DREAM: They call me Bones as a nickname. I don’t know why. Crawling through mini-fridges in order to transport from the low level deck to the high level deck of a bedroom. In another mini-fridge lies the evidence or clues to who is responsible for heinous acts. Within the past few days people died and lies were told. I’m the culprit but I’m doing quite well at hiding the truth from everyone. At the end of the day, one of the girls develops a liking to me. But it’s time to depart. Her other friends whisper to each other, “Bones…” It’s understood they have now come to realize I’m the murderer. I make it known that I heard them and deny any involvement, acting casual and sarcastic, “C’mon guys. You know I didn’t do that. I’m Bones!”
Waking up at 11 a.m.
Banana. Orange Juice. Strawberry Yogurt.
All day shift at China Wok.
Lunch: Peanut Butter Sandwich. Olive Oil Potato Chips. Honey Green Tea.
Anthony discovers a bible verse referencing figs and shares it with me…
“Whoso keepeth the fig tree shall eat the fruit thereof: so he that waiteth on his master shall be honoured.” ---Proverbs 27:18 (KJV)
Figs. Figs. Figs.
Hot fresh rain aroma flowing from outside the door of the restaurant…mmmm.
Slow but steady deliveries…just another Monday.
Dinner: Lemon Chicken with Rice and a Carrot. Name Tag Lager.
Watching Double Team [1997]. Oh Dennis Rodman.
She calls. I don’t hesitate to answer. We talk and we talk. She denies what’s happening. I encourage acceptance. I make valid points as to why. I love though. I care though. She’s weeping so hard. And I feel that. The pain is all that matters to her. One day there will be happiness again. I promise. You will feel differently. And you won’t hate me for doing this. It’s only because I made the decision; that I’m in control now. Time. Time. Time. Let this heal. I’m here for you as much as I can be. Space.
Drained.
Downstairs they’ve set up a beer pong table using closet doors.
“What is this? We’re an art house not a frat house!”
I make haste out the door and dart down the street pumping my legs as fast as I can. I hear Anthony with the scooter trying to keep up with me. Retreating to the woods by the abandoned volleyball courts and hiding behind a tree. Anthony maintains his mission and so we unite. He jogs beside me for a bit and then…we walk and walk…I look up at the dark sky above me—clouds moving in an urgent pace. Imagining myself up there flying—flowing with the clouds—feeling the wind in my face and flushing out all that matters. We come to the end of the service road.
Me: “I always stop here at Gay Drive.”
Anthony: “Somehow that doesn’t surprise me.”
Me: “But it’s always a dead end.”
We make a u-turn. Anthony is good company in any moment. He adapts to your mood like a cat or a dog. He’s loyal. He’s there. Always there. A good friend. A worthy sidekick. And his words are golden poetry. I’m Sal, attempting to capture the gold nuggets. He’s Dean, living with zeal and without restraint.
Reflecting over a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch.
Sleep sometime after 4 a.m.
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