K.J. Stevens's Blog, page 5

brothers

We were skinny

half-naked

blonde and tan

and we ran barefoot

and we ran hard

every summer

turning green grass

brown

flattening the yard 

until it was hard-packed

like pavement.

Mom and Dad

never had

nice things

a tidy house

an immaculate yard

because we three boys

were so filled up

with destructive love

pushing and shoving

laughing and hollering

that it was impossible

for us

to slow

down

So, windows got busted

paneling cracked

and many breakable treasures

met their fate.

Oh, the damage

little boys

do. 

Copyright © 2024 by KJ Stevens

little realities

Waking with the sun at 5:43 am. Opening the shades. Making coffee. Letting the dog out. Sitting in a chair by the lake. Cold. Dewy. Birds calling. All of them flying northwest. One, two or four at a time. Then back inside to stretch. Pet the dog. Breathe with intent.

In the sunlight now, I see the wrinkles of my hand. How can the body change like this, without me?

This makes me get up. Right now. While writing this. To slather lotion on my hands, face, and neck. I can’t stop what’s happening, but I can convince myself that I’m delaying it.

It’s strange how the pace is picking up. I thought that as I aged it would slow, but it doesn’t. If anything, the days pass quicker now. I have much less control. My world is spinning and it’s hard for me most days to keep up. If I don’t try to stay moving, everything passes by without me. And I’m not ready to be alone.

Like this morning. At the cottage. A familiar orange sun rising over Grand Lake, but one unlike I’ve ever seen before. And one of the few I have left. How many sunrises will I see this year? Up early enough. Weather permitting. My mood just right.

People don’t think of these things. And I’d be better off doing the same. I don’t do it to be sad. In fact, it’s quite the opposite. Recognizing that the my life is running out makes me happy. Despite my flaws, errors, misjudgments, and mistakes—all the bad I’ve put into the world—I believe that I’ve done, and do, well. I’m not volunteering at soup kitchens, signing petitions, or marching for a cause, but I’m doing my best to make good choices in my ever-so-small, seemingly inconsequential world. Little by little. And that adds up. To what, I’m not sure. But it has to mean something.

~ KJ

too simple to explain

A star streaks through forgotten sky. Ignites excitement. For an instant. Then is gone. There are other lights. An amber one flickering from a wire over the intersection at the corner of our block. A lonely fluorescent bulb dangling above the porch across the street. And red anti-collision lights flashing up high—a plane moving people through darkness on a Wednesday in April at 1:17 am.   

It’s 33 degrees.  I’m drunk from big glasses of red blend box wine. Tired from too many tedious hours. And a little lost because I’ve miraculously made it to midlife alive, and without ever being in the moment. Even with all the gifts I’ve got.

I’ve conditioned myself never to stray. Eyes straight ahead. To work, the pick-up, the drop-off, the kids’ games, the drive-thru, the grocery store, the dinner table. And always home on time. I do whatever needs doing whenever it needs to be done. And when there’s a moment to rest, I feel uneasy. Like I could run. But this is where I belong. I know it. So, I stay.  And I drink and I write.  And when my wife and kids go to bed, I drink and write some more.

I have so much to say, but I’m ashamed for people to hear it. My words are too simple to explain. So, they’ll fear it. This staccato talk.

Those that could understand have gone. I’ve burnt them out. Faded them away. Made them distant, fuzzy memories. Or I never really knew them at all.

I’m so deep into making ends meet and overlap so that the ones I love have more than they need that I don’t remember what keeps me fine. So, an undisclosed ache grows. The awareness is unbearable. Day by day, layer by layer, all I believed would be breaks into little brittle pieces that are easily ground to dust.

The cycle never stops. It only repeats when I wake. Hungover from drinking to forget how sad it is that a man with so much finds so little when he is alone in the dark searching the sky.

~ KJ

copyright 2024 © KJ Stevens

reaching

We gave it

a shot.

Did what

we could.

Ran full up

on feeling.

Believed

in love.

In being.

Then we

dropped.

Hard and apart

and out of

each other.

Onto the floor.

And we dressed.

Down

the rickety stairs.

Under

the flickering light.

We stood

on the stoop.

You stared

into the sky.

Exhaled

a long

vapory sigh.

And I

tried

to make

sense

of the night

by thinking

about the way

our bodies felt.

Unfamiliar

in the dark.

Mine gone soft.

Yours firmer

than ever.

And how we could

not kiss.

Talk about

it.

Or touch.

You

shop

for new shoes,

skirts,

and perfume.

I

drink

early

and late

alone

at home

and in bars.

We are

humming

different tunes.

Hearing less

and less

of each other

every day.

Now,

is too late.

Everything

that has not gone

is going.

Escaping.

Out of us.

Into the night.

And thinking

will never

bring it back.

Because thinking

never does.

We will only

be left

with us.

Broken

in the quiet

chill.

Summer

passing.

Autumn

closing

in.

And a bat

flying over.

Then between us.

Nabbing a moth.

One

of the chosen

few.

Mesmerized

by light.

Enchanted

by warmth.

Taken

by the glow.

And you

too frightened

to move

or scream,

to do

anything.

Even with black

wings flapping

near

your face,

and my hands

reaching

out

for you

in the dark.

Copyright © 2024 by KJ Stevens

bucket fish

She’s ten

and keeps a sunfish

in a bucket

for days.

One

she caught

while camping.

She feeds it

bits

of leftover

burger,

dried worms

found

on the sidewalk,

poor,

stupid

moths

that bang

against

her bedroom

window

at night,

and ants,

lots

of ants.

It floats

in debris,

surrounded by

white walls

under a big sky

that waits,

but is occasionally

blocked

by big brown eyes

and a wide

toothy grin. 

Gills in. Gills out.

Fish die

from heat,

lack of

oxygen,

birds

that watch

from rooftops, 

and neglect,

as the girl

plucks flowers from

the neighbor’s garden,

jumps

for hours

on the trampoline.

hides

in the maple’s

leafy branches,

eating Skittles

stolen

from Dollar General

until she is brave

and indestructible,

all hopped up

on sugar,

and circling

the block

of a boy she likes,

riding her bike

no hands.

~ KJ

copyright @ 2024 by KJ Stevens

MAPLE HILLS

      Bright stars glint and twinkle. In the distance, planes roar, coming and going from Detroit Metro. We are on the front porch. Seven years and 257 miles from where it began. Our words make white vapor in the cold evening air.

      “South Dakota?” I ask. “What’s there?”

      “A new art studio,” Maggie says.

      “You have a studio. With a two-bedroom apartment. On the island.”

      “You can have it,” she says. “After it’s empty, of course.”

    “So, you’re going to load up decades of artwork, my kid, and move to South Dakota?”

      “Sioux Falls,” she says.

      ZuZu wraps herself around my leg. Our eyes meet. She’s tired. I’m tired.

      “Daddy, I don’t want South Dakota,” she says.

       “Nobody wants South Dakota, Zu.”

      Maggie leans against the house. Sighs. A brown curl falls and dangles between her eyes. Like magic, she manifests an orange scrunchie from nowhere, reaches up with both hands, and pulls the fallen curl and everything else back. When she does this her jean jacket opens to reveal Frank Sinatra’s mug shot from 1938. My T-shirt. One she bought for me. Six Christmases ago.

      “I want to go to South Dakota,” she snarks. “To Sioux Falls. With our kid. You, as usual, will be doing your thing, on the island for God-knows-how-long. Maybe through winter? ZuZu and I don’t need to be stuck there like Danny and Wendy in The Shining.”

      “Nice literary reference.”

      “Thank you,” Maggie says. “I thought you’d like it.”

      “Why don’t you set up in Thunder Bay, then? At the cottage.”

      Maggie rolls her eyes. Crosses her arms.

      “I don’t think so.”

      “You’ll have your own space. I’ll be out of your hair. And then, it’s not that long of a drive,” I say nodding toward ZuZu. “For visits and such.”

      “Ninety-minutes,” Maggie says. “Then forty-five minutes of ferry time.”

       “I love the ferry!” ZuZu exclaims. “The island too! I like when the horses take us up the hill in the buggy!”

      Maggie moves closer then kneels to get level with ZuZu. I breathe. Slowly. Deeply. And there it is—citrus—grapefruit and bergamot. The same sweet scent from hugs we used to share—good morning, good afternoon, goodnight.

      “I know, honey. I like the island too. But Daddy and I have a lot to discuss.”

      “Oh, no…” ZuZu says, as she scoots across the porch away from us, “…more discussing.”

      My phone CHA-CHINGS! like an old cash register.

      ZuZu leaps to her feet, “Greta! Greta! Greta!” she cheers.

      Maggie and I jokingly chose this notification sound the day I signed with Apple Tree Agency. A small boutique outfit owned and operated by Greta Gellhorn. A twenty-something with a Ph.D. in English, a nose for business, and a story so serendipitous, Maggie insisted I give her a shot. 

       I’m at The New Hudson Inn, the text reads. Thinking about my favorite writer. Meet me for drinks?

We’re all a long way from that cold December day when the recent graduate, with nothing to do but drink and read, found a beat-up copy of my self-published book, A Better Place, at the Bicentennial Bookshop in Kalamazoo. She paid seventy-five cents for it, went straight home, and splashed Vernors into Sobieski for three and a half hours until she was done. That was it, she said. She knew she wanted to help people like me—unknown writers—to get known, get read, and get paid.

      “Well, what did she say?” Maggie asks.

      “Book signings. Updated numbers. I hate that shit.”

      ZuZu stomps her foot. Scowls. “Don’t swear, Daddy!”

      “And don’t hate it,” Maggie says. “It wasn’t that long ago you were writing from a basement in the projects, and we were struggling to make ends meet.”

      “I’d like to be back there now,” I say.

      Maggie bites her lip. Nearly loses it to tears and crying and everything else that’s balled up and ready to spring out from inside. It’s awful seeing her like this on the porch where we used to sit and drink wine and watch ZuZu chase moths and grasshoppers. Where we talked and listened as the big sun slipped down behind the maples night after night to meet the horizon. She has something to say. It’s on the tip of her tongue. But she will not let it out to be free and run, and I don’t know how to help. Communication, intimacy, everything I thought we would always share has been lost in roles and expectations, and it is our inability to share and explain and get it all out—to get it back—that heightens my pulse, sends my heart into my guts, and makes me wish she didn’t look so pretty—even now, with darkness all around and sadness in her face—and that we weren’t falling apart like this, right now, in the middle of our life.

     Maggie wipes her eyes and there is a great sparkle as her diamond catches the light. 

      “You’re still wearing it,” I say. 

      “We’re still married.”

      She is on shaky ground now. About to break loose at any moment.

      “Give Momma a hug,” I say to ZuZu.

      Maggie lifts her and they hug.

      “I don’t want South Dakota, Mommy.”

      “I know, honey,” she says. “I know.”

      And then they bring the tears, lots of them, but I don’t want any, so I focus on the flashing lights of planes pushing through the dark sky and I think of the men and women, husbands and wives—some of them great distances from home, great distances from themselves and each other—traveling together or alone. People with more disaster, fear, and failure stitching together their relationships—their lives—than any outsider could ever know. And I wonder, if people trust strangers to land them safely from flights so high above the earth, why can’t Maggie and I even get off the ground?

      “I don’t want South Dakota,” ZuZu says again.

      I head this off before it goes too far.

      “Let’s not worry about South Dakota. Let’s worry about Frankenmuth.”

      “I thought you were going to the Detroit Zoo?” Maggie asks.

      ZuZu jumps from Maggie’s arms. Stands between us. Wipes her eyes with her arm.

      “What’s Frankenmuth?” she asks.

      “Frankenmuth is a town. About ninety minutes north.”

      “But I want to see the polar bears,” she says.

      “We’ll see bears.” 

      “We will?”

      “Sure, black bears, and there’ll be a tiger and lion, and—”

“But I want to go into the glass cave. The tunnel with the water around us and watch the bears swim.”

      “The Artic Ring of Life,” Maggie interjects, “Mommy remembers.”

      “Yes!” ZuZu shouts. We can watch the blind sea lions swim and play with the big red ball.”

      “That was always fun,” Maggie says.

      “We’re not going to the big zoo,” I say. “We’re going to a little zoo where we can feed goats and turtles and parakeets.”

      “Turtles!” She cheers and looks up at Maggie. “Turtles, Mommy!”

      “They have lots of shops too. Ice cream shops, candy shops, sausage shops, cheese shops, smoothie shops. We can eat and drink whatever we want.”

      Maggie glares at me, “Not too much drinking,” she says.

      “Okay! Okay!” ZuZu cheers. “Let’s go!”

      I pick her up, we hug, and Maggie steps closer. She touches my arm and for a moment, we are home again. Husband and wife and daughter. On our porch. Decompressing from the day. All we need is a little wine, the birds, and the light of the sun, even if only a few minutes before it disappears with no promise of a return.  

      “Where are you staying tonight?” I ask. 

      She takes her keys from her pocket. Backs away.

      “Canton.”

      “What’s in Canton?” I ask.

      She pecks ZuZu’s cheek.

      “Friends,” she says, and turns away.

      My guts roil.

      “Bye, Momma!”  

      “Bye, honey!” Maggie sings back. “I love you! See you in Thunder Bay in four days.”

      ZuZu hugs me tight. Maggie walks away. Down the porch steps where we used to sit and feed breadcrumbs to the family of mallards that adopted us for three summers. Into the driveway where we played basketball and hopscotch. And into the 4Runner that took us everywhere. Grocery shopping at Meijer. To Wasabi in Westland. To Hines Park. Red Robin. The Drive-In on Ford Avenue. Tigers’ games. Bald Mountain in Lake Orion. And no matter the season, always up north, back home to Thunder Bay. The place we swore we’d return to and live one day.

      “I still don’t want South Dakota,” ZuZu says.

      “South Dakota’s not so bad. Mount Rushmore’s there.”

      “Dead presidents in rock?”

      “A great American landmark.”

      She rolls her eyes.

      “You’re a landmark,” she says.

      “Presidential material.”

      “Mom’s President,” ZuZu says.  

      I follow Maggie’s taillights until they are gone. Eaten up by the dark.

      “Time for beer and Scooby-Doo,” I say.

      “Okay,” ZuZu says. “But not too much. We need our rest.”

      “You can never have too much beer and Scooby-Doo,” I say, and carry her inside.  

This is an excerpt from the upcoming novel, Devotion, by KJ Stevens.

Copyright © 2024 KJ Stevens. All rights reserved.

a little bump

February 9, 2024 – 6:32 am

Spring the past couple days. Snow melting. Birds clustered in the tops of bony-fingered maples. Chattering. They know this won’t last, but it’s nice to think about it. Consider it. Hope that winter is done with us. Indeed, that hint of flowers and green grass gives us the bump we need to make it through another day.

But if we’re relying on the weather for perspective, to shake us out of our winter blues, perhaps we’ve been complacent too long. Running the same routine. Doing the same things. Expecting different results. Could it be these past few days of sunshine and 40 degrees aren’t here for a little relief, but are a sign to do more? To do different?

We have routines and the day-to-day because that’s what’s necessary to fulfill our roles, meet the expectations of others, and to make ends meet. But is your routine making you happy? Is there enough change and difference in your day to encourage growth? And do you need encouragement?

What happened to the hunger?

Not the grumble in your tummy that’s got you running through the drive-thru, but that ache inside telling you that you’re meant for more. What did you do to it? It’s still there, isn’t it? In restless sleep. Dreams. Song lyrics. Maybe today, in the ray of sunlight that filters through the window, as you watch starlings fly in a great, magical wave, to cluster at the top of the maple.

~ KJ

winter

My wife is on the telephone. Talking with her lover. So, I stand outside. Fingers aching cold. Eyes watering at the sky. It’s too late in the year, but there’s a V of geese flying above me. Struggling to keep formation. So low, I can hear the whistling of wings. They are headed south. Or maybe not even that far. Perhaps the city, only thirty miles away, will be warm enough. Year-round parks. Bird feeders and hand-outs. Ponds that don’t freeze. The birds honk as they ascend into thick, gray clouds that layer and fold. Create shapes and forms. A heart. A horse. A ring. The face of Jesus in the sky.

Finally, filled up on cold, I go inside.

I stomp the snow off my boots. Plates and cups rattle on shelves behind cupboard doors.

“Why are you stomping? You know I’m on the phone!”

She says this with her hand clamped over the mouthpiece. To stifle our sound. As if any of this can be kept silent.

I stomp more, then move to the coffee pot. Her cup is there. Lipstick on the rim. I touch it then look at the color on my fingertips. It is not quite red, and it is something new.

I pour coffee. Add milk and sugar. I stir. Clank the spoon all around inside the cup.

She’s twirling her hair with fury. Glaring at me, as she listens to her lover. They are making plans. I know this because she has told me so. In all of this she has told me plenty. She has been honest. She’s told me the Truth.

Finally, she says, she’s fallen in love. Our marriage was something else. Not love, but something to help us find Love. She has found hers. I will find mine. Our divorce is necessary, she says. It is a parting of ways that will free us. And we need to be free because we are no longer the people we used to be.

“I can’t wait to see you,” my wife tells the other man. “I’m taking care of things on this end, and I’ll be leaving shortly.”

I have not seen my wife in weeks. She has come now to deliver paperwork. To resolve our broken life with a folder of documents. A list.

“I don’t want this to be messy,” she says to me, as she returns the receiver to its cradle.

“It’s already messy,” I say.  

She takes a sheet of paper from the folder she’s brought.

“Here’s a list,” she says, holding it out for me. “Things I want to keep. Things you can have. I trust we know enough of each other that we don’t need the lawyers to decide on these things.”

The list is written on personalized stationery. Kali Beck, it says. Already, she’s dropped my last name.

“I’ll look it over later,” I say, and squeeze my coffee cup.

She sighs. Fills her cup over the sink. Like she’s always done. As usual, she only pours half a cup, and she spills a little.

I stare out the window into the field across the road. There are turkeys marching through dead grass. I count twenty-seven hens. There isn’t a tom in sight. The turkeys gather near a row of abandoned hay bales. They peck and scratch the ground.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she asks, sipping her coffee.

I raise my cup to my lips as slowly as I can. Take a long, noisy sip.

“I know when it happened,” I say. 

“What?”

“When it ended.”         

 

She sets her cup down. Leans against the counter top. Stares into the floor.

“Listen,” she says, “I don’t want to fight. I just came to give you the papers and say goodbye.”

I feel something shaking loose inside. I hold my cup tighter. Move closer to her.

“Listen,” I begin. “One night, I came home early, and you were in the shower. The phone rang. I answered it, and I could feel him on the line.”

She turns and reaches for her coat. I continue.

“He didn’t say anything, but I knew he was there. It was like both of us were standing silent, face to face in the dark. And I wanted him to say something, to ask for you, but he didn’t. And I walked to the bathroom door with the phone in my hand, and I wanted to confront you. Both of you. But he’d hung up before I could say anything. So, I stood there, outside the bathroom, waiting for you, not knowing what to do, trying in my mind to put together the pieces. And then, that’s when I heard it.”

Kali slips her arms through her sleeves. Pulls on her hat.

“Heard what?” she asks. 

“The shower spraying. Water drops against the shower curtain. And you, my wife. Singing a song I’d never heard before. That’s when I knew.”

She looks into my eyes and I feel it, as I have always felt it, but I see that she feels nothing. Her brown eyes are glass. Small, dark surfaces for reflecting the world.

“Stop it,” she says, quietly.

“After I heard you singing, I walked outside and stood in the dark looking at our house. And I thought about all of things we had shared. And all of the things we had planned. I stared for a long time at the bathroom window. Through the shades and the steam, I could see a shadow. An outline of a woman. But it wasn’t you.”

“It was me,” Kali says, “It was me, but…”

She moves away. Toward the wood carving of Jesus that hangs on the kitchen wall. He’s leaning forward under the weight of the cross he carries. She reaches up and touches him. 

“I forgot about this,” she says. “I didn’t put it on the list.”

“You made it.”

“I did. But you can keep it.”

Kali turns. Faces me. Our eyes lock. I feel it again, as I’ve felt it thousands of times, but she shows nothing.

I turn away. Look out the kitchen window as big flakes drift and whirl. The turkeys are gone. The sky is white. And behind me, Kali opens the door. There is a moment of shared silence. Like two strangers passing in the dark. And then, she is gone.  

~ KJ

New Year’s Eve Morning – 2023

Was in bed until 7:47 am. I’d like to say it’s because I was conked out peacefully all night. But that would be inaccurate. Fantasy. The real bit is that I stayed up longer than usual watching the Lions lose, I’m getting older, and the past several weeks have been bumpier than I let on. I am tired. If it wasn’t for the invisible winter sunrise and my brain urging me to get up and at the monotonous morning routine, I would have stayed in bed. For how long, I’m not sure.

But this little life relies on me. I have things to do, and I’m willing and able.

One day, that’ll not be the case. And that reminder, the “one day,” changes my approach to how I engage with my mind, feelings, and actions. Being aware that I’ll encounter a time when there are no days, or that my existence and how I experience it may be greatly altered, tempers expectations and readies me for opportunities that are always present in whatever comes. This ensures an ever-flowing undertone of hope.

And we all need that, don’t we?

Taking down the old calendar and putting up the new. A whole fresh set of empty boxes, untouched. Ready for our making.

What will you choose to do?

Transfer over important dates from last year? Plan a little getaway? Pencil in more me time?

Maybe announce to the world your commitment to a new you, all diet and exercise, sharing jogging logs and smoothie recipes?

Or better yet, proclamations and filtered photos of a sudden acceptance of yourself and awareness of how happy you are just being you?

Or maybe not.

Maybe you’ll sober up. Go deeper. Get into the guts of it. And force yourself into awkward situations that cause discomfort and uncertainty, requiring you to listen closely, rise taller, and fight more fairly, so that at the end—whatever and whenever that is—you will have grown.   

Happy New Year.

~ KJ

holiday cheer

I visit him because he’s a crazy fucker and he needs me. If I don’t go there, he’ll louse up big time. And that will be that. He’ll make toast in the bathtub. Jump off the roof. Hang himself with Christmas lights. Which would be fitting, since it is Christmas and all.

He’s not answering his phone. It rings and rings and rings. This isn’t a surprise. He doesn’t always answer it. Not right away. He lets it ring, watches it ring, and if the ring sounds different than he thinks it should, he answers it. It’s hit or miss with this guy. More often than not, I’m a hit, but today it’s Christmas Day, the only day when I actually plan on seeing the damned loony, and I’m a miss.

Or he is.

I’m not sure.

What I am sure of is that I have twelve miles to drive through a snowstorm to spread some holiday cheer, and he’s got me worried.

He says awful things sometimes. Like earlier today, when the crazy ass actually answered the phone and I had to hang up on him. I couldn’t help it. I had to. He said that all he wanted for Christmas was a gun. He sang that damned song, the one that goes “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth, my two front teeth,” but he changed the words to “All I want for Christmas is a real big gun, a real big gun.” He kept singing it and singing it, over and over, so I hung up the phone. I had to. It was pretty scary. Really.

And now I’m calling him back, and he won’t answer the phone. Not even on Christmas. So, I load up what I got for him. Six-foot-tall, fake tree. Two dozen Christmas bulbs. Twenty-five feet of silver garland. He’s already got lights. The day after Thanksgiving he somehow managed to get to a store and buy lights. Or maybe he stole them. I don’t know. 

Of course, I got him what he wanted. A gun. It’s a toy, but Catchey won’t know the difference. He’s wrecked. Not all there, if you know what I mean.

It’s a lever-action, black steel, Daisy Red Ryder BB gun. Without the BBs. I kept those. The last thing I want him doing is loading the sonofabitch and putting an eye out. Especially mine. 

I don’t wrap the gun because I know if I do, he’ll have a fit. He’s got an issue with Christmas wrap. Years ago, his baby brother, Jeffery, choked on a wad of it and died. He was only four. Catchey was eight. When his parents came into the living room, they couldn’t tell if Catchey was shoving the wad of paper in or trying to get it out. That morning, before the Christmas wrap incident, Catchey had threatened to kill his little brother because he had received more toys than he did. So, you see, even as a kid, Catchey had issues. A mean streak. Extreme highs and extreme lows. But when a kid’s eight years old, and his baby brother dies, you give him the benefit of the doubt.

Unfortunately, since that gift of doubt, it’s all been downhill.

His parents are dead too.

His dad died in a fire. Fell asleep in his hunting blind because of the fumes from his heater. Was cooked up when his pant leg got too close to the flame. Catchey was sixteen.

Two years later, his mom whacked herself out. Took a bottle of Tylenol PM and washed it down with a bottle of Absolut. Catchey found her but didn’t report it. Didn’t call for help. Didn’t do anything. He ordered Chinese food and stayed in his room for days. Watched the Yankees in the World Series. Finally, Yang, from Bin Bin’s House of Dong, noticed the stink of the body as he delivered half a dozen crab cheese wontons and a pepper-steak entrée. When Yang returned to the House of Dong, he called the cops.

When they arrived, they knew something was afoot. Catchey had draped a large Yankees pennant over his mother’s body. He had his pants down, was sitting in his own shit, crying on the floor next to her. They were surrounded by empty Chinese food cartons.   

I pass Bin Bin’s House of Dong as I drive through the snow. I get stuck at a stoplight, but some tis-the-season-to-be-jolly Samaritan stops and pushes me out. I keep right on going once he’s pushed me out, and I feel sort of bad for not saying thank you, or for giving a friendly wave, but I got my hands on the wheel at ten and two, and I know God will be proud of me for running to see if Catchey’s okay. Especially on baby Jesus’ birthday.

The push out of the snow was all I needed. An angel. A do-gooder. Somebody looking to make a few bucks. Whatever the case, I get through the snow all right and before I know it, I’m standing at Catchey’s door with my arms full of Christmas.

“Merry Christmas, Catchey!”

He doesn’t come to the door.

“Open up, Catchey! It’s Santee Claus and he’s got presents!”

Still no answer.

I stand waiting for as long as I can. I think about turning back. I could decorate my own place. Whip up the tree, wrap it in garland, drink a few beers, put up some lights and then sit in my living room shooting them out with the BB gun. But no, I think. Poor Catchey. That dumb sonofabitch could have his head in the oven or be lighting himself on fire. Like he’s done before.

That was another scary one. 

“I’m going to light me on fire!” he’d screamed through the phone one morning.

“No, Catchey. Don’t do it. You’ll get in trouble. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’m going to! Come watch! On the corner!”

When I got to the corner outside Catchey’s place, he was there all right. Holding a framed 8×10 of himself and his parents. Dousing it with lighter fluid.

“Time to go!” he screamed.

“Catchey, don’t burn that picture. It’s the only one you got.”

He burned it anyway, or at least tried to. When he sparked that match, the picture went up in flames. Catchey screamed, dropped it, then threw himself to the ground and rolled his body back and forth over the picture until the flames were out and the frame and glass were busted to bits.

“I save! I save!” he yelled. 

And I guess, in his own way, he did.

The picture, torn and smoked by flame, is tacked to his kitchen wall.

I know I have to go into the apartment. I just have to because I’ll feel guilty if I don’t. 

As usual, the door’s unlocked.

Inside, Catchey’s under the kitchen table with a silver colander on his head. He’s flat on the floor with pillows stacked in front of him, aiming a wooden spoon at me as I bend over to look at him.

“Catchey, what are you doing?”

“You’re dead! You talk no more! Shut up! You’re dead!”

“Catchey, listen. I’m sorry I hung up on you. I’m here to celebrate. It’s Christmas!”

By now, Rucks, Catchey’s Maine Coon, has appeared from the bathroom. He’s rubbing his ass on my leg.

“Rucks get you! Rucks get you!” Catchey yells, as he clangs the spoon against the colander on his head. “Rucks kill bad!”

I make like I’m going to swat the cat and it runs into the bathroom. I set the Christmas goodies on the kitchen table.

Catchey reaches up and grabs my leg.

“You Santee?”

I smack Catchey in the noggin. The colander rings like a Christmas bell. 

“Get out from under there!”

Catchey lets go of my leg. He scrambles out from under the table and stands next to me. He puts his head on my shoulder, whimpers as tears swell up in his eyes.

I walk away from him and take the tree into the living room. He’s got his recliner turned facing the window. Covered in Christmas lights. The television is face down on the floor. There’s dried cat puke everywhere. 

Catchey sobs in the kitchen. It bothers me because all he wants for Christmas is a gun, and the gun is sitting right there on the kitchen table. All he’s got to do is stop crying and open his eyes.

I try not to think about it as I get the tree out of the box. It’s in three pieces. The branches all folded up, but it’s a breeze to put together, and I’m surprised at how real it looks, even up close. I sniff the needles for the hell of it, and I swear I can smell pine. I pick up the box and read it. It says nothing about being a scented tree.

“Catchey, stop crying. Come smell this tree.”

He doesn’t come, but Rucks does. Comes purring alongside me. Rubbing my leg. He stops suddenly then wretches and wretches until he hacks up a milky gob of hair.

I walk away, into the kitchen, because I need the bulbs and garland to decorate the tree. When I get to the table, I notice that the gun’s gone. It’s gone and so is Catchey. I listen and can hear him in the bathroom. He cocks and fires, cocks and fires. Squeals with joy.

It almost makes me smile.  

I put the garland and the bulbs on the tree and I’m wrapping the final loop of lights around it when Catchey comes into the room holding the gun.

“A gun!” he shouts, delighted like a child.

The moment might be perfect, a real instance of Christmas spirit, but Catchey’s naked from the waist down.

He does this all the time.

“Where are your pants?”

“I shit!” he yells, still absolutely tickled that he’s holding a gun.

What can I do?

I walk over and plug in the lights. The phony tree looks great.

“Catchey, come smell the tree.”

“A gun! A gun! A gun!”

He cocks the gun, points the barrel into my face, and pulls the trigger. A blast of air whops me in the eye. 

“I kill!” he shouts, ecstatically, “I kill!”

Rucks is behind Catchey with his front paws on the back of Catchey’s thigh, nosing his ass.

I turn the recliner around and take a seat. Catchey moves toward the tree. He bends over and puts the gun under it. Rucks is behind him, sniffing away. 

I stare into the lights.

“I leave the gun for Santee,” Catchey whispers. Then he stands up and walks toward me. Stands right in front of me. His cock and balls dangling in my face.

“Catchey, turn around.”

He does, and there’s shit and bits of toilet paper smeared around his crack.

I stand up and put my hands on Catchey’s shoulders. Poor Catchey. I just want to hug him, to hold the crazy bastard and let him know that things will be okay, but I can’t because they probably won’t be. He’s too far gone, and all I can do is pretend that things have not come to this.

“I give Santee gun,” he whispers.

Rucks is back. Sniffing and rubbing. This time I give him an ever-so-gentle holiday boot so he slides across the hardwood floor and lands under the tree. He casually rights himself, lifts his leg, and licks and licks away. When he’s satisfied, he stretches out onto his side and paws at something I cannot see. His tail whisks back and forth like a pendulum. 

“Catchey, Santee doesn’t come to little boys who can’t wipe their own asses.”

I know I shouldn’t say things like that, but it’s ridiculous. Nonsense. He’s a grown man.

Some days he can get out and walk to the store himself. Some days he can cook for himself. I’ve seen him come out of the bathroom clean and shaven, fresh and new. Why can’t he make it through today, of all days, without shitting himself?

I make him stand in the tub and I get the water started. 

He breathes deeply. Wrings his hands.

“Sit,” I say.

He does, and then he rocks back and forth as I fill the tub. I use as much cold water as I can because I’m afraid of what might happen. And then, it does happen. I try not to look, but I do, I always do, and there it is. Catchey’s throbbing dick, getting bigger and bigger and bigger. He reaches for it, and I do what any civilized being would do. I pop him in the back of the head. Immediately, the excitement level drops.

I shove a bar of soap into his hands and order him to scrub. He bawls and wails, but sometimes you gotta be tough. With kids. With cats. With people you love.

I push him over, grab the shower head, and spray his ass as clean as I can.

“Stand up and dry off,” I say, as sternly as possible. “When I come back, I want you spic and span!”

As I walk out, I pick up his pants. There’s shit all over them, so I put them in the tree box and head outside into the snow, so that I can throw everything away into the dumpster.

How does it happen?

How does any of this happen?

A couple of bad shakes. A stacked deck. A bad deal. Turds in the gene pool.

          

There are layers of meaning to sift through, but I don’t have the time. I don’t want the time. I’m afraid of what I might find.

All around me snow, lights, and holiday cheer. Families getting together. Bundled up and driving by. They’ll suck down eggnog. Share presents. Make memories. Carve the Christmas beast. All of them living better than Catchey and me.

I throw the shitty Christmas tree box into the dumpster. I look up into the sky toward Catchey’s apartment window, expecting to see a burst of flames. A dangling rope. Or Catchey on the edge, getting ready to jump. But from the sidewalk, through huge, whirling snowflakes, all I can see is one thing. Catchey dripping wet and butt-naked, yanking lights off the tree. 

(from the book, DEAD BUNNIES, by KJ Stevens)