Brad Simkulet's Blog, page 11
July 30, 2017
livingbreathingstreet:
LRT / yyc / i.m. ruzz
ib.ii
–
we...
LRT / yyc / i.m. ruzz
ib.ii
–
we are all at prayer
/ /in our communal shell
/ but our deaf gods
/ won’t answer, can’t
/ so we ride on the tracks
/ being lulled to acceptance
/ that god is mysterious
/ instead of unhearing
/ and still we pray on
July 29, 2017
July 28, 2017
ib.ii
we are all at prayer / in our communal shell / but our deaf gods / won’t answer, can’t / so we ride on the tracks /being lulled to acceptance /that god is mysterious / instead of unhearing / and still we pray on
harrisonforddaily:Harrison Ford attends the opening of Filmex,...
Harrison Ford attends the opening of Filmex, the Los Angeles Film Festival, at the old Florentine Gardens in Hollywood, April 1981.
July 26, 2017
hb.ii
He remembered a time when lunch rush was a rush. Not anymore. Now it was
a lunch crawl. Keith must be on his third cigarette or some shit, and it hardly
mattered to him because he’d fried one basket of fries to go with the bread he’d
toasted and the bacon he’d grilled for a club sandwich, and that was it. He’d
done nothing else. He took occasional sips from his ginger ale, wondered what
he Blue Jays would do tonight against the Indians in Cleveland, and leaned
against the stainless steel with a rag in easy reach – waiting. If he heard
the approach of Keith in his ancient Docs he’d start wiping down the steel. If
he heard the buzz of the ticket machine he’d perk up and cook again, but as
long as he could just sit and ponder the Jays pitching staff without
interruption he’d do exactly that.
gb.ii
the next morning he found himself looking in the
mirror in a way he never had before. he cupped his breasts in his hands and
pretended to lift them up as though they were full. they weren’t pecs any more,
hadn’t been for a while, so there was a slight bit of heft, enough to lend the
illusion that they were something else a little verisimilitude. change. he’d
never really considered such a thing, but just a few words and suddenly it
seemed so enticing. was he really considering this? he pinched his right
nipple, the one with the scar tissue from a botched piercing, and despite the
thrill of the pinch, his pleasure was dulled by the sight of the hairs that
rimmed his aureole. would those hairs stop growing with the right hormones? he
was really considering this. he couldn’t help wondering why.
July 25, 2017
fb.ii
“I don’t give a shit, Rod. You better pay up!” said
Bowling Ball, loud enough to prompt Rod to hiss something while patting the air
for calm with downturned palms.
Brad found it hard to concentrate on his kids. His
imagination of something sinister beneath the argument he was eavesdropping on
was so much more compelling than ice cream choices. Yet those choices were
still being voiced and debated: first something about “Can I have a dipped
cone?” from Katy, along with “…chocolate…,” from Harrison, and “What the hell
is heavenly hash?” from Brontë.
And mixed with the talk of ice cream choices, Brad was
able to pick out only fragments, “Of course … money. But …right… Be reasonable,
Ke– … You … too,” from Rod.
And that was it – the debate between Rod and Bowling
Ball ended, and the pair stood uncomfortable next to each other. Brad filed the
shards of Rod’s and Bowling Ball’s discussion somewhere in the dusty regions of
his mind, isolating what he’d just heard, or almost heard, from his conscious
mind, giving full attention instead to his twins and his son instead of the
tense backs of the two men. “So whatta we getting?” he asked, pointing at Brontë and
saying, “Tiger Tail or Heavenly Hash?”
“I just asked you what Heavenly Hash is,” she snarled,
raising her hands in the exasperated, teenage disgust that had become her thing,
“So? What is it, Brad?”
“I have no idea, Brontë. Katy?”
“Can I have a dipped cone, Daddy?” she asked, with
heavy emphasis on the “Daddy,” much to her twins disgust.
“Mmhmm. Chocolate? Strawberry? Vanilla?”
“Chocolate, of course.”
“Of course. And you want a chocolate milkshake. Right,
Harrison?” asked Brad, giving his son’s hand, which was still in his, a tug.
“Yep,” was Harrison’s answer.
“What. Is, Heavenly. Hash?!”
Brad turned to Brontë with his tight lipped
exasperation face and forced out the words, “How about I ask them when we get
to the window? Okay?”
Brontë rolled her eyes in the eternal signifier of “Whatever!”
Only then did Brad
notice Rod nodding an hello to him.
July 23, 2017
eb.ii
–How could
you have possibly known I was Catholic?
–How did you become Mormon?
–…
–How
do you go from Catholic to Mormon? Did you get colonized? Some weird neighbor? An
ex-boyfriend? What makes you take that step?
–Hmmm …
–Hmm?
–I
just met you. How do I know I can trust you?
–Fair
enough.
–What
do you mean, “fair enough?”
–I
mean you’re right. We’ve known each other, what? ten minutes? You can’t know
that you can trust me.
–Can
I trust you?
–Of
course you can trust me, but what else am I going to say? Who’s going to say, “yeah,
you can’t trust me?” It doesn’t matter. I can wait until you’re ready to tell
me. I don’t need to know yet.
–Do
you hear yourself?
–Yep.
I know what you’re thinking.
–
…
–What?
Don’t shake your head. You’re thinking I’m being some cocky prick.
–It’s
not just thinking.
–I’m
sorry.
–For
what?
–But
I know this isn’t it. I know we’re going to see each other again. So I can
wait. You can tell me about whatever made you Mormon when you’re ready. You can
say whatever you want about your Catholic recovery. I can wait.
–…
–
I will wait.
–What
do you believe?
–You
don’t
want to know that.
July 22, 2017
db.ii
Mr. Reyes wasn’t going to let him remain silent. “So
what do you do, Terry?”
There it was. The question that Terence had most hoped
his new landlord wouldn’t ask. The truth was he didn’t know, even though he had
his vague answer prepared. What did he do now? Now he figured he just kept
swimming and hoped he didn’t drown and drag down Kyla with him. He was supposed
to be finishing his job at the Country Club and banking his money for his first
year at the University, which was only a month and a half away now. He was
supposed to be a student by then, living his first year alone, without Kyla. He
was supposed to become a businessman, to get his MBA and come out the other end
with limitless job prospects, to make his Mom and Dad proud. But he couldn’t
leave Kyla, and they wouldn’t help him help Kyla, and now he was here doing
what he knew was right for the person he loved.
“I’m a waiter,” he mumbled.
“Oh yeah,” said Mr. Reyes. “What restaurant? I’ve
probably been there.” He punctuated his words with a loud “heh” and an open
handed slap to both sides of his big belly, then stopped at the stairs of building
three. “After you, Terry.”
Terence took advantage of the stairs to escape the
question, taking them two at a time to the open corridor of the second floor,
leaving Mr. Reyes behind for a moment. He stopped at the top of the stairs and
looked down the corridor. The first apartment was 3201. Theirs must be near the
end, at the other side of the building. His and Kyla’s. It was all, suddenly,
feeling very real. He reached out his hand to the stuccoed ledge, painted aqua
blue, weather dulled, littered with bird shit, and held on, waiting for Mr.
Reyes to join him.
