101 Words

Hit and run. Do you know who hit Pat Bledsoe? Did you see? Call 981-324-8474.

I’m eating again because I need strength to go with the person who is putting up flyers, monitoring the phone, kindly feeding me and keeping me at their house. I’ve regained control of my peeing and shitting, which is important so I don’t lose my new home. But I will never stop looking for the coward in the car who killed my beloved Pat.

Terry guffawed reading the name on my ID tag. “Perri’s your name? I’m called Terry by friends.”

Terry, Terry, Terry. Nice name.

My life changed when the doughnut shop next door closed. For the first time in my adult life, I couldn’t blame obesity on the accessibility of frosted pastries.

There was nothing to do but lose weight. I couldn’t help it. I walked. Then I jogged. Then I ran. Then I ran a 10k.

The pounds melted off like so much warm buttercream. My mother was thrilled. Then my girlfriend. Then my wife.

When my wife got pregnant, we moved to a little neighbourhood.

We had just added our name on the mailbox when we met our next-door neighbour, a Girl Scout.

She checks the schedule. He is not here even though the schedule on the wall says he should be. A conundrum.

She says to all who can hear her, “He is not here even though it says here he is.”

Someone responds, “He is at the meeting.”

Someone else responds, “There are cookies there.”

She acknowledges the logic of this. “Cookies,” she repeats, satisfied. “I wonder what kind.” No one responds because it is not clear she has asked a question.

An absorbed look suddenly crosses her face, a deep inward peer. “Cookies,” she whispers, then tiptoes back to her office.

She deleted the text she’d started for the fourth time that night. His words from their last fight, if you could call it a fight, rang heavy. Full of frustration, not anger; two lovers missing each other’s touch.

He stared at the text bubble on the glowing screen, willing her words to come. It was her turn to fix this. He was tired of apologizing, especially since he wasn’t sure what she was upset about. He picked up the second job out of need, not to avoid time with her. Why couldn’t she get that?

The bubble disappeared. The silence remained.

Blood pours from his brow. His jeans are ripped, a hamburger-like wound visible on his left thigh.

“Here’s your goddamn chips.”

He throws the bag in my lap. I look at the sell-by date and smile. Surprisingly, he has fulfilled his side of the deal.

I crunch a chip with my mouth open so he can hear.

“These are great. Hey, sorry about that leg, Bud.”

Slumping in his chair, he grabs an incident report. “Yeah, well it’s your turn tomorrow, asshole.”

Stealing a glance at the time machine, smoke still trickling out the portal, I shrug.

What is tomorrow, really?

Those fists, like atom smashers, trade blows as addictive as nicotine.

Henry likes watching.

He’s watching when a mouth guard flies and red spittle coats the screen, before it fades to black. They’re just like him, big hands on wire frames, lips parted until the spring of blurred hands in sudden exchange. It’s a beautiful confusion.

The crowd screams, but not for him, when he goes one round with an upperclassmen. He makes a better show in the lunchroom, better venue; three rounds and they scream his name too.

Two week suspensions are the worst; his hook was just getting good.