Marvin Hill

he was on the phone. He couldn’t afford a blue tooth earpiece and well honestly I had spent all my money on the bills and a few drinks. My head lay in his lap scanning the words more than reading the story from a book i had capriciously picked up at the second hand.

He’s stern on the phone with clients as he strokes my hair. There is this duality I find intriguing between the way his eyes cross and his brows furrow and he demands things instead of asks… but with me… he’s conscientious. He pees against the basin of the toilet at night. When we stumble home, he at least runs minty mouthwash through his teeth.

I think he loves me. I think he loves me because although he hasn’t always been faithful, he’s admitted to the man in Miami and after a month and a half’s exile from the apartment, he never quit calling.

I think he loves me because when I’m low on funds I check my wallet and there’s an extra twenty when I know all I had were three dollars.

I think he loves me because at night when the terrors come he’s there to shake me awake and ask if I’m okay.

I know that he loves me because in the morning there’s coffee: black with a table spoon of sugar and a nudge to get out of bed.

I know that he loves me because when my dog was sick he called into work the next day and sat with me and a coca-cola on hard plastic seats at the vet.

i think he loves me because I make a mess but the house is always clean.

cover art from A Thinking Man's Cha-Cha

There’s a stickiness issue. Henry grabbed the last cigarette from his case. It was a sleeve of metal, most likely aluminum. He had quit 7 years ago and now relented the nicotine hangover. Maybe it was the nicotine-beer hangover. It had been so long since barley and hops had been part of his diet. Below, the street was amuck but amuck without looters and missing the crazies. Those fellows with the cardboard bible testimonials had long since headed for the mountains or sought shelter in a church. Churches were almost as hard to get into as the clubs these days. It seemed as if the masses hadn’t altogether reenacted every doomsday film hollywood had sent out. People were altogether quite calm and peaceful. Some said the water had been treated and although he was sure plenty were pretty curious, most people just seemed to have settled into a delicious despondency peppered with euphoria.

Families littered the parks. BBQ’s everyday and no work lent an air of extended holiday. Some people broke out in tears every so often but there were plenty of support groups and masses of folks singing hymns and praying and heroin had become readily available amongst other narcotics.

Six months.

Six months was what the papers had reported right before they had stopped reporting anything. Men and women so diligent at their desks had taken the opportunity and the overall nihilism as an excuse to visit mom and pop and any remaining relatives. There were plenty of free flights and free busses and people were kind enough to stop for hitch hikers or otherwise invite neighbors into their RV’s.

This wasn’t at all the kind of catastrophe he had expected. Henry hadn’t heard from Europe or the Chinese. Border’s were easily permeable though and vast quantities of immigrants had poured into the land of milk and honey to waiting and welcoming arms. The people weren’t violent. The people weren’t sad.

The reports of mother’s smothering their children and household death pacts and long since faded from popular memory. Bars were open all day and night and those who had the misfortune of dying from alcohol poisoning were escorted unceremoniously out the back entrance. Masses of domesticated animals roamed free and you’d see debutants pick up puppies and kittens on the street on their walks home at sunrise.

There was no need for money. Everything was readily available for a favor and favors were readily offered.

Six months is what they had said but it had only been an approximation that should’ve come to fruition a month ago. Outside of Houston a think tank had been assembled and had been working for a year trying to piece together manuscripts and letters and formulas and hopes into a set of ships and into a project referred loosely as ARC.

The morning sky looked a somber cool grey with clouds hovering above the city. He had moved to Austin some time ago to teach but was contracted by the government a few years later to crunch numbers and fantasize about weapons which might pose a possible threat in the future. In his day it was all chemical then it became famine then it became resources then it became… well, time, or I should say the absence of it.

When the story had leaked of the moon’s collision with an asteroid it was like he had imagined kids from yesteryear had heard of Babe Ruth hitting a home run or Joe Demmagio doing something sporty-like. He had never really kept up with sports but knew enough to recognize a character in a film. The public had been scuttled into shelters and people had committed suicide and politicians had fled with their mistresses to Thaiti. The whole world sat in mortal anticipation as the collision spund the dark yet slightly crescent celestial body into almost a half moon.

It was like god said, no worries. It was like a high school virgin spreading her legs. It was like that first kiss or coming home to your mother’s favorite cooked meal.

Only later did it become apparent to the scientific community that the impact had seriously degraded the moon’s orbit. It now seemed to dangerously wobble and dip and bow and near miss it’s millennia old dance partner.

What was at first an affirmation of it’s role as the great mother’s protector, now seemed as if a mal-influenced child had taken up crack and was threatening to steal the fam’s VCR.

The moon soon to hit earth. The resounding home run let the idol’s head swoon and soon this star athlete had a drinking problem and quivering knees.

Project ARC wasn’t anything new though. It had been in the works since the days of Soviets and even had remnants of the British invasion. The point was to get the important people out of harms way. Now it seemed that the important was anybody who could even remotely call themselves human.

He began to pull off his watch. He had rummaged it from a pile of shoeboxes he kept in the back room. A sepulchre to days of yore when he drove a beat down station wagon and had more debt than he could possibly pay back in a life time of minimum wage. It was a bright red plastic thing that had seen him through long nights of cramming and dastardly blind and uninteresting dates.

The com rang. The com was a long range walkie-talkie of sorts. Satellite phones had since gone offline as most met an untimely end with a drunk punch man in the moon. He started once more for the window and now, amongst the clutter of partiers was a black SUV.

Henry here. His voice a bit horse from shots and the smoke. Yes… be down in five.

The way out of the city was a bit slow going. Hardly anyone had any use for a vehicle these days unless to go joy-riding and well honestly everyone who attended to gasoline and fuel in general had long since left their stations and joined the festivities. But, the lack of personal transportation had led to an influx of pedestrianism. Multitudes of folks hollered or hurrayed from behind colorful hats with arms swung around each other and stumbling merrily in front of the car that could barely creep half a mile at a time. Once they had hit the open road to Houston though, the only obstacles were abandoned cars and trucks and even a little plastic big wheel but all were easily maneuvered  by.

Hours passed and sleep took hold. Before dozing off Henry had noticed the driver was ill at ease. Evidently he wasn’t on the same stuff as the rest of them but luckily he was accompanied by two other passengers. The one directly to his right prepared a syringe and gently guided it into his neck. Those were the last images he recalled before waking in the afternoon lull of Houston.

In the harbor lay three massive vessels. To him they appeared like giant shining suppositories. Overhead helicopters patrolled and below men in uniform uneasily stood in formation as medics administered more mysterious serum. His escorts parked just outside a large hanger and lead him through an entry way. The bolt lock was a bit disappointing. He supposed he had imagined retinal scanners or at least a fancy light up key pad. There was a concrete landing then a flight of stairs made from the same material to his right. They lead down below the dry dock and into a set of hallways that smelled a bit like bleach. He turned around once to see a janitor. His eyes glazed even from a distance. He was either doped or met up with an impromptu lobotomy.

Henry, what have you gotten yourself into now…

Those thoughts echoed then quickly dissipated as they entered a lift that shot them stories and stories below. It opened unto a small gray room with a secretary. In the background sang pop heartthrobs and the lady, a forty-something cheeky lass, simply smiled and mentioned that they had been expecting them.

She buzzed the four in and Henry again couldn’t help but looking back. The lady had likewise done the same and even mischieviously winked at him. He thought it altogether inappropriate: the music, her airs, that make up.

Henry, a booming voice. Handshakes, some stern glances. One man sat sideways in a swivel chair and tapped his pen incessantly on a pile of papers and a manilla folder.

I think we’re ready.

The room was yellow, that kind of yellow the cheaper bulbs give out. There are faces staring into plastic cups at diminishing liquor and foam coolers between legs of cliques of people I’ve seen but don’t remember. It’s like going through the rings of hell but backwards.

I’m so drunk I don’t even care if they’re staring. They clutch their beers and kick the boxes of 18 packs further into those centers of their circles. Their own private Infernos replete with shrill laughs at inside jokes at me most likely.  A girl looks back at me as I pass. I don’t so much pass as I shuffle. i don’t so much shuffle as I stumble. In my mind I’m sauntering in gallantly. In reality I’m leaning in with my hips and swaying my shoulders back and forth as my head bobbles.

I’m so F’in’ cool.

Pass more people huddled about the DJ. Is that a DJ? I scoff. My 12 year old cousin could get this place poppin’ quicker with her ipod. Some one bumps into me and has the audacity to act upset. Her boyfriend furrows his brow and I smile and push open the swinging door that leads into the kitchen.

People. More people.

A quick right, a fridge, I shove my hand in… Nothing. I check all the obvious places. My head’s in the freezer in a sec and there’s one. I grab it because all they have is shit in the Crisper.

More stares for a second and then an uproarious whatever the hell my name is that night. The circles of hell are exchanged for embraces and smiles and welcoming shots of bottles and a cup that’s more like rubbing alcohol than cranberry.

The girls, they baby me. The boys joking flirt. Everyone tells me not to make a scene and one asks whether or not I’m in a good mood or bad.

I’m in a good mood.

Liquor. Let’s go for a smoke. I don’t even like smoking! I toss my cigarette at whoever is near. Luckily it’s a friend.

I’m done with this beer. I don’t even like beer!

I tell a joke and toss my arm around some one. I forget.

Wait! I remember! I hate fucking beer! I toss my beer at whoever is near. Unfortunately it’s a friend.

I really wanted to write “gonna” but held myself back. In the back of my mind plays this argument between all my English teachers and this idea of etymology as a living and heaving and breathing creature spinning out Ebonics and Pocho-speak.

But I digress.

I’ve been on this kick where i don’t really go out. So maybe it’s only been a week but the ramifications are never the less kind of interesting (kinda). I actually wasn’t stressing about rent, there was money left over to pay some bills, insomnia struck like a bitch, couldn’t manage to get out of bed before one—to name a few. It’s not that I’m altogether against the idea of drinking, it’s just that bars and dinner after has been taking heaping handfuls from my wallet.

For instance, last night, although I pre-gamed it at home and only made it to the bar with less than an hour to spare, I managed to spend about 30 dollars. What the fuck, right? It was nice though showing up and feeling like you knew everyone because by then everyone was drunk enough to say hi. I kid. I know enough people to make it seem as if I’m popular.

This morning, however, not feeling too keen. Maybe it’s the fact that there was a cute boy… a guy who surprisingly looked a lot like a Ken doll. Maybe it was the fact that I always tend to get into these situations where these boys feel the need to cling to my hand when all I was really doing was saying hello. Maybe it’s because I haven’t really chatted much with my fake internet boyfriend from far away land-ia. Maybe it’s because I have to have the apartment respectable by 3 so that the fumigator won’t feel too uncomfortable. Maybe it’s because I have to pay bills … maybe…. because… blah blah.

I had to heat the tea from yesterday because I’m out of coffee.

blah… blah blah…blah… blah.

There are five of us living in this tiny apartment. It’s practically a shoe box compared to the one I left behind in The States. Back there, I had three rooms, a terrace, and a balcony. Here I share the second to largest room. There’s only two, of course. We’ve a kitchen that’s essentially a four foot wide hallway that stops short of a window that’s more like a submarine’s porthole than any real eye into the world. There’s a half sink, a skinny stove in which we have to cut frozen pizzas in half to bake, and a set of cupboards that hold only a few coffee mugs and a pitcher we sometimes use to make lemonade. There’s not even enough room for the dorm room sized fridge which lingers just outside the kitchen in a spot next to the front door.

The girls share the other room. There’s Cynthia, Alicia, and Fannie. It’s more of a closet with two beds than really a room. You walk in and it’s like the eighties and Cyndi Lauper vomit-shitted everywhere. There’s a nightstand with two Sartorialist books sitting by a blue lamp, a handful of just as brightly colored condoms in the first drawer, and a pile of head bands and cheap aviator sunglasses in the bottom drawer. I joke that the picture books make them look smart and the condoms are pointless because they always stay over at the guy’s place. Stupid whores.

They have two dogs and a cat. There’s a mutt I like, a miniature schnauzer I can’t stand, and a cat I secretly pick fights with when no one’s around. Back home I had three dogs. Two big mastiffs and a poodle thingy. The poodle’s at my mom’s, the St. Bernard is with my aunt, and the Great Dane shares a bed with my cousin. I get pictures every now and then and on skype Lucy, the dane, barks at me and whines sometimes. It’s happened every so often I go to bed and stare at the wall. A part of me doesn’t necessarily miss the real cheeseburger (those without weenies), the faith in the police, daily conversations in English, or even being able to read the labels on packages of cookies. What I long for is having to be home to walk something, of the slobber, of the mountains and mountains of hair, even of being worried about them barking or bouncing around with heavy thuds in the middle of the night… I whimper. I whimper and all I get is a hug I just as quickly brush away. It’s so hot in the summer here and even colder during winter. They’re motto is either wear something skimpier or put on a fashionable cardigan. I look fat in cardigans! I look even worst in wife beaters. I just want to be home wit hmy dogs in the dead of a blizzard with the heater cranked to eighty and doing the running man in my boxers.

He sucks at his teeth. He’s a bit upset. I whisper something about the heat and grab his left hand with my left hand. I move my hand to his junk. It’s sweaty. It’s nice. Within, a surge of hate and longing mingles and instead of punching him for making me move here, I turn about at start hatefully kissing his small mouth and his crooked teeth. He’s saving for braces. I’m saving the girls the trouble of storming in hollering and having to clean his bloody nose.

We share a twin by the wall with two black night stands. They’ve been ingeniously pushed together to form a rickety desk which looks nice but couldn’t hold a cup of coffee if you sat there screaming at them with threats/ideas for kindling. They’re made of cheap composite anyhow. They’d burn too quickly. The walls are white with black geometrics painted on one. I’ve always hated those types of murals. It’s like candy. No real substance. Sweet and now and to the point.

I don’t have much here. I’m naturally a messy person, a hoarder. Here I have three pairs of shoes, two pants, five shirts. We share underwear and socks. He puts his shoes against the wall by color and style. My boots just manage to go up against it because he’s obsessive compulsive.

One time I told my good friend that I wanted to go up and hug her mother. She’s Korean and moved here knowing little to no English. I imagine her feeling terribly alone. That’s how I feel dating a Mexican. There’s this disconnect and it’s like I’m and island in a sea of double-meaning jokes and childhood shows I never get or have never seen.

I’m waiting for the melatonin to kick in again. Helping it along with a cigarette and some nostalgia. Perusing an old music blog. It’s hip. It’s comprised of dedicated aficionados efforts. Spread the love. Share an idea. The tastes have changed a bit since I last logged on. The beats are a bit more mellow. The rhythms slow and keen and groovy.

I remember wanting to be hip and cool and up to date with the latest music until my computer started running out of storage. It’s memory, depleted; my will to keep up, gone after the free downloads were curbed.

I’m sitting at home on a Saturday night relishing the fact that I’ve saved money the last few days but wallowing in that lonely feeling which often preoccupies people with even a slender vein of ambition.

I want something more than adoration. I want something more than a boyfriend or a guild of friends. I want to be immersed in something that I love. I want to feel dedicated to something that I can step back on and say, “oh man that is freakin’ awesome…”

My right ear hurts. It’s your left.

I have this fear of having my lower back give out and becoming crippled. I was craving a late might run but the wind and my ailment convinced me to go to be early.

It’s nearly 3 am now and I’m writing because I should be writing and the words etched in a server help me feel less of an outcast. I’m a nerd with nothing really to offer.

I’m waiting to go under. I’m waiting to call out phrases in my sleep.

I wake myself sometimes when I holler. I move about. I don’t remember everything I’ve done the last few weeks. I get too drunk. It’s funny.

I just waiting to go under, for my back to give and my muscles to leave.

I like the way he smells like nothing in particular. There’s nothing about him that stands out. At bars, the fellas are eyeing him. The women come up and are amiable. I’m shoved to the corner and he grabs my hand. He introduces me. We laugh. I’m charming all of a sudden. I’ m the one that’s carrying on the conversation. I’m the one in the photos with the pretty young things.

I like the way he smells like nothing. He has this cologne he uses on special occasions. On our first real date, he smelled Italian. He was simply drenched in the stuff. Sometimes, when we’re doing laundry, there’s a hint of it. I stare down at the shirt, I recall a weekend. I look to him outside in the street negotiating for a bag of chips and some sodas. The money makes no sense here. I’m used to a single color not varying pinks and blues and transparent windows… He comes back. There’s a lady not far. The place is small and she stares up every now and then from some newsprint with the wrong date. He gives me a wrapped cake. It’s something sweet with a cartoon character on the label and although I always know I don’t like the way it taste, I take a bite. I imagine him as a child. I think he mentioned once that they would put them in freezers. It tastes stale and somewhat chocolate. I bite. He bites. He chews like a horse. Ill mannered. I could never introduce him to the queen. But he smiles. His grin is wide, he holds it long enough to exhibit the crumbs and the stains and the pieces of what i think are nice but aren’t really… He’s the most beautiful, the ugliest, the funniest, he’s the guy I talk to with my back to while doing the dishes because I’m afraid he’ll break them.

The machines whir. The swish. The beat, the rinse, the spin, they heat. We put in however many monetary pieces and they never seem to come out as dry. We walk almost everywhere. There are bundles. He says I dress too American, I just off handedly mention how nothing fits here. It’s made for the emaciated. I’ve lost weight but I’m nowhere near famished.

The stairs are steep and laden with linoleum. At night, it’s treacherous seeing as only the bottom landing is lit. We’ve stumbled up and down and sober and drunk and we’ve kissed and we’ve stomped in anger.

He has this thing about his socks. It doesn’t matter if they match. He clings to parts of pairs. He wears stripes with solids and whites with blacks.

I like the way he doesn’t smell like anything in particular but when we’re in bed and he’s snoring, I shift my head closer to his armpits. It’s a bit sour and sometimes he doesn’t remember to wear deodorant, but he smells like heaven.

I like how he doesn’t smell like anything in particular. I like how he isn’t particularly handsome. I like the way he tries and cook dinner but we always end up ordering out. I like the way he attempts to explain the politics of this place. I like the way his saliva is sweet in spite of the cigarette and ash. i like the way one sock lies loose at the ankle while the other is held tight up toward the calf when we fuck.

I like the way he shivers when he’s out of the shower in the morning and I’m just up because I have to pee. I like the way I stare at his phone when I think someone else is texting him. I like the way a look draws over my face when some guy, younger, skinnier, sexier.. when that guy says hi.

I like the way he doesn’t smell like anything but American brand body wash. Something sporty and something that says “invigorating” on the bottle.

I like the way he farts asleep.

I like the way his eyes tear up and his head tilts back when we fight and he’s just frustrated.

I like the way he has no chin and his profile is stupid but straight on, he could be a model.

I like the way he doesn’t exist but is always here.

I like the way he doesn’t smell.