by tom miller

around 4 a.m.
june 23, 1999

 

 

i'm clenching my hands into fists, looking at the alcohol

behind the bar.

 

no, i say. don't do it.

 

"let me have a shot of tequila!"

 

damn.

 

"fuck it. and a beer too. fuck it. what the hell."

 

just as i was crawling on the wagon, i fell off in front of it

and got run over.

 

four days. that was the end of my sobriety shift. back on the

clock as a drunk.

 

and the more i drank, the happier i became being lonely.

 

perhaps because it's a familiar feeling.

the word familiar comes from family.

 

i was comfortable with my pain, like it was my mother;

holding me, nursing me.

 

looking at them all. beautiful, smooth, pretty smiles.

 

that night, after the club closed, i went down to common

grounds. of course, as usual, my X and his boyfriend were

there again.

 

they look better and better each time i see them.

jaime has a lot to do with that.

 

he's a stylist in his own salon, and he's good at it.

so they have perfect eyebrows, stylish hair, tans, the works.

 

in the meantime, my eyebrows are

growing together, my hair looks like 1970, and i don't tan,

i get freckles and moles.

 

probably cancer.

 

and my teeth! cursed with fucking green elephant teeth;

the ones still there, that is.

 

green elephant teeth and holes. a nose that looks like

someone tried to palm fist it into my brain. all i got good is

the eyes, and even they are buried under bags that look

like potato sacks. i'm a fucking mutant.

 

no wonder nobody loves me.

 

i don't even have a pleasant personality. i'm bitter, they say.

 

and as for being queer, i'm not good at it.

i don't walk like a sissy, i have no fashion sense, i don't lisp.

 

i'm butch. if i had been born a lesbian, i would have had it

made.

 

gay guys think i'm straight. straight guys think i'm gay.

lesbians think i'm cute.

 

and as for me, i don't know who i am or what i am.

 

it's all god's fault.

 

god, you fucking asshole! how could you do this to me?

 

you murderous faggot motherfucker.

what could your heaven be like?

 

i'm talking to myself.

 

____________________

 

 

i do a reading off the top of my head, just to remind myself i

have talent.

 

just to show my X and his love that i'm somebody

important.

 

the audience cheers, but my X and his lover are gone.

 

 

____________________

 

 

the next night, more drinking. crazy drinking.

 

a shot of tequila. a shot of fruit liquor. a shot of rumpleminz.

 

a whiskey and diet. a gin and tonic. another shot. 4 uppers.

 

and then my feet are dragging down the street, back to the

 

common grounds. they are there again. they are haunting me.

 

and i am dragging the dirt with my knuckles, like an ape.

 

me tom. me ugly. me throw my shit on you.

 

they are there.

 

i am thinking about crying now, like i never do.

 

i am thinking about dropping dead on the road.

 

i am thinking about what it was like to have a family, and

now to have nobody to go home to.

 

someone has stolen the $10 bike.

 

it's a pity party!

 

jaime asks me if i can watch the dog for a couple of weeks.

 

sure, i say.