Night Of The Comet

Jenna and I are buds, not the sleeping-together kind, the protect you from losers and freaks in a bar kind. She looks like Gabby Reece with the mouth of a sailor and the ass of a Kardashian.
The night sky is alive, dancing with stars and satellites and the people in the airplanes moving from city to city who don’t even know we are looking up at them. And in the center of it all, the mighty comet shines, beckoning us to stare, away from the earthlings and their endless troubles and their amazing inanity.
Follow me she sings, and we are tempted, mightily so as her tail calls us to climb up and take a ride for which there is no end.
My tires let out a faint screech as we turn the sharp corners, going way too fast, up the long canyon to Jenna’s house, where I will drop her off before she gets drunk and fucks her loser roommate for the umpteenth million time.
But for now, she holds my hand and I dream of a life together that will not, can not ever ever happen.
There’s a hitchhiker and we slow down pick him up, but change our mind when we notice something odd about his silhouette. Is that machete in his hand? I look in the mirror just in time to see him flip us off.
Jenna opens the glove box and from behind my expired registration, pulls out an old stale pack of Twinkies, asking where they came from. I tell her I have no idea, but they are probably still good since Twinkies stay good for a decade, and my car is only 3 years old.
She opens the pack and stuffs one into her mouth, then rolls down the window and spits it out, laughing and screaming like a madwoman, slapping the dashboard so hard I think she going to break it.
Later, when I’m driving home alone, a song by the Church comes on about the Milky Way, and I notice a white rose she’s stuck in her air vent, which is filling the car with the scent of sweet, sweet love.
I open the sunroof and reach up, trying the grab the comet with my hands, but it’s elusive, like a hologram or a movie or a reflection.
The wheels screech again, reminding me how very precious life is. I step harder on the gas, blissfully unconcerned.
The night sky is alive, dancing with stars and satellites and the people in the airplanes moving from city to city who don’t even know we are looking up at them. And in the center of it all, the mighty comet shines, beckoning us to stare, away from the earthlings and their endless troubles and their amazing inanity.
Follow me she sings, and we are tempted, mightily so as her tail calls us to climb up and take a ride for which there is no end.
My tires let out a faint screech as we turn the sharp corners, going way too fast, up the long canyon to Jenna’s house, where I will drop her off before she gets drunk and fucks her loser roommate for the umpteenth million time.
But for now, she holds my hand and I dream of a life together that will not, can not ever ever happen.
There’s a hitchhiker and we slow down pick him up, but change our mind when we notice something odd about his silhouette. Is that machete in his hand? I look in the mirror just in time to see him flip us off.
Jenna opens the glove box and from behind my expired registration, pulls out an old stale pack of Twinkies, asking where they came from. I tell her I have no idea, but they are probably still good since Twinkies stay good for a decade, and my car is only 3 years old.
She opens the pack and stuffs one into her mouth, then rolls down the window and spits it out, laughing and screaming like a madwoman, slapping the dashboard so hard I think she going to break it.
Later, when I’m driving home alone, a song by the Church comes on about the Milky Way, and I notice a white rose she’s stuck in her air vent, which is filling the car with the scent of sweet, sweet love.
I open the sunroof and reach up, trying the grab the comet with my hands, but it’s elusive, like a hologram or a movie or a reflection.
The wheels screech again, reminding me how very precious life is. I step harder on the gas, blissfully unconcerned.
Drips

I’m still a little bit in love with every woman I’ve ever dated. Like they were ice cream cones, and when I licked them, a little dripped on me and I never washed it off.
Even the ones I loved more, those serial short-term monogamists, who just wanted a boyfriend for the Camping Trip, who were getting back at their exes, who were scared and confused and needed to be touched, their drips are still on me.
And the ones who loved me more than I loved them, the ones who saw my comet and wanted a ride, who believed in me and thought I was their one, well I wish I didn’t, I wish I had the courage to wash those off, but I don’t, so I wear those drips too.
And the few I barely met. That waitress from Redondo Beach. The girl with the mean older brother on the cruise ship. The woman I sat next to in Traffic School. A stranger on Lexington Avenue who winked at me once and kept walking.
Jesus, I thought about wink-girl for fucking weeks, built a castle in my head for us to live in, even had an imaginary baby. After 25 years, I’m still writing about her, and while her power over me has diminished, it’s not completely gone.
I wear all the drips and spatters and mini-messes that stain my clothes, and seep through to my skin. They enter my bloodstream, and become part of me, indivisible. Like mixing dye and water, this shit ain’t never coming out.
The two become one, and when that happens, it’s forever my friends, it’s forever.
Women say they want a man who’s clean, but what they really want is a man who knows how to love, who’s not afraid of love.
A man who shows his drips. They want to be part of that art, and they want that art on them too, like an abstract painting nobody can figure out, but they see as clear as day.
I’ll wear these spatters, these remnants of the past, and I’ll do it with pride, with a smile, and with the gratitude I ever got to love at all.
In Your Dreams

The bar is dark, even in the middle of the day. I’m stuck at a big table in the back, picking grains of salt off my pretzel, dropping them into my beer. They fall slowly, releasing bubbles that swirl back up to the surface, making little foam islands in my glass.
I pick at a hangnail and a drop of blood forms between the nail and skin, and it fucking hurts. I’ve been picking at hangnails my whole life, and it rarely works out well.
pick. blood. pain.
The jukebox is alternating Sinatra and Social D and Barry Manilow, and I wonder who programmed that fucker. There’s nowhere to pick your songs, and no way to turn it off, except to unplug it, which I swear I’ll do if Barry keeps droning.
A light fills the room, and I look over at the door. There she is, tall and confident, with wavy dark hair hidden under a baseball cap for a team I don’t recognize.
The dragons?
She’s got a nose ring and is wearing a sexy halter top with a sparkly unicorn graphic that says “In your dreams.”
Her lips are wet from being licked a moment before, and she’s carrying a large shopping bag from a fancy 5th avenue boutique. I can tell it’s full of her laundry, jeans on the top.
The hipster bartender with a bandana and beard says something to her and they both laugh. Boyfriend?
She gives him a peck on the cheek, and as she’s leaving, glances over at me before she walks out the door. I can see something’s fallen out of her bag, and for a minute I consider picking it up, and running after her. But I don’t.
Now we are alone, the hipster bar tender and me, and I wonder where he’s from and how he makes his facial hair look so cool. Some sort of wax probably.
The jukebox makes a clicking sound, and Mike Ness starts singing the story of his life, and I think I really need to get the fuck out of here, but I can’t, so I order another beer instead.
I pick at a hangnail and a drop of blood forms between the nail and skin, and it fucking hurts. I’ve been picking at hangnails my whole life, and it rarely works out well.
pick. blood. pain.
The jukebox is alternating Sinatra and Social D and Barry Manilow, and I wonder who programmed that fucker. There’s nowhere to pick your songs, and no way to turn it off, except to unplug it, which I swear I’ll do if Barry keeps droning.
A light fills the room, and I look over at the door. There she is, tall and confident, with wavy dark hair hidden under a baseball cap for a team I don’t recognize.
The dragons?
She’s got a nose ring and is wearing a sexy halter top with a sparkly unicorn graphic that says “In your dreams.”
Her lips are wet from being licked a moment before, and she’s carrying a large shopping bag from a fancy 5th avenue boutique. I can tell it’s full of her laundry, jeans on the top.
The hipster bartender with a bandana and beard says something to her and they both laugh. Boyfriend?
She gives him a peck on the cheek, and as she’s leaving, glances over at me before she walks out the door. I can see something’s fallen out of her bag, and for a minute I consider picking it up, and running after her. But I don’t.
Now we are alone, the hipster bar tender and me, and I wonder where he’s from and how he makes his facial hair look so cool. Some sort of wax probably.
The jukebox makes a clicking sound, and Mike Ness starts singing the story of his life, and I think I really need to get the fuck out of here, but I can’t, so I order another beer instead.
Winter's Breath

Between the months of May and October, Big Bear ruled the brood that bounced from south to north and back again. Vagabonds and misfits, they lived in tents and shanties on the river bank, simple dwellings made from twigs and stones and the timber that occasionally flowed downstream, seeking an empty hole to fill.
The spring storms were often fierce, and the snowmelt floods wreaked havoc as the water cried over the dam and down the canyon, giving life and occasionally tearing it asunder,
Bear lived in the trunk of an old tree with his woman Marta and their baby girl Kali, who would play in the sand, building castles and eating government cheese, which they’d acquire in town each Friday, driving the big van with black windows.
Marijuana and whisky were the currency of the community, along with young fuckable women and strong men who could chop wood and build things, all willing participants, all mercenaries in Bear’s Army.
The rafters would arrive in July, when the flow dropped, drifting by in golden pontoons, mouths agape at the nakedness and scent of hemp. Cover your eyes said the parents, and the children would, but they’d peek through their fingers and smile as their insides turned warm.
A couple stopped at the camp one day, and stayed the night, not wanting to leave the love of the group, afraid they would never find it again. The woman came back a month later, all alone, with a red tent and $400 in her pocket, which she gave to Bear as a tithe.
The anglers would show up in August, as the flow dropped further. The pools turned still, giving up the shiny trout that fought like tigers, fought for their lives only to end up in a pan, and then a belly.
By mid-September the nights would cool, and by the end of the month, frost would settle over the camp each morning, reminding everyone it was time to move on.
Three months later, the river was completely alone with herself once more. The current flowed downstream, and she relished the quiet.
The spring storms were often fierce, and the snowmelt floods wreaked havoc as the water cried over the dam and down the canyon, giving life and occasionally tearing it asunder,
Bear lived in the trunk of an old tree with his woman Marta and their baby girl Kali, who would play in the sand, building castles and eating government cheese, which they’d acquire in town each Friday, driving the big van with black windows.
Marijuana and whisky were the currency of the community, along with young fuckable women and strong men who could chop wood and build things, all willing participants, all mercenaries in Bear’s Army.
The rafters would arrive in July, when the flow dropped, drifting by in golden pontoons, mouths agape at the nakedness and scent of hemp. Cover your eyes said the parents, and the children would, but they’d peek through their fingers and smile as their insides turned warm.
A couple stopped at the camp one day, and stayed the night, not wanting to leave the love of the group, afraid they would never find it again. The woman came back a month later, all alone, with a red tent and $400 in her pocket, which she gave to Bear as a tithe.
The anglers would show up in August, as the flow dropped further. The pools turned still, giving up the shiny trout that fought like tigers, fought for their lives only to end up in a pan, and then a belly.
By mid-September the nights would cool, and by the end of the month, frost would settle over the camp each morning, reminding everyone it was time to move on.
Three months later, the river was completely alone with herself once more. The current flowed downstream, and she relished the quiet.
Drifter Princess

When our eyes meet for the first time, everyone else at the party goes slightly out of focus and a spotlight shines on the two of us.
We don’t even know each-others names, but we are already lovers.
I tell her I want to show her something special, something secret, and she laughs at my line, but plays along since this game is fun and we both like fun. We sneak down to the park where I steal my first kiss, and hold hands like high-schoolers on their first date.
She loves foot massages, who doesn’t, and I swear she comes when I rub her toes. Her moan turns my blood to caramel, and the hands on the clock slow to a crawl as a bubble forms around us, shutting out the world.
If I listen carefully, I can hear her heart beating from halfway across the country.
She wears those black pencil-legged pants, like a waitress, though I don’t believe she ever waited tables in her life, at least she doesn’t wait on me. She‘s a drifter princess, a lovely vagabond who knows what men are really after, and enjoys the dance as much as the spiked punch.
She can out-drink a confederate soldier, while painting a picture of a Gerber daisy with her orgasm toes. She can turn a hand-cloth into a gown, trim the sails of your boat, and build a house for your dog while baking cookies.
And she can love, oh yes she can love, turning that spigot on like a fire hose, washing you down the street until you find yourself bruised and beaten and totally spent, wanting to take that ride over and over again until you are dead, because what a lovely way to go.
We only live together for a minute, but I keep her name on the mailbox for more than a year, hoping I’ll open it up and she’ll be in there somewhere.
She has other work to attend to, a dying friend in the East, a First mate position in Jamaica complete with uniform, and a rich boyfriend in Portland she strings along like the rest of us, all looking for our moments in her sun.
We don’t even know each-others names, but we are already lovers.
I tell her I want to show her something special, something secret, and she laughs at my line, but plays along since this game is fun and we both like fun. We sneak down to the park where I steal my first kiss, and hold hands like high-schoolers on their first date.
She loves foot massages, who doesn’t, and I swear she comes when I rub her toes. Her moan turns my blood to caramel, and the hands on the clock slow to a crawl as a bubble forms around us, shutting out the world.
If I listen carefully, I can hear her heart beating from halfway across the country.
She wears those black pencil-legged pants, like a waitress, though I don’t believe she ever waited tables in her life, at least she doesn’t wait on me. She‘s a drifter princess, a lovely vagabond who knows what men are really after, and enjoys the dance as much as the spiked punch.
She can out-drink a confederate soldier, while painting a picture of a Gerber daisy with her orgasm toes. She can turn a hand-cloth into a gown, trim the sails of your boat, and build a house for your dog while baking cookies.
And she can love, oh yes she can love, turning that spigot on like a fire hose, washing you down the street until you find yourself bruised and beaten and totally spent, wanting to take that ride over and over again until you are dead, because what a lovely way to go.
We only live together for a minute, but I keep her name on the mailbox for more than a year, hoping I’ll open it up and she’ll be in there somewhere.
She has other work to attend to, a dying friend in the East, a First mate position in Jamaica complete with uniform, and a rich boyfriend in Portland she strings along like the rest of us, all looking for our moments in her sun.
Me And Food

Part 1: Food as love
I remember sitting in my high-chair, wearing my “Three Bears” bib, watching mom cook dinner. This was before frozen pizzas and hot pockets and pre-packaged meat pies. Back when shit was real. When 6 bags of groceries cost $20 at the Superette. I paid $124 for a single bag at Whole Foods the other day, thought it was a pretty good deal since it was full of meat and booze.
Anyway, I’d sit and watch mom, and if I was a good boy, we’d make cookies and she’d hand me the spoon to lick afterwards. If I was real good, she’d leave a few chips in there, and I’d crunch them up with my baby teeth, knowing my mommy loved me as the warm chocolate coated my throat.
Part 2: Food as friendship
I’d fill my backpack with candy and try to give it away during recess, looking to make friends, but only giving the popular kids one more reason to tease me. He licked it, he rolled it in dirt. But I didn’t, it was good candy, sweet and uncontaminated.
I did once spray an apple with Lysol, and stuck it in Peter Oppenheimer’s desk, hoping it would make him sick and he’d stop coming to school. Stop yelling at me, giving me dirty looks, stop beaning me at war-ball. But he threw the apple out. That fucker grew up to become the CFO of Apple.
Part 3: Food as fuel
Kids burn calories, and when Coach Welch told me to take a lap, you can bet I needed every single one to get around that track. Welch taunted me, made me work extra hard, told me that if I grew up fat I wouldn’t have any friends. My fucking dad said that too, and looking back, I can see they were both just trying to help a brother out.
But when you think of food as fuel, and you’re empty on the inside, you can’t help topping off your tank, and that’s exactly what I did as often as possible, taking seconds and thirds, even volunteering in the Cafeteria so I could snack before lunch.
Part 4: Food as work
The very first job I really cared about was at a restaurant called Macs. Mr. Georgie was a die-hard Niners fan from Hunter’s Point, and he wore a Joe Montana jersey the whole week he trained me how to make soups, salads, and appetizers. There wasn’t much that bothered Georgie, except of course the Raiders, and being late for work.
I took to it quickly, learning the recipes, the names of our regular customers, and which waitresses would let you steal a kiss in the walk-in. Kara was my favorite. Once we were short staffed in the front, and they asked me to be a server for a few hours until they could call Kara in. I think that lasted about a minute. I had somehow offended an entire table of diners with my charms, friends of the owner no less. Back to the back with Georgie, pronto.
Part 5: Food as currency
At 19, I moved out of my parents house and into a pretty girl’s bedroom. I didn’t have to pay much if I mowed the lawn and cooked for her and the room-mates. I’d stand over the stove, talking in a phony Italian accent, wearing an oversize apron, making spaghetti, cheeseburgers, and warming up the canned soup I pinched from the restaurant.
As some point, she because a vegetarian, and things got extremely complicated. Hamburger Helper is bad with beef, but it’s abysmal with Tofu. Once day she asked me to go up to the roof to talk, a six-pack of Heinekens in hand. I thought maybe she was going to say she wanted to get married. But instead she said it was probably time for me to start paying full rent.
Part 6: Food as bait
Girls like food, and as I aged, I realized I could use this to my advantage. Instead of going on “dates,” I’d offer to cook for them. This unknowingly set me up as a provider as opposed to a lover, something I didn’t quite understand. I filled the bellies of more than a few of those women before they went to a “friends” house to frolic in bed, sustained by my meal.
I wondered if it was my cooking. Maybe if I created something scrumptious, something amazing, something beyond belief, they’s stick around a frolic with me. I perfected my stew and griddle skills and bought a new set of cookware that actually matched. Still, the whole lover/provider thing escaped me, and though I was becoming quite adroit in the kitchen, I usually went into the bedroom alone.
Part 7: Food as community
A few years after that, I met an amazing woman who also liked to cook, in fact she possessed my diametric opposite skills. I made stews, she made scones. I grilled steaks, she baked puff pastry. The most incredible thing was that we would work in the kitchen together, drinking wine and smoking pot, and provided we stayed out of each other’s way, we’d end up with a beautiful co-created meal.
Turns out it was just a Holiday romance, one of those November to January deals you get into so you have someone to go to parties with, so you didn’t have to be alone on fucking Christmas. We broke up after that, but by a strange stroke of luck, we cut and pasted the relationship into the following year, eating scones and cookies throughout the holidays, splitting just before Valentines day.
Epilogue: Food as love
And now I’m back to where I started, food as love. The service I provide to those I care about, those who mean something, those I want to delight.
And as I stand in my kitchen, flipping and grilling and roasting and baking, I think about everything that food means to me, and I smile because I’m home.
I remember sitting in my high-chair, wearing my “Three Bears” bib, watching mom cook dinner. This was before frozen pizzas and hot pockets and pre-packaged meat pies. Back when shit was real. When 6 bags of groceries cost $20 at the Superette. I paid $124 for a single bag at Whole Foods the other day, thought it was a pretty good deal since it was full of meat and booze.
Anyway, I’d sit and watch mom, and if I was a good boy, we’d make cookies and she’d hand me the spoon to lick afterwards. If I was real good, she’d leave a few chips in there, and I’d crunch them up with my baby teeth, knowing my mommy loved me as the warm chocolate coated my throat.
Part 2: Food as friendship
I’d fill my backpack with candy and try to give it away during recess, looking to make friends, but only giving the popular kids one more reason to tease me. He licked it, he rolled it in dirt. But I didn’t, it was good candy, sweet and uncontaminated.
I did once spray an apple with Lysol, and stuck it in Peter Oppenheimer’s desk, hoping it would make him sick and he’d stop coming to school. Stop yelling at me, giving me dirty looks, stop beaning me at war-ball. But he threw the apple out. That fucker grew up to become the CFO of Apple.
Part 3: Food as fuel
Kids burn calories, and when Coach Welch told me to take a lap, you can bet I needed every single one to get around that track. Welch taunted me, made me work extra hard, told me that if I grew up fat I wouldn’t have any friends. My fucking dad said that too, and looking back, I can see they were both just trying to help a brother out.
But when you think of food as fuel, and you’re empty on the inside, you can’t help topping off your tank, and that’s exactly what I did as often as possible, taking seconds and thirds, even volunteering in the Cafeteria so I could snack before lunch.
Part 4: Food as work
The very first job I really cared about was at a restaurant called Macs. Mr. Georgie was a die-hard Niners fan from Hunter’s Point, and he wore a Joe Montana jersey the whole week he trained me how to make soups, salads, and appetizers. There wasn’t much that bothered Georgie, except of course the Raiders, and being late for work.
I took to it quickly, learning the recipes, the names of our regular customers, and which waitresses would let you steal a kiss in the walk-in. Kara was my favorite. Once we were short staffed in the front, and they asked me to be a server for a few hours until they could call Kara in. I think that lasted about a minute. I had somehow offended an entire table of diners with my charms, friends of the owner no less. Back to the back with Georgie, pronto.
Part 5: Food as currency
At 19, I moved out of my parents house and into a pretty girl’s bedroom. I didn’t have to pay much if I mowed the lawn and cooked for her and the room-mates. I’d stand over the stove, talking in a phony Italian accent, wearing an oversize apron, making spaghetti, cheeseburgers, and warming up the canned soup I pinched from the restaurant.
As some point, she because a vegetarian, and things got extremely complicated. Hamburger Helper is bad with beef, but it’s abysmal with Tofu. Once day she asked me to go up to the roof to talk, a six-pack of Heinekens in hand. I thought maybe she was going to say she wanted to get married. But instead she said it was probably time for me to start paying full rent.
Part 6: Food as bait
Girls like food, and as I aged, I realized I could use this to my advantage. Instead of going on “dates,” I’d offer to cook for them. This unknowingly set me up as a provider as opposed to a lover, something I didn’t quite understand. I filled the bellies of more than a few of those women before they went to a “friends” house to frolic in bed, sustained by my meal.
I wondered if it was my cooking. Maybe if I created something scrumptious, something amazing, something beyond belief, they’s stick around a frolic with me. I perfected my stew and griddle skills and bought a new set of cookware that actually matched. Still, the whole lover/provider thing escaped me, and though I was becoming quite adroit in the kitchen, I usually went into the bedroom alone.
Part 7: Food as community
A few years after that, I met an amazing woman who also liked to cook, in fact she possessed my diametric opposite skills. I made stews, she made scones. I grilled steaks, she baked puff pastry. The most incredible thing was that we would work in the kitchen together, drinking wine and smoking pot, and provided we stayed out of each other’s way, we’d end up with a beautiful co-created meal.
Turns out it was just a Holiday romance, one of those November to January deals you get into so you have someone to go to parties with, so you didn’t have to be alone on fucking Christmas. We broke up after that, but by a strange stroke of luck, we cut and pasted the relationship into the following year, eating scones and cookies throughout the holidays, splitting just before Valentines day.
Epilogue: Food as love
And now I’m back to where I started, food as love. The service I provide to those I care about, those who mean something, those I want to delight.
And as I stand in my kitchen, flipping and grilling and roasting and baking, I think about everything that food means to me, and I smile because I’m home.
Safe Landing

The second the wheels touch the ground, the lady next to me pulls out her cell phone and hits the power button. She glances over with a guilty frown until the crack of the PA system announces it’s all right to turn on small mobile devices.
The flight originated in New York. I was there for business, and my girlfriend Jessi is going to pick me up 30 minutes. Just enough time to deplane, grab an espresso, and get my bag.
As we pull into the gate, I try to remember what Jessi looks like, but I draw a blank. I can’t picture her, and I can’t even remember what color her hair or eyes are. I pull my phone out to look at her picture, but it’s dead since it fell into a puddle outside the hotel.
We have been dating 2 years.
I walk off the Jetway and think to myself that maybe Jessi is not even my girlfriend, that maybe I imagined her. And if she is at the airport, it could very well be to pick up someone else. Her new boyfriend? Her real boyfriend?
I walk into Starbucks, buy an espresso, and look around for power. A tall, awkward lady in an floppy orange hat is hogging both the sockets. I approach and ask permission to use one. She ignores me. I speak up, and ask again. She looks away and laughs into her phone mumbling something about feeling a chill.
I pull my laptop out, but the battery is spent, and it needs a total reboot. I walk over to the plug, remove the cord connected to the lady’s phone, and plug in my computer. She continues her conversation and starts filing her nails.
The computer reboots, but right in the middle, I hear a crunch and the screen turns blue. Not good.
What the fuck does Jessi look like?
For a second, I consider the possibility that I am a ghost or spirit or maybe we landed in an alternative universe, but then I remember the espresso, and how the cute Barrista told me a funny joke, and how my CC was approved.
Credit cards aren’t normally approved in alternative universes, are they?
Just then, the tall lady screams into her phone, waves her arm, and literally launches coffee all over me, burning my arm and making me wince. I realize I’m definitely not a ghost.
The lady starts crying, so I wipe myself off, grab my computer bag, and head down to baggage claim.
Will Jessi remember what I look like?
I grab my bag from the turnstile and walk out to the street. She’s picking me up, but I can’t remember how I know that, what kind of car she has, or if she was going to park.
We planned this pickup, she and I, but I can’t recall when, or even the last time we spoke. And I still can’t remember what she looks like.
And then, I get a flash... blond hair, blue eyes. The pieces of my girlfriend start falling into place, her nose, her chin, her teeth, her butt.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and before I can turn around...
“Hey Tiger, guess who?
The flight originated in New York. I was there for business, and my girlfriend Jessi is going to pick me up 30 minutes. Just enough time to deplane, grab an espresso, and get my bag.
As we pull into the gate, I try to remember what Jessi looks like, but I draw a blank. I can’t picture her, and I can’t even remember what color her hair or eyes are. I pull my phone out to look at her picture, but it’s dead since it fell into a puddle outside the hotel.
We have been dating 2 years.
I walk off the Jetway and think to myself that maybe Jessi is not even my girlfriend, that maybe I imagined her. And if she is at the airport, it could very well be to pick up someone else. Her new boyfriend? Her real boyfriend?
I walk into Starbucks, buy an espresso, and look around for power. A tall, awkward lady in an floppy orange hat is hogging both the sockets. I approach and ask permission to use one. She ignores me. I speak up, and ask again. She looks away and laughs into her phone mumbling something about feeling a chill.
I pull my laptop out, but the battery is spent, and it needs a total reboot. I walk over to the plug, remove the cord connected to the lady’s phone, and plug in my computer. She continues her conversation and starts filing her nails.
The computer reboots, but right in the middle, I hear a crunch and the screen turns blue. Not good.
What the fuck does Jessi look like?
For a second, I consider the possibility that I am a ghost or spirit or maybe we landed in an alternative universe, but then I remember the espresso, and how the cute Barrista told me a funny joke, and how my CC was approved.
Credit cards aren’t normally approved in alternative universes, are they?
Just then, the tall lady screams into her phone, waves her arm, and literally launches coffee all over me, burning my arm and making me wince. I realize I’m definitely not a ghost.
The lady starts crying, so I wipe myself off, grab my computer bag, and head down to baggage claim.
Will Jessi remember what I look like?
I grab my bag from the turnstile and walk out to the street. She’s picking me up, but I can’t remember how I know that, what kind of car she has, or if she was going to park.
We planned this pickup, she and I, but I can’t recall when, or even the last time we spoke. And I still can’t remember what she looks like.
And then, I get a flash... blond hair, blue eyes. The pieces of my girlfriend start falling into place, her nose, her chin, her teeth, her butt.
I feel a tap on my shoulder, and before I can turn around...
“Hey Tiger, guess who?
World's Best Fisherman

And then I was a fish, and I was swimming upstream, the river smashing against my face, pushing me backwards 70 feet for each 100 I advanced.
And I was fighting and thrashing myself over the rocks and through the gullies and up the fish ladders and around the bends to the very top of the mountain from where I came, and from where my spawn would originate like a spiral, spinning endlessly in space.
And a bear slashed out at me and I felt his claws scrape my back and catch my fin but he didn’t get hold and I was free.
And I bit a bug attached to a long line and an old man caught me in his net and molested me and set me back after his exploitation.
And a bird as big as an albatross sang her song and cast her shadow upon the river, sweeping down like a rocket, slicing her talons into the depths where I was just a moment before.
And the pools that distracted me, and the bigger fish that intimidated me, and the endless offshoots and eddies that sent me nowhere at all, and forced me to re-swim my path, increasing the odds that this was my end.
And then I was a man, and I was sitting at a desk in an office far above the rivers and meadows, wearing a pinstripe suit with a vest, typing a memo on my laptop, setting a meeting, taking a call, and biding my time, so as not to attract attention.
And the boy came and put things on my desk and took away my memos and sent them to their destinations.
And my clients came by with candy and tears and a million reasons why they were late.
And my secretary brought me coffee with cream in a big cup that said World’s Best Fisherman.
And the operator put through the calls as if I were able to help, and the clock kept ticking, until my boss came in and told me that if I didn’t start keeping regular hours and turning in my sales reports and attending the meetings, I was finished, do you understand, finished!
And then I was a fish.
And I was fighting and thrashing myself over the rocks and through the gullies and up the fish ladders and around the bends to the very top of the mountain from where I came, and from where my spawn would originate like a spiral, spinning endlessly in space.
And a bear slashed out at me and I felt his claws scrape my back and catch my fin but he didn’t get hold and I was free.
And I bit a bug attached to a long line and an old man caught me in his net and molested me and set me back after his exploitation.
And a bird as big as an albatross sang her song and cast her shadow upon the river, sweeping down like a rocket, slicing her talons into the depths where I was just a moment before.
And the pools that distracted me, and the bigger fish that intimidated me, and the endless offshoots and eddies that sent me nowhere at all, and forced me to re-swim my path, increasing the odds that this was my end.
And then I was a man, and I was sitting at a desk in an office far above the rivers and meadows, wearing a pinstripe suit with a vest, typing a memo on my laptop, setting a meeting, taking a call, and biding my time, so as not to attract attention.
And the boy came and put things on my desk and took away my memos and sent them to their destinations.
And my clients came by with candy and tears and a million reasons why they were late.
And my secretary brought me coffee with cream in a big cup that said World’s Best Fisherman.
And the operator put through the calls as if I were able to help, and the clock kept ticking, until my boss came in and told me that if I didn’t start keeping regular hours and turning in my sales reports and attending the meetings, I was finished, do you understand, finished!
And then I was a fish.