u s e y o u r h a n d s

Night had falled hours ago on his dreary cow town. The smell of manure, which had been so oppressive at noon, embued the air with sweetness. A smell of nostalgia. It seemed like everyone in Hanford had disappeared, with only dirty stucco houses sighing relief to mark their existence. It was this desolation that Steve longed to escape. And tonight was the night.

Just a small town immigrant boy, Steve took a tip from the movies his Portugese grandma took him to every Saturday. He’d pack a bag and hop a train. And this midnight train — well, it might just take him anywhere. The only sound he heard was the crunch of his Chuck Taylors against railyard gravel. But lo, in the distance, a train whistle.

Little Steve’s legs sprang into action. He skittered across the yard and stood near the tracks. The train’s lights pierced through the night and slowly grew larger. From behind piles of ties and old machinery, other railriders emerged. These men and women, smelling of wine and cheap perfume, gathered with him to grab hold of destiny.

It seemed hours before the train pulled into the Hanford station. With the help of a good-natured hobo, Steve scrambled into the train with the rest of his down-at-heel bretheren. He dangled his legs off the edge of the boxcar and waited. Up in the sky, the stars twinkled down at him, veritably screaming, “Steve Perry, you’ll join us here someday. You, Steve Perry, will be a star!” He winked at the sky and his heart jumped.

But little Steve was not prepared for the lurch when the train moved on. Before he could brace himself, he tumbled to the ground. Steve landed with a thud in deep gravel. It was over. He wasn’t going to leave Hanford — at least not tonight. Although he was still set on stardom, it seemed that fame wasn’t ready for Steve yet. He picked himself up and as he dusted off, he heard the crunching of footsteps behind him. Steve turned and saw a disheveled man who sort of resembled Steve himself.

“Steve?” the man asked tentatively. He held a grimy hat in his hands and twisted the brim.

Steve knew he shouldn’t talk to strangers, but he felt like he knew this man. He cleared his throat, “Um, yes?”

The man extended a hand to shake, “I’m your father, Steve. I haven’t seen you since you were four.”

Steve was 10. He barely remembered the father who just disappered one day. He didn’t feel mad or happy. He was glad his father was alive. Steve took his hand and shook it gravely.

Mr. Perry’s eyes filled with tears and he tried to speak several times before the words flowed with any ease. “Steve, never run. If you choose to leave this town, your family, do it with pride. Don’t be like me.” And then he stood, turned his back on Steve again, and walked away. Steve’s eyes followed his father’s figure until the darkness swallowed him up.

On his trek home, Steve considered his father’s words. He wasn’t going to stop believing. He’d hold on to the feeling that one day he’d be famous. But Steve decided to wait. The time would come.

Someone was leaving. I forgot my soup. I think that’s the way the group co-worker lunch often begins. It’s the first time I’ve ever been to lunch with people I work with. I didn’t even get invited anywhere for the first day, which I might say, is a first. But, yes, let’s go to Bennigan’s. Let’s all go to Bennigan’s!

So we go to Bennigan’s. And who doesn’t like to see their culture misappropriated in the name of shitty chain food? Boy, I sure do. Bring on the Irish Nachos! But my little group gets stuck at this side table. And it’s fun. I don’t talk that often at work. This place is a weird political minefield and I’m having issues with that and other things. So I don’t talk a lot. But there’s a few people I feel comfortable around and I sat with them.

And then, off in the distance, I saw something that made me take pause over my chicken sammitch. Bennigan’s employees had gathered round some poor son of a bitch and had begun singing their weird version of Happy Birthday. They were clapping. They were pointing at the birthday boy’s head.

That is my own personal picture of hell.

Do not do this for me on my birthday (Nov. 25). I will not enjoy it and neither will you, your family, your pets, or your neighbors. In other news, I just sent out the invite for the Turkey Deb Ball. I need to purchase a) food for party, but that’s some distance away b) a ball gown, the more lurid the better and c) chairs.

Wendy has promised Alize.

THERE WILL BE A NEW ENTRY TODAY! I DEEM IT SO! ALSO, MAKE ME A GRILLED CHEESE!

The phone rang four times then the machine picked up. I can still feel the sound bouncing off the walls. It stings like an insect bite, scratchy even. I am not concerned about who has called. My, the ceiling is moving! Look at that mother swirl. Once, I had this girlfriend break up with me on the phone — and you know what? Fuck it. That was gonna be a lie too. Fuck it and fuck you.

You know what my problem is? I’m stuck. Not just in this chair, and not just because of the feet. It’s me. It’s what I tend to do over and over. The sherry, plus the feet. I chose not to move. My feet are paper-white and will probably fall off soon. Let me break the sherry bottle against the desk and spear them with broken glass to make sure they can still bleed. God– damn– it– This fucking sherry bottle! Break, you mother!

It seems that the sherry bottle will not cooperate.

“Phew, for a minute there, I lost myself, I lost myself”

Turn to the side to vomit, baby, turn to the side.
Punt on the floor and keep on floating, baby, keep on floating.
Lose your balance, baby, lose your balance.
Crash down, down, down.
Crash down down.

I’m not passed out but now I’m prone. I can feel the blood trickle back into those frigid whore feet of mine. I might be drunk, but the pins keep pricking. The pain is going to make me …. The pain is making me …. Oh, golly, I want to marry this feeling. And there it goes, slowly, slowly away. Sign. And here are these feet again and I’m still on the floor.