Art by Lauren Luchs

—inspired by Weezer’s “Say It Ain’t So”

I.

Flip on the tele’;

To Looboo,

Mama tells me I can’t do nothin till I watch Van Dyke and have the pills. I don’t like having them pills; they taste funny when I trap them under my tongue. But Mama checks my mouth now. She knows I do that. I like to give her fun, she has fun with me, when she’s in the room.

Most time I do what Mama tells me to; I’m a good boy and I do what she says, even talk to Mrs Wheadon on Sundays after church. Sundays I like, I get to look up at Jesus and ask im questions. That’s what I do Sundays. Whaddayou do? I aint even thought to ask if you’re a Christian. Hope to God you are else Mama won’t let me write to you no more.

It’s time when all them farmers start cropping, so my hay fever’s gone real bad. Worse this year. I stay inside most of the time now, which I don’t like one bit. But I like Mr Van Dyke, all his silly stunts and the funny clothes he wears make me feel less lonesome, somehow. Even though I can’t see the colours, I’ve started guessing them. Last week’s show was certainly yellow with pink spots. See? No one could wear that round here. Mrs Wheadon wouldn’t stop talking bout it on Sundays.

Dya have a box? We only got ours last year, but that was cos of the hospital and the pay out and some other words Mama won’t repeat to me. I know we’re doing OK, but Mama says not to talk about moneys any more, wouldn’t be good. I know you won’t tell nobody. You got nobody to tell, right?

I hope you’re feeling better than last month. That was rough for everyone, mind. Not sayin it wasn’t specially hard for you, cos you’re his sister n all. But Ma took it bad, and I couldn’t even play Van Dyke for a week, cos she wouldn’t have any noise in the house. The screen door banged something terrible, and she’d get up and slam it shut, and she’d take the Lord’s name in vain. Don’t tell her I told you that; she spent an awful long time in the church the Sunday after, so I think she’s repented good and proper.

Mama suggested you visit us sometime. I’d like that. I only have a vague idea of what you look like, after all, cos I was so drugged up in that hospital, most people were just figures and lines. A bit like the box, where you can’t really tell who’s who unless you’re paying attention. Maybe that’s why Ma likes me to watch it, so I can train myself. She had me reading when I first came home, but then the head aches came back. All the time, like someone had shot my head clean off with a great shotgun. You know, like the one Mr Wheadon uses if the kids come too close. Dya get head aches still?

And I can’t concentrate for very long on letters, neither. I’ve had to break this one up so my head feels alright. Most times it does; a bit fuzzy still, like I’m dreamin or something, but alright. I aint even been dreaming lately, when I sleep, I mean. It all goes black and then there’s Ma in the mornin, waking me up with pills and the promise of Van Dyke.

I guess I’ll finish up, now. Please come and visit us. Miss you.

All my special love,

Bub

II.

wrestle with JIMMY

she crawled over the salt and saliva, creeping up to him. there was red liquid on the floor—it wasn’t blood, but it wasn’t not blood, either. it congealed in great pools and dribbled into the cracks the floor didn’t even know it had. her knees were sticky, her cuffs soaked. the crush of bodies all around her was intoxicating. her ringed fingers were stood upon, until people noticed the curve of her spine and pulled around her instead of through her.

she found cocaine, and condoms, and glass, and tried not to let it cut her hands. but thin red lines scored her skin like she was a Christmas ham. the room seemed to pulse, awake and alive with music and bass guitar both. she could not see the speakers, but she felt like they were everywhere, and she wanted to throw up with the vibrations. stilettos clomped and asses shook; perhaps it was just her who was nauseous.

she gained some ground, crawling like a grotesque insect to him. a man picked up the skirts of her dress and looked; she did not react and only watched omnisciently as another batted his hand away with a reprimand. their argument faded away into the huge noise that seemed to throttle all. maybe it was a fistfight. she found she did not care, for as she crawled closer, she could hear him sing.

she strained her eyes to hear, but the strobe lighting was neon and buzzed in her ears. however, she did succeed in finding the edge of the mosh, closest to the stage. she would have to stand up, she feared. her hands pressed to her knees and her knees pressed the air, thick with guitar riffs forcing their way through her flesh.

she did stand though, and was immediately glad she’d made the decision, for she could hear her baby better. no more was the clonking of heels and bass the only sound. No, she could hear his singing, his groaning, grunting, horrible sound that she loved so dearly.

he was writhing around on the stage, thrusting his crotch into the crowd with an ease that was all too familiar to her. his devil-smile lasted only briefly, between the chorus and the verse, but she thought she could hear some hearts popping in the mosh. dark curls drive everyone crazy, but fatuous winks drive sexual beings to the brink.

he was scanning the audience, moments of uncertainty filtered between the well-rehearsed performance’s pores. did she want to be seen, recognised? she was not sure and briefly considered ducking down under the mosh’s skirts. but this would only draw attention to herself, when what she really wanted was to observe the one person she had never understood.

he glimpsed her; she froze. others crashed into her, crushing her skin to wine. it turned out, the only way to avoid the mosh was to be in the mosh, as hard as humanly possible.

he continued singing, his eyes flickering closed in faux sincerity, mumbling something about how freedom and how i miss you and how oh yeah. she took her chance, and backed away, directing the press of bodies to close up around her, hands on waists and shoulders. they took the hint and sewed up her spot like there had never been a wound.

he opened his eyes, determined not to look at the spot where she was. but she had not his determination. from far away, he looked ordinary and gorgeous, a figure on a stage, microphone in hand, mumbling and screaming something about yeah yeah yeah. she adjusted her dress, wiped her spit-stained fingers on it, and headed downstairs to call a cab.

III.

Something is bubble-i-i-i-i-ing

The first day we were together—I mean really together, not partially, but completely and entirely together—you suggested we die. We tied nooses to the railing and talked about who would go first. It didn’t really matter anyway—all we had to do was keep our foot hold on the stone. But then your mother came out (blessed, really) and was concerned. It’s only thin rope, we said. We’re not really going to.

Then, in the middle of the summer—I mean middle, when it’s so hot it’s wet all the time, and we remember that we really are 80% water—you suggested we sit on the road. I, stupid thing that I am, said no, we’ll get run over. And you told me that there were no cars around—did I see any? No, I didn’t, but that wasn’t the point. We’d walked around the places I didn’t think we should have, and even though it was the middle of the afternoon, no one was out. We gazed at the railway track, and the struggling shrubs, green against the desert-orange dirt, so dystopian it was kinda romantic. Little paths I had never trod before, that went down side-streets and alleyways, where houses would loom large and barren, apocalyptic and tremendous; we talked about the film trailer we would make that day. It was about The Misunderstood—like all our cinema—and according to you, the pivotal shot was us sitting in the road, looking wistfully at the sky or the ground (it didn’t much matter which). Art must come first, I thought, unconsciously cursing the heavens and its terrific waves of numbness. So, I was coaxed, by you, onto the road. We set up the iPad. And a car came along.

I regret taking off when we visited my great-grandmother. You were much more interesting at the time, so we went for ‘a walk’. I should have known—with you, it was never just ‘a walk’. I found life in the retirement village I had thought of as so safe. Especially when we found out we could get into people’s backyards. The yellow stone paths, the huge hedge-like trees fragrant, the purple flowers and peaceful units that always seemed a shade too quiet. They must have heard us, shhhh-ing and hearts pounding loud in our throats, as we hid below windows when there was no-one there, and ran when there was nobody to chase us. Until the dog. The last unit on the property had a dog, a big black one (I thought of a Pitbull or a Doberman), that made you yell out RUN. And I obeyed you, climbing ungracefully over the smooth green fence with no footholds at all, damn it. You had to help me over, in the end, and I truly believed I was going to get pulled back down by vicious, snarling, drooling teeth. You did not have to tell me that there was no dog—we both knew.

IV.

Behind My Back.

                               there are no people in this car        there is a brick on the accelerator

and the windows are open

                                         some music is on    and it is louder than the whistling of the wind

               created not by man             this time

                      the car has no right foot to brake with    it wouldnt choose to brake anyway

      the paddocks and cows float past on this line called the horizon    beautiful and common

this car is silver and a blue tarpaulin is floating away into the air

it got unstuck from the tub

there are no other cars around        not that this car can see anyway    alone on the road

       the road stretches like a birthmark    snail trail    mohawk    stitch in wound

it is beautiful

                      this car is leaving us    it has had enough    it doesnt really care anymore        would you

                    flowers and crucifixes mark accidents    caused by the cars kind    it ignores them

                 with reverence        this car is flying    and things will break at the T intersection up ahead        people will break

                            people are very brakable breakable    fuel will run out in ten minutes    so it doesn’t

matter

                      was this car born with a brick on its accelerator    and its windows open

and music blaring louder than any music has ever blared before

                              this car is going very fast    but not all that is written is gospel    instead we will hear

third-hand

                                           those who meet with this car    and see how it lives    brilliant under January sun

                       this car faces the intersection        bares    bare    born    borne        with a wink

and the guitar reaches its orgasmic peak