I remember making a conscious decision not to care that the windows were rolled up tight in the Chevy Suburban: Chicago to Minnesota . I didn’t have my inhaler, drowning in the sweet smelling haze, gasping for air and I didn’t care. I deserved the shallow breaths that blocked life; my life. And I remember feeling removed like a pervert would feel, blatantly looking and not caring. And I didn’t care. I remember drinking myself away from the beginning. I remember telling her that I didn’t believe in washing my feet. I said that I started with my hair and washed down toward my feet but not my feet. I figured they were already clean with all of the soap that had already passed over them. I started telling her about my scrambled egg mess back in Chicago . I remember her uneasy look. It said so much, her uneasy look. And then self-destruction stopped me cold in the middle of the fire. Someone tackled me out of the flame. I laughed on the ground under him. I remember the Leatherman (an all purpose tool, knives, needle nose pliers, screwdrivers) that he gave to us groomsmen. My full name engraved on the side. I remember pissing in the reception hall bathroom forget the toilet I thought; death tool in hand, hate grip on the multi-purpose tool; carving my name into the stall wall; pissing everywhere; urine yellow; toilet paper yellow. As I watched him dial the police, I imagined him being pulled apart by some cosmic invader sucking his limbs away piece by piece by piece. I remember trying to find somewhere to sleep that night; somewhere safe to sleep; somewhere my tool wouldn’t be bothered and the engraved name could rest in peace. I’m so sorry you don’t have a name…

Advertisements