I feel peculiar, as though every cell in my body is an Alka-seltzer dissolving in a glass of water.

I have no memory of anything, my thoughts bubbling around and away.

The lights are bright but not painful.

I vaguely wonder if I should feel afraid, but it seems unimportant.

Now I seem to be lying down, and though I have no weight I can still feel my body.

Now there are others.

They glitter like fish in an aquarium, glide around me, smooth and noiseless.

This is only a dream, one says without speaking.

I wake on the playground.

Friday Fictioneers

 

“Did you see? The fucking line goes all the way around the next block, too.”

“What time is this supposed to start?”

“Seven, I think. Some of these sorry bastards look wet right through.”

“I wouldn’t wait like that. Well, maybe for a Zep reunion or something, but not for no politician.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve listened to this guy a few times. He makes sense. Things need to change.”

“They are changing, dude. They’re getting worse. The game is rigged. Like Carlin said: it’s a big club and you ain’t in it.”

“Look. The line is finally moving.”

Friday Fictioneers

“These aren’t the right eggs.”

“What are you talking about? They’re cage-free. See?”

“Not the same as organic. Google it if you don’t believe me.”

“Only if you agree to a blind test.”

“For what?”

“To see if you can tell a fucking difference, Daniel.”

“You’re such a bitch when you’re hungry.”

“Excuse me. I’m not the one complaining about eggs.”

“Can you please chop the parsley a little less coarse? It gets stuck in my teeth.”

“So? I’m the one who has to look at you.”

“Jesus. You really are a bitch today.”

“Don’t start.”

“Look, I didn’t..”

“Don’t.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

He pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes to try to relieve the splintering headache.

She bought the damned house brand Earl Grey again. How many fucking times do I need to tell her that I can taste the difference between chemical oranges and real bergamot?

The words swim on the page.

Nothing that’s quite your own. / Yet this is you.

Eliot had it right.

That bitch. Says “You’re in a mood” as though it’s my fault when she keeps buying the cheap tea she knows I hate. 

He toys with the letter-opener and looks at her throat.

Friday Fictioneers

“I see you still have the plant she gave you.”

“Does that bother you?”

“I guess not. It’s just I thought you hated her.”

“I didn’t hate her, Jeff. I didn’t think she was right for you.”

“Well, you weren’t wrong.”

“Anyway, the plant is not her, even if she gave it to me. Tell you the truth, it’s been so long that I usually forget where it came from.”

“Looks healthy.”

“Oh yes. I watched a video on whatchamacallit. Youtube. It was about how plants like music. I’ve been playing that Bach cassette.”

“Didn’t she give you that, too?”

Friday Fictioneers

It was Corky’s idea. Something about him being retarded makes it so’s God can “dial direct,” I guess.

After he said this it seemed kinda chickenshit to not go through with it. Pascal got the wheelchair up from the cellar, Donna found her old lap-shawl she used to sit with before the latest stroke. When I lifted her into the chair I was amazed at how brittle her body felt through the nightgown, like a gunnysack of chicken bones. I belted her into the chair with a pair of black stockings from her nun days and off we went.

Friday Fictioneers

Quineño felt the weight of his sweat-soaked shirt as he moved from table to table with the heavy bus tub.

The two cowboy gabachos were smoking cigarettes despite the sign posted above their table: No Fumar, with a red X across the cigarette.

Señora Brena already had told them to stop, but they made a great show pretending not to understand her heavily accented English.

Quineño spoke perfect English, having spent most of his life right across the border in Eagle Pass.

He even used to consider himself half Texan, though seeing men like these made him seriously reconsider this.

Friday Fictioneers

He walked onto the green and pretended to look. I watched him take a ball out of his pocket and drop it. “Here it is!” he cried.

“Two-stroke penalty,” I said. “Lost ball.”

His neck grew red. “But this is my ball right here. Titleist three. ”

“Come on. I saw you drop it.”

“Your word against mine.”

I shook my head. “You’re just a goddamn cheat. It’s pathetic.”

He came apart. Screamed, threw down his clubs, balled his fists, stormed over to the refreshment tent and tore it apart.

“I saw it too,” said my caddy. “But he’s the president.”

 

Gerd looked up from the rotten mattress, his eyes ratlike and wild. “Well?”

I shook my head. “Not until tomorrow.”

“Goddamnit. I told you we should’ve–”

“Should’ve what? Not smoked everything? As I recall, you were the one with the pipe in your mouth.”

He looked ready to fight, but then the rage drained out him. He slumped against the wall, beaten.

“Jesus, Gerd. You’re not crying, are you? We’ll get more. Just not today.”

“That’s not it,” he sobbed. “I just can’t do this anymore.” He raised his head, eyes shining. “This is not living. This is not life.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

“I’ve got to put her down.”

“You know what will happen? You see that RCMP boat down there?”

“I see it. But we’re going down one way or another. The tanks are bone-dry.”

“Because you’re the fucking idiot who forgot to top up in Moro.”

“I’m just telling you what we need to do. If you want, I can circle out so you can get rid of the cargo.”

“You know that we still have to give them their money, right? You may as well just crash this thing. We’ll be dead either way.”

“Not if we’re in prison, bud.”

Friday Fictioneers