IN THE END
In the end, there are five bear cubs underneath your porch. You name them after U.S. Presidents. Taft dies of starvation. Carter disappears into the flowers. Hoover is carried away by hawks. Roosevelt digs into the ground to get away from ghosts. Lincoln grows up. Lincoln becomes a mother, with five cubs of her own. You are very proud of Lincoln. After Lincoln eats you, you adapt to your new life. You are still so proud of the bears you have given names to. Maybe they were dogs.
I want to say that I shrunk into my shoes and disappeared, but when somebody throws “fat guy” at you, you don’t shrink, you grow. You bloat. Your belly expands and your man-boobs stick out and your t-shirt tightens around where your belt doesn’t fit right. You stand there with your backpack on, straps on both shoulders because it’s more ergonomic that way, the backpack with the camera and the hats and the Red Sox swag you had taken your girlfriend to buy that afternoon. You’d taken her to Fenway, taken selfies on the back side of the Green Monster, on that perfect day, that day you tried to show her all of Boston, the city of your birth, in a single afternoon.
Sarah smiled and said, ‘No Scott. I’m not cold. It’s something else. I’m in pain. I’m in horrible pain.’ SO SARAH WAS IN PAIN. Aren’t we all? And so I held her hand and sang No Woman No Cry. And she smiled. ‘O god no. Not fucking reggae.’
The same moment a girl I thought I loved forwarded me
a Powerpoint presentation entitled “Former Portland Trail Blazers
And Their Nicknames in High School.” Hmmm, okay.
Darius Miles: Free Hat. Zach Randolph: The Sixth Sense.
Clyde Drexler: Clyde The Wyde. It turns out he had a weight issue.
It turns out Skip To My Lou was really his porn name. And I saw
there everything he’d ever made. And of course, Kobe Bryant
hates women. It says so on a billboard in Biloxi as my dad drives
me to Mexico to live with my new family. I’ve been traded, he says.
"A story works when there’s momentum, life behind the words," Mary Miller told Matthew Salesses at The Rumpus. She needs that momentum for her new novel, The Last Days of California, about a family driving to California for the rapture. Also, Amy Butcher wrote about her favorite Millerisms at Hobart.
At night, I’d pray for God to make me a man, though I suspected that this was not something God would do. Something like that would have to be magic.
Did Virgil go to hell? No. Did Virginia Woolf go to Disney World? No, and it turns out that Orlando isn’t a place, but a dude. And did Truman Capote ever have breakfast at Tiffany’s? Yes, but the eggs Benedict was cold and the bloody marys were “bullshit.”
you think of all the things you wish
she was not: white crosses where
the road curves, not the reason
a man spends fifteen to twenty in Huntsville.