By Max Steiner.
If someone asks you—like say the USPS guy passes by you where you’re tossed belly sunward on the lawn and on his way to the mail slot asks you—hey there kid what’s new, you say nothing much, except lately what you’ve been up to is you got the hang of holding your breath real nice & long, a good three minutes plus some change, is why you’re lying on the lawn like starfished with a belt three notches tight around your chest so you don’t cheat, until your eyes go flat & milky and your mom yells thru the kitchen window at you quit messing around and get your ass up off the grass and stop embarrassing the mailman. She doesn’t get it, but it’s exactly the type stuff that used to give your dad a real kick when he’d by chance find out, you down by the Family Video after one of their pipes popped and sifting thru a dumpster-load of DVDs wiped off the bottom rack, you turning up mostly R-rated trash you’re lazy about hiding and hide behind the fatback tv, and when your mom again yells at you thru the kitchen window you know it’s time to snap out of it and check on the guy who lives in the shed out back, where you help him run warm water thru his hair and scrub the spots he misses because he can’t see them or maybe it’s just that his hands won’t reach.
If someone asks you—like say the Kroger lady steps over you where you’re flat on your back in aisle nine and on her way to stack Kraft and Campbells asks you—hey there kid what’s new, you say nothing much, except lately what you’ve been taking a serious crack at is corking your lungs real tight & close, is why you’re next to the freezers at the grocery store staring at the drop ceiling with duct-tape over your nose so you don’t cheat, until your cheeks are shot a deeper red and your mom yells at you from over by the cash register to cut it out and get up off the waxed tile and stop hassling the stocker. She doesn’t get it, but it’s exactly the type stuff your dad used to split his sides over when he’d by chance catch on, you trying to shotgun beers until all it did was taste gross, your thumb pissing blood from two blocks down all the way to the kitchen sink after you slipped trying to key-punch a hole in the can, and when your mom again yells at you on her way out the automatic sliding doors you know it’s time to get a grip and check on the guy who lives in the shed out back, where you pick his dirty laundry off the floor and shuffle dishes into the little sink in the corner so they don’t get too much for him to wash all at once.
If someone asks you—like say the freshman lifeguard strolls past you where you’re kneeling by the pool’s edge and on his climb up the high seat asks you—hey there kid what’s new, you say nothing much, except lately what you’ve been after is that one big gulp to last you safe & clear, is why you’re kneeling by the water with your head dipped down below so you don’t cheat, until the deep-end sun comes crashing sideways and your mom yells at you in her car out in the parking lot to screw your head on right side up and get out of the pool and stop bugging the lifeguard. She doesn’t get it, but it’s exactly the type stuff that used to put this shit-eating grin on your dad when he’d by chance care to notice, you down by the dealership to win a Ford with both your hands on one of the hoods that’s been baking hours in the sun, you barely able to finger your belt plus pants loose from all the blisters when your bladder gets you second place, and when your mom again yells and leans on the horn you know it’s time to finally deal and check on the guy who lives in the shed out back, where you take out the trash and clear the fridge of stuff that’s been maybe sitting in there too long already.
If someone asks you—like say the crossing guard flashing his stop sign nods at you where you’re sitting on the bus bench and spits out his whistle and asks you—hey there kid what’s new, you say nothing much, except lately what’s been keeping you busy is sucking on zero air real slow & steady, is why you’re hogging the bench with a brown paper bag over your head so you don’t cheat, until veins crawl thick like shoelaces upside your head and your mom texts you to knock it off already and get off the bench and stop harassing the crossing guard. She doesn’t get it, but it’s exactly the type thing that used to slow up your dad for just a sec so he’d really look back into you, you and him and a blown-out airbag and the smell of gas pooling, you fiddling with his seatbelt where he’s strapped in and just looking at you calm & wide just while you fail and fail to get him buckle-free and then your breath starts to shallow and it’s lights out and you wish it’d lasted longer just a little bit, and when your mom again texts you and tries to call you you know it’s time to get to it and check on the guy who lives in the shed out back, where you sit with him and watch license plates go by outside, and after a little while of this, you two together moving your heads left right left right left, he says like almost to himself says well now would you look at that, and so you try to follow and you look real hard and look but still you can’t exactly tell exactly what it is he’s seeing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Max Steiner lives in Berlin. More of his fiction’s in Ploughshares, SmokeLong Quarterly, and SAND Journal. You can DM him on Twitter @lightxnoise if you’d like to spit-ball about whatever.
