deplusenplus | Entries tagged with where?charloft

The thing about vacation is that returning to work is a cold, cruel bitch.

You ease back in with a six to six, not jumping in for the twenty-four. Getting up for six fucking damn near kills you.

Spend the day doing the usual, catching up, cleaning up, working out, and responding to whatever calls your house catches. Then end of shift brings you to some residential house fire. You get there and you get in. The house is too far gone to really be going in, but reports have people inside. You and your buddy Ethan get the girl. You don’t feel too much like prince charming as you sit on the back of the bus getting oxygen back in you. You feel the light of a news camera, and that’s the resolution you keep and break. You keep to not being a dumbass by keeping to breathing, and you break by getting your God damn picture on the evening news for your girlfriend to see.

“My head hurts.” Your voice is muffled into the pillows as you lay spreadeagled face first in the bed. Your everything hurts. Your muscles where you didn’t know you have muscles hurt.

“Get up Flynn.” She has no mercy. None. Zip. Zilch.

“You got me drunk and took advantage of me,” you groan. And your groaning hurts. You have this vague recollection of dancing the samba with someone else’s wife. You met the couple at the bar, they were celebrating their 50^th anniversary. That makes the wife, what? Early 70s?

“Get your clothes on man, we’re going ATVing.” No mercy.

Current Location: on vacation in mexico

You’re lucky you work a shift job. Twenty four on at a time makes it so you can sleep the day and that don’t matter none. This time of year, you sleep the day because you can’t seem to do otherwise. The days are so fucking short that making time with them seems a chore. This month, every year, this week. A few more days and things will turn, day light will start to get longer. Getting out of bed won’t feel so impossible.

It’s not like he lives in Fort Knox. His fears have never been conventional ones. Papers on the doorstep, dark inside the place. Try the knob. Let myself on in.

It’s like a tomb.

Meticulous in its dark depths. No light anywhere, I let my eyes adjust as I make my way through. Find him in the bedroom, a mountain in bed under sheets and blankets. No sound. That means he’s not sleeping. He’s just lying. Big breathing.

“Dad,” he hears me. Sort of. He always hears me. Blood is blood. “Dad,” nothing. I get nothing.

Happy Birthday to me.

Your father is covered in scars.
When you were small you asked your mother about them. The jagged lines on his chest and up his arms and across what seemed like everywhere on his skin. It’s not as if he ever went without a shirt, with sleeves, but sometimes when he was off mind, you would catch a glimpse of him. You asked where they were from, and she told you with white simplicity that they were from hurt.

Standing in the bathroom looking in the mirror, you look at your chest and run your hand up the inside of your arm. Same height, same eyes, same feet, same hands, same everything. Same mind? You understand now the meaning of those scars and you understand that they were from the same hurt that rotted your mother’s bones.

Wake up Dot
Wake up Lucy
Wake up Murphy

... apparently, I only have three.

The day after we buried my mother, I left.

I didn’t even know I was leaving. I just got in my car for a drive and someplace in Nevada I realized I wasn’t going back.

I guess it’d been about 6 months since leaving when I was in a car wreck. The man driving the truck was drunk, he came through the intersection without even so much as making the tires skid. Stopped my heart.

Death calls my dad. He was there just to see me wake up. And then it was another 6 months before I saw him again.

... brand fucking new

[note. a teenage max]

“You like fire, boy?”

Startled you turn to look at the man standing next to you and are surprised to see he’s a firefighter. The firetruck is pulled up to the curb, blocking the small crowd from getting too close. Nothing to be done except maybe control the spread. The house is going to burn to the ground. It’s vacant, no harm maybe.

You watch the flames lick against and consume what’s left of wood and structure, turning everything to black and crumbling to ash. Fire takes favorites, devouring quickly across some edges and more slowly with others. You breathe that in.

“You best get on the other side of it,” the man says to you. His side. Makes you wonder about the possibility. He sees something in the way you watch the heat, the light, the kiss against everything the flames touch. “The side you’re on, ain’t going to bring you to good end.”

Start a fire

[note. a young teenage max]

My sister walks into the kitchen like she never left. I think I’ve grown a few inches since she’s been gone. I learned early that she’s good at getting gone. I’m thinking she learned that skill early after living with him.

“Where’s dad?” Her eyes scrape across me. I rub her wrong. She rubs me wrong. Nice when things cut both ways.

I shrug.

“Come on Max, I need to talk with him,” she fixes her blue eyes on me. She gets another shrug. “Is he in his office?” Give her a slight nod. “Some things never change.” So true.

Sinner. Gluttony.
I think I ate the whole bowl.

Fuck knows why I know the history of rag dolls. Blame my father for every random factoid crammed into my brain. I’m not thinking of Raggedy Ann and how she is named from Little Orphant Annie, a scary ass verse to get children to obey.

“What’s her name?” I ask the boy kneeling over the girl dressed as Raggedy Ann. Alcohol has her nonresponsive. Limp like a rag doll.

“Hannah, her name is Hannah.”

“How much has she had to drink?”

“I don’t know.” Of course not.

I’m thinking it is amazing we make it as a species at all.

... where life had no value, death, sometimes, had its price.

I.
Tinder
Kindling
Fuel
Ignore the sign about no fires on the beach
Build the bonfire to be taller than you

II.
“Hit me, go ahead Max. Hit me.” You’re as tall as he is, but for weight he’s got you by a third. He uses that weight, he uses his size and pushes you. “Hit me,” your father’s eyes like your eyes, narrow in anger. You’ve made fists. You want to. So, so, so very much. “Go ahead.” Your breath in is ragged. He wants you to hit him. He wants to be hit. Give him reason in all this fucking unreason. And that right there has you walking away.

I can't imagine any one thing said to me that would get me to start a fight.

It's all in the who is saying and the how they're saying.

You are a desperate man.

You have not eaten in weeks, okay days, alright – maybe hours. It’s late. Everything that’s living and a part of your life is asleep. You stumble into the kitchen and gasp in pain. So maybe that’s because you hit your knee on the cabinet, but you make the most amazing discovery …

I left because she was gone.
I left because I didn’t hate you … yet.

Line up.

Hike the ball to her brother. She stands in front of you, playing the other team. Her brother starts yelling GO LONG. Run as fast you can, trying to get around her.

She takes off on those long legs of hers and you’re not sure you can run fast enough.

GO GO GO. Her brother is yelling, you’re starting to laugh because this seems damn near impossible. Jump to catch the ball, feel it kiss your finger tips, feel her hit your flank as you fall to the ground.

Missed. You’re going to blame it on the beer.