... Chapter 2

confidence/content

EDIT:

A few words before continuing the story…

I never wanted/intended to post any updated progress on the piece I’m currently writing. Yet here we are. I think my initial hope was that by posting the lengthy first “chapter,” along with some introductory words from Eli, it would draw the collective attention of anybody who happened to stumble upon Letter Toast. While at the same time, providing something to sink teeth into for the generous few who HAVE seemed to discover LT, and decided to stick around (thank you btw:)

But I’m afraid that’s not it at all.

I now suspect and recognize that posting my work in progress, stuff that I now read with skepticism and slight regret, is mostly a selfish pursuit. I’m seeking validation. From anyone willing to read and digest it. Because in my fucked up brain, the validation of others gives me the much-needed confidence to go and continue the story… It makes what I’m writing feel much “more real” than it is… But worst of all, it enables me to be content with simply saying, “I’m working on a novel.”

That is the destroyer of worlds and the ultimate killer of story. Being content with what you’re writing.

Writing with confidence and being content in your writing are two drastically different things. And since seeking validation seems to be fueling my confidence in this particular story, I figured the trade-off is worth swallowing my pride.

I don’t fully understand the differences between the two, confidence and content, nor do I feel either about Eli’s story thus far. But simply observing this fatal flaw of mine, calling out my own bullshit while in the midst of it all, it feels like growth. And that’s all I could ask for in this stage of my writing journey.

So… without further ado… here is “chapter 2.”

I’m not sure if I’ll continue posting chapters I’ve written (I’ve kept a sizable distance between LT and reality), but we’ll see what happens in future postings. Today I’m feeling needy.

-DT

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

2

Although my face was free of tears, that smothering angst I had just shed from the car to the door must’ve been lingering with me, trailing behind me like an unnerving light-dragged imposter. Stopped from entering my room, Ma shouted from the kitchen in my direction, “Um, HELLO?!” She turned down the stereo which admitted Spanish-bodega appropriate/appropriated music. 

She was standing in our kitty-cornered kitchenette, ironing a navy blue button-up on the surface of our stovetop. She squinted and shielded her eyes from the steady plume of exhaust that twisted and curled from the end of her subservient Newport.

“Not gonna say ‘Hi’ to ya motha?! The fucks ‘rong with you!?” She tossed her burning cig into a mug of murky water in the sink.

“Hi, Mother,” I muttered back, unenthusiastically, my focus never breaking from the last few steps leading into my room. 

“Jee-whizz, whata’ bundle of joy over here,” a fresh unlit cig had magically appeared in the corner of her mouth by the time I looked back up.“Who the fuck shit in your cornflakes today?” 

She now had the shirt in her hands, and above her head, inspecting the smoothness of the fabric near the collar and sleeves. I was no more than ten, maybe fifteen feet away and I could see that the back of the shirt was plagued with wrinkles.

“Well, since you asked, MARLA, I did. I shit in my own cornflakes today…” I exclaimed, shamefully, but with enough pride to take personal accountability.  

“Jesus Christ, Eli!  You’re so gross!” Her yelling made me want to grin, but I stayed in character so I could really make her regret badgering me.

“YOU ASKED,” I clenched my abdomen for maximum-dramatic effect, “Aghh, I haven’t felt good all day. I Hershey squirted in my boxers in the dunks line and had to throw them out!” 

I heard a voice spark up from behind me, “HEY ASS-HOLE! I’m eating here.” And turned around to see Rick, face down in a bowl of some sort of sludge in his lazy-boy recliner. Red, chunky sludge which stained his goatee and wife beater with an iron-colored residue. May have been chili, but it didn't matter.

“You are so fucking disgusting, Eli, I don’t even know where to start…” Ma shouted, she now had both palms over her face, rubbing her eye sockets which seemed to sink deeper into her skull every time I looked at her. Or spoke into her cold and unwelcoming brown eyes.

I could no longer keep it straight, so I let my cheeks relax and they shot up my face. When Ma looked up, our eyes met and she mirrored my self-indulgent grin.

“I don’t know if you’re kidding or not, but go wash your ass just in case. You fuckin’ sicko!” And she showed me away, as she did when she could no longer handle my nonsense.

I stepped into my room and shut the door behind me, then heard her shout from behind the wooden barrier I’d erected, “FAMILY DINNER AT 7! MEATLOAF!” 

Great, I fucking hate meatloaf. 

I yelled back, “CAN NESSA COME?”

“PLANNED ON IT!” She shot back, her voice now coming from a greater distance behind the door.

Setting my wallet and keys in the ceramic bowl on my nightstand, taking off my sole-less dirt-stained vans, and plopping my ass in the one free spot of bed not covered in clothes, pens, notepads, and other out-of-place shit, seems to be the only time when my mind is clear nowadays.

For these brief but necessary minutes, before Theo barges in demanding pillow fights or my phone ‘Pings!’ with a new order, I am able to focus solely on myself. Where I’m at, where I’m headed, and where I wanna end up. Not the business, I’m not thinking of Nessa, or Marty, or that piece of shit Chris and his cousin, TJ. I selfishly admit that these few minutes, when all I am thinking about is ME are the moments that keep me afloat. Call it meditation, or “finding your flow state”, I just know it as frequent check-ups. It’s an easy way to gauge and record what state of insanity I’m currently sitting in. If my ambitions will make me either rich or dead. Or locked up, or alone. There are no barriers up during these minutes, any shielding of ego disintegrated and dissolved within the receptive membrane of my unconscious mind. Which then, seamlessly relays those unearthed observations straight into my very conscious train of thought. With very little lost in translation. I allow every muscle in my body to ease up and submit fully to the gravitational lasso that pulls my insignificant mass toward the center of the earth. Laying directly on my back, looking up at the stagnant and dust-plastered ceiling fan, I feel my essential organs shift. My intestines untwist and uncurl themselves from the inflammatory state they had endured that day. Each one of my guts behaves as independent and sentient worms, returning to their original and most efficient positions the way factory workers resume their duties after a coffee or lunch break. The shifting of intestines would then make way for the big kahuna, my poor and abused stomach, to nestle itself rightfully on top of the subordinate worms. After being battered and bruised all day, it finally settles and rests on top of the mound of infinite cells, the way a dog circles the spot they’re about to lay on.

 I know how to cure this, how to feel healthy. But for some reason, my dietary habits of self-sabotage don't seem to welcome positive changes. I prefer fast and frozen foods, made primarily of preservative polymers and unpronounceable chemicals instead of ingredients. I read somewhere the other day that modern humans have a shit ton of microscopic plastic in their bodies. Like so much, too much. The equivalent of a standard credit card if you were to put it all together. And I wasn’t surprised. If you aren’t cooking three meals a day in your home, with fresh ingredients bought from some sort of market, there is a 100% you are intaking something that will take time off your life. A certainty that the world will offer you poison, persuade you (at a cheap price) to intake their poison, and then condition you to come the next day for another heap. What type of world do we live in? A nihilist would say this world’s a prison, one that the inmates create and operate. And the only true escape being death. An existentialist would see our world as one of infinite hurdles to clear, but if dedicated to training and maintaining a physical peak, a great reward awaits at the finish line. 

I pull out my phone, in hopes of googling different “-ist” to continue the current thought, but I’m caught looking at my own reflection in the blackness of my device. Still laying on my back, with the iPhone taking the place of the ceiling fan, staring back at the wimpy face I’ve manifested. The version of the guy I look at every day lying on this bed, the man I’ve committed to destroying a thousand times but never have. I wish would just magically turn into the imagined and perfected one I’ve constructed in preparation for the future. But then I remember magic doesn’t exist, but then again, that imagined guy very well could. It would be hard, but absolutely obtainable. But I thought of the hard work required for that transformation and remembered how much I despised hard work. So I looked back to that face, my untrimmed philtrum, the translucent blonde hairs barely visible to the naked eye, and only seen if someone was really looking for them. And my much darker mutton chops, slowly dripping down my temples with no maintenance or planning, the way an infectious weed overgrows onto a neglected landscape. Then, finally, to my mop of dirty blonde curls abrupting a clear view of my eyes. I notice how despite always being in my line of sight, the curls never seem to bother me. It bothers me more when the curls are gone, when my hair is wet and I wait patiently for my hair to dry and the curls to return. I oddly enjoy one-third of my face’s surface area being masked or blurred to the world. It gives me a comforting buffer, one that allows me a certain amount of mystique and obscurity to those I’m interacting with. Maybe that’s why I’m so insecure. And why my face is so forgettably normal looking? And, possibly, that’s why TJ didn’t recognize me. It was winter when we first crossed paths and I usually wear winter hats when it’s cold out. Did I overreact with him? Did I underestimate Chris? And his ability to blatantly and carelessly stab me in the back like this? And in a single blink, a slight flash of gray and green light, I am clutching at a stinging numbness on my bottom lip. 

“FUCKIN’ AYE!” Instinctively leaves my pulsating mouth before I could comprehend the transpired event. I look down to see my phone vibrating, and lit up on it is a picture of Marty, obviously hammered on a park bench somewhere in the city with a sombrero, holding a bottle of Henny. It’s my favorite picture of him and in normal circumstances, it never fails to bring a smile to my face before answering his call. But now, with my lip feeling tripled in size already, and my palms becoming saturated with a steady warm gush, I am outraged to see his face. I went to my pile of dirty laundry on the ground and grabbed a white t-shirt, then thought of the stupidity in that and exchanged it for a darker one. On my wooden dresser, I caught a quick glance at the wound my falling device had afflicted upon me. Something that happened constantly at night, when I am too tired to put down TikTok but not tired enough to realize the grasp on my phone above my face was slipping. And in seconds, this hunk of metal would be out of my hands, pulled through the small amount of air between my extended arms and head by gravity, and on crash course collision for my weary eyes. But, looking at this type of damage, in the daytime no less, I was shocked at how fragile the human form is compared to machines. I was correct in assuming that my lip had, in fact, tripled in size in such a short amount of time, but I was surprised to see how deep the cut looked. How the soft delicate skin of my lower lip had split from an overwhelming amount of pressure, the way a sausage will burst on a hot frying pan if not scored or poked with a fork. I could tell my phone, still with Marty’s pudgy brown smile lit up on it, had maybe one or two more rings left. So I tapped the ‘answer’ button and put his call on speaker, still trying to halt the bleeding of my lip with a musky-smelling Superman t-shirt.

“Well, it’s about FUCKING TIME!” I checked the clock to see how specifically late in the afternoon it was, and on top of his call in the left-side corner, I could see my phone reading 4:03 pm.

Before I could confront him about the details I had just learned, I heard faintly on his end, almost like he was talking to a third party,

“Nah, fuck that shit…” And the call ended.

The fucker hung up on me like he occasionally did when he felt I was not in the “correct emotional head space to chat with your brother.” Whatever the fuck he means by that. I think I would at least have a right to be a little upset. It’s late in the afternoon for God’s sake, and we’re trying to run a business together. He’s got to know that complacency is death in the business world. Stagnation is the equivalent of disintegration, and I am not gonna allow laziness to be the root cause of our financial demise. I would never pull the whole employer-employee thing on him. For one, Marty is a very large and strong black man. Being the white aggressor in an unfair power dynamic is not the move in these current times, and it never was. Marty is also an incredibly intelligent individual, with a devilish sense of humor. He will often (and loves to) point out his physical differences to the whitest of whites, and watch them blush and hide behind anything that wasn’t this large black dude in the store accusing them of being racist and bigoted. Which, I have to say, after all this time together, never fails to make my day when Marty has an interaction like this. I just so happened to be a fly on the wall at the right place at the right time. Cause I know what he’s doing, Marty doesn’t care about racism or being hated on. He rarely gave any sort of interest in anything that wasn’t centered around his personal known universe. If it didn’t involve getting high, laughing, music, or good food, Marty wanted nothing to do with it. But given the opportunity, he basked in chances for social interactions, especially if any sort of hostility was involved. 

This one time, we were in Cumby’s waiting in line with our chill zones. Mine, a solid base of cherry red with sporadic swirls of green apple. Marty’s, straight blue raspberry filled to the brim in one hand, and a southwest chicken and cheese Tornado in the other. Already half eaten of course. There was this customer behind us, a tall elderly man holding a coffee. He had a large puffy maroon North Face coat, metal-rimmed glasses, and no hair except for his white mustache and matching beard that came to a point like an arrow. I noticed these distinct features because I was looking at him for a long time. Or he was looking at me for a long time, and I had just started identifying these characteristics. Whatever the case may be, I was studying the old man and the hatred that seemed to simmer right behind his eyes. I wondered if he was looking at me with anger, or us, or maybe the line wasn’t moving fast enough for his liking. Or maybe his face was always scrunched up like that. An unfortunate side effect of a lifetime of nagging and taxes with very little vacation time in between. His bushy eyebrows both pointed down towards his disapproving eyes, forming the second arrow-like shape on this old dude’s face. By the time he spoke up, and expressed his frustrated look with words, I was surprised at how easily they had passed over me. Despite looking in my general direction, his voice traveling in the air between me and him, the words curved effortlessly around me as if I was the rock in a swift-moving stream. I realized and processed all this slowly at first, then all at once, the way the name of something is light years away until it leaves your mouth. 

“Hey, man…you should really wait'n pay before you start eating.” The old man chirped up, pointing to the half-eaten tube of chicken and cheese in Marty’s hand.

“Excuse me?” Marty said while turning around. Taking his time to fully revolve and formally address the gravelly voice piping up behind us. 

I was off to the side of the line, breaking up the single file and observing the impending argument that I had seen countless times, but never got sick of.

Marty followed up his seemingly rhetorical first question with a second, “Now, why would that be?”

“I don’t know, man. It’s unsanitary, ya’ know what I’m saying?”

“No, I don’t know what ‘ya saying.’ I don’t see the problem with it, and don’t think the cashier gives a shit either,” we were now next to pay, and both put our slushies on the counter. Marty looked directly at the cashier as if expecting him to answer but instead, he began scanning the barcodes on the sides of our extra-large Slurpee cups. Then looks up only after feeling the eyes of the three of us burning into the side of his face.

“Your total is $2.89” The cashier stated.

Marty holds up the grease-stained paper Tornado wrapper. The cylindrical tube of sodium reduced to a bite or two, and was barely peeking out of its cozy shell. 

The cashier clicks a button and retorts, “$3.89.”

Marty looks back at the old man who was now scoffing, puffing his chest out ready to die on the hill he’s fallen on. He throws one last hail mary, and spits out after a number of stutters,

“I-I just think it’s a little disrespectful. All I’m saying, man.” 

Marty didn’t respond to this comment, he simply extended to the cashier a five-dollar bill and told him to “Keep the change, brotha.” That’s when I thought the interaction was over, and this potential excitement was going to fade out instead of ending with an ear-drum-bursting bang. 

But thankfully, so very thankfully, I was wrong.

I turned away from the counter, nearly brushing shoulders with the arrow-faced old man on my way past the line, but I stopped when the feeling of Marty’s gigantic stature was not right behind me. 

Marty had his way behind the counter, and approached the cashier with a hand out for ‘daps.’ The cashier reciprocated, then was quickly pulled in close to Marty as he held up his hand and shielded their faces. Blocking their presumably private conversation to me and the rest of the line. The old man especially took notice and interest.

As Marty pulled away from the cashier, smiling, I knew to step back and take cover for the impending socially-unacceptable bomb that was about to explode in this unsuspecting Cumberland Farms.

“Yeah?” Marty confirms with the cashier, and by now, the cashier’s olive-tanned skin had lightened a few shades. Beads of sweat started to accumulate on his upper brows and down the ends of his hair exposed under his black cap. Then he shakes his head vigorously up and down, signaling an overwhelming ‘yes’ to Marty. 

Marty goes for his money clip, which I knew was always in his right bomber-jacket pocket for easy access. And from my side of the counter, I couldn’t see but I could only assume Marty was giving the cashier some extra dough. All without taking his eyes off of the grumpy old man who had barked at him, and who was now standing in front of the counter with his coffee ready to pay. 

I was curious to see where this was going. Part of me, the most naive part said that Marty was simply paying for the man’s coffee. Killing him with kindness, and before the more logical part of me could slap the naive one, Marty had joined me off to the side of the line. And while slurping his slushie, he muttered, “Check this out, E.”

The cashier was looking hesitantly at the old man waiting to pay, then back to us. I ping-ponged back and forth, watching the cashiers’ eyes dart from the man in line to us, then to the man, then back to us. A deep breath entered the cashier’s lungs, then left in double the time it had taken to enter. The cashier finally looked forward and addressed the man and his coffee. 

He grabbed the man’s coffee quickly and held it above his head, then whispered to the old man, “I’m really sorry about this…” 

The cashier then spoke much louder, addressing the new customers who have filtered into the line.

“THIS IS FOR STICKING YOUR NOSE IN OTHER PEOPLE’S BUSINESS, YOU CRACKER-ASS-BITCH!” 

And then the coffee was in the air, heading down an empty aisle and crashing into shelves containing different kinds of gummy candies. The only thing interrupting the upset yells of the hysterical old man were the gasps and murmuring from the line of customers. And the only thing interrupting that, was the howling laughter of Marty and myself. His coming more from his gut, rather than mine, which came mostly out of my throat and lungs from the sudden and instant shock. It was the type of guilty-pleasure-induced humor that brought shame and embarrassment to most people. The types of things you weren’t supposed to laugh at which often occurred at the worst possible times. A fart in church, a corny line at a wedding, or even an ugly crying face at a funeral, anything along those lines and we got no shot at keeping a straight face.

We were both walking out of Cumby’s when I noticed Marty’s laughter growing in intensity, he was barely able to walk without needing to hit the floor with joyous tears. 

“Yo, chilllll. Get a hold of yourself, you silly goose!” I tried to beg him, my own laughter brewing inside me which I knew would match his. The type of laughter that started from the toes and hit every nerve in your body until it’s left. Leaving behind burned stomach muscles and aching cheeks when all was said and done. 

“HE ADDED ‘CRACKER-ASS’!” Marty struggled to announce, “THAT WAS ALL HIM, I just said call him a ‘BITCH’ and throw the coffee!!” Marty looked back at the old man, who now scolded the cashier and demanded to see the manager or owner.

 “Yeah, like he said, ‘CRACKAH-ASS’! Mind yuh’ business, bitch.” Marty shouted at him, his face turning serious for a brief second, then erupting immediately back to laughter.

There was no shot for me either, before he or I knew it, the both of us were hyperventilating. Struggling to make it out of the store without collapsing on the ground or spilling our slushies.                 

I share that treasured memory to say this, Marty is second in this world to Venessa on my ‘importance in life’ index (excluding fam ofc). Arguably, Marty might have the edge over her. Simply just because we have known eachother far longer than I’ve been dating Nessa. And Marty is one of those companions who are one of one, irreplaceable, and every other friendship cliche in the book. We met in kindergarten when he saved me from a bully who was constantly squishing gobs of chewed bubble gum in my hair at snack time. And ever since that afternoon, he has never failed to always have my back. And even though I can do little to have his, just based on our disproportionate sizes, he knows that I would give it my all. Until ultimately, my toothpick arms fail to hold up his big black fat ass and all his weight freefalls, crushing my fragile bones underneath him.

I noticed that the crusty dryness of the Superman t-shirt rubbed against my raw lip skin as I lightly dabbed my wound, instead of applying pressure to it. I shot up out of bed to go check the cut in the mirror again, to make sure I hadn’t ripped off the premature scab while dabbing before it had time to clot the blood flow. I thought about Marty’s statement before he hung up on me, and his immediate detest. He said, “... fuck that shit…” Like he’s been there before, and there was no possible way the two of us were capable of having a civilized conversation. Because of me, and the fury I brought to a seemingly innocent phone call. A clearly provoked emotion that he believed was unwarranted. That is where the two of us disagree. And while I still don’t see the entirety of his logic, I noticed that the nerves in my lower lip began to regain sensitivity. And had once again, perceived to be attached to my face. This is probably what Marty wanted, for me to stir about this nonsense until I’ve exhausted the gas in my aggravated tank. I could’ve at least given him a chance to explain his silence before cussing him out. And while, technically speaking, it was his call that caused the blow it wasn’t particularly his fault. Thinking about the brief phone call back, I can’t blame him for hanging up before more arguing ensued. And he certainly wasn’t aware that my eyes were still watering from the stinging surge of pain. Like my bottom lip had just busted its hymen and was never gonna look or feel the same again. My phone the unfeeling and hardened culprit of the innocent stripping crime. But just as the recently ex-virgin recovered from that sudden and dramatic change, my bottom lip too had experienced the fast-acting recovery defense mechanisms of the human being. The power to reflect, heal, and hopefully one day adapt.

Throwing the Superman t-shirt back to its rightful pile, I felt somewhat disgusted that I had that thing pressed up against my face. Not to seriously gross you out, but I am most definitely sure that the “dry crustiness” I was feeling was not just the result of ordinary dirty shirt characteristics. So I figure it would be best to take Ma’s advice and hop into the shower.

Just like how resting on my bed after a hectic day is a necessary step in the decompression process, the ritual of showering is my most treasured time away from the world. Where all that seems to matter is the temperature of the soothing water on skin, and the cleansing soaps washing away the grime and soot accumulated throughout the day. I don’t listen to music in the shower either, that would defeat the subtextual purpose of a shower. From the time I wake up in the morning till I’m resting my eyes at night, there is always either a podcast, music, or something other than silence intruding on my ears. These are toxins that must be ridden from the self and impurities that must be pinched, squeezed, and drained from under the skin of the soul. And at the bare minimum, daily. DAILY. Do not trust anybody that doesn’t bathe daily. Not because they are filthy little gremlins, usually with a jam-like substance between their toes, it’s because they don’t rid their toxins from days prior. And no matter what the circumstances, you will see those toxins slowly being expelled while you're with them. If you’re someone who does bathe daily, you understand me and what I’m talking about. If this all goes over your head, you're the problem. To be clean is really not the purpose of showering, it’s just icing on the cake. I view showering as a strictly restorative process, a way of maintenance. It’s more similar to meditation rather than personal hygiene. The ultimate goal of the shower is to concentrate on as little as possible, while at the same time, being receptive to any sort of beneficial thought that may manifest. The only thing that’s required of me is to let my consciousness act as an attentive fishing net. Casting away into the boundless sea of thought, some useful while others absolutely foul. Yet most are just downright stupid. Then there’s the one. This net of mine, even with its frayed fabric and punctured holes from restless thoughts that refused to be captured, is still remarkably reliable. When the water is scalding, but not hot enough to burn and cause blisters to my delicate skin. When an impenetrable membrane of healing liquid fully outlines my body like a translucent cocoon. Protecting said skin and organs from the distracting noise outside the membrane. Under the shower faucet, I am deaf. Vulnerable. Unconcerned and unaware of my immediate surroundings. It’s a state of being I would normally hate putting myself in. But in doing so at this particular time, in this porcelain safe haven of mine, the casting into my boundless sea of thought becomes that much more immaculate. As if there is a definite chance that my net will catch one. A big juicy ripe idea that will help me survive the day. Maintain that false perception I show off to the world, outside of the cleansing membrane and back into the suffocating noise. If I could just focus on the ease of my heartbeat, thud… thud… thud… thud…, under the impassable waterfall. On filling this blue plastic cup to the brim without spilling a drop of water, thud… thud… thud… thud… There seems to be a murky pulp floating in the cup, it looks to be mold. Usually happens when I leave the cup upside right when I get out of the shower, instead of upside down so any residual water could dry. I just have to focus on not focusing. On rinsing out the cup and filling it back up again. And throwing that water behind me, down my scalp and through the maze of wet straw formally known as curls, thud… thud… thud. 

And while I could’ve stayed in the shower for the rest of time, lazily skimming the bottom of my own personal bullshit, I had responsibilities outside the shower. Problems that were beginning to stack up on top of eachother. The shit with Chris (and now, TJ). Theo smells like weed at school, a relatively small dilemma, yet, if not handled gently and with the right amount of suave, could easily become a catastrophic shitstorm. If CPS came to the house right now and did their “inspecting,” I’m pretty fucking positive they shan't be too pleased with what they’ll find. How would we, this prop family of mine, navigate their lines of inquiry? How would Ma react if some snuffy, pant-suited lesbian with a clipboard started to question her “motherly instincts?” She would rip her fucking head off. And to top off all the problems, now, this miscommunication with Marty. Oh! And I almost passed out today! Clearly, the stress meter is off the fucking charts. I’m red-lining, with snipped breaks, barreling down a 90-degree street headed for the most populated outdoor seated cafe on the block. And before the front of my hood could connect with the unsuspecting customers, Ma shouts from the other side of my bedroom door,

“HEY, SHIT-ASS! MARTY’S HERE!!”

“Send him in, Ma!” Instinctively leaves my lips. 

MY SAVIOR! Grace be to God, Mazel Tov! Aloha Arkbar and all that other bullshit, I am a BELIEVER!

That was one of those eerie times when you get a weird feeling about a family member and the phone rings. It’s not them calling, but it’s like your mom or dad telling you that the family member died. Just like that, Marty showing up right now, with me in a state like this is no coincidence. There is clearly some higher power fuckery at work.

“Damn, your lip fucked up baaaddd. We good, E?” Were Marty's first words as he swung my door open, and his blue-gray tie-dye shirt and gray sweats blocked my view of the rest of my home.

“Yeah, nah it’s fine, that was my fault with the phone call by the way. I was being a bitch,” I pledge to Marty, with my eyes and head lowered in his direction. “It’s just been a stressful day and I- I really needed you…”

Marty meets my vulnerability halfway, and consoles, 

“Don’t even sweat it. A boss gotta’ do boss shit, right?” And he extended to me a much-needed, world-steadying ‘daps.’ It’s really an impossible feat to try and convey the symbolic importance of a healthy ‘dap-up’ with your boy. Especially after a time of tension or friction, a final ‘daps’ signifies the clearing of hazy air. An unspoken agreement of unification, forged by the colliding palm skins of two heterosexual males. Acting as the commencement to a new and fresh start.

I must’ve gotten carried away at the moment because instead of swiftly breaking the shake, I pulled myself closer to Marty’s rounded and warm figure. As if I were the moon colliding with his much larger astral body, the Earth. 

“Aye, Yo!” He yelped and pushed me away with minimal effort, “Don’t ever try and hug me with YO DICK behind a towel ever again…”

“You’re right, you’re right,” I am forced to confess. Marty told me a long time ago and has always pretty much stuck to it, he is, unquestionably, ‘not about that white boy fun.’ This is to say, for those unaware of the cultural difference between caucasian-fun and every other color’s amusement, anything sus.

“Wet-ass towel and shit…” Marty muttered, wiping off any residual embarrassment that may lay dormant on his skin or clothes. “You know what I tell you, E. And it never seems to get through to you, and that bloated brain of yours. I’M NOT WITH NONE-”

“-OF THAT WHITE BOY SHIT, I know,” I exclaimed, finishing his recurring plea. “I’m sorry. I was in a bad place a minute ago, and I was… just happy to see you.”

“I heard you, now chill.”

“I’m just thankful you came-”

“Pause.”

“You can make jokes all you want, but there’s clearly a reason why you just showed up after our fight,” I state proudly, now behind the door of my closet changing, shielding my skin from Marty so he doesn’t get pissed off even further. Showing off my pale white ass to Marty would only escalate things, most definitely to the edge of the horizon where nothing comes back.

“Firstly, it wasn’t a fight. As you said yourself, ‘You were being a bitch.’ And second, I came over 'cause I got some major tea to spill.” Marty said, making his way to the worn bean bag chair that’s taken on his mold perfectly. 

I tell him, “I got tea to spill too…” as I emerge fully clothed, and with a mop of hair that is beginning to retake its curly-homeostasis form. 

“Sit yo ass down, like right now,” Marty stated. His tone reached a level of severity that made me genuinely intrigued. He doesn’t normally use this sort of tone unless what he had to share was, in fact, ‘major tea.’ 

I take a seat on the bed, still brushing my dampish head with the towel I used from the shower. “Alright, I’m seated. What is it?”

Instead of responding, Marty broke his eye contact and leaned back in the bean bag. He struggled to yank out his phone from his pocket but when he did, he showed me his screen immediately. As if what he wanted to share was already preloaded.

“What the hell is that?” I asked him, and from my seat on the bed, his screen was simply a blurry mess. All I could see was there was a subject or two, with the picture or video taken outdoors. 

Marty tossed me his phone, clearly unaware of the trauma I endured before he showed. But luckily my hand-eye is too sharp, and his phone lands smoothly between my receptive palms. And as my vision focused on the picture staring back at me, my stomach dropped, my jaw fell, and my toes curled as I looked at Marty sitting in the bean bag chair. He was smiling devilishly.