I never told you what it was like, after they yanked me from peewee Saturday for dick wagging. Funny thing was, I don’t remember you there. My wife. My thoughts were for the strangers around us—all our wonderful friends.

What if?

What if everyone took a tiny photo of my big dangle? What if everybody knew I was forever ruined and diseased and something they weren’t? What if peewee Saturday was during the cider-crisp Fall of 2020, and felt like droppin’ trousers inside L.L. Bean?

I could do a whole lot of things here. Apologize. But it’d be bad ideas wrapped around my throat. To keep you from talkin’. I just do things. Peewee Saturday. Nobody gives a finger-fuck.

Remember the honeymoon? We floated on Jungle Book Lagoon, and orangey lily petals rained down and you promised you’d love me forever, and we boned by that glitchy robo-bear? I wondered who was in charge, who was supposed to make that bear behave. Well, you couldn’t remember—you were donezo—and I was Anglo-peevish. All week I’d been thinkin’ to murder something, and once you were numb, I ran down a lemur and cracked his noodle with a coconut while the glitchy bear watched. And for the first time, at Euro Disney, I breathed.

So, we’re kind of strangers, you and me.

But later, after I was tased and cuffed and stuffed, and I sat in the dayroom feeling all that propaganda on my hands, I saw you on the news. I saw B roll of our kids weeping, while I screamed, “Europe’s a matriarchy!” and the umpire got me in a headlock. I saw your vapor tears and I heard you say, “Didn’t know, didn’t know.” And later, I dreamed that our wonderful friends cast you out. I dreamed your shithead parents turned heel to spite you. And I dreamed pictures of the life we hated together. And later when you called here to say, “Joseph,” I asked, “Do you remember the bear?” 

Bend Genres With Us!

Join our mailing list to receive the latest updates about new issues, contests, submission periods, and workshops.

You have Successfully Subscribed!

Pin It on Pinterest