Something ain't right here.

What if my backyard is in Greenland? What then, British Petroleum? WHAT THEN?

It Makes Me Sad...

Is that... I mean... Seriously? How can this be real?

Aside from the fact that I was there and took the picture, I find it hard to believe anyone could intentionally name a park that...

*SIGH*

Mixing Work and Romance

Every muscle in my body had to be stopped, because no less massive a systemic shutdown seems to rouse Benjamin from his fearsome driving trance. Some people talk about white-knuckled driving, and that description is certainly apt in the case of Benjamin. In addition, he is red-jawed, tense-eyed, flutter-kneed, pale-cheeked and cold-nosed. Like a hyperactive puppy, too long out of the sun and staring at the bone he cannot bare to relinquish.

Also, he is driving.

“What now, Jay?” he addressed me.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“Bollocks,” he said, calling me out in British.

“It's nothing.”

“You know the penalty for lying.”

“You know the state of my wallet.”

“I know you're pretty quick in the aisles of a Safeway, too.”

“Benjamin.”

“What'd I do this time?”

“Nothing.”

“You're sure?” He wants to know if I'm sure. “Am I driving too fast?”

“You didn't do anything.”

“Remember the rule about lying, man.”

I remember, and I'm not prepared to accept the consequences. “I'm not lying. It's me.”

“Better.” He's satisfied, but it's fleeting. Benjamin's hard glare loses focus, and he seizes on the next inquiry that slaps his gray-lobed brain. ”What'd you do?”

“I'm dating your coworker.” The confession feels good. Like blowing a brick house down.

“It's just us in here, man.”

“I know, man.”

“Heavy.”

“It's really eating at me, you know?” We both think about it. Hard. “It's harrowing,” I say.

He thinks about what to say, taking his time. Mulling it over. Mixing work and romance is always complicated, and this is no different.

“Are you gonna let yourself down easy?”

“I was hoping to do it with a text message, but I'm just not that kind of guy.”

“No, you're better than that.”

“Completely.” I'm glad he knows that about me.

“Do you need a minute alone?”

“Would you mind? The rest stop up there? They'll have a payphone.”

“I understand, man.” He pulls in, white knuckles going flesh-toned. “I could use some Twix, anyway.”

“Can I have one?”

“Sure.”

“A Twick.”

“A Twick?”

“I'm guessing.”

“Good guess.” The car sings a one note song, upset at my premature seatbelt loosening. “Hey, Jay?”

“Yes.”

“Sorry to hear about Jay, man.”

“Yeah, me too.” I'd probably tear up, but the stimulants dry me out. “But it's easier this way.”

“I hear you.”

The Correct Direction

It was time to go and Benjamin was on a serious bender. We had a date in Batesville with a gourd that blocked out the sun so bad, the local sheriff locked up six people for breaking curfew. The kind of shit you can get into in a town with a curfew makes the buttons pop off my vest just thinking about it.

“Benjamin. Let's go.”

“But I'm upset.” He was. The creases in his forehead were so tight I wanted to farm them for geothermal energy.

“What's up?”

“Why can't I just go wards?”

“Go what?”

“Wards.”

“Wards?”

“Yeah. I wanna go wards.”

I thought about it a bit, then spit out “I'm not stopping you man.” I had thought about it. And I wasn't.

“No, no, you're cool.” He paused, but his mouth was open Feed Me wide, and he had something else to say, for sure. “It's not you.”

I tried being encouraging, because when a man is flat on his back, sometimes that's what he needs. “So, go wards. It's your high.”

“What am I gonna do about grammar?”

“Grammar?” I was confused, because usually it was gravity he had trouble with. Lying there, totally prone, I had to wonder if he'd just gotten his "gr" words messed up.

“Yeah, it's bringing me down.” That I could agree with.

“Dude, I agree.” Grammar was always killing my high. Split infinitives and the pejorative tense and all that. For a writer, running into grammar is like finding a splinter when you're a termite. It sucks.

“See, I can go forwards.” He wriggled in the direction his feet had been facing, dragging the throw rug along with him as he went.

“Damn right you can.” I said, and gave him a little applause.

“I can go backwards.” He reversed the act, pushing with his heels and sliding
headfirst toward my chair.

“You can, but I don't recommend it.” Benjamin and I try to keep each other going forward whenever possible. “Remember what happened last time we did that.”

“Yes.” He then picked up his keister and shimmied out to the left. “Just as I suspected, I can go sidewards if I want to.”

“Actually, I think that one's not right.”

“I'm ignoring that.”

“Understood.”

“But there is no wards.” The world kind of blinked into the next day, and I think we both felt it. I held on to my drink tighter, because suddenly nothing made sense. I looked around, and he was right. There was no wards. “I've looked in every direction I can think of, and I'm convinced that no matter which way I go, it won't be wards.”

“You're right. Only one thing can be to blame.”

“I tried to tell you, man.”

“Fucking grammar, man.”

“Completely.”