my boss


he stuck around much later than usual. it was uncommon, but pleasant, as i enjoyed our conversations to a vast degree. the dialogue only substantial in the respect that he made me laugh a lot and laughed at what i said. it was a good recreational balance. we sat at the far end of the diner, and he took off his name tag. i've done some terrible stuff today, he said. i played a guessing game as to what could have been so terrible. work related suppositions. all my questions were denied, but he asked me to continue asking because it was fun for him. i gave up. do you promise not to tell anyone, he said. i looked at him blankly, and asked who do i have to talk to. okay. today i locked myself in the office with two girls. two. i was baffled at first. i didn't want to assume what i knew he meant. that he, a married man, a proud parent of two, would so selfishly fondle two young girls in his two by three foot office. i realized why earlier, when i had arrived at work, a joke was made about being locked in the office, and i was subsequently locked in the office with him. we talked politics in the dark. then i felt awkward and opened the door to leave. the space was too tight. and earlier he had assured me in a motherly way that i too have breasts, like a woman should, but referred to them as "boobs." such a nasty word, and what a stupid reference for such a great portion of flesh. at that moment i stared down at my modest chest and cupped my hands over the protrusions. a perfect fit.

i asked him what he planned on doing. what was to come of this incident in reference to his wife. how long had he been married, he is only thirty. seven years, seven year itch, i say. he concludes that he will ignore the situation. i reassure him that this is the obvious and wise choice in the matter, and he should be proud of himself for being so concerned for his wife's emotional state, that he would put it upon himself to refuse to tell her the painful news. wisdom, sir. pure and simple. and while he laughs i explain this is no laughing matter. why is such a grown man so daft. why are ramifications ignored. and how can inexperience tell experience what is right?

parts of me know how i should resent him. i know what betrayal is. i've seen it, and it made me unwillingly befriend what i now know as agony. so where is the disdain? i don't feel it. where is righteousness? where is integrity?

we climb onto the roof, and he boosts me up onto the ladder by palming the left side of my ass. i commend him for his ploy, and say, this isn't about going onto the roof at all. it's completely an opportunity to grope young girls. he assures me that i have a nice ass, and shouldn't be ashamed of the flattery. where do people learn to talk sometimes? we stand on the roof and stare out at our ghost town. a place of nothing but used car lots and gas stations. i smoke apathetically. where does anyone get off?

i ask him if he ever gets a specific random phrase stuck in his head for days. he affirms. i say, the phrase stuck in my head right now is "good old fashion masturbation." how well that rolls off the tongue. i turn to ask a question and he says, here, have some of this. and smashes a triple chocolate cream pie into my face. i pause with confusion, and then instinctively begin to grab the hunks of pudding off my face, and throw in his direction.

we run outside and find ourselves sitting on her car. she says she's going to leave. the idea is, she won't leave if we sit on her car. she puts the car in drive, and accelerates quickly through the parking lot. we look at eachother and simultaneously point out that this is a dangerous situation. she accelerates more. then slams on the breaks. he jumps off, and i remain, only to be thrown quickly into reverse, clinging to the hood of the car.

we sat and drew pictures.

he told me about his son who spots ants from miles away.

i listen attentively. until i'm bored, and begin casually throwing plates on the floor. just to watch them break. to hear a loud noise through all the silence.



main street

one night in all my sadness i sat, in the ancient yellow chair, wrapped in the knitted blue blanket my grandmother had made for me, drinking two bottles of the same red wine. he came into that back room with me, peaked in, and said, i imagine you look just like sylvia plath did before she offed herself. at the time, i took it as a confused compliment.

i'm trying to get past nostalgia. makes times greater. drunk.


where does all this concern come from? oh yeah, i created it.