She was wiring him five hundred dollars. I walked a few feet over and checked out a bum I had seen in the same position that morning. I nudged him with my shoe. He cursed and rolled over. Simon saw me coming back and hung up with her. He looked up at the hotel and at the people in front of the bar, the bums sleeping on the sidewalks across the street. Stepping over them had become second nature. It was over 100 degrees.

“Jesus. I feel like I’ve died and gone straight to hell.”

“This was one of the blueprints.”

We cut across the street. A car drove by and saw us walking into the hotel. The car slowed down and a college kid stuck his meaty head out:

“Fucking faggots!”

Simon reached down and held my hand. We walked into the hotel. Tommy looked at us.

“Five bucks.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tommy. This is my buddy from Phoenix.”

“Still five bucks.”

I paid the five bucks. Tommy looked Simon over. He put out his smoke and lit another,

“Where the hell’s he gonna sleep?”

“I’ll set him up in the east wing.”

“How long’s he here for?”

“Two nights or so. Fuck off, man.”

“Five more bucks.”

“I’ll pay you tomorrow.”

He grunted at me. Behind us a bum was throwing up just inside the door. Tommy yelled,

“Goddamnit, Clyde! You’re going to clean that shit up this time!”

I looked at Simon,

“The ballet continues.”

We walked up to my room. There was barely enough room for one person and a pair of shoes. It was the size of a closet.

Simon looked at my typewriter on the window sill,

“Been writing?”

“Not in a week or so. I’m pretty sick of it here.”

“It’s a bit much.”

We laid on the bed and listened to the street. I passed out cold. When I woke up Simon’s face was buried in my back.

“Simon. Get up.”

He rolled over and sat up.

“Fuck, how do you stay here?”

“I don’t think about it.”

“Where’s the pisser?”

“Make a right down the hall to the end, then make a left. Do you have to shit?”

“Not now.”

“Good. They don’t stock the toilet paper.”

“It gets stolen?”

“Anything not tied down around here gets stolen. And put your shoes on. Syringes.”

He walked out. I sat up and wiped my sweat on my sheet. That poor sheet.

He came back in. I tied my shoes.

“I’ll take you down to get your money.”

We drove the Mailbu up Western where it turns into Main. We passed the university and the coffee shop.

“Any pussy around here?”

“Yeah but it’s not worth the trouble. This place is fucked all around.”

He picked up his money. Halfway down the hill the Malibu let out this human scream and died. There was a line of cars behind us. I shoved it in park and set the emergency brake. We walked down the hill. People were yelling at us. We sat in Church’s Chicken and had a root beer. Simon counted his smokes and set them on the table.

“You know, man. I’m wondering about this Sarah girl, this whole deal.”

“What do you mean?”

A guy walked by the window. He was tall and big. He had pale skin and a derby cap. He looked in the window at us and kept walking. Simon stared at him. Every now and then a psycho would walk the South End looking for some action. Simon looked down to his smoke and watched the guy walk off. I took a drink from my root beer,

“Maybe she likes you. How much bullshit did you lay on her?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“When you transverse North America to go to her place she isn’t going to take it another way besides you liking her.”

He didn’t say anything. A tow truck rolled by with the Mailbu. We sat there for a few hours. It was dark. We headed down Western. Outside of the gas station my brother walked out with a swollen eye. It was puffed up and purple and closed. He saw us. He was loaded.

“What are you two doing here?”

“Car took a shit on us. You going back home soon?”

“Hell no. I’m going to find that son of a bitch that slipped me this mickey. I know where he ran to.”

I was going to ask him for the house key, but I could tell it was going to be another night of hell at the house.

“All right, Bob. You be careful.”

“You go do what you have to do. I’m gonna do what I have to do.”

He took off. I looked at Simon.

“We can try Karen’s. I haven’t seen her in a while. She’s probably home.”

“Doe she have a new boyfriend?”

“I don’t know.”

We walked to the house. I knocked. She opened the door and stared at me.

“Hi, Karen.”

“What are you doing here?”

“We’re stranded. This is Simon, my buddy from Phoenix.”

“Get out of here.”

Simon laughed. A big guy with a mustache appeared behind her. He pushed her out of the way and tackled me. We fell down the steps and rolled into the yard. I pushed him off. Simon was right next to me. He started walking over to the guy. I grabbed his arm.

“Fuck it, Simon. Let’s go.”

The big guy ran behind us and shoved Simon into the bushes. Karen watched from the porch. We had broken up because she had changed overnight. She wouldn’t talk to me or sleep with me. Now she had hooked up with this loser. He’d never leave, her or the town. The mustache grabbed me again. This time I dug an elbow into his ribs. He backed off, and I turned around and dropped him. Karen ran off the porch and jumped on my back. The neighbors were watching. She was hitting me and biting me, calling me everything under the sun. Simon pulled her off of me. She stood there screaming and balling:

“GET OUT OF MY LIFE! JUST GET OUT OF MY LIFE!”

We walked off. Simon lit us a couple of smokes.

“You can always try Connecticut with me.”

“I’ve been there a few times. That’s your deal.”

“You’ve been to Denver, too. Living with Roll’s gonna get bad. You know how crazy that cocksucker is. The dude drinks like a fish and he never sleeps.”

I thought about me by myself on a bus heading west. It’s how I wanted to leave.

“And if you go east with me, we can hit the city for a while. I know a couple of girls in Brooklyn. When the weather breaks bad we’ll head out west again. I’ll buy the tickets. Man, fuck this life.”

At the hotel I packed my things. I only had some folders with my writing and a few sets of clothes. I saw my typer on the window sill. I had bought it for 6 dollars at the thrift store, and the H key was busted. I tipped it over the sill and watched it break down there. I couldn’t help but feel like going with Simon was a mistake, but I hardly had the money to do anything else. And he was right about Roll. I’d known Roll a long time, and Simon had actually made some sense. I left my brother a message and told him I’d see him in a few months. Before Simon bought the other ticket I made him call the girl and ask her if I could go along. He held the phone out.

“She wants to talk to you.”

I put the phone to my ear.

“Hello.”

“So you’re the famous one.”

“Come again.”

“Simon’s told me a lot about you. You’re the writer, the next writer.”

“Don’t listen to him.”

“Things get bad in Peoria?”

“They’re alright. It’s time to move on. Do you have enough room?”

“God, yes. One thing I have here is room.”

Her voice sounded weird. There was something about it.

“Why don’t you come on out with him?”

“I’ll go along. Maybe there’s a job around there somewhere.”

“Don’t count on it, but don’t worry about it.”

“All right. Here’s Simon.”

He took the phone and told her when we were showing up. She was picking us up at the station.

We got the backseats. The bus pulled out and headed east. Simon looked back, “There it goes, man. Don’t you want to see it?”

“Nope. It’s an illusion.”

let me tell you a little about Shantel,

she grew up in a broken home, two parents in shambles. her parents had no clue how to raise children, and no matter how many parenting books they read, they were completely blind to their daughter's deterioration.

she grew up with boys touching every place they could reach, she grew up with everyone telling her right was wrong and wrong was right.

I see her now, through a cloud of second hand smoke, her crystal blue eyes permanently glazed over.

I once jokingly asked her if her lungs were like comets now, after all of the cigarettes and blunts she's consumed. she laughed me off, but her smile didn't reach her eyes.

the child within me has convinced myself that since she's smoked so many cigarettes in this life, she's going to be a shooting star in her next life.

I've had plenty of "good friends" who always never had the mettle to keep in touch. We were always close and supportive when we could see each other most days, but as soon as I left or they did, they act as though we never brothers in arms or the best of friends. I've put my life in danger to make sure they were the ones that got to go home and never a thank you. I've taken their duty or did their work so they could go on a tour. My old friend I write about is that guy. The selfless man who did everything since I/he didn't have that much of a social life so they could go enjoy some time off. I/he was the one to go to the boss and say,"Hey chief, I don't have much of a life outside of work, let so and so off and I'll do their stuff. No worries." This was always followed by a smile and a nod. "You're a good man, you'll be a great chief someday. Your workshop will love you, but remember, they'll take it for granted." I nodded and gave a short laugh. "Oh, I know, I'm the boss, and never the friend. They'll never understand what it means to give up your free time in the way I do. I work more than I relax." "It'll kill you, working this hard, you know." Chief added on as he pulled up his backpack to his shoulder as he walked through the door. "It'll kill me if I don't. It's a cruel, double sided blade." "Don't I know it bud." He pulls his shades down and turns the corner.

Mike and I stopped hanging out together the summer before 8th grade. We were best friends and had been finishing each other's sentences for almost 10 years; he was my adopted brother out of suburban thin air.

We lived across the street from each other in a neighborhood made up of cookie cutter houses filled with cracked-up house wives covered in terry cloth jumpers. Where Playboy magazine, The Wide World of Sports and Evel Knievel held more influence than sister, brother, parent or God.

The summer before 8th grade, Mike moved across town into a huge house his Dad built. The grand, majestic castle sat fat and happy, proudly on two lots of land overlooking the river.

The distance caused our friendship to fade away like a lumpy purple bruise. It's amazing how you can spend almost every second of your life with someone and then never really talk to them again.

When Mike moved away, I realized that growing up was going to kind of suck sometimes and that change was going to be my new best friend. I was going to have to be my own man someday.

I still carry the banner for our time when Saturday mornings were special and meant something. When we had our neighborhood, our friendship. When we felt the finish line ribbon break across our chest.

I grew up in the last generation where people memorized their friends' telephone number and birthday. Teresa's was 503-761-9548. Birthday, May 31st.

We traded lunch items the first day of first grade and got caught by Ms. Diaz. I was furious. Teresa wanted to trade an entire bag of cheetohs for my jumbo fruit roll-up. When I say bag, I mean, a gallon sack overflowing with processed, crunchy corn. Teresa just smiled sweetly at Ms. Diaz as I watched sullenly and tried not to yell.

Her dad had an asian girlfriend of unknown nationality that could win any game at Chuck E Cheese which came in handy at Teresa's 7th birthday party. We were rolling in tickets and candy and we laughed all afternoon.

At the end of the year, she said, "See you next year."

I didn't see her for five years.

By the time sixth grade rolled around I hadn't heard anything from her. Then one day in the fall, she just walked into the classroom like she'd really been back to the future and expected everything to be the same. She was still tiny. I'd had a wild growth spurt and was creeping up on 5'4 but she barely clocked 5 feet. Teresa was a perfect miniature human being and I had missed her.

"Where did you GO?!" I asked at lunch time.

"My dad was running from the IRS and moved us to the midwest."

"Where is he now?"

She blinked her eyelashes like ostrich feathers.

"I don't really care. Want to read this amazing new book series I just started?"

"Sure. But who are you living with?"

We were 12, almost 13 and I wanted to offer my trundle bed for her use.

"My mom and her husband. And our Akitas, Shiro and Neera."

We'd hang out at her place with the gigantic dogs that were double her weight. I started my period there as we sat on her roof one afternoon listening to the traffic on I-205. Teresa offered me some chocolate and I ate it silently, trying to conjure up a way to keep us girls forever.

I found out from my mother that her step-father had been molesting her for several years. Teresa never mentioned it.

Your smile dazzles me now just as much as it did twenty five years ago. You sense of fun still hits the spot, despite us both starting to show our age so badly.

The mischief you make continues to amuse, as does all those old jokes I've listened to a zillion times.

The girls still flock to your side like they always did, that smile of yours just draws 'em in and try as I might I just don't have your magnicity!

There's still no one I would rather be with than you, despite the fall outs and arguments we've had.

As much as I am loathe to admit it, I love you dearly old friend.

I'd liked him since we could barely read and hardly form sentences

Our ignorant little minds couldn't handle feelings yet

He teased me, I didn't care

Cuz secretly I told all my friends he liked me

By fifth grade we were still friends

He had dated girls already, I said that was totally stupid

Cuz secretly I wanted him for myself.

We power read through the last

Three Harry Potter's

Got me to read two Twilights

And made me lie when I told

Her I read the last one

Now she has new friends

Doing the mid night viewing of 50 Shades

And I don't even know her anymore

All faced booked and fancied up

She's an exhibition

And I'm rummaging

I am pretty good at surrounding myself with transitory people. Friendships that bloom quickly and overflow with beauty, laughter and comfort, only to stop short, fizzle and fade away. I still miss her, and love her and crave our former intimacy. I day dream about that year.

We were twelve years old and she had the longest blonde hair I had ever seen. We shared the same favorite boy band, and spent many nights pouring over our shared obsession. She was my closest confidant and pulled me out of my shell.

I have never laughed as much as I did that first summer. We would talk on the phone all day, waiting for our favorite music videos to play on MTV. They still played music back in the 90's. In the evenings one of us would finagle a ride and we would sit in the cool grass or a messy bedroom and talk about nothing and everything. We would summon ghosts at naive seances and drink caffeine by the two liter. Dissolved into giggles, we planned a life long friendship.

The next year something changed. We grew up into the space of early teenagehood where you always think you know who you are. Your identity changes week by week and you surround yourself with others who fit each new paradigm. Suddenly we were last year's school clothes. Sleeves too short and buttons gaping open. We just didn't fit. When we tried to squeeze ourselves back in, we were surrounded by unnerving silence. One day she was just gone.

I ruined you because I was angry.

I just stopped liking you because you had feelings and I didn't.

It wasn't jealousy. I was annoyed.

You cried because you had a debilitating condition that would never go away.

Well, goddamnit, so do I. You just get your fancy little needles to show for it and what do I get? Darkness under my eyes and stumbling memories. At least you had the scars to show for it! I had nothing! I struggled more than you ever did, and yet there you were, getting actual doctors and actual treatment with actual chemicals and medicine and diagnostics and-- and-- and I got nothing! I got stared at for napping at break, and at lunch, and in class, and even in my own bed! I got yelled at for not being able remember things because my brain prioritizes consciousness from recollection! I got teachers who rolled their eyes at me when I turned in half complete homework when really, you know what? I was passed out at my desk because my FUCKING brain doesn't WORK like YOURS and NO ONE BELIEVED ME!

...

I'm sorry.

I'm still bitter.

It's just that...

Every time I saw you inject insulin into your blood, every time you downed a pill, every time you wore a hospital bracelet like it was a fashion statement...

I kept thinking... God, if it could just be that easy.

You started crying once about how your condition was incurable. You went on and on and I could hardly restrain myself. You fucker, you think you're suffering? Oh, the horrible things I thought.

When you finally left the cafeteria all teary eyed, I was angrier than I'd ever been. My friends looked to me because they knew-- they KNEW what I was feeling. I just smiled and kept up the conversation, despite their nervous looks--

And none of them knew of the horrible decision, the ruthless action I'd just taken.

She came back to the table and asked me something-- I didn't listen. She no longer existed. She'd competed with me long enough and it was time I got rid of her.

No matter what she said I ignored it. I forgot about her. She no longer existed. It was petty and mean and awful but oh, so satisfying.

She was sent back crying again, angry tears this time. "Why won't you listen to me?!" To who? I'm sorry, did you hear something?

And my friends, they knew. They saw it immediately. They noticed how my eyes fixed on a point in the distance just across from me, and looked right past the eyes in the way.

And what I regret most is that they copied me. Seven empty stares where a focused gaze once was. An empty spot at the table when she finally, finally transferred, and I didn't have to live with her looming over me in that stupid way where she apologized and did nothing to make me angry.

I'm sorry, Rachel. The humane part of me is so, so sorry. I did something awful to you. I ruined two years of your life. I exiled you from the only friends you had all because of a silly bitter resentment. You'll always remember me and everyone we knew as monsters, as the bullies that we were.

But a tiny part of me wants to tattoo those years on the back of your fucking eyelids.

I'm sorry, Rachel. But I'm not.

(Some clarification because I feel bad! Rachel was a friend in seventh grade that had mild diabetes. She would only ever talk about things relating to it and it made me jealous of how she could control her condition, whereas I was stuck with incurable and uncontrollable narcolepsy for the rest of my life. I started ignoring her and pretending she didn't exist, and this led to her transferring schools because it became so painful for her. I regret this horribly and feel awful every time I think about it... But there is a part of me that's still very angry.)