Clutch for the Afterglow and Jettison the Rest

It was the first drag taken on my stoop for two months; unaccompanied, pensive, bittersweetly victorious. A young family of three approached on the sidewalk. They must've been going to dinner. Food and sad art pull the purse strings in this town. Kids have no say in what they suck on these days. There would be plenty of time for peer pressure, coffee breaks sans caffeine, and denied addiction. A look of distaste from a parent not ten years older than me tarnished my attempt at rare fairness. I kept the smoke in my lungs until they passed by my calloused knees. It was hard not to choke, but I held back the threat. The blue plume dissipated into the lights under the awning overhead. I flicked my butt at a storm drain along the curb, but missed. That's life for you-- no good deed goes unpunished.

A package on my doormat sent the same message. The return address was transcontinental, though still far too close. I wondered how long it sat there and why no honorable thief did me justice. Its contents were as baffling as the strange codes and places printed on the label: some candy for Easter, secondhand T-shirts, and a small stuffed rabbit that sought to draw blood. I tossed the shirts into the closet for later transportation to my mother's. She could use them as rags, she's big on recycling. The chocolate melted in my mouth as opposed to my hand as advertised. I popped a few more morsels down the hatch than I probably should have as the rabbit stared blankly into space. The candy shells crunched, filling gaps between teeth, and I turned the toy's head to the side out of guilt. A chew toy for the neighbors' dogs? Not even a chance of that lucky fate. Two fools built a home without knowing how, one hermit's torn it down for three seasons hence, an inanimate object sums up the wreckage. God, love is simple sometimes.

It takes eight trips to get my condensed life back into my apartment. The two flights of stairs make their play to wear me out, and win. How any of the boxes, bags, and suitcases sum me up is beyond me. How can twenty-eight years of trial and error in the name of discovery be contained within the confines of any combination of parcels? It makes the nomads of Asia Minor seem right; travel light, move like fluid. Someone in what's left of the world must have it nailed. Chances are it's not on this side of the prime meridian. I moved across the Hudson for a better shot at the search. It should've been farther if to be successful, but the coward in me cowered again. The notion of not having the support network that its constituents insist exists kept me local; us, I should say. It's not a pronoun that leaves my lips often and therefore should be celebrated. An only child flips out his phone and dials his impatient mother.

"I'm home and overwhelmed."

"Same here. No welcoming committee?"

"They're on strike. Do you want to come over and help me unpack?"

"At eleven at night?"

"I was kidding."

"No you weren't. You don't sound good."

"What does good sound like?"

"You'll find out one of these days."

"I'm more likely to be killed by a champagne cork, but thanks."

We go back and forth a bit more, then make tentative plans for a homecooked meal. I pry myself from the conversation through the use of a bathroom excuse. She's a good woman deep down-- strong and stubborn as seasoned livestock. But, like in some lessons I've learned on the pavement, we're too similar to ever be close. Two grays don't make a white. It turns out some traits are genetic. I cringe at the possibility of others surfacing as time goes on, visions of my father's fumbling at the forefront. The horror inspires a smoke break like I'm still on a union job.

The Italian joint owned by Albanians is closing as I light up my menthol. My landlord locks the front door of the restaurant, notices me and makes a face implying that he should. In his soupy, struggling accent he asks where I've been for the last two months and what exactly it is that I do. I answer as best I can, but in reality it's an educated guess. The content of my replies sounds convincing. It's the tone that gives it away. My words come out like scrambled eggs. At least I don't give the typical Beacon townie response by blaming it on some failed passion. There's a time and a place for pity. Death row is one of them. Main Street is not. I lead him on by asking if we can pay multiple months' rent to stay ahead just to watch his face light up like a menorah. Sometimes I do that. Some people deserve to be stroked to a lather. I finish my game and bid farewell to the man with the unlevel building.

A family of raccoons scurries down the abandoned sidewalk like refugees from the apocalypse. The mother leads her three cubs down the storm drain in the curb at the corner and I swear I've seen enough. Without hesitation I head back upstairs for the last time that night to mix up some poison and tumble it down since it already feels like I have been.