god damn it. i'm dreaming.
my dad wakes me up when he asks, "did we wake you with the piano? eli's getting pretty good."
fuck. still dreaming.
i wake up in some loft across the room from my best friend from the third grade, kristen spencer. she's all grown up now too. she's cooking up some junk in a spoon and wearing this stupid t-shirt/nightgown that i used to own with this totally 80s, fluffy cat face air brushed on it. "i need some money," she says blandly. "i need a fucking break!" i fume as i hide beneath the covers.
her mother calls up to us. says she going to the market. can kristen bring down her purse? kristen snatches a wad of cash from inside the louis vuitton bag before tossing it down to her mother. "$759. perfect." she leaves. i hop outside in my ninja turtle sleeping bag.
outside, there's a deck. the whole yard is a deck. not a blade of grass on the lot. even the basketball court is deck planks. </a></b></a>hypnotique is there, leaning against the rail on the opposite side of me. "you know you can never stop her. you're only going to hurt yourself in the end. exotic and quixotic, you are. but worst of all, doomed," he related while carving his tag into the deck.
i squinted into the sun and frowned. "i know."
rod unzipped the sleeping bag then returned his attention to his art while i walked down the street to my house, ninja turtles in tow. it wasn't the house from warren, where i knew kristen, it was the house from miles ridge. stew was in the driveway, unpacking godzilla thunder. i grabbed a box and walked inside with him. "how much are you renting this place for anyway?" i asked.
"$800," he sighed. "i know it's stupid, but it's got a washer and dryer."
i heard my mom and my cousin tommy coming around to the back door. i told him, "yeah, that's not bad, but you really ought to make us leave."
tommy and my mother were all smiles, an especially rare occurrence for my mother. she beamed excitedly, "we just left kirsten. you'd better get over there before she kills herself."
dejectedly, i set out for kristen's, only half a block away, but the side walk was cluttered with toys, slowing me down. there was my hot pink skip it that only seemed to count every third skip, my brother's fluorescent orange skate board, the hand me down strawberry shortcake banana seat bicycle from my sister, our slip and slide lay tangled and shredded. no matter where i stepped, there were lincoln logs rolling under my feet and a endless technicolor avalanche of legos flooded my path.
when i reached kristen's front door, she was standing there holding a syringe from the dialysis clinic. she'd altered the label:
amanda miller 11/11 06:11
i tackled her onto the fold-out couch where my brother and i used to pretend we were tank drivers. she struggled and twisted and we were tangled in the care bear sheets. she looked me right in the eye and said, "i'm not the sob story" before she stabbed me in the thigh with the syringe.
i looked at her again, but it wasn't kristen. it was me. then it was one of those cinematic fast rewinds where you backtrack the whole story to the very first scene in just a matter of seconds. there's a spoon twitching over the flame of a bic and i hear my voice.
i need some money.