crossing over
we'd been spit forward from our youth
and were now in middle school.
the building looked more like a prison than most prisons did,
it was a brick institutional monstrosity,
a block of cells in wrought iron and concrete,
as gloomy as anything that could be imagined.
it felt like we were prisoners
being left to fend for ourselves,
and we instantly acted the part.
everyone was sneering all the time now,
it was almost like you had no choice.
people started attacking each other in the halls.
there was a homicidal little kid with a napoleon complex
who was always starting shit with someone.
he grabbed my friend matt
and threw him to the ground one day,
then he'd gone after jimmy on the way to class,
"what are you gonna do? what are you gonna do?"
jimmy didn't want to fight, but he didn't want to back down either
and there was a crowd there watching.
"i'm gonna kick your ass!" he shouted back, somewhat unsurely.
"go ahead, kick it then!! kick it!!"
if this was a move towards adulthood,
then i was going to go back to the other school
and remain a little kid for the rest of my life.
the girls were growing up faster than the boys,
some of them looked like little women already.
there was a girl named liz
who had a fully grown chest
and a pair of the best legs anyone had ever seen -
they were better than any of the adults',
and her feet were just as flawless.
she either knew she'd become hot shit
or she'd just always been that self-assured,
she walked around like a queen among subjects,
bestowing a nod or a grin upon the star-struck masses as she swept through the halls.
i was in awe of those legs, those feet,
i was powerless before them.
the year went by epically slowly.
the lockers slammed like cell doors clanging shut,
the gyms were like gulags,
the cafeteria like the common room at an asylum,
all cold fluorescent light and sinister olive tile.
i'd had my own fight recently,
against a crazy little armenian on the wrestling team.
we'd gone back and forth in band class one day,
i'd told him to 'burn in hell' and then we'd made an appointment
to meet down in the locker room in the basement.
i said a prayer in the bathroom at ten minutes to three,
feeling like a man being led to the gallows,
then went down to the lockers and met him halfway across the room.
he threw a few punches and then i backed down,
i pussied out, i ran away.
i wasn't built for this shit. i didn't want to fight anyone.
i didn't want anyone to fight anyone else either.
the next day in the cafeteria,
my friends were disappointed, they'd been there and saw.
at the lake one night,
my dad was laying into me for something,
i'd done something wrong or shown some sort of disrespect.
when my dad got angry he was a fearsome sight,
it was like a dark cloud massing on the horizon,
he turned black and his eyes flared
and then it looked like he was going to kill you.
i went down into the basement to get away from him, i was crying.
my mother followed me down.
i told my mother i was afraid of my father.
she didn't know what to say.
she looked confused at first, then ashamed.
even if it was true, it wasn't something i was supposed to be admitting.
it showed a lack of character, or something similar.
i knew it, even then i knew it. i was ashamed of myself.
but then, i was ashamed of the world, too,
for putting little kids in a place like that middle school
and making them fight one another
when many of them didn't want to.
it was the longest year of my life.
some guys were starting to find girlfriends,
they were pairing up here and there,
hooking up in the halls
just to prove they were doing it.
but the girls were unanimously staying away from me,
as far away as possible,
as if it were some lesson they'd been told i needed learning.
i developed nervous tics, i clenched my neck,
i hunched my shoulders convulsively
and threw my head around with an odd little shake.
the armenian kid noticed and started to calling me 'twitch'.
it didn't catch on, no one else joined him.
i was kind of surprised it didn't, i'd been expecting it to.
the building was such a piece of shit it barely lasted the year.
the following year they knocked it down
and we were all shuttled over to the high school a grade early.
it was a much nicer building and much closer to the house,
only a ten minute's walk away.
i suppose it should have been a breath of fresh air, but it wasn't.
the table had been set.
it would take me five years to feel good again.
watershed
before,
there were houses in the suburbs
with yards and fences,
little cherubs running around,
ballgames and barbeques.
before,
there were pinstripe suits
and briefcases full of papers,
careers in accountancy
or the law,
quiet nights by the fire,
acquaintances in cavalcade
and all the expectant wonders of life.
a wife waiting at the door,
pleasant smells from the kitchen,
apple pie and afternoon sunshine,
what my parents had
and theirs before them.
friends aplenty
and abounding good cheer,
good times galore,
a normal life
spent normally.
after,
there was stillness and silence,
blackout shades,
closed eyes,
strange threadbare apartments
and stark naked light.
a winter frozen in time.
after,
there was beer
and loose women,
the drifting of boundaries,
a cessation of goodwill,
a loss of harmony.
the end of handshakes and covenants,
of belief in systems,
an end to civility.
a withdrawal
from my own vision.
memories of the cliff.
echoes only.
no more weddings, no holidays,
no places of refuge,
no benchmarks of progress
or mileposts to guide by,
only songs to take their place,
songs and poems,
forlorn and fearful.
sounds they'd never hear,
that were not for them,
anymore than i was for them.
her eyes,
sometimes in the dark,
her eyes.
that crooked smile.
the sound of her voice,
all that filled me.
the years screamed away.
it ended right there.
state of affairs
a round peg for a square world,
a small mistake.
the slightest of miscalculations:
could happen to any architect.
a few crossed wires,
a slightly faulty map,
a path not traveled,
for good reason.
a circling spiral
on a maddeningly straight line,
a spin round town
in a car not mine.
a dead end,
with no reverse gear.
i wander the wasteland drunk.
i slip between raindrops
with the grace of a skunk.
my neurons flap helpless
but the thoughts are all thunk.
no one is around.
no one needs to be.
autopilot,
a few more bumps in the road
and then
we call it even.
put paid to it.
the roach
we have roaches at the 'new' house
here in garner.
we've been battling them for the past three years
and i think we finally have them on the ropes,
however every so often another one rears its ugly head
and we have to take appropriate steps.
last night i was sitting at the computer,
a little past eleven, and there another one was.
it was standing on the ceiling with its little antennae twirling,
daring me to come and get it.
i took my shirt off and planned my attack.
from past experience, i knew it was going to be tricky:
if i smacked it at its present position,
it would drop down behind the desk and then vanish into thin air,
or go charging around hiding in every nook and cranny along the way
like some fucking escape artist.
this had happened dozens of times before.
i waited him out for awhile but he wasn't budging,
he was just staring me down.
fine, i'd have to do it the hard way.
i raised up and smacked him with the shirt and he dropped to the ground,
behind the computer.
and the chase was on – first spinning in a tight circle, the roach then ran along the wall,
heading for the mass of cables and heavy dust that had accumulated
between the desk and the filing cabinet.
i knew their routine, i'd read their book,
knew their strategies and tactics like the back of my hand -
anticipating its move in advance, i went for the filing cabinet
shirt in hand
to head it off at the pass.
there it was, scurrying along madly like the clever little bastard it was,
making for daylight.
i pounced and plunged my hand forward,
applying the squeeze.
i removed my hand and he was heading for the exits again.
i parried once more, and again no dice,
he was still alive and kicking.
these things were fucking supernatural,
there was no way to beat them.
they subsisted on nothing, fended off attacks effortlessly,
laughed in the face of every effort to subdue them.
i'd heard it would be the bees next
who would replace us as masters of the universe
but my bet was on these guys.
anyway, after the third strike
one of its legs had come off
and it wasn't really moving around anymore,
it was kind of just lying there, wedged in between the carpet and the molding.
i figured it had to be over.
i went into the bathroom and returned with a sheet of toilet paper
to apply the coup de grace.
reaching forward once again to collect the remains,
i brought the toilet paper up to inspect
and there was nothing there,
i looked down and the roach was gone.
vanished, evaporated,
disappeared without a trace,
as if it had never been there in the first place.
all that was left was the one little leg
i'd sheared off earlier.
holy shit.
i went around the room,
searching in vain for any further signs of the enemy,
and there were none to be found.
this was starting to reach conspiratorial levels.
the thing had been about the size of my fist,
there was simply no place for it to go.
but then again, there never was.
fucking magic, what could you say.
i went downstairs for a glass of water,
grumbling to myself.
aly was now tossing and turning in bed
in the next room,
i'd woken her up (yet again).
i poured the water in the glass, drank it down,
went in the bathroom and found another goddamn roach,
this one even bigger than the last.
fortunately this one went a lot easier -
one shot with the shirt and it was folded up like a lawn chair,
ready to be neatly deposited in the toilet.
i went back upstairs and checked the office one more time,
just for shits and giggles,
and lo and behold there was the roach,
lying on its back in the exact same spot
it had vanished from fifteen minutes earlier.
ha, you nasty little fucker, i got your ass after all.
the ogre wins.
chalk one up for the bipeds.
some people went drinking at night,
some fought with their wives,
some watched television until their eyes fell out of their heads -
me, i battled roaches.
that was my lot in life.
i'd told aly the other day that i was the 'Galactic Sheriff',
that i'd been saddled with the burden of cleaning up the cosmic neighborhood.
one misbehaving inanimate object at a time.
the idea had mainly applied to computers and microwaves and things,
but i supposed it also could have been extended to include roaches.
i went to bed feeling triumphant
and proceeded to sleep the sleep of the innocent.
the Galactic Sheriff strikes again.
the ole switcheroo
ya been gypped,
ya been bamboozled,
they fed you a line
and you fell for it,
you et it right up.
all life long,
you're waiting for it,
for something to change,
something to happen,
you're in your prime
and there's oodles of time.
there are no lines on your face,
no crow's feet or varicose veins,
very few battle scars,
your bones are new
and your eyes are clear,
no creaky joints
or squeaky wheels,
and they tell you
'wait, just wait,
lend us your time
and we'll pay it back to you,
in spades...'
and you wait,
but it never comes.
the weekends fly by
and the holidays come and go
and there's christmas and new year's
and a few trips to the beach
and then one day
you wake up,
and the lines on your face have arrived
and you're too tired to take a shower
and you stare at yourself
in the mirror
and nothing's changed,
nothing's changed.
the heist is complete,
the trick has been pulled,
like some magic act from hell
they've performed the ole switcheroo,
the hours and days and years of your life
replaced with evaporated mist,
with empty air,
with the residue of dreams.
the time is gone
and you've nothing to show for it.
you were sold a bill of goods
they never even intended to deliver.
millions of fools,
just like you,
all waking up in the morning
and witnessing the same thing,
some of them wise to the swindle,
some not.
and you can get angry
and you can rage,
or you can try to laugh it off,
do some drinking
and forget all about it,
but the only thing that's for certain
is that there's no going back.
what's lost is lost.
the only thing
you have
are the
hours
of your own
life.
there is nothing else.
*****
Scott Taylor hails from Raleigh, North Carolina. He is a writer and a musician, and an avid world traveler. His short stories and poetry have appeared in numerous print and online publications, including Vast Chasm, Adelaide Literary, Unlikely Stories, Literary Hatchet and Swifts and Slows. His novels ‘Chasing Your Tail’ and ‘Screwed’ have been released with Silver Bow Publishing, and his novellas ‘Freak’ and ‘Ernie and the Golden Egg’ are slated for inclusion in an upcoming anthology with Running Wild Press. He graduated from Cornell University and was a computer programmer in a past life.
