2.11.07

It's a job. Work.

That's what they tell me to do. What money tells me to do.

Why ca—

WHY can't I build a decent sentence?

I feel like I have steaks for hands today. And billiard balls for fingertips. It will be hard to use the remote. When I get home, I mean. Home to the television.

I've been working with fire all day. I'm like Vulcan at his forge. Remember that guy? Except he didn't have to work weekends. Or deal with Helen. Gaaah…Helen. She smells like an old janitor with no one to impress.

Jenna smells a lot better, though. She's almonds and dark chocolate and—

She's supposed to be stopping by to say hey today. On her lunch break. That would make this better for a while. I hope she comes. The ceiling's hanging low over my head today.

Order up. What's with these people and their shrimp? That's so disgusting. Like little insects with meat inside. Like jumbo maggots writhing in cream sauce. A plate carcass with pasta for entrails and larvae in the open wounds. This is what I look at all day. This is what I do.

They told me not to work here. I needed the job, though, and there was an opening for 21-year-old-dropouts-with-piercings-and-half-shut-eyes. I think I was the guy they were looking for.

The flames dance on the open grill, out of sync with the music I'm hearing. My music, that is, not the music they play in here. Sinatra. All day. Can't stand it. Gotta get out of here.

A flame licks upward, tasting the garlic and oil. He must like it. I sure don't. He's making it awfully warm in this part of the kitchen, and I want to take off this beanie cap, but if I do then Helen will yell at me and I'll have to wear the hair net again and…Gaaah.

I picture myself at home. Home with the television. Something's on tonight. A show about happiness and fulfillment and life on the other side of not being alive at all and not believing in anything except what I see on the show about happiness and fulfillment and…I saw a commercial for it.

They're coming to town this weekend. Playing instruments in a cockeyed bar where nobody listens anyways. I plan to listen, though. I'll just not have anything to drink that night. Well, maybe.

There's probably still some of the alcohol in my veins right now. From last night. Oh, yeah. Flammable. Better not get too close to the stove.

I could explode right now. I mean it. That would probably violate a health code or two. Shut this place down, that's what I'd do. Better call DHEC in advance.

Pull my cap down lower. Scratch the back of my neck, watch the meat sizzle. Blood spurts out onto the polished metal, bubbles, pops, evaporates. Where did it go just now? Seems like a waste.

12:30 now. Church crowd coming in. This is the face of indifference. I hope they see it.

I've used this face a lot. Got me through high school all right, at least while I was there. Keeps me safe. Home. Show this weekend. Jenna. She should be here. Or I should be there. Whichever.

Burned another one crap crap hot shouldn'a picked that up with my hand. I need to get more sleep. I need to think less.

12:33 time crawls let's go. I should be hungry, but I'm not. I mean, look at this stuff. We're cooking animals. Animal parts. Not cold right now, but I'm shuddering. She's bringing me Subway I think. No appetite for the moment, but I'll eat anyway.

Anyway? Or anyways? I should know this by now. How old am I?

I'm seven, and there's a yellow dump truck in my sandbox and a sucker in my mouth. Life fits in place. Except there's a rock in my left sneaker…got it. Life is good again. Mom says hey. Haven't seen her in a while.

I didn't know. Maybe that was for the better. Ignorance lost.

I'm 21 now, drinking age, with a tattoo of a sinking ship on my left shoulder, and the steak is beyond well done. Let's just say it's excellent. They won't know the difference anyways…drown it in A-1 sauce.

I could drown in steak sauce right now. Probably a better option than spontaneous combustion. I'd go out with a zesty aftertaste. Not really fitting, but satisfying.

I'm ten, and there's an open field with sprouting, peaceful weeds that I could swear are flowers—ignorance—and I'm running and tripping and soaking up the grass stains and I see something. Someone. Dead. A big gruesome platter with shrimp crawling around in swarms and grisly linguini with marinara everywhere poured spilt gushed onto the ground and a smell that I feel whenever I'm alone. Which is now.

But Jenna's here! My veins are pumping warm again, but I'm tired, so it comes out all quiet and not in very well-made sentences like always with me. She's at the register, and I'm leaning over the counter trying to grin but there's something between my teeth and I know it.

She's not grinning either, but I'm sensing that it has nothing to do with the fact that she hasn't flossed in months. We both tried, but we never had the willpower. Flossing, I mean.

But no, she's upset, and I want to take the blame because then the world can't touch her and her dark hair and black shirt and heart. I want to make things better for her, but instead I'm just sleeping on her couch. Man of the house.

The kid's with her, too. Brianna. Barely know her. Not mine. Cute, though.

So Jenna's upset, and I'm upset, but my face isn't working right, not conveying the sympathy that I'm wanting to feel right now. She's telling me what's wrong with her day and how that should affect everyone else's day, especially mine. It does, but I don't show it. I can't.

I'm twelve, and I sit in front of the mirror for an hour practicing making faces to match different emotions. Remorse is always a tricky one.

I'm 21 again, moved-out-of-the-house age, and she's tearing up and I imagine cutting onions. Nothing. Her voice is all hushed and pitiful and she's hunched down over the counter and her eyebrows are all wrinkled up and I want to run my fingers through her hair but then I'd have to wash my hands again. Obstacles.

So I stand there, dumb, listening, and as I stare her words stop making sense. All I can do is look at her eyes—brown with a few green flecks—and try to read what's there. I'm lost now, but it's comfortable in those eyes, like home or some ideal of home.

She raises her voice and I snap out of it. She's more upset than before, and she's saying that I don't listen, and, truth be told, I don't. She's picking her purse back up off the counter and turning for the door, and I want to grab her arm and kiss her cheek just for a second, but I don't want to make a scene.

So I don't. I never do. That will be my downfall, I think.

And she's gone again, out the door, kid in tow, and I'm alone here again without her.