Tuesday, June 28, 2016

TROOPS


She turned the page, hoping for a photograph of the city where Dev was born.

Thursday, June 23, 2016


I gazed up at the rafters in Madison Square Garden as Robert Smith sang “Friday I’m in Love.” The retired Ranger numbers, jersey style, red and blue on white, floated incongruously over the far end of the arena. The names did too. Names from other times and places. Graves. Gilbert. Messier. I thought about what it meant to retire a number. A great honor, blah blah blah. What it really means is this: If we retire one, we’re going to have to retire them all. Given enough time, and enough acts of athletic heroism, all the other numbers will eventually ascend into that celestial realm. And then what?

Monday, June 13, 2016

TROOPS


Don't believe it. People don't buy things based on how easy they are to return.

Thursday, June 09, 2016

TROOPS


“It came out of the blue,” he says. Boe hasn't even been able to publish his findings in a scientific journal,

Thursday, June 02, 2016

The Streak - 100

You wander back out to the parking lot under the starry Southwestern sky. What do they say in that song? The stars are big and bright. Deep in the heart of Texas. Except this isn’t Texas. Or maybe it is. You’re not sure where the fuck you are. Truck Stop, USA. It could be a movie set for all you know. Every piece in place. The pitiful bit of landscaping along the walkway to the diner doors. The garbage can that says Pitch in! With the little stick figure holding his hand above the hole in a gesture of benediction. God bless our trash.

To the right, rows of gas pumps gleam under fluorescent lights. Cars at some of them. Not all. No lines. Not a line for gas. This is America.

There’s a separate area for trucks. Their own archipelago of diesel. And a vast expanse behind it where they park diagonally in the dark. The laws are different back there. Sleeping in vehicles. Sharing crystal meth in the private alleyways between the trailers. You heard about truck stop whores. You imagine teenage runaways. Or sad old addicts. Climbing into the cab to suck a grimy, unwashed cock. Making a thank-you noise through pursed lips as she takes her twenty dollar bill, climbing back out, walking out of view somewhere to spit his seed upon the ground.

God knows what depraved thoughts a man gets when he’s been on the road awake for three days straight. No one to talk to but his radio. His electric cunt.

To the left is the car lot, for civilians; people driving with their families to the Grand Canyon or the Hoover Dam. Eating Cinnabons. Spilling coffee on their balls. Somewhere in that lot is a man who’s dead.

Now you have that stupid song in your head.

There’s a truck pulling in now, says GOD in giant letters on the side. Not just GOD but G.O.D. G period O period D period. To make sure you really get the point. Every period spells fucking. G fucking O fucking D. It stops in front of you and blows its horn, a disturbing, insistent reprimand to your shameful thoughts. You can see the driver in there, gesturing at you. He wants you to approach. Your body vibrates with terror. This is an envoy—yet another—to come get you. Still you find yourself walking forward, off the curb, up closer. The man’s face is now visible through the glass. It’s a round face, mustachioed. It’s a familiar face. Not scary. Not a scary face. Good face. You take a step closer. It’s Bill. It’s Old Bill. You step up on the running board and open the door.

“Evan! Get the fuck in here!”

“Bill?!”

“Get the fuck in here and sit down you cocksucker!”

“Bill?!”

“Get in and close the fucking door, you fucking son of a bitch!”

“Bill!”