“Aunt Jackie”
One New Year’s Eve I trusted this big girl I barely knew to leave with my debit card so she could withdraw my share of the drug money while on her way to the drug pick-up, which was stupid but whatever, so a bunch of us took ecstasy and went to this party at some fancy hotel suite on Miami Beach, and the big girl I barely knew overdosed and had to be put in the bathtub, and I wanted to crawl in with her, to die beside her, because I was lonely and because life had lost all purpose and because I felt closer to strangers than my own family and friends, and because I felt nothing, but there was an off-duty medic at the party and he got the big girl’s pulse going, and later the big girl asked my buddy and I to play with her tits, and we did, and I thought, Hmm, small-ass nipples for a fatty, and I thought, I’m so alone, so scared, and I thought, You are beautiful, then she asked if I trusted her while she shoved a Vicks inhaler up my nose, and so I sat there with this plastic thing up my nose as the big girl massaged my shoulders and I felt nothing, and I watched as this shadowy man dressed as a mechanic stuffed his pockets with silverware from the kitchen drawers, and I felt nothing, and then these two Asian girls showed up, one wearing a gorilla suit and the other wearing a leopard costume, and I said to the Asian gorilla, “You ever tasted your own dead, blistered skin? It’s like chewing on juicy rubber. They should make condoms out of this stuff,” and the Asian gorilla laughed while putting on some techno music and I tried counting the RPMs but soon gave up because I’d forgotten how to count, so I locked myself in an empty bedroom and drank from a bottle of bottom-shelf Zinfandel while watching an episode of Roseanne, and for whatever reason I kept shouting, “Aunt Jackie’s up to her old tricks again!” before passing out, and the next morning my brain tricked my eyes into believing there was sperm floating around the room, and so I turned the TV on to see if Roseanne was still on but it wasn’t, and I looked to see if there was any more bottom-shelf Zinfandel but there wasn’t, and so I started counting the floating sperm until I forgot how.
“Tony”
I was in the bookstore at the mall, reading a real funny essay about Papa Hemingway removing the brains from his head, when Tony dawdled over to slap me a shitty high-five. Like two dead fish connecting. Tony was this chubby black teenager in an ugly sweater who always hung out at the mall trying to pick up guys, like a gay Fat Albert. I always pictured him going, “Hey, hey, hey!” in like a really gay way, but it never happened for real. And he never remembered my name.
I’d first met Tony while sitting on a park bench outside the mall – loopy from a combination of caffeine, nicotine, and painkillers – halfheartedly hoping to attract a lonely female’s attention because, really, I had nothing better to do with my time away from stocking shelves at the Cash and Carry so when a pretty blonde with a Gap shopping bag on her arm walked by I made eye contact and I smiled and she looked away, then I turned and saw Tony sitting beside me. He asked for a dollar. I gave him one and we exchanged names and started bullshitting. He said he couldn’t connect with people because he happened to be black and gay – and Catholic (and wore ugly-ass sweaters). “Should I feel ashamed?” I told him no, “Fuck everyone,” and he laughed like crazy and then asked if I was seeing anyone. I wasn’t. He asked if I was gay. I told him I didn’t know what the fuck I was anymore but probably not gay. He said, “You ever experimented? I can tell when straight people are really gay but in denial.” I changed the subject by asking where he was from. “I’m an army brat,” he said. “Move around a lot.” Texas. Louisiana. Germany. “Germany is very sexually liberated,” he told me. “It’s common to see women with their tits out in public.” Then I asked if he’d ever been on the Autobahn, or whether or not he liked the music of Kraftwerk. Then Tony mentioned church, how his parents would force him to go, so I asked if his parents or the people at church knew he was a homo. “They don’t,” he said, “but Mom is kind of a religious fanatic, the type who scream and holler out to God and Jesus.” Then we talked about classical music and about Tony’s interest in history books.
Tony said, “I forgot your name,” like it was my goddamn fault. “You’re the one with the girlfriend, right?” I said, “Nah, that’s a losing-ass game right now. I think I’m the in-denial guy.” Tony’s eyes grew big. “Well, maybe you ought to join my team.” I considered it but not really. “I don’t know, your team might be too manly for me. I mean, a real man can probably take a dick in the ass. I’m just no good with that.” A crude sentiment, sure, but Tony, he just sighed and said, “Never know till you try,” then winked. I stammered something. Then we both laughed, though his laugh was the louder and scarier of the two. I said, “Hey, why not go hit the food court? I’m sure there’s a few prepubescent hotties worthy of some Tony man love.” His eyes twinkled this time. “You think?” “Sure,” I said. “You can offer ’em a slice of pizza, maybe some gum.” “Hey, that’s a great idea!” Then he gave me this dopey look. I waited. Tony said, “Think I could borrow a dollar?” I reached into my pocket and pulled out some change. Tony smiled as the change swiftly disappeared into a hand that was considerably darker, larger, and gayer than mine, and he took off, because a man needs love, and love costs money, and he never remembered my name, and I never saw him again.
Brian Alan Ellis co-edits the literary journal Tables Without Chairs (with Bud Smith), and is also the author of Something To Do with Self-Hate (forthcoming), The Mustache He’s Always Wanted but Could Never Grow, 33 Fragments of Sick-Sad Living, King Shit (with Waylon Thornton), A Series of Pained Facial Expressions Made While Shredding Air Guitar (forthcoming), and Something Good, Something Bad, Something Dirty. His writing has appeared at Juked, Hobart, Crossed Out, Zygote in My Coffee, Monkeybicycle, DOGZPLOT, Heavy Feather Review, Sundog Lit, Connotation Press, Vol. 1 Brooklyn, HTMLGIANT, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Out of the Gutter, Literary Orphans, NAP, The Next Best Book Blog, Revolution John, Lost in Thought, Electric Literature, People Holding, and Atticus Review, among other places. He lives in Tallahassee, Florida.
