napkin journals and tacky dreams
He liked the way the yolk got stuck in his fur. Ears draped down to his ass, Riley devoured the undercooked bacon and eggs over easy like last night’s cum. The 6am sun rose behind diner-grey clouds while the waitress poured the last of the coffee, smoke still rising from the cup when the last drop splashed. The rabbit’s purple fluff shattered underneath fluorescent headaches as he tried to finish what little he ordered, and it never failed. The moment morning came around, his phone rang. It always rang. It was always the same thing on the other line. Another day, another bill unpaid, but Riley didn’t pay any mind to it. He had stale coffee steaming like a hot cig he had to finish.
His phone buzzed hard against his back pocket and the shit plastic of his chair, and with each ring, he arched his back, soothing the aches of performing scrunched up and held down in someone else’s car. Each time she came around, the waitress made eyes with him, but he never responded. Riley wasn’t interested in that kind of thing. He didn’t want to be tied down to nobody, nor did he have the patience for a relationship.
The sky was pregnant with rain. The clouds ached so bad, Riley almost felt sorry for them, but he couldn’t. He could not forgive the sky of its mistakes, much like it could not forgive him of his. The brown of his fur clenched, lifting the cup of black sludge to his lips, his throat gulping down whatever piss the joint gave him. He was waiting. Waiting for all the stars to align, for the sun to shine, for every motherfucking thing to be alright like they say on the television. But they won’t align, not for him. When he finishes his meal and tips the flirty vixen, he’ll go back to his car parked on 61st St. Drive it under the next bridge and camp out for a few hours to sleep. No one ever bothered him on 61st. Not even the devil came around. It wasn’t a street you wanted to be caught on, but Riley always took care of himself.
He never had a stable house, not after his landlord threw his ass into the street. No eviction warning, no cash either. Every last thing he owned auctioned off to who the fuck ever wanted to buy. That’s when he started working street corners at night. Sure, a job sounds a nice, but when your city is a black hole with no opportunities, what can you do? Riley knew one thing, and that was men always needed a good time. Though he never stacked no greenbacks, Riley always had enough for the same damn meal in the morning. He knew the grease was bad for his heart, for his body. He knew the work was tearing him down to flesh, fur ripped out some nights when the men got too rough with him. He knew, he was going to die. But what good is life if you can’t live?
He let the clients choke him. He let them leave their scars on his neck because a part of him wanted to see the light others see when death is standing at their side. He only saw the night when he was close to blacking out; only saw streetlamps and blurred haloes above the heads of his paycheck, but when the last drop of breath left his tongue he could swear he heard another life around the bend.
He stared at the aching sky thinking she was ready to let loose the rain. On the building across he read the words, Be Someone in puke green graffiti. And he was someone. But on the bad nights, where the cash flow stopped, he was ready to find the bend and hitch a ride to the next life. On those bad nights he would get to his car and hold his gun to his head, his only protection, loaded with a couple bullets ‘cause he couldn’t afford more than that. He would press it with love against his temple and pray to hear the sounds of something better on the other side. When all you see is darkness in the end, you don’t really believe the greener grass. The better life is only an illusion to keep you going; to keep you working. It’s like getting into heaven, gotta play the boys club to get past the gates, and he wasn’t getting past them any time soon.
As the rain finally made contact with the earth, he thought of driving away. He thought of ruffling his brown and purple fur and becoming a crazed preacher on another sidewalk, handing out ticky-talk psalms and screaming liquor-bloated conspiracy theories at whoever would listen to him. When the thought of regaining dignity returned to his mind, he would crush his heart to dirt and let the ants carry it away to feed their queen his emotional scars. He’d kill his dreams with a karma, a karma meant for walking cancers and passive-aggressive dolls waiting for the final ejaculation of the next anonymous dollar bill.
There was no escaping the black hole, but he could fill his napkin journals with dreams of getting past the stars to find out. He could fill them with moment he got closer to heaven, only to find the ether that’s out there.
Riley sat back at his table, throwing a few dollar bills on the sticky plastic surface along with the tip and watched the rain fall hard on the concrete. When he was younger, his mom told him that the rain drops were the ears of angels, but he grew to learn that angels don’t exist. And even if there were, he was afraid of falling—falling—free falling from grace. Free falling from the only escape from dumpster diving lunches and used condoms. He was afraid of heights, of looking down at all he’d left behind and finding only more ether.
But there are no bridges to heaven. He put that God to rest ages ago. There are only scented paths and snake oil charms to cure the disembodied soul that was the rabbit. And all the venom in the world couldn’t enliven his situation. He was finally stuck in the hard cycle that is being broke and reminiscing about good times and cheap motherfucking food. And when he can afford it, a pack of Rough Diamond cigs.
When the rain lightened up, Riley left his table. He walked up a block to his car and rode it under the bridge on the bad side of town, where no one would fuck with him, cause no one fucks with nobody, there. He shut off the engine, leaned his seat back and went to sleep—the roar of car tires above him, people screaming and construction workers blasting their shit were the only lullabies he knew, and he was damn happy to have them because when you got nothing, you hold onto whatever you can before you’re ready dive into the ether. He wasn’t ready just yet. He still had one last shimmer of chance to get out of this place, and in a few hours, he might just make it.
