It was awkward at first, but then it became routine. When I started working at Big Don’s the walk-in was a maze, and everywhere I put a dirty six-pan seemed like a personal offense to whoever was in the dish pit that day. I was an outcast, but I was willing to learn. And the last line guy got picked up for possession.
I’ve met some of the best and worst people at this gig. I got “let go” from my last job due to conflicting personalities. A better summation was that I stopped getting hours due to my first four hours of any given shift allocated to putting myself back together from the night before.
I’ve been getting better sleep for some reason. On the way back, I mentioned that I got fired from Fat Larry’s and Tim said he could put in a good word for me at Big Don’s. The follow-through was what I was surprised about.
When you’re 17, you don’t trust follow-through at all. Everything is right in front of you, and if it is not within your peripheral it does not exist. That’s why you’re so vulnerable to saying yes to something you don’t quite understand.
There wasn’t much communication after the nursing home. I got my 250 and mostly spent it on fast-food for my girlfriend and weed from my “older cousin.” After some time my parents, the grave-robbers they are, asked me to stop by Tim’s to retrieve their Pyrex.
You may find it cold-hearted, but I honestly find it endearing. Think about it. The Pyrex is the catalyst to connection. If you send a meal to a grieving widow wrapped in disposable housing; you are throwing it into a black hole. They miss the cooking, they miss the smell of a busied kitchen, they miss the bumps of elbows when chopping next to each other; they don’t miss the fucking leftovers.
Leftovers signal failure. Where you not satisfied? Or so much so that you thought you could carry my care through winter and tech-death? I’m getting too abstract. And it didn’t make me any less nervous.
So I walked the now-shoveled side-walks, retracing permafrost etchings of my journeys to the mailbox.
What-am-I-doing.
This-is-the-first-time-I’ve-had-to-connect-but-at-the-same-time-seperate.-Flow-of-thoughts-have-been-disabled-by-dissonance.-I’m-fine-what-I’m-feeling-is-normal-I-am-fine-this-is-just-how-it-goes-I-am-fine-These-connections-seem-to-lose-all-reference-to-the-origin-Whatever-I-consume-has-become-intertwined-with-the-reality-before-me-It’s-just-that-that-fucking-comatose-hybrid-between-flesh-and-idiotic-four-year-old-egocentric-perspective-carcass-that-will-have-zero-interaction-with-me-fucked-me-up-I-am-fine-and-I-hate-to-admit-it-but-that-kinda-fucked-me-up.
I awaken to sweet whiskey breath and sugar coated groans.
“Wake up! Are you ok? Why the hell are you on the sidewalk like that,” I was barely picking up language but this was my assumed lines from the position I was in.
In hazy periscope fish-eye, I was guided to a couch cleaned from Dr. Pepper cans. As my breath coordinated with my consciousness, I noticed Tim necking a half bottle of Crown Royale.
“Oh, you’re awake. Jesus kid, I thought you had fucking died on my doorstep. Don’t need another dead teen in these halls,” Tim started laughing, coughing, a hint of sobbing, and then got back into the lecture.
“I don’t know why you came here, but I have an idea. I’m sorry for putting you through that. It was selfish and cowardly. I haven’t quite gotten over Nate’s death,” Tim points to the litter of Dr. Pepper cans and Crown Royale glasses occupying the floor below me.
“I do really appreciate you coming to the home last week. It was a weird request, but you must have saw my intention. Preventing harm was my specialty, I’ve never been all that good at healing.”
The words hung in the room, dripping tension on my chest. Tim was aware of the sophomoric irony that came with the situation. But going deeper, into that vast ocean, a mirror to your failed self, the origin of all the self-hate, all the blaming and suicidal sacrifices; it takes too much to peer into that void. I’m writing this now, past most of my transgressions and meditations with gore. But I really felt bad for the guy, as I do now.
“What do you need?” I rasped with an untrained throat.
Tim collapsed into his hands. A teary eyed kaleidoscope of double images retracted my focus.
“I need him back. I don’t know, but fuck. I need him back with me,” Tim sobbed.
Neurons-connection-hate-fear-love-grief-not-a-list-but-a-process-ready-to-explode.
VCR Scanning ran down my vision, and I started into that rollercoaster you get in when you get too high. I was going a million miles until I started squinting my eyes.
“I can be him,” I didn’t know what I was saying but it felt like finally finishing a puzzle.
My fish-eye periphery showed a man in offense. Complete disdain from what I said; as if I shouted a slur to the party afflicted. My state delusional and foggy, one could sympathize with my boldness.
“Let’s get you home.”
ZCUMCORE 
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