The Hum

I sit on the back deck watching over my plants because I believe if they aren't growing well it's because they need attention.  It's a poor excuse for wanting to sit on the back deck, alone, and just observe.  There's a constant hum even if cars aren't barreling down Kimball with their mufflers scuffing the pavement or their traditional Hispanic meringues swinging back and forth with the bass... buum... bauum... buum... bauum... Aside from the squeaking buses squealing to a stop and the high pitched beep as they decompress the front right side of their carriage to let tiny-legged or physically challenged people off, there's a hum.
When everything is supposedly silent, in the middle of the night, the hum persists.  I don't know exactly what it is, but I hear it.  It's almost like a white noise phenomenon whereas you hear it so often that your brain chooses not to hear it.  But that hum persists. 
On tranquil nights, or however you define a tranquil night in Chicago, we'll be watching the sky, hoping for stars, getting extremely excited to see one then two, and our eyes adjust, three-woah-six stars in the sky like we're floating down the Columbia River star gazing beneath an illuminated bed sheet spread over the boat like a fort. (A floating fort!), that hum still persists. 
It sounds like a finely tuned German generator powering the city and rotating beneath us at six thousand RPMs, delicate and soft, like GE designed it to, but alas it's not-or, at least I hope it's not because that would really disturb my sense of reality.
It's the indefinable hum of the city.
Now, I know indefinable is blasphemy in this day in age and I'm sure the challenge would be met with a lot of answers or theories or suggestions as to what the hum is, but I guess I just don't care about those right now.  I guess I would just like to recognize the hum and write about recognizing it.  I'm a gypsy and I'm not a hippie.  I've dabbled in Buddhism and read some Kerouac, but this isn't existential.  In fact, I would say it's just a hum. 
I could try to persuade you that the hum represents a bustling Chicago, but all my friends go to sleep at night.  In my world, in my head, the hum is explicable only by theorizing why it's there.  And that's exhausting.
Sometimes, it's interesting if you have a unique idea like the government is flying drones over the city at night and dropping miniscule particles of aluminum which seep into our skin and acts as a tracking device so they know where we are at all the time.  Cool.  If you believe that and want to go Edward Snowden about revealing or uncovering it then that's great.  All I'm saying is that I don't care.  I get it.  It makes sense.  If I don't know what is happening then what's the goddamned difference?  The statement is sacrilege in our generation, I know. 
But, we're all willingly being tracked by our cellphones anyway so, really, what's the difference?

Off to Chicago Without a Kiss

Barry couldn't hide his bloodline, not that he tried.  It showed vividly over his face as he talked about his Scottish-Canadian father. He had tight pale skin, which wrapped around a long bony nose that sat off-center beneath steel blue eyes.  We sat up late drinking cheap canned beer and talked about Toronto. 
"All he ever said was that they found a few kids smoking a crack pipe in the park where I played and he knew it was time to go."  Barry squinted as he talked.  It was as if he was streaming back to the afternoon his father told him the story, dangling a Marlboro Red out the window of an early nineties Ford Aerostar van.  "I mean those kids could've been smoking tea leaves for all they knew.  How the fuck would he know it was a crack pipe?"
"The fifteen-inch torch of a flame could've given it away," I said. 
"You'd think he would mention that image, though, right?" Barry cracked open another beer and took a small sip, belching loudly after he lowered the can.  "Maybe not, I don't know."
"What, are you pissed that they moved away or something?"
Barry looked into my eyes for a second.  Then a smile spread across his face, but his eyes stayed fixed.  "No, no.  I'm just saying that it's always the same thing, man.  Dad does whatever he wants and he can come up with any excuse for it just like grandad did with him.  I mean I could've played hockey up there."  He imitated the wind up of a slap shot and kicked a beer can on the follow through.  "Been his number one star, you know?" He said and tried to chuckle.
"You could've played down here.  I did."
"You know what I mean," Barry said.  He held a forced smile and rotated the can slowly in his hands.
"Toronto or not, you were always going to be blessed with that fragile frame."
He looked down over his skinny body, which was hidden under a ridiculously bulky jacket.  "Hey, I would have filled out."
I nodded and he shrugged his shoulders. 
We were bundled on the porch, icy fingers beneath wool gloves.  I rubbed the outside of a firm pumpkin still sitting on the railing.  It was the house that his mother and father moved to when we were in middle school.  The icy rim of a basketball goal glowed in the porch light.  The net was nothing but a tattered rag, hanging stiffly and out of use.  We used to shoot hoops deep into summer nights.  Between the railing and a line of shrubs, an old orange ball lay flat and dry rotted half buried in frozen crumbles of soil.  I focused back on Barry and drained the rest of my beer.
"That thing still feels like it did in October," Barry said referencing the pumpkin.  "Is that normal?"  He generally trusted me to know mundane information about the Earth and its processes.
"As long as you don't cut it open, they can save quite a while," I said.  This answer seemed to satisfy him.  He walked to the far end of the porch as if he were beginning to pace then plopped down on a creaky swing, rocking it back and forth with an expressionless gaze.  The swing knocked consistently on the handlebars of a tiny tricycle behind. 
"Did you get to see your boy over the holidays?"  I asked.
He stopped the swing.  "He was just here for a week, actually.  Just left this morning." He paused and shrugged his shoulders.  "I guess she grabbed him this morning."
"What do you mean, you guess?"
"I mean, I assume she did because I overslept.  So, I wake up around ten today and all my shit is thrown around." He stopped.
"All your shit is always thrown around," I interjected.
"And poof.  Gone.  Off to Chicago without a kiss, I suppose."  He said.  "They should have woken me up."
"I'm sure she thought you should have been up."
"Yeah." He stopped and looked at the ground.  Pushing the swing back into creaky motion, he lifted his head.  "That basement is like a fucking dungeon.  I overslept, you know?  What are you goin' to do?  I can't do anything about it now."
"Well, whatever.  Hope you guys had a nice time.  Wish I could've seen the little dude.  It's already been a couple years now."
"My friend, time flies.  I'm just trying to live a little bit of it."  He said it as if I didn't know.
"No shit, Bare."
"I'm just sayin'.  Time flies."  It was as if he was realizing that for the first time.  The cheap saying had dealt him a blow and those Scottish eyes lay fixed on the concrete in front of the swing, like a manikin, back and forth, back and forth they swung.
"Catch," I yelled and hummed a can of beer at him.
He blocked his face.  The can thudded to the porch in a creamy windmill of Labatt Blue propulsion, spinning on its own accord.  Barry laughed and booted it through a gap in the balustrade.  I threw another.  This time he caught it and cracked it open.

We walked into the house and sat in a carpeted living room.  Smells of boxed mashed potatoes and creamed corn still hung in the air.  His mom, Beth, wasn't a very good cook.  For that, Barry wasn't a very healthy eater.  We used to drink Ale 8 One and munch on sugary candy in the basement after we got high on the back porch.  When I would stay the night, candy and chips would be the only thing he would eat. It was strange being back there.  Stories were written into the walls.  It felt like a house that you move from and come back to years later.  Suddenly, everything's a little dingier, a little smaller, a little less significant than you had remembered.  And yet, nothing had really changed.  All those family photos still sat unmoved in a desert of dust atop the boxy tube television set.
"So, how's your pops?" I asked as I dusted a photo of Bare and his father kneeling with hockey sticks.  Barry's glasses were as thick as aquarium glass.
"He's coaching tonight.  They're playing Dayton Ohio or something."  Barry looked at his watch.  "Should be going on about now."
"Well shit, let's go."
Barry smiled and stared into outer space next to my head. 
"Have you talked to him lately?" I asked.
"Last time was when he said I couldn't move in with him."
"When was that?"
"A couple months ago." He shrugged his shoulders then laughed.  "That fucking dick, you know?  Wouldn't expect anything else."
"Fuck it, let's go.  I haven't seen him or a hockey game in a while."
Barry drained the rest of the can.  "I guess we could go for a little bit.  I don't want to stay the whole game, though."
"Deal."
With a reproachful look, Barry grabbed his coat and fumbled with the car keys.

Trees were sparkling like melted sequins glazed over spindly branches.  Traffic was dead and Barry ran two red lights that wouldn't change fast enough for him.  He matted the accelerator and zoomed around dimly lit four lane roads, which sat vacant and silent.  I think he smoked three cigarettes on the way to the ice rink and ash flew around the cabin of the car like graffiti. It was ten after midnight.
I studied his eyes as he drove.  They were iced blue, intermittently illuminated and shadowed by the tread of streetlamps down Man O' War Boulevard.  Those eyes.  There was something about those eyes that told the world they were made to gaze upon frozen heaths and blackened sea rock.  They looked out of place beside the backdrop of a freshly poured strip mall. The Scottish lineage pulsed through him no matter how far removed; no matter how suburban; no matter how American.  It reminded me of when I saw his son for the first time at the University of Kentucky Hospital, wrapped in white cotton, red as a beet.  When he finally opened the slits, sure enough, there they were, again passed through the genetic puzzle beaming steel blue in fluorescent lights.  I thought of what a damn shame it was that the first castle the boy would see would not be the nestled giant of Edinburgh, rather, the futile spires of Versailles, also known as the-marriage-gift-gone-wrong.  And how fitting it became in just a few short months' time.
Barry coasted through a right turn in front of the rink. 
It had been years since I had seen the Ice Center.  The place was grimy before and honestly it didn't look any better or worse.  It looked exactly the same. The parking lot was crumbling, turning into a gravel pit little by little every ice and every thaw. 
"This goddamn place never changes," Barry said as he whipped the wheel and parallel parked next to a Jeep.
"So all the college kids still do this shit?"
"Yep.  Just get fucked up and drive home." Barry belched a musty Labatt Blue burp. "It's a real safe game." 
We approached the front when Barry guided me to a side door where a fat red headed security guard stood smoking a cigarette.  He squinted at Barry when we came around the corner into the light, which flickered over the rusty steel door.  Barry's lips stretched into a slight smile.  The man threw his cigarette butt on the pavement and twisted it with a grin.
"Well hot damn, Barry boy.  How long's it been son?" The man laughed and patted Barry on the back with a swift swat.
Barry smiled bashfully at the ground.  "Just us two."
"Enjoy, Crookshanks.  Nice to see you back 'round here again."  He opened the squeaky door and moved out of the way.
I nodded to the oaf as we passed and he smiled a donkey-like mouthful of long teeth and shiny gums.
  
We entered at the back of the bleachers on the uppermost level.  The uppermost level being the second level, normally ascended to from a wide staircase covered in grip tape off to our right.  The rink was set below the ground in order to help keep the ice cool during Kentucky summers.   Barry walked to the railing and looked down over the packed stands.  Only one side of the rink had bleachers.  The opposite side was a concrete mural, which was the backdrop to the benches and announcer's podium.  The mural was pastel-colored renditions of cartoonish male penguins playing hockey while the females so fittingly figure skated.  In light of the competitive atmosphere, it gave a sense of daycare-like childness that was difficult to ignore considering it took up half a football field's space behind the benches.
And there he was, standing in front of a gal penguin wearing a tu-tu gearing up for the triple axle, Rob Crookshanks, as stoic as ever.  He was perched on top of the bench with arms folded and face furrowed on the ice.  For years he had adorned a respectable mullet.  I was surprised to find that it had been cultivated into a nicely even haircut, which lacked character, but at least shielded him from being misconstrued as the wrong character, especially in Kentucky.
His hair was as white as the ice on top of his head, but toward the ears paint strokes of those blondes and reds still persevered.  His most striking feature, the one thing that had never changed, the Christmas tree decorated red from a bloody late night hockey game, his mustache sat neat and authoritative splayed wide across his upper lip.  That's assuming he has an upper lip.  Rob's mustache could have been the last King of Scotland for all I knew.  It gave him a sense of calm and control, which he undoubtedly already had.  However, it added a bit of flare to the uniform, that modest Great Lakes hockey-dad uniform, clad with beige turtlenecks and bulky tennis shoes, navy crew-necked long sleeves and boot-cut denim.
He walked back and forth behind the bench, his mustache guarding the secrets he shared to his cherry cheeked players.  Dayton was up 1-0 with about eight minutes left in the first.
"Well," Barry exhaled slowly as he scanned up and down the metal rows of packed seats. "Where the fuck should we sit?"  
"What about your old spot?  They don't save it for you guys anymore?"
Barry looked at me, puzzled.  "Why would they?  I haven't been here for over a year, who knows the last time my sister's come and obviously Beth doesn't come."  He looked down at their old bench plank to the left of the tunnel.  "It's being used better now anyway."   Three shirtless, pale backs stood on the bench while a fourth bent over a plastic cup and poured bourbon from behind the cloak of his blue and white parka. 
"Since when do you call your mom by her first name?" 
"Let's just stand behind the rail.  It'll be easier to leave that way," Barry said, avoiding the question.
The University of Kentucky "Cool Cats" were moving the puck around nicely, each pass cracking like fresh wood from tape to tape, as they forechecked effectively in Dayton's zone.  Their blue and white sweaters were stylized after the Toronto Maple Leafs and were neatly austere.
I watched the puck cycle from 13 to 50 to 25 back to 13, who curled around the back of the net, grinding tightly into the ice with the blades of his skates dishing it back to 50 who took a slapper.  The puck bonged off the back of the boards behind the net.  Dayton tried to clear, but 45 poke checked it away and centered to 13 who snapped a shot off the cross bar.  The crowd roared with the PING as blue and white sweaters crashed the net, jamming at the puck feverishly.  The whistle blew.  Somehow the gigantic goaltender had managed to come up with the disc.  He tossed it to the ref and his teammates in red sweaters tapped his puck-blackened pads as they looped in front of the net, getting ready for the faceoff.
"Who's 13?" I asked.
"Valentino.  Dad's been talking about him for a couple years.  He came from Toronto or something."
"And he plays for UK?  That doesn't make any sense."
"Apparently he's as dumb as a bag of shit in the classroom, at least that's what my Dad says.  Plus, the Kentucky girls have to be a pretty big selling point when they come down here, you know.  You think there are chicks like that in Toronto?"  Barry asked.  With his toothpick arm, he pointed to a blonde a few rows to the left of us.  She had a deep v neck on with large tanned breasts bubbled on either side. 
"Well, if he's as dumb as a bag of shit then I get it, I guess."  Valentino won the faceoff back to 50 who started the cycle around Dayton's zone.  "What?  No tanning beds in Toronto?"
"No sun in Toronto."
"Right, like you would know."
A simulated horn rang pathetically from a crackling speaker rusted to the ceiling of the rink to end the period.  As the players began gliding off the ice, Rob talked to Valentino at the side of the bench.  He held up a dry erase board and scribbled some lines on it looking back and forth between Valentino and the marker.  His white helmet nodded a few times and Rob rustled it a bit sending him toward the locker room with a chuckle.  Barry watched intently.  His father stepped out of the bench and walked confidently across the ice.
"Look at that fuckin' stache," a kid a few rows ahead said boisterously.  "Crookshanks! Crookshanks! Crookshanks!" he started chanting.  Little by little, as Rob made his way closer to the tunnel, the entire student section was chanting his name.  A couple kids held their fingers over their lips and scribbled on the exposed skin of the digit was a red mustache.  Rob raised his chin to the stands with a grin then disappeared into the blackness of the tunnel. 
"Let's get the fuck out of here," Barry said. 
"I'm intrigued."
"By what?  I told you I couldn't stay the whole game."
"It's been half a period for Christ's sake.  What's the rush?" 
"Look, man. If I'm going to stay here any longer, then, I'm goin' to need something."
"Barry, all the liquor stores are closed."
"Yeah," he paused.  He looked down the uneven bridge of his nose at the ground then snapped back to reality.  "I'll be back," he said finally and exited out the back door swinging it wide.  Before it could shut I heard the husky voice of the security guard, "Bare', how's your ma doin'?"
"Fine," I heard him yell, already a considerable distance away.  He must have been jogging.  The door swung back. Thud.  It closed.

I moseyed my way past some shuffling students down the steps toward the snack bar.  A young blonde sat on a stool behind the counter fiddling with her cell phone.  She had purple bags under her eyes and her hand shook as she flopped down a sack of popcorn.  I watched as a few yellowed kernels bounced out.  
The place smelled like sweaty rubber, as it always had.  On the walls hung pictures of the Championship winning teams from 1996 until present.  They had the Mites, Squirts, Pee Wees, Bantams, Midgets, and collegiate levels represented.  I scanned the Squirts 1998 Championship "Thoroughblades" team and saw my petite little body in the front row on both knees.  It was difficult to make out my face because of the obtrusive cage on the helmet, but I remembered sticking my tongue out for the shot.  The card stock that the picture was printed on was yellowing like old piss at the edges.  I remembered tying my skates in this room, staring at the old photos hanging askew on the walls, thinking of them as ancient history through the fresh convex of my bright eyeballs.  I remember it making me feel uneasy, almost sad, as if everything in the past ended up just being a dated photo on the wall.  I didn't fully understand it at the time, but now, looking up at that little boy in the front row, crinkled through the center from constant ebbs and flows of humidity, in a mere two years' time, as the annual champions are crowned and framed on this wall, the 1998 season will be removed, only to be tossed in a dumpster to make room for the present.  It made me think of how Barry must look at those picture frames, still sitting on his mother's television set collecting dust for eternity. And that strange feeling returned. 
I walked to the stairs and watched as players began waddling out of the tunnel.  They took to the ice one by one, carving its glimmering surface effortlessly.  Their movement was sleek and majestic.  Around and around they went like a turbine, strengthening in numbers and speed.  Valentino brought up the rear with helmet in hand.  He had black hair and a long Jewish nose with striking dark eyes.  He cupped his helmet on his head and joined the engine of players.  The ice seemed to sparkle with every stride.  Applause grew from the crowd.
"All the way from the Windy City, eh?" came the clenched-teeth grunt from Rob.  He stood next to the bleachers holding a clip board with a hardened face. 
I smiled like I was ten.  "You got it, sir."
His eyes shifted around me.  "Where's Bare?"
"He ran out to the car to grab something."  
A droopy scowl dripped down his jowl line.  Those blue eyes turned glassy in the conditioned air.    "Ah." He paused.  "Well, it's nice to see you."  He leaned his head toward the ice and tensed his lips as if being beckoned from beyond.  "Take care," he finally said.  And that was it.
Rob walked into the brightness of the rink, through rotating players, swatting at their blue shorts nonchalantly as they zipped by.
He had always been a tough man to read.  Most of the time when I was a kid, I just assumed that there was nothing going on in his head.  I just assumed that the man had one thing on his mind and that was hockey.  He would stay up till one a.m. during the work week watching the end to all of the West Coast games, stretched supine on a recliner sipping beer, every so often sneaking out the back porch to light a cigarette when he thought Barry and I were asleep.  This time, however, I read him differently.  I couldn't make out exactly what it was, but those bloodshot Scottish eyes were tired.  The blue was dulled to an overcast grey.  They were down a goal so maybe that was it.  Maybe it was Barry.  I honestly couldn't tell.  So, I walked up the stairs back to the railing.  It was empty.

The Cats ended up tying the game about halfway through the second period.  It wasn't anything spectacular, just grunt work around the net.  Valentino put a decent shot to the high glove side of the goalie who couldn't control it.  It bounced around in front of the cage until finally one of the dashing blue and white sweaters smacked it in.
I had found a seat on the top row next to some drunk frat boys.  It wasn't ideal, but I really just wanted to sit down.  They had a couple flasks and passed them from one to the other.  Using the bartering system, I managed to get a few nips off of the tin in exchange for some popcorn.  That warm bourbon tingle started in my toes and circulated throughout my entire body and the puck slowed down for my eyes.  I missed Kentucky.
"Take another," the boy next me said and handed out the tin.
 I tipped it back.  The liquid burned down my esophagus when, all at once, everyone around me sprang to their feet.  The puck sprung out toward the blue line and Valentino picked it up racing down the side boards.  The stands were electric, screaming at deafening volume.  A Dayton defenseman chased Valentino with large rubber band strides.  Curling in front of the net, Valentino chipped a shot.  The puck trickled between the pads of the goaltender, lost out of site, and finally, in a last gasp, it squeezed through and skidded across the faded red line for a goal.
Beer and bourbon flew from the cups of the students as they raised their arms in celebration.  Valentino glided to the right side of the net with his stick in the air when the Dayton defenseman crashed into him on the back boards sandwiching Valentino's helmet between the glass and his chest.  The impact rocked the boards and sent waves reverberating.  Blue and white sweaters rushed to Valentino who lay in a crumpled mess behind the goal.  The crowd didn't know whether to cheer for the goal or boo the refs for missing the blatant late hit so an awkward shuffling silence lingered over the confused students.
Rob flung his clipboard onto the ice and stood up on the bench pointing between the refs and lanky perpetrator.  "Crookshanks! Crookshanks!" we started chanting, thankful for the polarizing behavior.  I had never seen him so animated before.  It was as if some fire was being released from the depth of his soul, which had been pent up for years.  I turned toward Barry to raise my eyebrows in disbelief, but only the empty railing and a googly-eyed bro caught my gesture.  
Rob leaned over the ice screaming spit and turning as purple as pickled eggplant. One of the referees was pudgy and looked like a zebra striped bowling ball on skates. He laughed off Rob's remarks and pointed him back to the coach's bench.  I joined in as the crowd started up a two toned chant of "fat fuck" and my heart pumped through my neck with adrenaline when Valentino was helped toward the bench.  He removed his helmet and blood dripped out of his swollen nose.  That beautiful nose had been squished into a dripping pulp.  Blood speckled down his sweater like a polka dotted picnic blanket.
"At's fucked up, man," my bourbon source said and handed me the tin.  I took another swig.
The Dayton defenseman was eventually escorted off one side of the ice. He kissed goodbye to the crowd who threw trash at him down the tunnel. On the other side, Rob was being led off by the pudgy referee who kept his distance from the fiery Scotsman.  The Crookshanks chant started up again and I escorted myself out the back door.

The red headed security guard had gone home, as the only welcome I had was icy air and the hum of the mercury light above the door.  As I trekked into the lot it was dead silent and I thought of how I missed that about Kentucky.  Barry's Mazda was parked where we had left it, seemingly unmoved on an island of its own in a bubbling champagne aura beneath the streetlamp.
As I neared the car, the windows were fogged and a low beat bellowed through its shell.  I pulled at the door.  It was locked.  I knuckled lightly on the passenger side window.  The latches clicked over and I swung myself inside.  It smelled like Jameson's and Andy Capp's hot fries.  Barry's seat was reclined as far as it would go and he raised a cup to his face.
"Is it supposed to be this goddamned cold in March?" he asked.  His voice echoed like a megaphone in the plastic cup.
"Well, technically, it's the end of February and it's a pretty standard temp right now.  You guys should be warming up in a few weeks."  I said in my best anchorman voice.
He tried to laugh.  "I can't wait to turn on Marley in the summer.  It just makes things so much," he paused.   "You know.  Nicer."  His head bobbed to the tunes in his head.
"They're up 2-1 if you care."
"Not really, but thanks."
"You're dad asked where you were," I said.  He brightened up a bit.
"You talked to him?"
"Just for a minute between periods."
"I'm sure he was, you know," he paused.
"What?"
"Happy to see you.  You know, cause he hasn't seen you in a while."
"I guess."
"Was he?"  He asked as he lit up a cigarette.
 I didn't say anything.
"Well?" He asked again.  
"What are you getting at?"
He bobbed a bit and looked at me with a confused scrunch in his brow.  "Get at?  Get at what?"
"Never mind."
"Just curious how he was."
"You should have just stayed.  It was a pretty interesting period." 
"Nah," he sighed.
We sat silent for a minute.  
A thin, wispy stream of smoke came up from the door and trailed out a small slit in the window.  He pulled the cigarette to his face and drew in a deep inhale, brightening the cherry like an orange light bulb.  His slouched head silhouetted against the golden glow of the window, that bulbous nose reaching out like a knotted tree stump. Slowly, a dark leach emerged from his nostril and extended down over his lips.  It was glossy and viscous.  He threw the cigarette out of the window and grabbed a stiffened towel from the center console, dabbing at his face.  He looked at me and shook his head.
"I thought you were cauterized."
"I am." He said behind the pressed towel.
"And you still get them?"
He nodded and yawned.

I pulled out my phone and hooked it into his AV input.  I streamed "Buffalo Solider."  He closed his eyes and bobbed to the bass.
"Member sitting in my garage during the summers listening to this?" He asked.
I smiled.  "Yeah."
"I miss that."
"Me too."
"Shit was simple," he said and pressed the towel back to his face.  Then he broke out in a loud, sloppy sing along: 
 If you know your history,
Then you would know where you coming from,
Then you wouldn't have to ask me,
Who the 'eck do I think I am.
I convinced him to let me drive and meandered my way down those old Kentucky roads, toward home.

I woke in the morning on a futon in the basement.  Barry lay on the shad carpet with his left leg and arm stretched over the right side of his body.  His mouth was scrunched on the carpet and dried blood from his nose left the impression of his father's mustache.  His chest rose and fell in deep compression and as I walked up the stairs, I thought to say "bye," but continued out the door, headed back to Chicago.

. 

the Rodent review

You're trapped in the bowels of a CTA subway somewhere between Clark and Jackson.  A deep aroma of piss and electricity is thick in the air.  The rails begin to rattle and a blinding light bends around the moldy corner, dusty with electrodes.  A train rips by, blowing your sleeves tight around those achy elbows.  It feels like forever.  Does this train ever end? 

Out of the screeching metallic shearing of a mechanic's wet dream, the taps of a tinkering rhythm pervade, as each car trucks by knocking the track like a bum piston.  In the midst of the passing, you think you've found something.  You've found something deeper in the noise.  Until, almost suddenly, the metal shearing orchestra fades into humble vibration.  The white fireworks of a salty marriage between steel and steel flicker once then disappear.  

You walk after the train, slowly and deliberately, making sure not to step on the Tesla coiled tracks.  The yellow light of a stop beckons you further.  Further into the twisted tubes of the subway you go.  There's drumming and harmonized singing in a language unknown and it reverberates through your echo chamber.  It holds the pulse of humanity, you think.  Out of the carnage, a heartbeat persists.  The nationalistic tones of a guitar play a prideful anthem and there you are in awe of the contrast.  Close your eyes.

It's a bright moon and it hangs over a cold sea.  The fire on the sand burns toward the heavens and it illuminates thick cakey stripes of dark paint being pressed down your cheeks.  When they lowered their axes on the ox, just before sundown as the orange glimmer of sun splashed across that ocean of glass, it sent chills through your spine and made you weak at the knees.  Its knees buckled.  You fell simultaneously with the beast.  They hoisted you up and brushed the wet sand off your forehead, rubbing the skin raw.  Keep those eyes closed.

We ate well that night and didn't speak a word.  The carcass had long been devoured by our mouths and the flame.  You lay on the beach listening to waves lap the shore, breaking rocks into pebbles and pebbles into sand.  The glint of the stars sparkled from orbit.  Somewhere, a space shuttle took blast.  In a cloud of gas, it pushed off the Earth and you felt the sand shift.  It felt like an hour glass, you said.  You said it felt like a chunk had fell through.  We couldn't understand. 

The next morning, I followed you into the trees.  They were tall Kapok with stringy vines.  You climbed up like a clumsy chimp.  Somehow you made it up, after losing your footing many times.  I lost you in the leaves and then you reappeared.  Your red back was glistening sweat and reflected the sun like a mirror.  On top of that tree, I saw your eyes.  They peered through the sea.  You jumped.  I lost you in the leaves.  

It took me an hour, but I found your body.  Your leg was twisted in the spiraled brush and you lay face up with eyes open.  You said that the canopy wasn't thick enough for us ground dwellers.  I listened to you breathe.  The trees swayed beneath the ever changing sky and you said you wanted to cry.  I tried to understand.

You had climbed on the platform and were sitting next to a man.  He strummed a guitar as a child cried.  The boy's wet face was forever locked onto yours as his mother pulled him away. The man closed his eyes and let out a wail, digging into the tight coils of the strings with his dirty fingernails.  It sounded like the sky or at least like the wind.  A gush of musty breeze blew through your hair, as a train rolled through the tubing.  Just as soon as its doors open, digital bells rang twice.  "Doors closing."

http://rodent.bandcamp.com/