were so impressed, friendly, inviting me, I could hardly speak responses, promising to keep their secret.
"So you had to treat each other like shit," Trey said, as I stood in the closed doorway, him still packing, his wife beater allowing his deployment tattoos.
To me he's always been a bleeding heart. Someone you couldn't turn away from or ignore once he'd presented himself and made friends with you, because you felt like he needed you to ask him what's wrong, him never allowing room. I could never tell if he and the deceased were friends or not, when working Maintenance.
Soldiers never let it go. Once you have that place, you never let go you're so honored to have tripped upon it somewhere along the way. The standards were so high in Basic, sometimes they played out romanticized into propoganda. Upon graduation, the unit wouldn't be that way. Many units, like the deceased's, have their own carefully preserved, hundreds-year-old culture. Once you were acceptable to the deceased's unit, other units found you 'cocky.'
'Glanced at the deceased, as Trey spoke, easily readable and silent, sitting on the other bed, knowing the same as I know, me thinking how are people this good, as Trey says: "But look at us."
__________
__________
(Saturday, 10DEC2016)
(night)
The wind roars cold as we light cigarettes, huddled outside the restaurant's back door, the dinner rush over, us puffing in silence.
Once the trolling began offline, it is like being surrounded by ghouls. 'Best to have been born from the cauldron of women. Regardless the level of hell, I'm never singed. Dante wrote the levels out, and I wonder him.
"You're good with money," he says, a tall, brown-hued co-worker of strong voice. He seems in his upper thirties but's always having grandchildren.
"F_cking rational," one says with venom, as if she had something to do with me, though we've hardly spoken.
"You heard from 'Walker?" he asks.
"No."
"Subdued," another coworker says, in her familiar twang, as if to the embittered one. "He IS good with money."
"You ever believe anything about him?" he asks me.
"'Would've seemed irrational--"
"--Humph!," the angry one says. Short, petite, and elderly, she puts out her cigarette, then swings the back door open, its light sweeping over the parking lot. "Lot of good he could've done for us," she says as she steps inside. "But he's got to stick to the truth!"
__________
(Sunday, 11DEC2016)
(morning)
'Woke from a hotel room, except it was a barracks. Dawn is away, our single mother.
"Why do we get along?" he asks, as he seems to prepare for a party, him donning a tux jacket.
"Chemistry," I tell him, brushing my teeth, then rinsing and glancing in the mirror. He is taller than me.
"I wish you knew what you looked like," he says, 'cept 'protected myself from him.
"I still like Mom," he says.
"Yeah, the way she'll see a movie by herself--"
"--Just to review it."
__________
(Monday, 12DEC2016)
(night)
'Apartment's nice.
'Walker took it hard. 'Out there somewhere, still, off-the-grid.
Four stories up, it has large rooms, high ceilings, enormous windows. It's like living at an armory or military barracks, but I found out it's a World War II V.A., converted.
Since everything's in storage, the place remains empty and silent but for the plants in the windows, the sleeping bags, the bicycle, and an old radio. The kitchen stays empty, but for beer.
'Mostly here at night, since I work, apparently baking good bread, but find making deserts from scratch a different science. 'Walker did go on a rampage and I do wonder others' ghoulishness, how obvious it is, even to each other, but the gulf between us remains priceless, and they can't prove I created it. I never did that with the deceased. He knew I never fell for trolling, so I knew he would never. I should've gone with them that night, when half our group escaped to South Carolina. They were so impressed, friendly, inviting me, I could hardly speak responses, promising to keep their secret.
"So you had to treat each other like shit," Trey said, as I stood in the closed doorway, him still packing, his wife beater allowing his deployment tattoos.
To me he's always been a bleeding heart. Someone you couldn't turn away from or ignore once he'd presented himself and made friends with you, because you felt like he needed you to ask him what's wrong, him never allowing room. I could never tell if he and the deceased were friends or not, when working Maintenance.
Soldiers never let it go. Once you have that place, you never let go you're so honored to have tripped upon it somewhere along the way. The standards were so high in Basic, sometimes they played out romanticized into propoganda. Upon graduation, the unit wouldn't be that way. Many units, like the deceased's, have their own carefully preserved, hundreds-year-old culture. Once you were acceptable to the deceased's unit, other units found you 'cocky.'
'Glanced at the deceased, as Trey spoke, easily readable and silent, sitting on the other bed, knowing the same as I know, me thinking how are people this good, as Trey says: "But look at us."
__________
