Lit.Org - a community for readers and writers Advanced Search

Average Rating

(1 votes)

RatingRated by

You must login to vote

Working, and changing because of it—the slow death of the childlike innocence and, in its place, a surrendered mentality. The restaurant business is a joke; the definition of hanging out on a limb, financially that is. But for a minute, a fellow busser and I break through the fog of the eight hour shifts like three-mast sail boats, looming from behind the fog on rocking waves and the mist slowly closes behind them.

We drop our bread baskets and plates for a moment, forget that we’re working on a weekend, that we’re selling what little time we have on this earth—and dance in the kitchen. Forget the customers and the bosses and the coworkers and the overdue rent money and instead, dance to the Beatles singing—“what would you think if I sang out of tune, would you stand up and walk out on me”—and we danced the whitest dance, gyrating hands and hips to different beats, biting our lower lips and squinting our eyes in feigned focus. We’re alive and loving it.

From behind the grill there’s a wave of laughter and we stop; a middle-aged woman with a beautiful spirit is laughing hysterically—everyone else following her gaze and looking back and forth between all three of us.

She stops laughing and her eyes open wide.



“Did nobody else see these assholes?”

Upside down in my room, the computer blaring some non-descript music popular amongst the youth of the time. The lights are out and I’m watching the visualizer tunneling further and further yet never reaching its destination. My eyes glaze and I begin to think about the faces that I no longer see—those lonely hearts that swung into my life and quickly out like amateur trapeze artists. Their faces float before me in the dark; Brian, just before he left, made a pact with me to never join a frat and hold our own resolve—he came back Sigma Nu. Kim—we would flirt into the late hours of the night and look at each other with curious eyes—last time I bought weed from her, she said she was pregnant and for a month after, I tried to help her quit but she never did; she was still working those two jobs and going to school to become a masseuse. Her kid must be a year old now. And Andrew—“friend’s since diapers,” we always describe each other—I helped him quit as our lives wrapped around each other’s once again. They’ve split since but I’m confident they will again intertwine.

And, as always during my bipolar down cycle, I think of my dog Jake, the one who ran away. He’s still MIA—dead in a ditch somewhere, his tongue still hanging out of his mouth.

Driving home last night, ten over the limit, wine on my breath after a heavy shift. Stopping at a stop light, I’m fiddling with the music, I need some Spoon or Wilco, oh, Wilco sounds good, Handshake Drugs is a—knock!—I look out my window and there’s a woman in the rain with a white Volvo behind her, young, beautiful. My tongue crawls back in my throat as I fiddle with the manual windows for eternity. Window is down now and the rain is cracking against the inside of my door and she’s soaking—wet brown threads framing her face.

“Ooh baby,” she says and runs back to her car.

I drive the rest of the way home wondering what has happened. For a few blocks, we strive neck and neck and I glimpse over several times to see her looking at me smiling a wide smile from the passenger seat. Her car slows and is waiting in the left turn lane and as I pass, she sticks her hand out and waves a slow wave and I knew what I should’ve done and what I should’ve said and how I should’ve acted and—

Eventually I’m home, passed out on the couch after jacking off twice, drinking, and playing video games until five in the morning.

Typing on the computer, headphones on so as not to disturb the beauty sleeping in my bed, I reminisce. Moments—jagged but somehow they bleed together in a slippery fog—pass in front of my eyes and there’s that slight instinct that keeps my fingers typing, recording every inch of movie reel playing in my mind.

No, this is something important so I can’t just free-think on the page—I’m working for something here and I have to be aware of every word I use. Which moments should I use, which are best for what I’m trying to do—what am I trying to do? When have I been able to withhold or control what I’m writing? Write what you write.

I’m trying to record history here and all I can think about is how Vincent “Don Vito” Margera was arrested for child molestation and how my dad was sloshed today. Driving seventy in pouring rain, tires giving on the sharp curves of the highway—fast lane—lane change—suddenly we’re on the right-hand shoulder, after veering off an exit ramp at 60 to avoid a rear collision—“bastard!” he’s screaming to whoever. I walk him out after he helped me unpack in my room, I listen to him call my gay friends gay and my girl friends fucktoys, now I’m writing because I miss it or miss would it could’ve, should’ve been.

I’m upset now because my “Kerouac” switch has been on for so long.

Related Items


The following comments are for "Incoherent anecdotes"
by Lingering

Add Your Comment

You Must be a member to post comments and ratings. If you are NOT already a member, signup now it only takes a few seconds!

All Fields are required

Commenting Guidelines:
  • All comments must be about the writing. Non-related comments will be deleted.
  • Flaming, derogatory or messages attacking other members well be deleted.
  • Adult/Sexual comments or messages will be deleted.
  • All subjects MUST be PG. No cursing in subjects.
  • All comments must follow the sites posting guidelines.
The purpose of commenting on Lit.Org is to help writers improve their writing. Please post constructive feedback to help the author improve their work.