I wait like the lifeguard's whistle after adult swim. All the kids are lined up at the edge in colorful swimsuits, inflatables wrapped on their arms, shoving and jeering. A man does the backstroke in the far lane, his rotund, hairy belly breaching rhythmically.
I wait like an answer when I ask Kelly to prom. Her hair is
tied up in a great brown loop which bobs from side to side. Her
lips curl at the edges as she slams her locker door and says, "no
way," back turned. I walk to the darkroom to sift solutions of
her image with quiet love.
The old man strings a guitar in the backroom on 17th. The
upward tension is an easing timbre, bursting into a sharp,
broken twang. "Fucking bastard!" After a few moments the
saloon doors swing with dismay. He swipes a new set off the
shelf like any other casual shopper and goes back to twist on
resounding cellulose.
I wait like the seconds before rain, when the cyclic motion of our etched wax finished and the abyss of silence crashed into us. After stitching my pants the topic was climax. Somehow she left wearing clothes. Water dripped from the kitchen faucet that night but it had for months. I ended up with all her furniture. I wait like my mother waits for death. She's in bed on the second floor of my sister's apartment in New Haven, yelling at the dog we buried last year. A bottle of gin hides breathless in the dresser as the abscess in her brain suffocates her knowing us.
The guy in front of me takes another step. So do I. We're in an olive-green line, boots forward, in steady procession taking half a minute apiece, leaning so we can see the bare arms of those before us. It's like I was shaken awake as we'd drawn near. Two doctors administer the vaccines and each have four shots. I wish I had tattoos like another layer of skin built of dedication. The guys with tattoos were fine. I stepped up to lift my shirt around my neck and needles plunged into my arms on either side. As the fluid pumped I lowered into darkness, close moments ending recess.
Before the bell I waver on unending fatigue, strumming defiance. The guard’s whistle blows and I plunge deeper. The silver salt connects under red light so I leave with a dried stack of prints to show my father, but he's busy calculating facade while the dog barks. Another strum. "Fucking bastard!" The gin bottle is our faucet and she blames me while the sting of stitched jeans hits my sides. I wake up kicked in the ribs. "Pussy!" more shoving and jeering. They pull me upright onto a chair in the barracks, all eight shots in my arms.